I have been researching. Looking for a place to ‘get away’ to this winter. We will need to go south. By February, we will simply need some light! The weather here is good enough. Most of the time. So, it is not the weather.

And we don’t have to go south every year. But the sunlight is minimal here in winter and, as we get on, we seem to need a bit of sunshine more and more. At least every other year we need to ‘get out’ and see the sun. Two years out of three is good enough.

But it is not that simple. We may need it more but we want to go get it less.

Let me explain:

The hassle factor is growing larger and larger by the year. Of course I used the internet. It is the default way to plan nowadays. But it is simply not good enough. Not for flights, anyway. Eventually went to an agent. Sat there for two hours while she used the internet! Bottom line: Flying ain’t cheap nor is it convenient and I hate it anyway. But tickets got booked.

And I did book a VRBO over the net. We are going to Guatemala. Should be fun. Beautiful country.

But, ya know, I realized that I am losing the travel bug. Isn’t that weird? Part of it has to do with the current scare mongering fad that is so all pervasive these days. Scarewashing works! Even tho one might know that the propaganda of fear is lies, if you hear it enough you get, well, scared despite yourself. Hesitant at the very least. I confess that I am more than hesitant to cross the Mexican border right now. Even tho the odds are slim that we would be harmed, I just don’t need the thrill of danger any more, ya know?

Part of it is just plain age. We don’t have the same level of ‘intrepid explorer’ energy we used to have. Nor the curiosity. And I don’t need to see anymore ruins, temples or ancient churches. Been there. Done that. Knees hurt. So, what do I travel for?

Except for the aforementioned sunshine, not sure. I thought I might take my golf clubs. But that’s pathetic. Go to a foreign country and play golf, get a burger and drink scotch at the clubhouse? I don’t think so. Coals to Newcastle.

I guess it is the culture, mostly. Probably. I like to see people living a different way. I find the whole ‘adapting-to-one’s-environment’ thing fascinating.

But, that is not enough to go through airport hell and lose a bundle in the process. I need more than outdoor markets and people with accents. What? I dunno. That is why we are going………….we dunno……………….need some sun…………see some ‘different folks’ and…………well,……….I dunno. We’ll see.

That is the real appeal, I guess. I just don’t know what I’ll be doing. And that, it seems, is a good enough reason for going.

I won’t write much. Don’t have to. Pictures tell the story. This is Y/OUR government. GW Bush for all his shenanigans, isn’t as bad as our ‘roll-over’ idiots who allow this nonsense. Gordon Campbell, Harper, Gail Shea………. read all about Yellow salmon: http://alexandramorton.typepad.com/alexandra_morton/2011/10/open-letter-to-fisheries-and-oceans-canada.html

OMYGAWD! We are back! It is SSSSoooooo good! It is like returning home from a winter storm to a warm fire and hot toddy. Better even because that is what we did sans the winter storm!

Left Victoria at 9:00 am. Arrived Island Paradise: 9:00 pm. Harsh.

OK, it may have been a bit inefficient but not by much. Stopped by to see an eccentric, creative friend of mine who had fixed a complicated device for me and, of course, we then went for breakfast before resuming the trip. Non-highway time: maybe an hour and a half.

Rocketed up the highway until Courtenay where organic dogfood was purchased (60 pounds) along with some other heavy proteins for us. And proceeded north to Campbell River for a blitz of shopping at Save-On and a quick stop at the chainsaw store.

Ate a sandwich while driving. Drank tea from the thermos. Peed on side of road as necessary.

No time to lose.

Caught the 5:30 ferry out of CR and headed up island to our awaiting vessel (kindly placed there the day before by good neighbours). And then the fun began. It is dusk-y at 6:00 already.

We had taken our utility trailer this time because we had a lot of stuff to get back. There was the new TV to accompany the DVD player my daughter had given us as a gift last summer, the 11 or 12 large boxes of books that we deliver to the community library every year (culled from libraries). Luggage. Computers. Groceries. Dog food. Hardware and some building materials. We filled the car and trailer and then the boat to the brim!

Of course it was dark. Waddya thinking?

But it was not raining. It was not storming. The sea was calm and, best of all, the tide was just over halfway up the beach (that bottom half is a treacherous climb). We unloaded the truck and trailer, loaded the boat and headed over slowly. Very slowly.

Then, as the moon witnessed our work from directly overhead, we schlepped the load up the beach and on to the boat house deck. Sal took the boat around as I finished heaving stupidly heavy coolers onto the funicular and then I sent it up. An hour a half later half of everything was put away and we stopped for a bagel and some scotch. Not a bad combination.

Today we go back to the boathouse and bring up the rest. Speaking of which, we intend to throw that in, too. A rest that is.

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My son is my age!  How is that possible?  Last night we celebrated his 29th birthday and that is pretty much the age I think I am.  Give or take a few years.  Of course, I know I am not and I am reminded of that every time I get vertically ambulatory or try to make some physical parts work as they once did but, mentally, I feel much the same age.

“So, I said, to K, his beautiful young partner, “can we talk and be hip together or is everything I say so tainted with age that no matter what is uttered, it sounds old-man geeky?” 

K smiled and said, “Pretty much everything.  You’re old.  Face it!” 

You’d think that would stop me.  It didn’t.  I cracked jokes, flirted benignly and did my best Andy Rooney impression.  You know?  Without trying?  Rampant eyebrow growth tends to make that Andy syndrome happen, I think.

K laughed at the first joke.  It was genuine, I think.  She smiled generously at the second and even managed to respond graciously to my pathetic little old man’s flirt but I caught her eyes looking for an appropriate exit.  That’s OK.  I have come to recognize those desperate, furtive glances of ‘trapped prey’ looking for a way out and I generally make it easier for them.  “Hey, K, I know what it’s like.  It’s god-awful.  Being trapped in a conversation that no amount of previous sin would warrant.  I get it.  You are free, my child.  Fly!”  

“Huh?!  No!  Like………….no………….well……..uh, thanks……………uh….see you later…”

And I am pretty sure she likes me!

The other day, we were at a do and everyone was OK, I guess.  One guy stood out visually as a resounding snot (only missing the ascot) and I had to verify my assessment-at-first-glance by going over and introducing myself.  I offered my hand and he took it with what was quite obviously a dead fish that had been grafted in place of his own hand.  Must be some sort of neurological disorder, I thought.  Maybe not.  He was gay.  He was Eastern, American, a Jewish intellectual and he was also a lawyer.

There is nothing wrong with that.  None of it.  No, really!  But, let’s be honest: that is a combination that can go wrong; so horribly wrong.  And M was horrible in the extreme.  Somehow he managed to look down his nose at me and we are of equal height!? 

He also barely deigned to acknowledge me despite my pleasing manner.  And kept gently backing away while openly looking for an escape route.  I provided his exit permit early.   

“Hey, M, I can see you have something else to do and it is pressing if not an emergency!  Please don’t let me hold you up.  Go, man!  Get out while you can.  It will only get worse!”

He grimaced a smile and was gone.  I watched him head over to the other side of the room where he stood alone adopting a statue of Liberty-like pose but with his arm down.  He was only wanting for the draped gown and a crown.  But I have to admit, the lighting was better there.  He was magnificently posed.  Good merchandising if nothing else. 

I turned to his partner, “Geez, man.  Did I say something?  Is it my breath?  You need to escape, too?” 

“Nah, I’m good.  Don’t worry about M, he’s paranoid.  In this day and age when everyone has hidden voice recorders and the cell phones take pictures, he’s afraid to say anything.  He works in the US government, you know.  Doesn’t trust anyone.  Especially strangers  Not even here in Canada.”

“But this is a party!  I have never met the guy!  Does he get the ‘par-tay’ concept?  He’s just a lawyer.  He is no Justin Timberlake, I can assure you!  ”

Partner just laughed.  We cracked a few jokes.  I resisted flirting (it wasn’t difficult).  After a few minutes he left.  All was right with the universe again.

I dunno.  I sure didn’t feel the love.  Maybe I am just not cut out for modern era socializing after all.   But I am definitely tempted to get a small voice recorder I can squirrel up my sleeve.  
 

I’ve been pretty hard on the urban life lately.  I say bad things.  Sorry.  It is just that I, well, mean them.  You know, like “……the city sucks!”  And stuff like that.  I really should be ashamed of myself but, well, I am not!  It still sucks!

Having firmly established my position on that, I have to ‘eat a bit of crow’,  recant, reverse myself, mea culpa kinda.  You know….it is really not all bad.

Worse, I also hafta apologize to all those who talk about weddings and that sort of thing.  I hate that sort of thing as a rule.  Moreover, I usually hate weddings.  I love the people, so I go.  But I hate the pomp and ceremony.  I am pretty bad.  Sally keeps me under control, barely.

But we went to S and C’s wedding yesterday.  We’ve known S for some time and Sal has been friends with her mom for twenty odd years.  Emphasis on ‘odd’.  Mom is a quirky duck who loves Sal and tolerates my existence.  She has had a lifetime of men and their ‘things’ and well, I am a man and I have things and so her tolerance levels are strained.  She likes me.  Kinda.  Not much.  It is not personal.  It is a ‘gender’ thing.  She has her things, too.

Anyway, we went to the ceremony and it was mercifully short.  Thirty minutes tops.  For that alone, it was a good wedding.  Then we walked a few blocks from the church to the Diva restaurant at the Met on Howe street.  The bar was open, the speeches mercifully short and the dinner fantastic!  The staff provided the best service and the best meal I have had in Vancouver and I have lived there a long time.  They really did it right.

And then we got to leave.  It really does not get much better than that.  And, because of that, I have to say, the city has a lot of drawbacks and we are not even aware of many of them.  But, of course, it has some things going for it and, I guess, when you get in to a routine, you fail to appreciate them.  I was definitely in a routine when we left the cul de sac.  I think I got a bit jaded.  You know, been there, done that.  Several if not dozens of times? 

I guess what I am saying is that I may have been a bit wrong in my blanket condemnation of the city I once called home.  It’s not all bad.    

I haven’t had such a pleasant, generous, sincerely happy group-in-public experience in a long time.  Not with that kind of service and food.  It was a real treat.  For a few minutes I actually appreciated the ‘sophistication’ of a well-run restaurant.  I was humbled a bit by the simple pleasures of something done very well.

Kudos on the whole event.  It was a very nice way of putting me right. 

Awakened early this morning by the roar of a fresh-off-the-tarmac aeronautic behemoth trying to get airborne over the roof of our cheap Richmond hotel.  Ahh……..welcome to Vancouver.  Hear me roar!

Should be noisy at the very least.

Last night was spent visiting old friends.  Really nice in that comfortable-old-sock kinda way that old friends have.  We slipped into ‘our ways’ pretty quick.  Reminisced.  Caught up on family.  Shared deteriorating health stories and had a bit of dinner and wine.  Basically, all very good.

And yet, not so good.  We’re all seven years older and, although everyone walks with a bit of a stoop, they have always been five years older again than us.  Their stoop is a bit stoopier.  But we’re all a bit slower.  Mentally and physically.  None of us are drinking much.  A couple of small glasses of wine.  F looked a bit tired after two hours and so we left soon after.  But I was tired, too.  Back to the hotel by 9:30.  In bed by 10:00.  There is no doubt about it, we are gettin’ old.

It is not just our age, tho, that I noticed.  We just aren’t as interesting for them as we once were.  Most of our au courant ‘chit chat’ would be about logs, dogs, ravens and local characters, engines, oceans and projects on the go, logistics, visiting guests and the looming challenge of winter.   We didn’t pursue any of that.  None of it holds much interest for the other side of the room. 

We are now hicks, basically.  Rubes.  Hillbillies.  We don’t know the latest TV series, sitcoms or, for that matter, the latest ‘good movies’ (our friends have impeccable taste in movies so there was always a gap there).  Hell, we don’t even know all the latest news stories.  We are just simply ‘out of it’.  S spent a bit of time showing us exactly what an Ipod was and almost convinced me that I needed one.  I was convinced I wanted one as soon as I saw the ‘finger-sweep’ control but I still can’t rationalize needing one.  Not yet, anyway.  Give me time.

It would have been a waste of time to explain all the virtues of the Honda Eu 6500 genset or the value in Surette batteries versus others.  PV panels don’t have much commonality, either.  Sally growing herbs, tomatoes and ‘salad’ fixin’s wouldn’t have held much interest beyond a polite smile and a nod.  And when Sal described paddling around one of the local islands and getting caught by a turning tide, their eyes glazed over.  We are not always on the same wavelength now.

We aren’t on the same page politically, either.  That was a shock.  They believe 9/11 happened as reported.  I don’t.  So, BIG politics as a topic ended there.  I didn’t dare raise issues of BC Hydro and privatizing our rivers nor would I have found empathy in our loathing of the way BC Ferries has gone.  No sense in talking that trash.  We just follow different issues now, I guess.  

Which is OK.  We love ém still.  We have lots of history and we can keep ourselves engaged just up dating family, health and future vacation spots.  But the ‘new stuff’ each is up to is no longer of much mutual interest.  We have lost the magic of being ‘in sync’ on the latest stuff.  Inevitable, I suppose.  The price of having moved away seven years ago.

It was worth it.  But the price is a bit higher than I anticipated.  I kinda miss the old ‘give and take’ we used to have on current events.  We weren’t always in agreement but we were always dancing to the same song and keeping good time.  Now, not so much.          

Yesterday was just a travel day.  But it turned out to be magic.

We are (still, as I write this) headed to Vancouver by way of Victoria for a wedding and delivering our W’fer, Lina, to her new digs at the local hostel in downtown Vic.   I had scheduled an appointment in Campbell River to attend to on my way out.   Time: 12:30.  Everything was timed to the half-hour and, as we had successfully caught the intended ferry, we were right on schedule for what was going to be a very long day.  And I showed up at exactly 12:30.

The receptionist looked at me and I asked for the fellow.  “Sorry”, she said, “he’s not here.  Did you have an appointment?” 

“Yes.  For 12:30.  Booked a week ago.  Confirmed two days ago.  E-mailed confirmation again yesterday.” 

“Oh!  I’ll call him.” She did and reported that he would make it in about half an hour. 

I glowered.  I was not happy.  But, as this was a favour for a friend, I said, “I’ll wait.” 

“I know you!”


“I don’t think so”, I said.  “I live on a remote island”.


“Did you use to live in Vancouver?” 


“Yes.  Grew up on the Eastside.” 


“I used to hang out on the Eastside.  I was on skid row for a couple of years.  I was a pretty strung-out heroin addict in my twenties.” 


“I used to run the Downtown Clinic on Cordova Street when I was in my twenties.  How old are you?” 


“61.  And I remember you.  I remember your face from the clinic.  I used to go there a lot.  Sometimes two or three times a week.  I was pretty skinny and sick back then.” 

I was staring at a woman my age, well dressed, nice hair, pleasant smile.  She had a matronly figure and she was looking at me like she knew me.  I didn’t have a clue as to who she was.  Not a flicker of recognition.  I didn’t know what to say.

But the phone rang and she answered it and I used the interruption to go outside.  And I tried to remember.  Names came up.  Scenes reappeared.  The general feel and smell of the place all returned.  It was a mixed feeling.

The Downtown Clinic was in the heart of skid row.  It was a very busy place.  Think: field hospital very near the front line in a battle still heavily engaged.  But it wasn’t large.  I had 34 staff in about 3000 square feet of space.  We saw as many as 400 people a day.  Names, faces and dates were blurry even at the time.  We were working in constant daily chaos.  It was ugly.     

And it burned me out after just a smidge over four years.

When I decided to leave, I didn’t linger long over the decision.  The last few months there were lived ‘on edge’.  I was exhausted.  A bit angry.  More than a little depressed.  I hated it.  I felt as if I had wasted my time there for the most part.   What was different?  What was the point?   I had no answers.  Even though there were a few survivors amongst the slaughter, I had no feelings for the place by then and even less for the poor souls who frequented it.  Bombing skid row seemed like the only alternative to the mass of disease and misery that overwhelmed us every day.  It was so bloody hopeless.

I didn’t even try to remember it.   

But there she was.  Happy, healthy and, clearly, she remembered me.  Maybe we had made some sort of difference, after all. 

All of a sudden I felt like going back in to the office.  I was no longer ticked off that the guy was late.  I had been given a chance to look into my past a bit and it looked a little better than I had remembered it.  I walked back in.

She got out from behind her desk and came towards me smiling and holding out her hand.  I instinctively held out my arms.  She and I hugged for at least a minute.

Yes, there were a few tears.

We spoke some more.  Remembered a few mutual ‘acquaintances’.  Talked a bit about life.  My appointment came in and I went to my meeting.  Before she left for her lunch, she interrupted us and said, “Sorry.  I just had to tell David  to come again.  He made my day!” 

We held hands for a second, “You made mine.”  

I watch the news a bit.  Not much, just the headlines.  I don’t spend much time on it.  Too depressing and I have concluded that much, if not most of it, is lies anyway.  I don’t think I am alone in that.  I mean, think about it: the news is entertainment and is sponsored by advertising.  Like kid’s cartoons on a Saturday morning.  Even if what they say is even partly true, is it not surprising that every story only requires 30 seconds to tell?  And that nothing ever seems to happen most of the time in 95% of rest of the world?

Sorry, I could feel the blood rising……….a rant was looming………………..

But I do have an interest in the economy, I like to follow the goings on in the Middle East and Asia and, of course, I wanna see the latest ‘wardrobe malfunctions’. 

I am also fascinated by the United States.  But not in a good way.  It is not like I wanna go there.  Not anymore.  Certainly not to live.  To me, the whole country seems to be like a drunken bull or bear in a china shop.  You just know things are gonna get broken but will the whole place come down?  And these days, it seems, the beast is really staggering.

My guts tell me, however, that this is not yet the time for the system to collapse.  I don’t think you have to buy gold.  Buying gold may make you money over the short term but the money will still work.  So will your credit card.  It is when you have to use the gold to buy bread that it’s real value will show up.  That is when the system has collapsed. 

I have no real knowledge of anything but my guts have been right so far.  And this current financial debacle feels like just another couple of shelves of crystal going down.  Mind you, there is a lot of glass on the floor already…………

The books I am reading, tho, suggest otherwise.  They say ‘the end is nigh’.  I doubt very much that anybody knows and if there is one thing Capitalism is good at, it is ‘adjusting’.  This is a system that makes money when disaster strikes and makes money when the sun shines.  The one thing you can count on with Capitalism is the old adage about finding a silver lining in black clouds.  Hell, capitalists have found silver in black deaths!  Just  look to see how KBR/Halliburton/Blackwater made out like bandits after Katrina leveled New Orleans.  Capitalism has never met a disaster it didn’t like.

Somebody is making money these days.  

And it is that kind of survivability that makes me think that the beast will live long and (yech!) prosper. 

Don’t get me wrong: I want the world to prosper.  I like the world.  I’d just like a system that wasn’t quite so destructive to the environment and that was a bit more egalitarian in the wealth distribution.  But, then again, I don’t like sad movies either so my preferences don’t really count. 

Anyway: to the point………….finally, eh? 

Things are likely to get worse before they get better.  I just don’t see sunshine looming at the end of the day.  Not yet.  Certainly not in BC.  Worse, the people I read are forecasting more rain and freezing temperatures (well, some of them are forecasting unseasonal heat waves but the point is the economic weather forecast is not good).  I think that means that we will, once again, be ‘adjusting’.  We’ll be forced to use what we humans seem to have relied on for millenniums – the ability to adapt. 

And the point is that this next adjustment will be bigger than we, the post WW2 generation, have experienced to date.

At the very least, I think it is gonna cost a lot more to be a peasant.   

“Hold the Zhōngshì Yīngyǔ”. Literally: Chinese-style English.  (an anonymous comment left yesterday)

Yikes!  Censorship already.  Sal on my case and now this!  OHMIGAWD!  I am going to sign up immediately for membership in the Canadian Civil Liberties Union. 

I definitely believe in freedom of MY speech (but I am not so sure about my anonymous commentators).  Like most governments-in-exile, I am a bit selective in giving out licenses for free speech (better make a note of this for the Little Green Book).  Some animals are just more equal than others.

Anyway, the mix of Chinese and English (Zhōngshì Yīngyǔ) is often called Chinglish.  Not surprisingly, the same kind of name has been applied to the mix of Spanish and English as Spanglish.   I will definitely ‘hold up’ on writing in that style but the comment raises a fascinating point about language and communication. 

But my point will be this: there is nothing wrong with Chinglish.  For those of you who do not know about Chinglish, I will share with you a bit of what I learned about it.  (My kids would shout ‘BORING!’ right about now). 

We are all familiar with the Chinese-English that sounds like short sentences using predominantly English nouns and verbs but lacking the ‘connector’ and descriptive words that we call conjunctions, adverbs, adjectives, and the like.  I can do a passable imitation of Chinglish but it is considered politically incorrect.  It shouldn’t be.  It is very correct in so many other ways.  Kind of efficient in a harsh sounding way to unilinguisticaly pampered ears.

Here’s why: As you know, the Chinese language is written in what we call characters or ‘pictograms’.  The words are actually symbols that, when used individually or together, form the word currently being communicated. And it is the picture-words in groups that provide meaning through context – not by way ‘connector’ or descriptive words so much. 

So, their language is a lot of ‘loose’ words or pictures that make sense only when taken in the aggregate.  Context is everything. 

A small example of that is the ballpoint pen.  The Chinese had a pictogram for a pencil or something similar but the ballpoint pen was new and modern.  So they had to find another pictogram to ‘make’ the new word.  Oddly (for me, anyway) they had a pictogram for  ‘atomic’.  Don’t ask how that came to be.  Because the new, ballpoint pen came out not long after the new atomic bomb was dropped on Japan, the word for ballpoint pen was written as ‘atomic pencil’.  And that would make no sense unless it was used in the new modern context in which it was conceived. 

English doesn’t do that.  English, for the most part, is inclined to invent new words when something ‘new’ happens and so we now have all sorts of words that are new-but-accepted like say, doodle, microwave, movie, telephone, parachute and the like.  We have really new words that have made it into the dictionary quite recently such as ‘Google’ (used as a verb) and ‘text’ used as a verb.  Of course there are all sorts of weird words vying for acceptance all the time so the dictionary is constantly being updated.  And so is the language.

Theirs?  Not so much.  They just reconfigure the pictograms.     

It is a hard enough task as an new English learner to just get a grip on the nouns and the verbs.  But, if your mother-tongue was never big on anything other than nouns and verbs (as pictograms emphasize) and all descriptive and connective words are largely implied by context and association, it is a very difficult transition.  Instead of incorporating what would be seen as frivolous connector words it is quite reasonable to learn a new language by filtering out what is unnecessary in your own culture and sticking with the main words.  To hell with adverbs, adjectives and conjunctions!  Time is short! 

Now, I could be wrong.  It has been known to happen.  But I was told that this is the way Chinglish or Pidgin English has come to have a distinct character and delivery style.  So, Chinglish is much more than English-not-spoken-well.  It is English spoken as Chinese speak their own language. 

And, anyway, what could be more clear than: ‘No Tickee, no washee?’