The Other Side of the Mobius Strip

Urban Behaviour :: Bangkok Bygone

2012-01-21T20:44:00.000-08:00

Getting to Krabi airport from Koh Lanta is no easy task. The two ferry crossings, scenic drive through the mangrove, plus less scenic drive on the mainland take about two and a half hours in total. We then had a two hour flight to Bangkok, followed by a battle with the the infamous traffic between the airport and Sukhumvit (allow me to clarify - the traffic is infamous between any two points in Bangkok). Bangkok and Lanta are thus a full day apart in travel time but even farther apart in terms of ambiance, and the otherwise omnipresent sincerity of the people had dissolved in the urban fabric.

What tipped me off first was the taxi drivers. The necessity of a "taxi information sheet" with a built in complaint form was a first clue. The second clue was when our driver tried to take mine away from me. The third clue was the fact that Lonely Planet warned me that the driver might try to take it away. While we never felt unsafe in Bangkok, there were certainly fewer smiles and a 'business first, pleasanteries second' attitude: a stark contrast to our experience of the locals up to then. Still, when considering that the flood crisis had barely begun to subside, their desperation was understandable, and Bangkok customer service at its worst still outdoes the average North American experience.

It was on my last day in Thailand that I finally got around to having my first real Thai massage. It was like going to a yoga class, only someone else contorted your body for you. I have no aversion to pain if I know the result is worth it, but I was pleasantly surprised by the fact that it hurt much less than expected to be twisted into a human pretzel. Sixty minutes and twelve dollars (it was an upscale spa) later, I felt more limber than ever before. If only I had known how good it was, I would have gone every day! The wisdom of hindsight has a bittersweet taste, but I have resolved to make sure I take full advantage when I return to Thailand. From the natural beauty of the verdant countryside, to the flavourful cuisine I have learned to make myself, to the sound of saffron-clad monks laughing in he mornings, to the legendary Thai smile, this is a kingdom whose treasures I have only begun to discover.

Laid Back Lanta

2011-11-29T20:26:00.000-08:00

The great advantage of Thailand's Andaman Coast, stunning scenery aside, is its myriad of destinations to explore. We chose Koh Lanta as our beach getaway, hoping it would be the antithesis of Phuket's Patong Beach. Lanta, the darling choice of Swedish families and slow-life seeking backpackers, proved to be exactly that. If Chiang Mai can be considered chilled out, then Lanta is positively laid back. Saladan, the "big" town on the main island of Koh Lanta Yai, is in fact a two-road sleepy fishing village.

Splurging on our accomodations since the beach bungalows that were our first choice turned out to be full, we stayed at the Crown Lanta Resort, which turned out to be as pretty as the pictures on the website. Sadly, the "tucked away" paradise was a little too tucked away for our purposes, as we found ourselves the only twentysomethings among families and retired couples. The service was pretty dismal too: the resort is best described as a case-in-point that beauty alone is no substitute for character.

Koh Lanta's musical taste tended towards reggae, which was fitting given the prevailing ganja culture, but I still haven't figured out which one spawned the love of the other. The subculture is so prominent, in fact, that sometimes I felt like the island has an identity crisis: Koh Lanta - The Island That Thought It Was Jamaica. With Bob Marley on the speakers, restaurants named "Irie", and a half-question/half-statement island motto of “everything alright?!”, you couldn't help but wonder. Life slowed down on Lanta, possibly due to all the second-hand pot smoke. My friend Salma and I always encountered surprised looks when we explained we didn't smoke pot - somehow it was doubly surprising given their previous experiences of Canadians. Never has an island epitomized laid-back the way that Lanta does.

Daytime was spent lazing by the beach or the pool, but one day I took a snorkelling trip to Koh Mok and some of the other small islets around Koh Lanta. The highlight for me was visiting the Morokot - the Emerald Cave. It’s an island that has a beach in the middle of it, entirely surrounded by the cliffs of the island, that you can access by swimming through a cave during low-tide. It was spectacular, because it looked like you were swimming smack into the base of a 100 ft tall cliff-island, and though the cave was a beautiful green when you first enter, it twisted and turned such that we had to pass through complete darkness at one point. On the inside, the water became shallow again as we saw the light on the other side, and we soon and we emerged on a small but pristine beach INSIDE the island. It was surrounded on all sides (including the one we just swam through) by cliffs. It was like being at the center of a volcano. Apparently the locals used to come to the island to hunt swallow eggs, and later used it as a secret storage place for treasure. For me it was a surreal experience, as if I had stepped into a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel. Soon afterwards, a storm moved in and made the rest of the snorkelling trip a write-off, proving that one of the requisites for a good time on Koh Lanta is good weather.

In the evenings we ended up getting a (pimped out!) tuktuk to drive us to Phra Ae, also known as Long Beach, which was supposed to have the best nightlife. Indeed there was beach bar after beach bar, but they were all nearly empty. Though supposedly the start of high season, the flooding news in Bangkok had deterred tourists from all but the most popular of other Thai destinations. It's the people that make the party, however, and we ended up going back to the same two bars for three nights in a row, because at each we found great company and plenty of laughs thanks especially to the bartenders and fellow travellers. Those evenings turned out to be some of the most entertaining of our trip, and proved the final point of what I like to call The Lanta Clause: the theory that on Koh Lanta, you need either good weather, ganja, or great company to have a blast.

Phuketabboudit :: Pitiful Patong

2011-11-28T01:38:00.000-08:00

A word of warning to my fellow travellers: unless you are looking to see middle aged farang men strutting around the overdeveloped beach wearing banana hammocks with a Thai prostitute on their arm, avoid Patong. Had we ended up staying in another part of Phuket, we may not have spent our one night there trying to figure out how to leave, but alas even one night in the Patong Women's Prison (as we nicknamed our hotel thanks to the mattress-on-the-floor excuse for a bed and cheap decor labelled as zen) was enough. We made a beeline the next morning for Koh Lanta, opting to use Koh Phi Phi as a ferry transfer station rather than destination. While we had originally planned to partake in the legendary late night reveling that Phi Phi is known for, in addition to its famous beach, we made the mistake of not booking our accommodation in advance, and decided to bunk down on Koh Lanta instead.

Chilled Out Chiang Mai :: The Contemplation/Action Compaction

2011-11-18T17:52:00.000-08:00

Ride an elephant, check. White water and bamboo rafting, check. Hike up to a beautiful waterfall with Akha tribe houses along the river, check. Spend a day learning Thai cuisine on an organic farm, check. In Chiang Mai, great experiences are all within a day's trek. Set at the foot of Northern Thailand's mountains - not far from the Burmese border - Chiang Mai, which means 'New Walled City', is over 800 years old. And it is the glowing soul of Thailand. Dotted with hundreds of Wats within it, and ever guarded by the magnificent Doi Suthep temple perched 1700m above it, there is an unmistakable spirituality to Chiang Mai. This notion was further reinforced to us by the beautiful wake up call as heard from our guesthouse: the sound of monks chanting in the mornings. Though plenty of tourists visit it, Chiang Mai retains a quaintness in its narrow Sois shared by tuktuks, trucks, pedestrians, dogs, and laundry set out to dry. Our guesthouse, simple but spotless and set out in a very Zen way, was tucked inside one such alley within the old city walls. Chiang Mai continues to cultivate a culture of learning, which works well with the genre of tourist that it attracts. Don't just eat Thai cuisine, learn how to cook it. Don't just receive a Thai massage, learn how to give it. Don't just ride an elephant, learn to be a mahout and train it.

The city's greatest asset of all, though, is its people. Always joking in the deadpan Thai sort of way, and ever helpful, there is sincerity behind their omnipresent smiles. Though we met plenty of interesting fellow tourists and expats, we especially enjoyed the company of the locals. From the tour guides to the bartenders to our tuktuk drivers to our hosts to our cooking teachers, there wasn't a single local we met whose company we didn't enjoy. Mind you, there was the one crazy tuktuk driver with a deathwish, who drove like a real life version of Crazy Taxi and giggled at our mortal fear as he weaved between oncoming trucks at what felt like 140km/h, but in retrospect even that was enjoyable. Canadians might be friendly, but though we are well mannered we absolutely fail to engage one another (and visitors) in the way that Thais do.

Days are filled with activities but nights themselves are a joy...from shopping and drinking fresh fruit shakes in the Night Bazaar to dancing under the lanterns and the stars at Zoe in Yellow, contemplation and action live in happy harmony in Chiang Mai.

The KL Paradox, part deux

2011-11-14T18:32:00.000-08:00

Having aborted our nightlife plans the first two nights due to sheer exhaustion, we finally ventured into Kuala Lumpur's lively streets for a Sunday night out. Venturing past beach-themed bars and Italian cafes, the music at a nightclub that caters mostly to locals, caught our ear. We walked in with the intent to take a look if it was somewhere we wanted to end up at later on that night, but instead found a party already in full-swing, at 9:30 pm. Unable to resist, we found ourselves on the dance floor surrounded by many of the Chinese, Indian, Malay, and Filipino partygoers that call KL home. Oh, and we did run into one Canadian expat thrilled that we, as tourists, had chosen a local-centric venue. Maybe he was just thrilled to hear an 'eh' after such a long time. At the club we found yet more examples of the KL irony. Old (and creepy) Indian residents trying to seduce the younger Chinese and Filipino girls. The young guys weren't the aggressive ones, it was always the middle aged men we were certain had wives back home. Shame on them. Perhaps more ironic is the fact that two guys were freely making out on the dance floor, in a country where homosexuality is at least, de jure, illegal.

Taking a break from the dance floor, we stepped out to grab a slice of pizza (spicy Malay specialties like betel leaf curry do not sit well for a night of fist-pumping mayhem). As we were leaving the pizzeria, a sign for what we thought was a Bollywood dance club caught our eye. Being on the second floor of a stately office building, I assumed "Bollywood Night Lovers", as it was called, would be something along the lines of Toronto's Besharam or Melbourne's Indian Nights - a typical club, just playing Bollywood music instead of hip-hop/house/top 40. Really, though, the name should have been our first red flag: Bollywood Night Lovers, what were we thinking? Our second red flag should have been the answer our waiter from the pizzeria gave us when we asked him if the place was fun. "I don't go there," was his reply, which we assumed was a grammatically incorrect way for him to say that he hadn't been there before. Assumptions are silly. Because when we walked in past the quizzical look on the bouncer's face and found ourselves in the middle of a bona fide modern Mujra, we quickly realized that the waiter's grammar was perfect. He meant what he said, that he doesn't frequent such establishments. For those not familiar with the term, a Mujra is a place where men go to watch women dance. It's not exactly a strip club, because the women are fully clothed, and in the modern incarnation neither is it the cultural institution it once was, as glorified in the Devdas and Umrao Jaan type films. What makes it taboo is the fact that it is taboo. Because of the attitudes and expectations of both patrons and performers, it is not a good place for respectable women to spend an evening. So when we did a 180 degree turn after walking in, the bouncer obligingly escorted us out with an almost apologetic look on his face as he realized we didn't know what we were walking into.

We returned to the first club, lieu of our earlier dance floor adventures, to find a live band performing hits both old and new. It was an absolute blast, and the icing on our cake was the wonderful personality of the manager, who looked after us the whole time and proved to be a great conversationalist. We walked home, dodging the harmless but annoying stares of the Indian contingent that was convinced we were Bollywood film stars (it was more frustrating than flattering). We arrived at our hotel with a last sigh of the KL early morning air, heavy with humidity and fond memories.

Concrete/Jungle :: The Kuala Lumpur Paradox

2011-11-13T02:44:00.000-08:00

Kuala Lumpur is the prime example of paradox. It is both concrete and jungle,but not the union of the two. Marvel at the steel and glass dream that is the Petronas Towers, and you are certain KL is modern; yet the challenge to this assumption lay only a short monorail ride away in the shophouses of little India. The Malay, Chinese, and Indian cultures all co-exist peacefully, but do not mix. The helpfulness of every person, of every culture, we have spoken to stands in stark contrast to the stares we receive from many of the men we pass by (despite being very decently dressed). The flowing outfits and hijabs of some women (usually the Malay) contrasts with the jean shorts and tank tops of others (usually the Chinese), yet both are acceptable because there is an understanding that modesty is a quality relative to ones cultural norms. Fast food is cheap, yet cookies are expensive. There is no such thing as a purely sunny day or rainy day, every day is made from generous measures of each. There are so many people here yet we seem to run into the same ones over again. In short, Kuala Lumpur is a city that is also a village.

Angkor Encore

2011-11-10T06:02:00.000-08:00

Waking up at four in the morning, a requisite for those wanting to see

the sunrise at Angkor Wat, proved to be easier than anticipated thanks

to my jetlag and what I have dubbed the Four-AM-Rooster

(coincidentally not a relation of Vancouver's Nine O'Clock Gun). There

is also a Six-AM-Rooster for those with a more sensible schedule, and

an 11-AM-Rooster for those with a hangover.

Stumbling into my TukTuk in the darkness, with a takeaway breakfast

courtesy of my guesthouse tucked beside me, my driver and I set out

into the foggy but quiet streets of Siem Reap. By the time we reached

Angkor Wat a few kilometres away, there was a steady stream of

tourist-pilgrims, all with tickets to the same solar show. I was

immediately accosted by the vendors, selling everything from

guidebooks to ponchos to flashlights that they assured me I would be

sure to step in a puddle without. Since it was raining, I wisely

bought a poncho, and reluctantly purchased a flashlight that was well

over-priced. Ironically, once I had it in hand I turned around to say

thank-you, only to step in a giant puddle anyway. The poncho lady

later tried to sell me a second poncho. "Lady, you buy one for your

husband", she said. I told her my husband was back home (I have found

this to be a better answer than to answer honestly that I'm unmarried,

which to them seems a tragic affair). "Okay you take for him

souveneeeer." Right, as if the plethora of artistic and even greater

plethora of kitschy goods to be bought weren't enough, my shopping

would not be complete without the "My wife went to Siem Reap and all

she brought back for me was this recycled plastic bag" poncho. Oh

well, you have to hand it to the vendors, they do have a great sense

of comedy. Tell them you don't want to buy one and they'll reply:

"Okay, don't buy one, buy two!". Sarcasm is the sixth of the Khmer

Spices, and they apply it generously, with good humour.

The sunrise itself at Angkor Wat wasn't as spectacular as I'd hoped

for because it was a cloudy day, however arriving early did have its

advantages. Most tour groups only start with the sunrise as seen from

outside the Wat, then do the "small circuit" tour of the other temples

and then return to go inside Angor Wat in the afternoon. Being the

most well preserved of the temples, the idea is to save the best for

last. For those, like me, who ventured in on their own, it turned out

propiciously because I was able to experience the temples in true

serenity, with only a handful of other tourists around. There were

often times when I was the only person in a particular part of the

temple. It was truly a spectacular start to the morning. The light

rain that had dampned (oh yes, pun intended) my sunrise experience was

the perfect touch to my morning solitary amble through Angkor Wat's

intricately adorned galleries.

I spent the rest of the day touring the remainder of the Angkor site -

Angkor Thom's legendary south gate, pictured above, the Bayon and Baphuon beyond it,

several smaller sites, and finished off at Ta Prohm, otherwise known

as Tomb Raider temple. I loved that we were welcome to climb and

explore the temples, but a part of me realizes that with the amount of

visitors that do the same, it doesn't bode well for their long-term

preservation. I especially liked Ta Prohm because, unlike some of the

other temples which are undergoing restoration (most parts of them

would otherwise be piles of stone), Ta Prohm has been kept largely in

the state in which it was found: in symbiosis with the surrounding

rainforest. I also loved seeing the evolution of the carvings in the

temples as they changed dedication from Hindu to Buddhist, (or vice

versa). In some galleries there would be Vishnu on one side and Buddha

on the other - in happy harmony now.

By early afternoon I was so exhausted from climbing all of the steep

steps of the temple (I must have climbed nearly a thousand steep steps

all day), and the heat, that I came back to my guesthouse to refresh

with a green papaya salad - the perfect refreshment to bring me back from a day spent

among ancient company.

Snapshot of Siem Reap

2011-11-08T04:05:00.000-08:00

It was a short two-hour flight from KL to Siem Reap (Cambodia) but I feel like I am a million miles away from the rest of Asia. For starters the hospitality is stellar, a warm welcome for a woman who hasn't slept in 3 days. I had my first TukTuk ride: bicycle aside, it really is the best way to travel. I fear I would be too worried about navigating the traffic on cycle, so for now, tuk tuk is the way to go. Despite momentary fears for my life, I grinned the whole way from the airport to the guesthouse. What delighted me the most were the scenes that re-assured me that I wasn't in Kansas: coconuts piled onto bicycles, tuktuks with drivers napping in the built in hammocks, a woman riding her bike carrying a very witch-like broom over her shoulder and huge smile on her face, and the competition between the billboards and the cows for dominance of the boulevards next to the streets. I love that no one wears shoes indoors...despite the profusion of "Angkor Golf Hotel" types, there is something beautifully earthy here.

Certainly the temples of Angkor Wat and Angkor Thom are the raison d'etre for Siem Reap's modern tourism dominated era, but the town itself and the people therein are an interest in themselves. What I am liking thus far is what isn't captured in photos: the uniquely maddening screech of crickets in the rainforest at dusk, the sound of flute music and drums off in the distance. The angry clap of thunder, town crier of the monsoon season. Security gards serenading their phones, babies riding in the front part of scooters, the quality of cheap food, and the ubiquitous scent of jasmine. Where there is little of the flower itself, there is ample as incense.

Access Is The New Ownership :: A Case for Community Consumerism

2010-12-23T18:11:00.000-08:00

Access Is The New Ownership. Ever since I first came across it on this post at worldchanging.org, I have been fixated by the phrase. And as evidenced by Brian Merchant’s article on treehugger, I’m not alone in my fascination with product-service systems. Product-service systems, which can either provide collective ownership (such as Vancouver’s Co-operative Auto Network for car sharing), or access to private ownership (Netflix being the example du-jour), are on the rise. The concept is far from new. Amsterdam’s bike-sharing was first piloted in the 1960’s, and public libraries have been around for centuries. What trendspotters and trendsetters alike are noting, though, is that technology, media, and societal ethos are converging to a degree that is starting to make access more efficient than ownership.

Low-Budget or High-End. The laundromats of 20 years ago may have existed primarily to serve the budget-minded; this is no longer the case. Be it car sharing for the environmentally conscious, community gardens for the space-challenged cultivators, or designer purse sharing to satisfy the ever-changing demands of the local fashionistas, the product-service systems of today cater to a myriad of groups. On a psychological level, access over ownership challenges the prestige that used to come with personal (non-commercial) possessions. After all, does one really covet ownership of the private jet, or access to it, the latter including the ability to show it off to friends? How many celebrities wear their own jewellery to the Oscars?

The Space-Time Drain. Khalil Gibran wrote: For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow. That was in 1923. Despite such sound advice, the past eight decades have seen the rise of hyper-consumerism, and only in recent years (perhaps nudged on by the economic downturn), are we beginning to see its decline. Keeping a possession requires space, guarding it requires time, neither of which are available in excess. Simplify, society says. Product-service systems allow you to fulfil your future need, without the space and time investment of having to keep, guard (or even outright purchase) the product. The engineer in me appreciates the efficiency of this. Even digital storage has a price.

With ownership comes liability, and liability can be a dead-weight to the instant gratification generation that thrives on variety. Ergo, access is the new ownership. Gone are the days of owning more. Dawned are the days getting more.

Embracing the Aloha Spirit

2010-11-16T13:50:00.001-08:00

Of all the mementos and memories brought back from my trip to Hawai'i this weekend, none is more precious to me than the mantra of 'Aloha'. Like most newcomers to Hawai'i, I first understood the ubiquitous term to mean either 'Hello' or 'Goodbye'. Conversations with the lovely, warm, youth of Hawai'i quickly taught me otherwise.

'Aloha means many things', explained my newfound friend Kailani - a hula dancer and surfer at heart, who happened to be next to me on the bus on my way home from the Polynesian Cultural Centre. She explained that while 'Aloha' indeed means both hello and goodbye, its meaning is far deeper. Aloha, used also to express love and positivity, is more than merely a greeting or noun: it is a way of life. If your traditions have taught you to be generous to neighbours, kind to strangers, and responsible to family, then you have been taught good 'Aloha'.

From business owners recommending the competition if they thought we'd be better served by them, to our surf instructor's generosity, to the flight agent re-booking us to arrive home on time despite our original flight being seriously delayed: our entire trip was blanketed in two types of warmth. One was from the daily 28 degree sunshine, and the second was the spirit of Aloha that led us nearly always to perfect moments amongst good company.

Somewhat biased, I admit, I have always thought that people are very friendly here at home in Canada. Indeed, in Canada, you do treat everyone as a friend. In Hawai'i, though, you treat them as your 'Ohana' - your family. There is no sense of mine and thine - only a strong sense of ours. The spirit of Aloha extends to the land as well - best embodied by my other favourite Hawai'ian phrase: 'Malama A'ina', or 'take care of the land'. The fact that this was taught to me by the youth is a clear sign that the Hawai'ian Aloha spirit will endure.

Aloha, my friends.

My Alternate Reality Freebie List :: The 5 Quasi-Celebrities That Would Make the Cut, in a Sideways World

2010-09-02T22:50:00.000-07:00

Remember that episode of Friends, where Chandler introduces the freebie list? You know, the list of 5 celebrities that, should the occasion present itself, you’d be allowed to sleep with without facing the wrath of your significant other? Well, I’ve always wanted to write about my freebie list, but I see no benefit to disclosing that information...unless of course you happen to be Jake Gyllenhaal or Matthew McConaughey, in which case my contact information is listed below.

For the rest of you, I instead present something of far greater entertainment value: My Alternate Reality Freebie List. I have always had a yen to meet certain people, more to fulfill my absurd curiosity than fantasy. Of course these people wouldn't make my real freebie list, but in an alternate reality where life's sole purpose is the pursuit of the banal, here's who would make the cut:

Number 5: A man with the surname Love, who has his PhD. That's right, Dr. Love, I'm looking for you. After all, who wouldn't want the ability to someday say: "I learned that from Dr. Love himself."

Number 4: The flannel-clad man whose hand appears on the fireplace channel. Is it because he's mysterious, rugged, or dependable to be there? Either way, let's just say I'd be stoked to meet him. Besides, there'd be no doubt that he could keep the flame alive.

Number 3: The host of BBC's Connections. He makes the cut more for the pillow talk than anything else. Just imagine his post-coital conversation: "And that, darling, is why the colour of your skin in this light is the exact shade that Michelangelo used to paint Adam’s hand in the Sistine Chapel, where the scaffolding was made by a carpenter by the name of Sealy, whose descendants became the namesake of the furniture company that made this very bed!"

Number 2: The Olivieri Pasta Guy. You know, from the commercial where the intimate patio dinner turns into food-fight-foreplay? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdO3Qlosvtw . The combination of his smile and th...wait a minute...this guy ought to be on my actual freebie list. There’s nothing oddball about this...just one very sexy man and some hearty Italian food. Yum.

The real Number 2: Tuxedo Mask. Yes, we’re talking about the character from Sailor Moon. This being an alternate reality list, I can include a type that I would never consider in the real world...i.e. some uber-emo animated character. Enter Tuxedo Mask. To clarify, the issue in the real world would be the emo, not the animated (I’d take Batman any day). And Tuxedo Mask knew emo before emo knew what emo was. Just look at his haircut. Sensitive eyes. High-necked T-shirt under a blazer. There is enough longing left over from my obsession with him as a twelve year old that allows him to make the list. Besides, he really does have the gentleman thing going for him. In a weird emo sort of way.

Number 1: The top spot goes to another animated favourite: Mr. Clean. Just think about it, he’s tidy and knows how to get the job done, everywhere from the kitchen counter to inside the shower. Besides, he has great arms and you’d never have to worry about STDs. Most importantly, there’s the challenge that comes along with him...the challenge to be the girl that makes Mr. Clean get dirty.

Et voila, my alternate reality freebie list. Of course this is all in the name of humour. I really don’t want to know what pillow talk would be like with the Connections guy. As a matter of fact, I don’t even believe in this whole notion of a freebie list....

...Unless of course you’re Mr. Olivieri, in which case my contact info is listed below.

Whom the Floods Don't Kill, The Apathy Will

2010-08-30T23:23:00.000-07:00

Pakistan is currently in the midst of the worst natural disaster in its history. While the Indus river begins to recede, the scale of devastation continues to mount. Yet, if one looks at the dollar value of relief contributions from individuals, the genre of ‘updates’ on the social media channels, and the barrage of blog posts (like this one) discussing donor apathy, it becomes apparent that the urgency and magnitude of this disaster is being greatly underestimated. According to the Canadian Press, as of three days ago “The American Red Cross, has collected about $2 million for Pakistan and is dipping into a contingency fund to support its work there. At the same stage, it had raised...about $230 million for the Haiti quake.” A myriad of explanations for the world’s tepid response have been provided – but I beg to refute their validity. This much is sure, dear reader – whom the floods don’t kill, the apathy will.

1. The “Donor Fatigue/Economic Turndown/Gave my quota to Haiti” argument. To this I point out that nowhere is there a drive to give beyond one’s means. A simple text message to 30333 enables you to donate $5 to the Red Cross’ relief efforts for the Pakistan floods. This can be double edged sword - to those that can afford to give more, it offers the option to get your conscience off the hook for a mere $5. But the ease, convenience, and accessibility of being able to say “yes, at least I did something”, makes contribution a no-brainer. So for those that say “I cannot afford to give”, I ask you – can you afford to skip your latte today?

2. The “Pakistan has a relatively well-funded military so if they can afford guns they can afford to help their own people”. At the risk of providing Captain Obvious soundbytes, allow me to point out that the US also has a “relatively well funded” military as well, but nowhere did that mean that the public’s kindness was un-needed for Hurricane Katrina. Furthermore – whilst ideally the government ought to play the most active role in the relief effort, the reality remains that it is civil society that does much of the groundwork in this regard. In that light, we must ask instead, does Pakistan have such a well developed civil society network that it doesn’t need our help? Evidently, that is far, far, from the case.

3. The “I don’t want to give my money to terrorists” argument. The answer to this is three-fold. A) People really need to get this Pakistani = Terrorist notion out of their heads. Like the vast majority of Muslims, the vast majority of Pakistanis are peaceful people who want to get on with their lives. Seriously people, don’t confuse the extremists with the general populace (otherwise why would they be called extremists? Duh!). B) I don’t know about you but the last time I checked, the Red Cross (to whom I suggest you donate) isn’t a terrorist organization. As for C) Frankly, I’m also a little bit peeved with the counter argument to this: the donate because it is the politically strategic thing to do argument. That’s a case of doing the right thing for the wrong reason. Is there truth to the argument, yes, but it saddens me that such a donation is based on an us/them mentality. In my opinion, the impetus to donate should stem not from the fear of difference, but from the recognition of brotherhood. We are talking about our fellow human beings – isn’t that reason enough?

4. The “lack of a telegenic crisis” argument. As is so elegantly pointed out in David Crary’s article for the Associated Press, we have this perverse notion that the scale of need generated by a natural disaster is tied to its death toll. These floods are indeed a slow moving disaster, and it is a miracle that the death toll has remained so low (in the low thousands). The irony is that relief efforts are for the living, not the dead – and there are approximately 20 million people affected (the most common figure I found across news sources). That’s nearly the entire population of Canada.

Water-borne disease, long-term food shortage due to lost cropland, a lack in infrastructure – these will be silent killers in the months ahead. Pakistan needs your help, your fellow human beings need your help. Because unless we rise to the occasion, whom the floods don’t kill, the apathy will.

Everybody Says She's a Great Ketch :: The Oz Experience, Part IV

2010-08-16T18:23:00.001-07:00

After a 4-month hiatus, I return to chronicling my Australian adventure. This post was originally written in April 2010.

I have always had a romantic fascination with sailing, despite never having tried it until now. Somewhere below my photo in my 9th grade yearbook, owning a sailboat is listed as part of my dream future life (alongside owning a nightclub and world domination – my how things change!). Though my primary duties onboard the MS Kiana were sunbathing and snorkelling, my sailing trip to the Whitsunday Islands confirmed one of my suspicions: there’s an old salt somewhere in me.

The Kiana is a 60ft cutter-rigged-ketch. A ketch has two masts, the main mast shorter than the head mast ahead of it, and the rudder sits behind the main mast. A ketch would have three sails: The head sail, the main sail, and the mizzen sail. A cutter-rigged catch has an additional sail called…the cutter! (And here you thought the boat had self-esteem issues). Though I didn’t get a chance to hoist any of the sails (better left to someone with more upper body strength), I did get a chance to help reel them in. Other than that, the crew insisted that we relax and enjoy the ride, which we did, in spades.

Whitehaven beach was awesome, moreso for the sand than the view, in my opinion. The 98.5% silica sand is so pure and so fine (not in the 90’s Fresh Prince compliment sense...but fine in the ability to pass through a number 200 sieve sense) that the mirrors for the Hubble Space Telescope were made from it. The albedo was so high that the sand absorbed next to none of the 30+ degree heat. The science-fiction feel was furthered by the fact that we had to be clad in head-to-toe stinger suits in order to swim in the jellyfish habitat waters. The experience stirred two emotions in me: pity for the fictional Freemen of Dune (I imagine their stillsuits to be similar garb), and concrete understanding that all-over Lycra looks terrible no matter how many Pilates classes you take to prepare for the experience.

Much of the next three days were spent snorkelling, and even though the water was relatively turbid thanks to the recent passing of a cyclone, floating above the Great Barrier Reef is akin to being a fly on the wall at LHR. Marine life, mind-blowing in numbers and variety, would pass underneath as if in a hurried but somehow cohesive dance. Scuba diving for the first time was an unnerving experience, and I enjoyed it less than snorkelling, mostly because I was pre-occupied with popping my ears every metre and getting water out of my mask. Still, I’m glad I tried it, as the entire theme of this vacation was to push the boundaries of my comfort zone.

Nothing, not even the delicious roast lamb dinner the first night, compared to sitting in the bow seat, though. With my legs dangling over the edge as we crested a wave, nothing delighted me more than the tickle of ocean spray on the bottom of my feet. Moving at one with the ocean was precious, and like I said earlier, confirmed that there’s an old salt in me somewhere!

Empire of the Sun :: The Oz Experience, Part III

2010-03-30T02:09:00.000-07:00

Throughout my travels, I have always taken comfort in the fact that no matter which part of the planet you look from, you see the same stars. The fact that you cannot see the Southern Cross from Canada (and that Orion looks like he's hunting from an awkward angle) aside, the stars themselves are essentially the same. All save for one: the sun. Forgive the lunacy of this comment, though anyone who has ever been to Australia would agree: the sun is hotter here. Seriously. Whether it be a matter of lattitude or of proximity to Antarctica's seasonal ozone hole, I am uncertain. What I do know is that it is a more intense sun, a crueller sun, a sun that still manages to burn despite oodles of SPF 60 sunblock. It is only fitting, then, that the unofficial theme song of my trip (selected because it somehow seemed to be playing everywhere I went) is by a band called Empire of the Sun.

North of Brisbane, off the sunshine coast lies Moreton Island, site of my latest adventure. Similar to Fraser Island, Moreton is a sand dune island - the soil is all sand - and yet somehow forest, marsh, and bush all seem to grow upon it. A short ferry ride away, it's a great way to spend a day in the sunshine. From sandboarding in The Desert (Aussies are very obvious with their naming conventions) to swimming in the pristine teal waters of North Beach (did I mention the naming conventions?), from 4x4-ing along surf and turf (word of caution for us ladies: wear a sports bra) to playing frisbee in the Blue Lagoon, it all makes for a perfect day dans le soleil.

Icing on my holiday cake :: The Oz Experience, Part II

2010-03-22T00:32:00.000-07:00

From the day I booked my air ticket, I knew that Australia would be fantastic. I had expectations...great ones. I had banked on the endless sunshine, the softness of the sand, the legendary nightlife and the vastness of the horizon. Every moment of this trip thus far has lived up to those expectations - even though my plans for the next few days are uncertain at best thanks to the aftermath of Cyclone Ului. The uncertainty itself, the capriciousness allowed by my lack of plans, is a rare delight. The East Coast of Australia has not only met my expectations, it has exceeded them. My proverbial holiday cake has been as sumptuous as I could have hoped for. But it is a few surprises, a few wonderful surprises that I had never banked on, that have truly made my vacation. They have thus far been the Crave buttercream icing on the said holiday cake.

5 :: TimTams

These chocolate-on-chocolate, in chocolate, biscuits may someday be my downfall. I understand now why Lonely Planet dubs them "close to every Australian's heart". Biting off diagonally opposite corners and sucking the milk through one of these is as messy and sinfully delicious as it sounds. I may have to buy extra luggage in Cairns just to bring some of these back.

4 :: Palace Packs at the Royal Botanical Garden

Picnics are lovely, and none moreso than those decided upon spontaneously and cooked by someone else! Enter the Palace Pack, a brown bag lunch offered by the cafe in Sydney's Royal Botanical Gardens. For $11 you get a fresh wrap or sandwich, soft drink, fruit, and sweet of your choice, all packed up so that you can find yourself a lovely spot on the lush grass of the gardens and have a careless al-fresco feast! Two packs were plenty for three people, to boot. Watching the clouds pass overhead while the sound of the waterfountains whispers in your ears is an easy way to forget you're in a city of over 4 million.

3 :: The State Library of Victoria

In need of Internet access in the heart of Melbourne, I was directed to the State Library of Victoria, a beautiful collection of buildings, the first of which was established in 1854. A three-storey domed reading room, free internet/computer access by the hour (no library card required), and exhibition rooms showcasing the history of books made me envy the many university students that make this their study base. The UW Davis Centre Library truly does pale in comparison. Did I mention the plethora of cubicles?

2 :: The Sydney Central YHA Rooftop Pool
AND
1 :: New Found Friends

These two have been inexorably linked, at least for my time in Sydney. Not only does the rooftop pool/patio have a stellar view, particularly at sunset, it is also the best place to meet up with fellow travellers for a day/evening/epic night of sightseeing. My morning swim was delightful, as there I met quite possibly the nicest people in Australia - my newfound friends Fran and Deniz. We quickly became friends and have since been causing ruckus all around Sydney - would you expect any less from a trio of twentysomething girls? My evening swim was equally fateful: myself and the other admirers of the sunset went from being three solo travellers to dinner companions sharing a paella. A walk along the Darling Harbour with my other newfound friends, Stefan and Agnes, topped off with intriguing conversation, made my night!

There are the joys that you count on, that you aspire to...satisfaction is the fulfillment of these. Seeing the unexpected joys as gifts from the world...this is happiness.

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Tropic of Capricorn :: The Oz Experience Part I

2010-03-18T20:19:00.000-07:00

In the past week, I have crossed the International Date Line (which, btw, is not a 1-900 number), the Equator, and the Tropic of Capricorn.

I have dipped my feet in the Southern Ocean (according to Australian geography, this is the name for the Antarctic Ocean, and it comes all the way up to the south coast of Australia), I have dipped my feet in Bells Bay sand, and I have dipped my feet in the fresh water of Victoria, of which there isn't very much.

I have seen penguins return from the sea, fed a kangaroo, eaten a meat pie, and driven through Geelong, the birthplace of board shorts and wetsuits. I am, for all intents and purposes, on the other side of the world from home, where the toilets supposedly swirl in the opposite direction (thanks to low-flow fixtures everywhere, they really don't "swirl" so much as flush). I am living the quintessential Aussie experience, yet there are moments here in Melbourne where I swear I'm in a warmer version of Vancouver.

The lingo is certainly different (everything is shortened - sunglasses are sunnies, a (coleman) cooler is an eskie, candies are lollies), and the colour of the ocean is a shade that Canada's coasts can never aspire to, yet I cannot help but draw the parallels between the two cities.

The climate is very similar, with Melbourne known to have three seasons in a day, and the neighbourhoods all seem to have equivalents in Vancouver. St. Kilda is just like Kits, Docklands like Granville Island, and Kew is like Oak and W 49th. The CBD is very similar to downtown Vancouver, only that Melbourne's beauty is man-made, whilst Vancouver's greatest asset is it's natural setting. The Victorian capital rises to the occasion, though. Both buildings and bodies are markedly better dressed. The architecture here is a mix of Victorian, Edwardian, and Gehrian-esque! Most importantly, there is a notable lack of concrete rectangles. As for the human dress code: there is an equally notable lack of yoga pants. Pencil skirts and pointy shoes dominate, though perhaps my being here during L'Oreal Fashion Week has skewed the experience just a little bit.

No two cities are exactly alike, and I love both Melbourne and Vancouver for their differences. What I think truly makes them similar is how they can both be so laid-back, yet so cultured, all at the same time.

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Rehana's 2009 Year-Bygone Lexicon :: Part II

2010-03-09T15:20:00.000-08:00

Words. My vocabulary fixation further reveals itself as I present to you Part II of my completely biased list of favourite words for 2009. I must re-iterate here that there is no set criteria I have used to select this list - some are chosen for their phonetic impact, others for their new relevance in meaning, and yet others simply because they appeal to my intuition.

5 :: Kibosh :: What it means: (as a transitive verb) To stop from happening, to prevent from continuing. Why it makes me hot: Definition aside, the phonetics of this word seem to describe the sound of an idea or abstract concept being smacked down - if there were such a sound. This makes me wonder: if an idea gets smacked down in the middle of a forest with no one around...Why 2009: It seemed to me a year with plenty of bickering, which tends to put the kibosh on many a grand plan.

4 :: Technophile :: What it means: One who has a love for technology, particulary computer and digital technology. Why it makes me hot: The hi-tech/low-tech contrast of a word that might once have been a piece of equipment on Star Trek: The Original Series. "Lieutenant, prepare to deploy the technophile". Why 2009: Quite simply, because it's been ubiquitous this year.

3 :: Neo-Luddite :: What it means: a modern Luddite - one who is against technological change. Why it makes me hot: It’s the opposite though not equal movement to number 4, and I’ve always been a fan of Newton’s laws. Why 2009: As the wave of technophilia crests, so too will neo-Luddism.

2 :: Libertine :: What it means: A morally (or socially) unrestrained person. Why I love it: Tracing back its etymology, it originally denoted political dissent against Calvinism. Later, it was associated with moral unrestraint and promiscuity. It’s an adjective whose criteria are ever changing. Why 2009: If we had kept the Age of Enlightenment definition of it, half of modern Hollywood would be libertines.

1 :: Zeitgeist :: What it means: From German, literally “the spirit (ghost) of the times”. Why I love it: Succinct yet meaningful, its rhyming diphthongs make it a word that begs to be spoken with passion. Why 2009: The blogosphere, Twitter, and Google Analytics may have been around the block for a while, but only this year have I seen such an obsession with deciphering the spirit of the times. Trend was trendy…in 2009, the zeitgeist was the zeitgeist!

Reh's 2009 Year-Bygone Lexicon :: Part I

2010-01-07T21:31:00.000-08:00

Words. You needn't know me well to know my affinity for them. They make up the creative arsenal with which I struggle to define myself. Like any objects of affection, I have my favourites amongst them. Stop rolling your eyes - it's normal. Wasn't it Tolkien who once said that "cellar door" is the most beautiful combination of words in the English language? Whilst I could continue to defend my rationale for this post, that would only serve to delay its real purpose. I therefore present to you, without further adieu, Part I of my completely biased list of favourite words for 2009.

10 - Ecotage. What it means: Eco + sabotage. Not to be confused with sabotage undertaken with plant-based ingredients, it refers to sabotage done by environmental activists. Why it makes me hot: Let's clarify here that it isn't the concept that I'm praising - that's a debate for another day. It's the word itself that I like, and there's something comedic in the euphemism factor of this compound creation. Why 2009: Copenhagen alone generated many prime examples.

9 - Barcode. What it means: llllllllllll. Why it makes me hot: Maybe it's a clear sign heralding the dawn of the Demolition Man era. Maybe it's the implied social elegance captured in a play on words describing a world where asking for a phone number may soon be obsolete: bar...code. Or, maybe it's just plain sexy. Why 2009: The release of BBM 5 and it's barcode scanning functionality and the fact that this year even Google paid homage to its invention.

8 - Frou Frou. What it means: Frills, lace, feathers. Embellishment à la Moulin Rouge. Why it makes me hot: A frivolous word for frivolity - what's not to love? Why 2009: It's the anti-thesis of an otherwise spartan year, and because H&M's accessory collection had us all with at least one feather in our caps.

7 - Sartorial. What it means: Of, or relating to, a tailor or tailoring. Why it makes me hot: Using only four syllables, it conjures up a vision of a suit wearing salesman holding a briefcase...wearing a fedora...in Panama. Why 2009: The public trust in said suit-clad figure has declined in a way reminiscent of the Mad Men opening sequence. That, and the rise of Mad Men-inspired fashion as the definition of sartorial elegance and the sketchiness it implies.

6 - Portmanteau. What it means: Though formerly referring to a hard leather suitcase, the term now designates a new word formed by combining two or more words and their meanings. Brunch, for example, is a portmanteau of "breakfast" and "lunch". Why it makes me hot: Frenemy and frugalista aside, this is a word I love for the way it rolls off my tongue. As an added bonus, if you break it up into parts, it incorporates some of my favourite concepts: Port (in the sense of travel) + Man + T (read = tea) + Eau (as in water - let's not forget my profession). Why 2009: The sudden surge in portmanteau words spawned by our drive to be more efficient (and conversely less empathic) in our communication.

5 - 1 to follow in the next post.

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Evolution of the Fireplace Channel

2009-12-06T22:05:00.000-08:00

There's something magical about this time of year. The sight of snow, the smell of cinnamon, the taste of chestnuts roasted on...your television? Ah yes, for those of us not fortunate enough to have a wood-burning chimney et al, Shaw Cable has graciously provided us with an almost perfect substitute: the fireplace channel.

My first experience with the infamous broadcast came about in 2007. Browsing through channels one chilly December afternoon, I noticed a burning fireplace, complete with crackling sounds, on Channel 9. Thinking it just a temporary filler, I went on my merry way in trying to find something else to watch. Several hours later, I noticed it was still on. 4:18 pm...still on...8:26 pm...still on...4:45 am...STILL ON? At this point I was baffled by the sheer absurdity of a dedicated fireplace channel, yet simultaneously mesmerized by the crackling sound and occasional appearance of the plaid-wearing firekeeper's arm. What a waste of airtime, I thought.

How wrong I was.

The ratings for the original fireplace on Channel 9 must have been stellar, because three days later, there was another fireplace, on Channel 10! This one showed an oak mantle, had a distinctly different flame, and was accompanied by the sound of instrumental Christmas carols. Yes, that's right, there were now TWO fireplace channels: Channel 9 for the purists insisting on the crackle sounds, and Channel 10, for the more musically inclined. I'm surprised there were no competition laws forcing the two channels to be farther apart. I thought this was the height of holiday banality, but the next year proved me wrong.

By 2008, there were THREE fireplace channels. The original Channel 9 crackling fire, the Channel 10 musical fire, and the newly introduced Channel 107 hybrid -> the same fire as in Channel 9, but time-lapsed and with Christmas carols. Inconceivable, I thought! But then I wondered which was the more absurd: the people who created these channels, or the people like me who, under the guise of research, WATCH these channels...and actually feel a little warmer because of them?

Like the trailer for Fringe states: "There's just no point after which things can't get any weirder, is there?". I say this because in January 2009, I came across the Yule Log DVD. That's right - if you couldn't get enough of the fiery drama over the holidays, you could now enjoy it year-round for three easy payments of $4.99! "The horror! The horror!" I thought. Admittedly, there were days where I too sat riveted, eagerly anticipating a rare glimpse of the firekeeper's arm as he shuffled the logs...but really...to pay for it?!? (Apparently there is a downloadable HD version too, as my friend Hafiz pointed out.)

A few weeks ago, however, when I thought all of this yule-log frenzy had finally passed its pinnacle, I came across the Thanksgiving incarnation of the fireplace channel, on Channel 107. Picture the classic Channel 9 fireplace, but now with a curiously fresh-looking cooked turkey (on a bed of salad, naturally) in front of it. I nearly died of laughter...there's just something mildly prophetic about the positioning of the now-cooked turkey...as if it too is watching the fireplace...or was, until its fate caught up with it. Let that be a warning to us all.

Though my induction into the yule-log fellowship was recent, a little bit of research uncovered the most absurd part of the whole fireplace channel concept - that it's apparently been around since 1986. Wow, that yule-log is nearly as old as I am!

What's next in the evolution of the fireplace channel? A DVD of yule-log bloopers, as my friend Brad suggests? You know, scenes where stray embers land on the firekeeper's hand, the turkey ensemble gets ravaged by the dog, or the filming crew passes wind? Whatever the case, I have no doubt that each successive year will one-up the previous version. One thing is certain: the fireplace channel is here to stay.

Hiatus Explained :: Ars Musica

2009-11-09T09:54:00.000-08:00

I wrote 40 posts to this blog last year. This year, I have written 4. Though a busy year, it has been a year of change, and change is what motivates me to write. My mind has been overflowing with thoughts, so why the silence of my pen? I realized only two weeks ago the cause of my dilemma: my laptop was busted for much of this year. While I had access to ample other computers (four others in my home alone) to write from, there was a crucial element missing in my life, preventing me from entering that state where my thoughts flow freely through my ink. I didn’t have my music. It’s uncanny how few people realize that the root word of music is muse.

My life has been exhilarating in itself, but alone I can experience only so much. My muse, however, has allowed me glimpses into a world of collective experience.

Ars Musica

Butterflies for the bittersweet sound of a Taraab melody
A reminder of a past life?
Once a bride in Stone Town…
Hidaya she sings, spurring a familiar longing, as if I understood the essence of her words
My mind cannot translate
My heart need not translate

I have been a lovesick teenager in Tehran,
A criminal in Mumbai
A vagabond in Spain
I have had a thousand lovers, a hundred heartbreaks, a dozen soulmates
The face that replies from the mirror is a function of what resonates in my ear

The Khyber Pass was my first journey
Today, the Andean breeze passes through my fingers
I am well travelled indeed.

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Rhetoritocracy :: The role of EQ in a flat world

2009-08-13T20:27:00.000-07:00

Some time ago, while sipping jasmine tea and staring at a flat representation of our round planet (yay for transverse mercator projection), a thought crossed my mind: How would history have played out if Galileo had hired a genius public relations rep?

Allow me to elaborate: I'm about a quarter way through Thomas L. Friedman's 'The World Is Flat', on the part about "uploading". The fact that the outsourcing (another of Friedman's flatteners) of technical ability has increased the value of emotional intelligence (EQ) is well known. I think uploading is an even greater driver to the need for a high EQ in order to be successful. Uploading, you see, has vastly increased our sources of both opinion and information.

Twenty years ago, if I wanted to know about...psychology...my resources would likely have been limited to textbooks or scientific journals. These would probably have been written by a skilled expert with a PhD and substantial experience, and given their academic nature, would be about as easy to read as Kant's Critique of Pure Reason. Publishing, in the meritocratic society, was reserved for those with either knowledge, experience, or money. It is in our nature to gather our knowledge from sources we trust, and in the meritocratic society, the academics were the trusted sources. Yet it seems to me that trust is a very personal thing, and that we better understand a concept when it is explained to us via a relevant example...when it is explained to us in our own language...when we are able to connect it to our own lives. We therefore have a tendency to trust those that we resonate with.

Today, if I wanted to know about psychology, I could choose from a myriad of articles - and the one that would catch my attention would be that with the greatest power of resonance, the most specific to the application in question, and the greatest power of persuasion: the best rhetoric. In this age of information overload, we look to those who appeal to our emotional intelligence, and in so doing, have entered what I call a Rhetoritocracy: a society where persuasiveness dominates.

The rhetoritocracy demands a high EQ and superb public relations in order to propagate ones ideas, and while these are positive traits to cultivate, there are pitfalls if resonance were to entirely replace reason. Misinformation is more likely to happen, and smooth-talking may mask a lack of critical knowledge required for a position. There is great value in education, in experience, in the meritocratic model, that we must ensure we don't lose. What we must do is cultivate our power of rhetoric to complement our IQ.

While I admit that a great public relations rep wouldn't have done much for Galileo in his time, it's an entirely different game today. In an era where social mobility meets mobile social networking, it's the smooth-talkers are poised to make it to the top...

...trust me.

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Imperfection and Self-Validation :: Coming to terms with my flaws

2009-07-07T22:03:00.000-07:00

One spring afternoon last year, my friend Farhan and I went to the Waterloo Clay and Glass Gallery to try our hand at some non-wheel pottery making. We were each given a slab of clay, a few tools, and the freedom to indulge in our imagination. Having always wanted to make a vase, I proceeded roll, flatten, and attempt to shape the clay slab into my desired form. Try as I might, I couldn't succeed in achieving the symmetric hourglass shape I had in mind. The walls were too thick on one side, too high on the other. After several attempts, I gave up on trying to make the vase out of a single piece of clay. Instead, I reverted to the coiling method: Taking a small piece of clay at a time, I would roll each piece into a loop, and stack each coil on top of the previous. The coils themselves were not perfect. Some were thicker than others, some too short, some too long, some uneven. The beautiful thing about the experience was that, when put together, each of these imperfect pieces balanced the others out - and as a result the vase took on the balanced form I had desired in the first place.

Mastery is in the big picture. Pursuit of perfection in the details is likely to lead only to frustration. Embrace the flaws; love the finished product. So it is with clay, so it is with us. Were we not, after all, fashioned out of the same?

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Longing for Spring :: A spoken word rant on Mother Nature's hormonal mood swings

2009-04-14T20:18:00.000-07:00

Homonyms are the cause of much confusion.

I prayed for rain, you see, but someone up there misunderstood me
RAIN I requested, but REIGN I received.
The continued REIGN of the Snow Queen, leaving me deceived.
It’s the third of April, and ice still covers the lake.
The snowfall on my birthday? Icing on my landscape cake.

Persephone must love Hades’ new silk sheets, because he’s still got her
While Demeter keeps us frozen in the absence of her daughter.
Oh but you don’t know what spring means to me…
Renewal, rebirth, and the chance to wear open toed shoes without being considered positively loony.

My heart is longing for you, spring, like the lover longs for the night.
Yet not an iota of green greets my sight.
No birdsongs in the morning, no scent of fresh dew
Where are the signs of nature anew?

I long for the aroma of lillies abloom
For rays of evening sunshine to lighten my room
With the fall of the leaves closed the gates of my heart…
I am waiting, waiting for the new season to start.

Love Letter

2009-03-04T20:19:00.001-08:00

Old post that I had once drafted, but never published:

"I stumbled across an old love letter from you today. I wanted to say thank you. It reminded me that the longest of nights is still broken by the dawn.

Winds exist that can uproot even the strongest of trees, with the deepest of roots. They are not the hurricane winds of the tropical storm. These winds are far more subtle. They are the warm breath of an evil whisper in your ear. Doubt is a poison that makes the tree's branches strangle the trunk, and its roots question the soil that feed them. "

Istanbul 1:26 am

2008-12-19T17:40:00.000-08:00

It's 5:00 pm in Calgary and the sun has already set. I’m listening to Buddha Bar’s tenth anniversary album. Drums, cymbals, and lutes play hide and seek in my ear. The track is called Istanbul 1:26 am, but it sounds nothing like it. I should know…I was there.

Shall I tell you about Istanbul – 1:26 am? Of the busy streets around Taksim Square? Of the lovers, friends, and those in between walking hand in hand past the corn vendors of Istiklal Caddesi? Of the Greek musicians playing Bouzouki out of a café doorway in a dark alley, as we joined the crowd gathered round to listen to them…of the distant sound of the Ney flute and Daf drum – or was that just my heartbeat?

This is Istanbul 1:26 am.

Across the Galata Bridge now, where the nargilah smokers lounge on technicolour cushions, to where the night market vendors set up shop…to where the young sword seller held me hostage under the bridge for a kiss…

On towards Ankara street, where the sweetshop owner trades Turkish Delight for batting eyelashes, and the honest salesman next door bargains with us for his wares.

Some boats still roam the Corne D’Or, but the streets begin to quiet. The vendors go home, the youth go dancing, and watching over it all are the six minarets of the Blue Mosque.

This is Istanbul – 1:26 am.

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Mirage

2008-11-29T23:15:00.000-08:00

A humid night in the old city. The band plays a lazy bachata. Slow strums on the guitar…a pair of eyes connect. A pair of bodies dance. A pair of hearts embrace. No. No hearts. Broken hearts don’t feel. No illusions of fairytales…just a pair of lonely gringos and a bottle of white rum. Her sweetheart’s too far away, and she left her shame on the distant shores of her hometown. He’s gone too long without a soft body beneath his touch. A pair of lips graze. Moist. Melancholy. The salt - his sweat or her tears? Cheek to cheek, they vow to forget the world. One…Two…Three…Four. She dances for all her lost chances. Five…Six…Seven…Eight. He whispers the lies she longs to hear. Passion for the sake of passion. To pretend that there’s still something worth living for. No illusions, just a mirage.

The Triumph of Meritocracy

2008-11-05T00:29:00.000-08:00

I seldom write about politics. Not because of some anti-partisan creed, but moreso because despite the strength of my personal opinions on such matters, I do not feel informed enough to extend those views into the public sphere.

Today, however, is the dawn of a new day. I cannot recall another time I was so moved by another country's political battle as last night - on the eve of Barack Obama's election as the 44th President of the United States of America. As a Canadian, my interest in the election did not necessarily stem from an alignment with Democrat values. Instead, it stemmed from the curiosity, and the cautious hope, that a certain Baptist minister's dream of 45 years ago might be achieved. That we would attain a society where people would "not be judged by the colour of their skin, but by the content of their character."

My own reasons for supporting Obama had more to do with his educational background, and his having the charisma that the office demands, which has been lacking in recent leaders. I was delighted to see Obama win. Not because it was a triumph of Democrat over Republican. Nor because it was, to some, a battle of Black versus White - Obama is, after all, both. I was delighted because it was the triumph of Meritocracy over Intolerance. Most of all, with record breaking voter turnout, it was the triumph of Democracy.

As Senator McCain noted in his eloquent speech, America "has come a long way from the old injustices that once stained our nation's reputation and denied some Americans the full blessings of American citizenship, the memory of them still had the power to wound." Obama's victory was admittedly well-funded, but also hard-fought. There is no doubt in my mind that Obama deserved to win. With his diverse background, he embodies the change he calls for: the new zeitgeist of the American people.

Already knowing Obama to be a great orator, I was pleasantly surprised by McCain's speech. He was spot-on with his remarks, and there was certainly a sincerity to his comments. I question whether a part of him might be relieved.

I say this because though the battle may have been won - the war still rages on. I speak proverbially, but as we are all aware, there is a literal meaning to this also. As Obama noted in his victory address, the road ahead is long. In comparison to the demands of the role of the President, being elected is the easy part. The real challenge, the real test of Obama's charisma, will play out over the term.

As the Aga Khan mentioned in his speech to the Evora University Symposium in 2006: "Democratic processes are about the sharing of power, broadening the number who help shape social decisions. But that sharing in and of itself, means little apart from the purposes for which the power is finally used. To speak of end purposes, in turn, is to enter the realm of ethics. What are our ultimate goals? Whose interests do we serve? How, in an increasingly cynical time, can we inspire people to a new set of aspirations, reaching beyond rampant materialism, the new relativism, self-serving individualism, and resurgent tribalism? The search for justice and security, the struggle for equality of opportunity, the quest for tolerance and harmony, the pursuit of human dignity: these are moral imperatives we must work towards and think about daily."

Will the winds of change within America bring about a consciousness of the above values in its foreign policy? Once again, I am cautiously optimistic...and for the first time in a long while, I am looking to our southern neighbours with admiration.

Overnight Autumn

2008-09-25T17:51:00.000-07:00

A thousand leaves crackle beneath my walking feet
Wherefore has the autumn chill come to steal my sunshine?
Green to Yellow, Amber to Red
What was once blooming has fallen; now dead

Yesterday's zephyr brought the promise of warmth
Yet nature, her temperament fickle, changed her mind overnight
The dawn air is crisper with each passing day
The autumn heeds not my plea for delay

The brook has run dry, the stillness come, the harvest complete
The time has come to wait with abated breath
The fragrance of my lily blossoms is lost
The morning dew has now turned to frost

Carnet de Voyages

2008-08-25T13:01:00.000-07:00

My mind might seem less convoluted if you understood the way it worked.

Follow my thoughts with me, for a moment.

Stories begin long before they are written. They are like the wick, dipped in oil, but not yet aflame. The spark that lights the lamp can come from the most unlikely of sources.

A few moments ago, I was reading my friend Catherine's blog (http://www.cattruong.blogspot.com/), which, by the way, wonderfully captures the workings of the twentysomething mind. She quoted another blog, which in turn referenced the graphic novel, Blankets, which the author describes as inspired by a desire to describe the first time sleeping beside someone. A Google search of the said graphic novel revealed that the author, Craig Thompson, also wrote another graphic novel entitled Carnet de Voyage. A flurry of imagery filled my mind: My own brown pleather bound travel journal from my most recent trip; the Starry Night covered journal in which I write my most private thoughts - itself a carnet de la voyage de vie. I thought of those old sticker covered hard-shell suitcases, long before the advent of the Pullman.

Carnet de Voyage. I love the phrase. Being fluent in French, I have always believed that some things sound better in my second language. Carnet de voyage. Joie de vivre. Elan. Parapluie. Je ne sais quoi. And yes, trite as it sounds, amour.

Amour. While Ishq is my favourite word for love, amour has always been a close second. Why? Because, while I have never bothered to look up the etymology of the word, I see that there is "am" in "amour", and âme means soul in French.

Of course, having just written that I absolutely had to look up the etymology for amour...through which, in typical online search fashion, I found not what I was looking for but something far more interesting: The etymology of clitoris.

Look it up! http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=amor&searchmode=none . Too bad we never stuck with the original name given by the Italian professor, Mateo Ronaldo Colombo, who (anatomically speaking, of course, since it has been known to humankind for much longer) discovered it. He named it amor Veneris, vel dulcedo, which according to the aforementioned source, translates as "the love or sweetness of Venus".

I concede, it sounds much cheesier and Harlequin Romance-esque in English...which brings us right back to the point that certain phrases sound better in foreign languages!

And now I feel like an episode of BBC's Connections. But that is how my mind works. And I feel no remorse at beginning a sentence with And. Or But. And apparently Or too!

Coincidentally, the French word for clitoris, is clitoris.

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ISTANBUbbLe Bath

2008-08-22T11:23:00.000-07:00

What Turkish experience would be complete without a visit to the Hammam?

Our last day in Turkey was a day of luxury, and a sensory treat. We admired glittering jewels, including the 86-carat spoon maker's diamond. We glanced at Holy Relics, including personal items of the Prophet Muhammad and Hz. Ali. We tasted savoury eggplant dips. We enjoyed the aromas of the Topkapi Palace gardens. We heard the soulful song of the Ney as we viewed the Sema. Especially memorable, we felt absolute bliss as we were scrubbed to a glowing shine at the Cemberlitas Hammami (http://www.cemberlitashamami.com.tr/).

Commissioned by Nurbanu Sultan, wife of Selim II in the 16th century, and reportedly designed by the renowned architect Mirmar Sinan, the Cemberlitas Hammam was a dual-service bath - separate sections, of course, for women and men. While the advent of domestic plumbing has made the Hammam more of a luxury than a necessity, I lament the loss of the social aspect of bathing.

Our 36 Lira "Traditional Package" included a scrubbing and soap massage by one of the attendants. Upon entering the Hammam, we were ushered into the dressing area, assigned a locker, and each given a petemal - a traditional striped cotton cloth to wrap around our bodies before leaving the dressing room. From the dressing room, we moved to the "cold area" - from which the toilets and modern oil massage rooms were accessible. From there, we entered the the marble warm room - sicaklik - through a heavy wooden door. When we first entered the sicaklik, there were but a few other people present, and we were immediately awestruck by the beautiful domed roof, with cupolas adorned by star shaped holes. There were a dozen or so pillars around the perimeter of the high-ceilinged chamber, and everything was made of beautiful white and grey marble. The use of marble was not merely decorative, but functional as well: good absorbance of steam, durability, and no mildew. Along the walls were kurnas, or sinks with hot and cold water taps for bathing, and halvets: semi-private bathing cubicles. In such a beautiful and warm setting, there was no need for modesty, and we found ourselves quite comfortable being naked.

What amazed me when we first entered was how the chamber was humid, without being overly steamy. We first went to the large octagonal marble slab in the centre of the room, where we lay down to let the steam open up our pores. From there, we went into one of the halvets, where we found shampoo, soap, and a tas - a metal container for pouring water over ourselves to bathe. What started as a wonderful warm splash bath laughingly became a bit of a water-fight.

Laying our petemals down on the central marble slab, we took turns being bathed by the attendants. First, the attendants scrubbed us down with the kese (exfoliating mitt) that was provided to each of us. Then, using a soaping web made out of plant fibers, they covered us bubbles, then firmly (but conscientiously) massaged us from head to toe. After washing us down with some hot water, we were then led back into one of the halvets where we sat beside the sink to have our hair washed and our heads briefly massaged. We were then left to use the tas to wash away the last of the soap, and left to relax and leave at our leisure.

Leaving our petemals behind, we exited the warm room and were handed towels in the cool room. We also noticed that the attendants that worked in the Hammam all had amazingly soft skin. Dried and dressed, we left the Hammam feeling cleaner and more relaxed than we had felt in weeks.

Fish Dish Delish :: Fine Dining in Istanbul

2008-08-18T21:05:00.000-07:00

Of all the meals of our trip, our experience in the "Fish Market" of Istanbul was by far the most memorable. The fish market being where they serve the fish, not where they sell the raw fish.

To begin with, being three young women travelling alone garnered us much attention and many invitations to dine. There seems to be the consensus amongst restaurant owners that young women bring "chance" (good luck - again, French connection) to a restaurant. The logical explanation is that young women attract male clientele to the said restaurant. Whatever the case, Mr. Ali did a great job with his sales pitch, and won us over to dine in his restaurant. He clearly appealed to our values with his clean kitchen on display, the discounts he gave us, and the dessert and drinks on the house.

We each ordered half a sea bass and half a sea bream, as grilled fillets, and aside from the lovely fish, the experience was especially memorable for the service we received. We had one Maitre D' and three waiters assigned to us. The minute one of our water glasses were empty, they would fight over who got to come and fill it up. They changed our plates between each fish, let alone each course, they put our fish on our plates for us from the platter with different cutlery for each of the three of us, and (at this point it started to become a little comical, while still charming) they vacuumed with a little hand-vac after dinner and before the dessert they surprised us with (on the house). It was indeed the best service we had ever had, and the Maitre D' managed to, for once, guess each of our backgrounds correctly and specifically, on the first try! We declined the owners' invitation to join them for Nargilah later on, though we are certain that the invitation was an honorable one.

As we continued down the the path, every subsequent restaurant asked us to come in for tea, on the house, knowing we had just eaten. Apparently our company was much sought after, and true to their beliefs, we did seem to bring luck to each establishment we visited. I have already said: never, ever underestimate Turkish hospitality, and gladly accept the offers for cay.

Two days later when we were walking by Mr. Ali's restaurant again, our waiters and Maitre D' recognized us as we walked by, and they were absolutely thrilled to see us, and very eager for us to come in for tea. As we were pressed for time, we politely declined (declining altogether should be avoided, but we had to be somewhere). Still, they were so thrilled to see us, and each of them came out and shook each of our hands with the biggest smiles on their faces.

We thoroughly enjoyed our meal, and if my business were in the service industry, I would have my personnel trained by the Turks. It was, indeed, a Fish Dish Delish.

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The Magic Carpet

2008-08-17T07:40:00.000-07:00

Written after a purchase from the carpet co-operative in Selcuk, Turkey.

August 5, 2008 - The Magic Carpet

I bought a magic carpet today. I mean, it's nothing striking...Turkish double-knot. Wool on wool. Natural dyes. Geometric patterns from Eastern Anatolia. But it's magic. It doesn't fly, and two people can barely fit on it. But it is magic...all knotted carpets are.

They are magic because of the way they are made.

My carpet did not begin with a knot. I began long before, with a lamb. This lamb grew to be a sheep, a sheep who gave of its coat to make wool. The wool became yarn, and the yarn was spun and dyed in brilliant shades of cobalt and carmine.

My carpet began also in the eye of the weaver. It began in the shapes and forms from the world of her youth, that she found beautiful. Those shapes and forms were aspired to in my carpbet.

The story of my carpet continues with the first knot...and the second...and the third. You see, the patterns created in my carpet would not be what they are, were it not for each knot. Every shape, every pattern, every inch of that carpet was made a single knot at a time.

The weaver does not always know what the finished product will look like, but knot by knot, the story unfolds. Such is the case with the days of our lives. Similarly to our experiences, some knots, though seemingly unrelated, eventually form part of the same design.

But carpets are not woven in a day. Wool carpets take months - silk carpets take years. Some knots are better tied than others, some colours are more vibrant then others - yet even those are necessary to make the carpet. Imperfections and errors are what distinguish a hand-knotted carpet from mass-produced machine work. They are essential to the story of the carpet.

As each knot is essential to the finished product, so is each day essential to our life's journey. The carpet is magic, therefore, because it serves as a reminder for us to be patient and appreciative of the little steps that make up our giant leaps. It is magic because, when we are tied up in the thick of things, it reminds us of what a beautiful finished product lay ahead.

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Izmir Sights and Turkish Delights

2008-08-14T17:41:00.000-07:00

Never, ever, underestimate Turkish hospitality.

While unabashedly flirtatious, and certainly willing if you are up for more, the Turks are actually very respectful, and really just want to talk! They are warm-hearted people through and through, always genuine in their offers for a cup of çay. This we realized upon our arrival in Çesme. While our inquiries for help were sometimes lost in translation, and despite a general confusion in Turkey over which way is left and which way is right, with the help of the locals we found it very easy to get around.

Soon enough we were on our way to Izmir via bus, and despite some confusion at the Otogar (bus station - notice the French connection?), we found our way downtown and shortly thereafter were checked in to our lovely hotel. We spent the afternoon trying to see if it would be possible for us to make it to Pamukkale the next day, famous for its thermal travertine cascades, but because of time and cost constraints settled for booking ourselves on a day trip to Ephesus for the next morning.

Tired as we were, the allure of the Bazaar trumped fatigue and we found ourselves strolling through aisles of jewellery while munching on the first of the many Ekmek Doner's we would eat during our stay. Some women, mostly westerners, thought we were brave to be three girls alone in Turkey. We found it rather safe, since we noticed most stares were laden with curiosity, as opposed to lust. Having been exhausted because of our ferry rides, we settled into bed early to prepare for our day trip to the ancient city of Ephesus the next morning.

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If The Ship's a Rockin'... :: The Journey to Turkey

2008-08-14T17:13:00.000-07:00

I sometimes get the notion that I'm a bit psychic.

Alternatively, it could be a strong sense of empathy, a particular connectedness with certain people, or the ability to logically deduce the next step in a sequence of events. Whatever the case, I never claimed that it was always correct.

From Ios, we were to take an overnight ferry to Athens, spend the day in Athens, and then take an overnight ferry to Chios, from which we would take another short ferry ride to Cesme, Turkey. Before departing Ios, I confessed to Alyna and Sara that I'd had a dream the night before that our ferry had sunk. In my dream, I explained, I had put our cameras and passports in a Ziploc bag, and together with our documents and photos, we had survived the sinking of the ship. Silly mistake on my part, since (lo and behold), the seas on the rest of our overnight ferry rides were extremely rough. Every once in a while we would hear a thump against the hull of the ship, our sleep would be broken, and I confess that I actually kept Ziploc bags at hand.

While I don't become nauseous because of it, I am acutely aware of motion, and by the end of the night the rotational swaying of the ship had me taking pity on all the socks I had ever put into the clothes dryer. I barely slept an hour, and I had already been on the verge of getting sick in Ios. The night ferry was the last straw, and I officially had the flu by the time we hit Athens.

To top things off, the cash machine malfunctioned and somehow 481 dollars were deducted from my account despite my not receiving the 300 Euros the transaction corresponded to from the cash machine. Upon speaking to the bank, I was told it would take 4-5 weeks to reverse the transaction. Feeling down, especially with the knowledge that yet another night ferry awaited us, we took solace in shopping in the market.

As I walked through the crowded corridors of the Pireaus market, a melody carried to my ears. Drums, flutes, and stringed lutes were topped by a baritone voice in a language I didn't know. I was walking away from the source of the music, yet I felt it was getting louder. My feet carried me farther away, but my soul was drawn closer to the source. This was not the type of music one could find on ITunes, I realized, and stopped dead in my tracks. I spun on my heels, strode to the stall where they were selling the music, and bought the CD. Had I not done so, I would have deeply regretted it.

There are some opportunities, I realized, that are only offered to you once. When something touches you, when something moves you, you would be a fool not to act upon it, especially if it were within your reach. One thing is certain, while life is generous with its second chances, not all doors are opened twice.

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Memoirs of Ios

2008-08-13T16:57:00.000-07:00

Leaving paradise is never easy.

Nor is leaving Santorini, and it was with heavy hearts that we left our idyllic volcanic island behind as we boarded our highspeed ferries destined for the island of Ios, famed for its nightlife. The party culture of the island was quickly highlighted by the fact that the "all-day breakfast" restaurant actually did not begin service until 5:30 pm.

After some minor confusion over our hotel (apparently there are two Olga's Pensions in Ios), we checked in to yet another lovely whitewashed villa with a view of both the sea and the swimming pool. Ios was geared towards the youth as much as Santorini was geared towards couples, and one's time was equally divided between the bed, the beach, and the bar. Food figured somewhere in there as well, but aside from some delicious potato phyllo pies, we were less than impressed by the cuisine.

We napped until midnight, after which we set out for the renowned Ios nightlife. Exiting our hotel we found...nothing?? For a moment, we questioned whether the stories of Ios were just another Greek myth, until we noticed that there was a steady stream of pedestrian and moped traffic in one direction. As we saw a group of young Greeks walking up the hill, we asked directions to the town, and fifty paces later, they had become our new friends. They were all students from Thessaloniki, and we dined together upon reaching the town square. After some singing, wrong turns, and merrymaking, we parted ways to begin the evening's club-crawl. I ought to mention here that it was 2 am by this time.

Picture narrow streets with bar upon bar upon club upon bar. Picture youngsters in cowboy hats and swimsuits roaming the streets, dancing outside, calling to one another in a hundred different languages (though Italian and English certainly seemed to dominate). This is Ios. From a tiny hole in the wall bar with fantastic music, to a typically Euro joint playing house music and adorned with several poles for daring dancers, to a club where they literally set the bar on fire, we made the most of our night out.

Suffice it to say that like any self-respecting Europeans, we didn't begin to make our way home until the sun had risen. While I'm tempted to go into detail, I am forbidden by the old adage: What happens in Ios, stays in Ios.

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Santorini Sunset :: Part V :: Fira Fire

2008-08-11T17:08:00.000-07:00

Our second day in Santorini was spent on the black volcanic sand of Monolithos beach. The wind worked to our advantage as it created huge waves, which Alyna and I joyfully broke on our shoulders. Despite several mouthfulls of salt water, the experience left me with a strong desire to learn surfing!

We decided to watch the sunset that evening from the town of Fira. Craving escape from the crowds of Oia, we settled ourselves into a lovely terraced restaurant, whose supports literally clung to the cliff face.

Just as we finished our main course, the sky turned a shade of crimson that I am rarely blessed to see, and the entirety of the sun could be seen, descending behind the mountains of a nearby island. As the fiery ball dipped below the horizon, Enigma's Return to Innocence began to play, as if on cue. The juxtaposition of music and marvel was so moving, that a single tear made its way down my cheek, the taste of which reminded me to the salt water from earlier that day. Thus reminded of my bond to the ocean, to the Earth, I was blessed with one of those epiphanic moments of pure clarity and connectedness with God.

That was intimate. That was, I now realize, the best sunset of my life.
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Santorini Sunset :: Part IV :: Oia Sunset

2008-08-11T15:11:00.000-07:00

To end our first day in Santorini, we took the bus to the village of Oia to watch the sunset made famous by George Meis' photographs. The blue domes of the village churches were not as blue as in his photos, and the entire area was rather crowded. As a matter of fact, there is a sign that says "Sunset -->" right alongside the directions to various streets and the main square. That ought to have been the first sign that solitude might be lacking. We nonetheless managed to find ourselves fantastic spots, yet I still felt that the experience was too...public, for my liking. Spectacular as the actual sunset was, I felt that the intimacy between myself and God was not there, as it had been in Nungwi and my other memorable sunsets.

To add to the touristy feel of the sunset, as the last rays disappeared below the horizon, instead of the silence, meditation, or sighs I would have expected, everybody...clapped!?! For the Sun?? Rrrrrriiiiiiight. I felt like quoting the IKEA commercial: "That is because you're crazy, it has no feelings..." Instead, I decided to be cheeky, and shouted "Encore! Encore!", amidst the applause. To my dismay, the (oh yes, pun fully intended, you know it) STAR of the show didn't comply!

While it was not my favourite sunset, I cannot deny that visually it was the most spectacular I had seen until then. What I did not know at the time, was that a mere 24 hours later, I would indeed get my encore...and it would prove to be the best sunset of my life.

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Santorini Sunset :: Part III

2008-08-10T03:46:00.000-07:00

After a treacherous descent down the cliff face, we arrived at the old port of Fira in time to catch our caique. I should say fake caique, though, since it was motorized and we didn't use the sails at all. Still feeling adventurous, we took our seats at the front of the boat, holding onto the deck rail, with our legs dangling over the edge. What a rush! It was far better than any Wonderland ride. Every once in a while, we would hit a high wave, and would be treated to a cool spray of Aegean sea water.

We sailed into the little dock at the Palea Kameni volcano, from which we hiked to the top. The view from the peak is incomparable! The villages of Fira and Oia cling, literally, to the cliff face, and the other islands of the Cyclades appear across the mist.

The last stop on our tour was the warm springs. The brochure had listed it as a HOT springs. The brochure also neglected to mention that it was impossible for the caique to dock at the springs, and that we would have to swim a distance of 65 feet in cold, deep sea water to reach the shallower waters of the springs at the bay. To boot, there were no lifejackets, so Sara and Alyna thought it best to stay behind. I hesitated, but only for a moment, before climbing down the side of the boat. The last time I had jumped off a boat into the deep sea had been a decade ago, off the coast of Manzanillo, Mexico.

There is something thrilling about swimming in the ocean, and I enjoyed the swim over to the warm springs more than the springs themselves, though I did get a chuckle out of the "Call my mobile to come save you - Sosti: 21208956" sign posted at the hot springs. Great, I thought, just in case I was stuck I could always use the mobile phone I had happened to tuck into my bikini while trying to keep afloat with the other hand. We didn't see anyone else around the sign or the "yoga massage shack" behind it, though we did see an 8 year old boy swimming around whom we realized wasn't part of the tour as we made our way back to the boat. Sosti, perhaps?

Before swimming back, I picked up a couple of volcanic stones and strategically tucked them into my bikini top to take back to the boat...since Alyna and Sara could not go to the hot springs, I brought a piece of the hot springs back to them.

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Santorini Sunset :: Part II

2008-08-08T14:52:00.000-07:00

Feeling adventurous on our first day, we decıded to take a volcano and hot sprıngs tour, whıch would take us to the twın calderas of Palea Kamenı and the warm sprıngs of the smaller volcano ıslet.

Makıng our way down the crater clıff face from Fıra town to the old port proved to be quite a journey ın itself. Since there is no road, our only optıons were to walk down or rıde down the path by donkey. We chose to descend by foot, whıch resulted ın a walk whıch was more lıke an obstacle course.

The objectıve? Reach the old port ın tıme to make our saılıng, whıle avoıdıng all of the followıng:
Slıppıng on the polıshed stone, fallıng off the edge, beıng donkey-kıcked, faıntıng from the smell of manure, and last but not least beıng bıtch-slapped by a donkey taıl!

Santorini Sunset :: Part I

2008-08-07T12:40:00.000-07:00

Santorini.

For the longest time, it was to me only the title of an Alistair MacLean book that sat amongst many others on my father´s bookshelf. At some poınt I thought it was the sıte of the lost cıty of Atlantıs. Sınce then, I had always wanted to vısıt the famed ısland.

Santorını. Now, I can only thınk of ıt as perfect.

Santorını welcomed us wıth open arms, fırst ın the form of Artemıs, the owner of the hotel where we would spend the next two nıghts. From the port, he drove us up the clıff face of the crater on the road whıch a less optımıstıc person mıght rename the "Drıve of Death". Santorını ıs made up of a maın ısland and three ıslets. They used to be a sıngle ısland, untıl a thousand years ago when a massıve eruptıon of Palea Kamenı (Mount Thıra) blew a crater ın the mıddle of the ısland that reached below sea leveli, splıttıng the sıngle mountaın ınto what I best descrıbe as a half-donut wıth a tımbıt ın the mıddle.

We drove past the whıtewashed vıllage of Fıra, past the Santos wınery, to the sloped sıde of the ısland, where Artemıs´wıfe Anna greeted us wıth ıced Greek coffee by the swımmıng pool and the promıse of a sea-vıew room. True to her word, the whıtewashed arch of our balcony was a perfect frame for the beautıful blue Aegean sea but a hundred metres away.

We thought we had found paradıse.

Athens Nights and Acropolis Lights

2008-08-02T02:38:00.000-07:00

Athens.

Cradle of Democracy, Home of the Olympics, Heart of History...also home to numerous stray dogs which follow poor lost Canadian women as they desperately try to find their way home after losing their club crawl group.

We arrived in Athens on a Friday, and ever since our experience in Budapest, luck had been on our side, because upon arriving at our hostel, we were informed that we had been upgraded to an apartment. Complete with living room, kitchen, and a balcony, and only minutes from the Acropolis, we were perfectly situated for our stay. After a well deserved siesta, we decided to join the hostel's club crawl. Somewhere after the first club we lost our group, but found ourselves in the heart of the old city, where busy cafes were serving Moussaka to the sound of "Never on a Sunday".

With our bellies full at 3 am, we began to make our way home, only to find that the streets which had been so busy only an hour earlier were now deserted...except for the stray dogs. Did I mention that we're afraid of dogs? At one point, a pack of five of them were coming towards us, and we took refuge behind some elderly Greek cafe owner, who tried to shoo them away with his broom. This worked for all save one, which continued to follow us, so we took refuge behind another couple walking in the same direction. We figured we should explain to them why we were following so closely...and lo and behold, they turned out to be fellow Canadians. And dog-lovers, to boot! They gladly rid us of our "friend", and we safely made our way home.

The next day was spent at the Acropolis, and the day after at the Ancient Agora. Athens is so full of history, so full of life, with architecture that has indeed inspired architecture itself. We were fortunate to stumble upon a lecture by an art historian while at the Acropolis, and learned of some of the tricks used by the ancient engineers. These included fluting the columns to make them appear more vertical, or making the floor convex to make it appear straight from below. The aspect I loved the most about the Acropolis was that you could see it from nearly everywhere in Athens, and you could see nearly everywhere in Athens from atop it!

Still, the best view of the Acropolis is to be found at sunset, from where else but the rooftop of our hostel. Zeus must have been smiling on us, because all in all, it was a perfect stay!

Straddling the Berlin Wall

2008-07-28T02:27:00.000-07:00

Berlin and Munich are as far apart as Toronto and Calgary, in terms of city culture. Munich, like Calgary, is clean, full of friendly people, and situated at the foothills of a stunning mountain range. Berlin on the other hand is far more diverse, with both the seedy and the snobby areas, each with their own cultural delights. A historical city in terms of 19th century Prussian Imperialism, Third Reich era, and of course the Cold War, Berlin merits far more time than the day and a half we allotted to it.

Interestingly, East Berlin is quickly developing, since post Cold War real estate was much cheaper. So parts of it look far more modern than West Berlin. Upscale streets such as those in Mitte are, contrary to the intuition of one who has never visited, in East Berlin! Still, there are parts that are a testament to the utter division of the city! Hard to believe that all it took was one unprepared politician to bring down a wall that separated families for 28 years...look it up!

Despite our short stay, it was a delight, and I even got to travel to the Turkish quarter to sip mint tea with Professor Tramsen, my aesthetics teacher from my summer in Prague!

Munich :: A post on post!

2008-07-26T03:46:00.000-07:00

Post is the equivalent to cheers in German, and it is fitting that I write about cheer as there was plenty of it throughout our stay in Munich.

Munich is a friendly city, relaxed, classy, and full of warm-hearted youngsters. The highlight of our time in Munich was when we were invited to Alyna´s friend´s friend´s birthday BBQ. Indulging in Bavarian cuisine atop a rooftop patio in the nouveau chic area of Schwabing, we finally got a taste of local culture!

36 Hours in Vienna

2008-07-23T16:07:00.000-07:00

July 21, 2008

We succumbed.

After weeks of resistance, we finally caved into our North American instincts and hit the Starbucks for Chai Lattes and Caramel Macchiatos. Does the fact that it has a prime view of the Vienna State Opera House make our behaviour any less cliche?

It's such a shame that we arrived in Vienna in the summer, while the opera, symphony, and choir are all on hiatus. The only musical offering available is a "Mozart Concert", a tourist-oriented patchwork performance of ballet, arias, and chamber orchestra selections. The fact that you can only buy tickets from dodgy street vendors dressed in imitation 18th century waistcoats leads me to believe that these concerts have a rather high kitsch factor. Still, the architecture is beautiful, and the musical history cannot help but permeate even the most modern of environments!

We spent our afternoon amongst Monets, Cezannes, and Picassos at the Albertina Gallery, in the Hofburg chambers. Thereafter, craving a bite to eat, we stumbled upon the antidote to the lack of summer culture: The Vienna City Hall Film Festival. Every night, all summer long, a giant screen in front of the city hall shows films of ballets, concerts, art films, and operas. As we savoured our selections from the international food court, we settled in to watch a taped performance of the Sleeping Beauty ballet, by none other than the National Ballet of Canada!

It was the perfect way to end the night, and our short stay in Vienna.

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Split Second Decisions

2008-07-19T03:35:00.000-07:00

Always have a Plan D.

Plan E wouldn't hurt either.

You know...just in case Plans A, B, and C leave you standing at the Zagreb platform at midnight as the train pulls away.

On our way to Croatia, we decided that instead of spending two nights in Zagreb, we would take the night train to Split, spend the day in Split, and then return on the following night train. When we asked at the ticket counter whether seats were available, the attendant told us that we didn´t need a reservation since we had rail passes.

Something didn´t seem right - how would we know which seats were reserved and which were open for our taking. We must have asked a dozen people who all assured us that we could board any of the coaches. So we spent the day walking around Zagreb, and arrived at the platform with ample time to choose seats...only to be ousted from them by people with reservations. As more drunken youth began to arrive, we started to wonder how on Earth everyone was going to fit on the train. Apparently, it being Friday night, the night train became the party express....complete with a pink disco-car!

What all of the attendants neglected to mention was that we could board the train...if we wanted to STAND for the 8 hour journey. This we discovered moments before the train left, and there we were, the only 3 people still standing on the platform.

After an hour of wandering trying to find a hostel, we finally caved in and checked into the Astoria for a 2-day rest...

Sated, in Hungary

2008-07-19T02:59:00.000-07:00

Budapest

Budapest, I think, is like a one-night stand. It is beautiful beyond belief by night, when you, like the Hungarians, are drunk on starlight and good cheer. When you awake in the morning, though, a little of the sparkle is gone. Then again, every morning brings the promise of another evening, and once the moon rises over the Danube, you cannot help but fall in love all over again.

On our second night, we sampled some authentic Hungarian Goulash. The portions are enormous, leading me to believe that people in Hungary are seldom...hungry. With our bellies full and nearly half our meals packed as take-away, we set out for Margaret Island. We wandered until we reached Holdover, an open-air cafe, disco, theatre, and lounge. We sat for nearly two hours, wanting only to take in the ambiance, and hoping we could get away without having to order a drink. Miraculously, no one came and asked us if we wanted to order anything. We later realized that it was due to the presence of our leftover box on the table - they had assumed we had eaten there...Go Goulash!

Having been disappointed with our accommodation, and since we were catching an early morning train, we checked out and locked our luggage at the train station to wander the streets of Pest on our third night. The adventure that ensued included being caught in a near-hurricane on a boat in the middle of the Danube, pretending to be guests in the 4-star Hotel Mercure, being locked out of the train station without access to our luggage, and spending the all too quiet hour between 2 and 3 AM playing cards in a Subway restaurant the size of a telephone booth. The details of this night are best described in person, but suffice it to say we survived our adventure, and ended the night with smiles on our faces. By morning, all it took was a carton of Tropicana Orange Juice to make us feel like queens.

Unforgettable. That is the best way to describe Budapest. Despite Alyna, Sara, and my adventures, I am fond of the city. The Parliament, the Royal Palace, and the Gallery stand guard over the river, while the Chain Bridge lights the way from Buda to Pest. Impressive in the sunlight, unparalleled in the moonlight, this view is forever etched in my heart.

__

The Five Day Local

2008-07-17T14:10:00.001-07:00

July 14, 2008 - Train from Lisboa to Porto

Five days.

I have come to the conclusion that five days is the amount of time required to become a local. At least that is the case with Lisboa.

Oh Lisboa, city of blue tiles and cobbles. Built on seven hills, bounded by the River Tejo and the Atlantic Ocean. Everywhere is blue. Blue tile, blue sea, blue sky. Five days in this city and you become like a Lisboan - jumping the metro, giving directions, flitting about from one end of the city to the other as if you own it. I have begun to crave the Sinal espresso in the mornings, and Obrigada comes to my lips more naturally than Thank You. I chat with the cabbies on the rare occasions where we don't take the metro, and they tell me of the diversity of Lisboa, proof of which is found when we do take the metro.

Five days, and I long for more grilled Frango, the inspiration for Nando's. It has become acceptable for me to see a fried egg on top of my steak, and my day isn't complete without a Solero. Had I needed to do laundry, I have no doubt that I would have dried my clothes on the balcony - then I would have been a real Lisboan housewife, calling to my neighbours three floors above the narrow cobbled lane, which miraculously goes uphill in all directions.

Yes, it takes five days to become a local, but if I had stayed a sixth, I wouldn't be Rehana.

___

I just want to see if it fits...

2008-07-17T14:05:00.000-07:00

"I just want to see if it fits," she explained.

I agreed, dismissing her fears that it will get stuck inside. I told her to relax, explaining that I had done it many times before, without any trouble. It took some effort on both our parts, but with some squeezing and pushing, we managed to get it in. It was a tight fit, but it would do. We didn't want to do any damage, nor did we want to wake up the people sleeping next door, so we decided to pull it out. I had been wrong about getting it stuck though. We tried to get it out, maneouvering this way and that. Eventually, she had to go around behind and push it from underneath. It was quite the workout...

...who knew it was so hard to test luggage in the sizing device!

Somewhere over the Atlantic

2008-07-17T14:03:00.000-07:00

July 9, 2008

My sweet tooth has been satisfied and I am warm inside my blanket. Edith Piaf is playing on the radio. This is comfort. I close my eyes and surrender to her rolling Rs.

Bonsoir Milord!

Between Dusk and Dawn :: I Found You

2008-06-09T15:44:00.001-07:00

In the deep of the night, you knocked at my window.
Being a virtuous woman, I bid you leave.
“But lady,” you pleaded, “I am the truth, hidden from those who pretend to see me.”
“What truth can you be,” I asked, “speaking but in riddles, appearing but in the darkness”
You answered: “There is no darkness when I am around…”
“…You desire to know me, yet you know not your desire, my place is in your embrace.”
“But I am spoken for,” I explained, “My betrothed will fulfill all of my desires”
“Yet your ultimate desire will not be fulfilled unless you break the bonds you have forced upon yourself,” you replied.
“But I have chosen to commit myself to my bethrothed.”
“Because you love him?”
“Because I love him.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know me?”
“No.”
“Do you know Love?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are not so virtuous as you claim, for you lie. You claim not to know me, yet you claim to know Love.”
“You cannot be love,” I replied, “for if you were, you would have found your way into my chamber by now.”
“Love comes only to those who are open to it.”
“But I have known Love!”
“You have known Lust – it is he who steals into your chamber unbidden. Had you known Love, you would have leaped to meet me when I first knocked.”
“You first claim to be Truth, now you claim to be Love”
“Two names unto the same flower”
“How am I to believe that you are Love?”
“Were I not, you would not feel the way you do now when I speak to you.”
“Perhaps I shall listen to you,” I conceded, “but why did you persist,” I asked, “What made you believe that I wish to know your Love?”
“I persisted,” you replied, “because if you did not wish to know me, you would not have heard my knock”

A Pocket Full of Stones

2008-05-27T23:30:00.000-07:00

I have sat gazing at this pond for so long, that I have mistaken the reflection for the reality.

Craving company in my illusion of a world, I, like Narcissus, have fallen in love with my own image.

When the pond is calm, one forgets which is the source, and which is the reflection.

O thrower of the stone, you are my saviour: for the ripples from your stone have proven to me that I had been distracted by the image, whilst the reality lay about me unexplored.

I am now wary of the calmness of content.

True friend, you are he who carries for me a sachet full of stones, lest I forget again.

---

Cooped

2008-05-23T10:22:00.001-07:00

It’s 1:07 am and I am looking at the new chai stain on my carpet. It is the latest in the battle scars borne by the woven fabric that covers the floor of my room. My little room, whose windows face east, so that on lazy summer days it is the warmth of the sun on my bare back that wakes me. But right now it is 1:08 am, there is obviously no sunshine, and I am resenting my room. It has become too small for me. Seclusion. I still remember the name of the paint colour I had picked so long ago, its pale aqua tones forming the ocean surrounding the island upon which I would carve my identity. Now Seclusion has become Oppression. No matter what their colour, they are walls, and they are too close together for my liking. My wingspan has grown in the years I have been away, and now extends beyond the width of these walls. Yet it is not these walls that entrap me here. It is love. What renders this a cage is my parents’ love for me. What prevents me from escaping is my love for them. I look at the lighting: one of the bulbs has burned out. I wonder if the lamp remembers the days when my crib sat in the very spot where my bed now sits, upon which I now lay. I have been spoiled: the baby of the family. But Baby’s grown up and made her nest elsewhere. So why am I here? Is it a tragedy that the only thing that has not disappointed me since my return are my mountains?

They say the world is my oyster now. I am graduating. I am an engineer. I am educated. I am accomplished. I am lost.

I used to think that co-op, with the incessant moving every four months, rendered me homeless. I was wrong, because even then I believed I had a home. Today, I feel more homeless than ever, because I am sitting in my room, in my house, realizing that it is no longer my home.

It’s 1:28 am.

Introspective:: Rehana The Therapist Evaluates Rehana The Patient

2008-05-22T00:06:00.000-07:00

I seldom write about my personal life. I used to defend this decision by declaring that the world was not interested in the spare seconds of my minutes, or in the thoughts between my ideas. I have since come to realize that I was wrong: candour has great value. The outward workings of my mind have been on display since my birth, well before I wrote of them. It is the inner workings of my mind that can only come to life through my decision to express them. Of course, the resulting story is absolutely and completely biased by my opinion. Then again, if the subject is my mind, it cannot exist but in my bias.

All disclaimers aside, I present to you without further adieu the real reason why I rarely write about myself: It is because I am scared. Sometime in my teenage years, I began to understand the concept of mystique. Once you understand how a music box works, it loses its mystique…and in my fear, its value. Somehow I believed that if I laid bare the mechanics of my mind, its output would be less appreciated. Thus began the practice of holding back. I began to fear the day that one of my friends would “figure me out”. To avoid this, I would never completely (consciously) reveal myself to anyone. Better to let each person experience different facets of you, I would think to myself. In short, I used to fear emotional intimacy.

My misconception can be proven by one simple fact: that those who know me best, love me the most. No puzzle is complete without all of the pieces – and only when all the pieces are put together do we see the cracks as part of the picture. There is great beauty in flaw. It took me until my second year of university to realize this. To those who opened my eyes with their unconditional love, I am grateful.

The Joy of the Banal

2008-05-12T11:04:00.000-07:00

There is something to be said about the joy of debating the banal. Whether it be a trait amongst engineers, or merely amongst my family members, I shall never be sure. Still, I know I am not alone in deriving a certain, absurd, pleasure from using logic to determine whether our favourite starch should be pronounced po-TAY-to versus po-TAH-to. Ahh yes, the old poTAYto – poTAHto – toMAYto – toMAHto debate, the poster-child of banal topics. On a side note, I find it rather amusing when people mix and match their pronunciations, as there are those amongst us who would say poTAYto and toMAHto. Or poTAHto and toMAYto. I find it all rather illogical. Proponents of pronunciation hypocrisy, as I have termed it, claim that they are being diplomatic – offering each school of pronunciation equal opportunity. Equal opportunity?!? Do they really think the toMAHto wants their pity? Diplomacy is an art; pronunciation hypocrisy, on the other hand, is the manifestation of an unwillingness to commit to either side. It is fence-sitting at its finest. Based on my years of formal education in topics entirely unrelated to psychology, I believe that this wishy-washiness on the most clear cut (or julienne, if you prefer) of topics actually signals an inherent resistance to the espousing of a firm value system. Consistency in this matter, as in the preparation of a good Béchamel sauce, is key.

Returning to the main topic of the joys of debating the banal…well…wouldn’t the above be a case in point?

The Guitar That Was Never Played :: On Self-Articulation

2008-04-29T13:27:00.000-07:00

Though the humble amongst us may deny it, we are, each one of us, blessed with virtuosity in some way or another. Some paint, some write, some philosophize; others are exceptionally able in the greatest art of all: making others smile. The most tragic affliction of our generation can be symbolized by the presence of a neglected musical instrument in a corner: the guitar that was never played. Akin to a ball on the brink of a hill, whose potential energy was never converted into motion, the untouched guitar represents the untapped potential of humankind. It represents those ideas, those verses, those paintings, those inventions, those calls for social change, that were never converted into reality, because of our own fear to articulate ourselves. Self-articulation should not only be our duty, but also our joy.

I was recently asked why it was that I blogged. My instinctual response was that I had to. I explained that if, in my time in this world, I had not put my thoughts to paper, then I would have lived my life as the guitar, in whom the craftsman had laboured long to create the ability to create music, that was never played. I myself am just beginning, yet, when I look at my generation, I see far more idleness than I am comfortable with. I see great talents that are never put to use, great ideas that are never built upon. I attribute this, principally, to an underestimation of our own importance, and to an underestimation of our own skill. Returning to the analogy of music, a symphony relies on the participation of each and every instrument. Every single note has an impact on the piece: no one is insignificant. Skill is perfected through experience – what is important is that we try.

As Martin DeMaat so famously said: “You are pure potential.”

I urge you to transform this potential into reality…you will be pleasantly surprised.

---

The Necessity of Grit

2008-04-19T06:56:00.000-07:00

We will, in the course of each of our journeys, come across those whom we feel are a barrier to our progress. The impetuous will view these people as an obstacle, while the wise will understand that they are instead doing us a great service. They are being the grit in our lives, and the friction they provide is essential to our inner growth. For we would never be able to build character if we were to glide through this world unencumbered.

Let us take the example of the pearl. A natural pearl is formed when a grain of sand (or, more likely, some other irritant) enters the shell of a pearl oyster. The oyster then secretes nacre (mother of pearl) to coat the grain, layer by layer, so that the grain no longer irritates the soft tissue of the oyster. Surrounded by layers of nacre, the irritant eventually ends up as a lustrous pearl. If no irritant enters the oyster, no pearl is formed. Thus, even the grit in life has a purpose, for it is essential to the creation of something beautiful.

Instead of viewing those people, those events, those places that we perceive to be the grit in life as obstacles, we should instead endeavour to view them as potential for the creation of something beautiful.

Put simply: no irritant, no pearl.

That, my friends, is the necessity of grit.

...

25 Skills Every Man (and Woman?) Should Know

2008-04-08T09:58:00.000-07:00

Some time ago, I had come across Popular Mechanics’ list of ‘25 Skills Every Man Should Know - The Modern Edition’. Upon reading the title, my first reaction was to wonder whether, in today’s era, the same list would apply to women. (Okay, I admit, that was my second reaction – my actual first reaction was a Rehana vs. Rehana debate on whether one possesses a skill as opposed to knowing it, the result of which was a draw).

Before I get into my thoughts on the list, here it is as it appeared in the October 2007 issue of Popular Mechanics. (Source: http://www.popularmechanics.com/blogs/technology_news/4221635.html)

25 Skills Every Man Should Know:

1. Patch a radiator hose
2. Protect your computer
3. Rescue a boater who has capsized
4. Frame a wall
5. Retouch digital photos
6. Back up a trailer
7. Build a campfire
8. Fix a dead outlet
9. Navigate with a map and compass
10. Use a torque wrench
11. Sharpen a knife
12. Perform CPR
13. Fillet a fish
14. Maneuver a car out of a skid
15. Get a car unstuck
16. Back up data
17. Paint a room
18. Mix concrete
19. Clean a bolt-action rifle
20. Change oil and filter
21. Hook up an HDTV
22. Bleed brakes
23. Paddle a canoe
24. Fix a bike flat
25. Extend your wireless network

While I believe I know (or knew) how to do numbers 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18 J, 23, and 25, I feel that the list helped to illustrate certain skills and areas of knowledge in which I was lacking. Upon reading the list, I have also decided that it applies equally to men and women…except perhaps for number 19, which doesn’t apply to many people at all!

There are several other unisex skills that I would add to the list, such as:

1. Cook a gourmet meal

2. Swim
3. Change diapers
4. Bake

5. Ride a bicycle
6. Tie a necktie
7. Re-sew a button
8. Hem your pants
9. Moisturize your skin
10. Drive a truck
11. Change a flat tire
12. Boost a dead battery, in the dark
13. Use the appropriate amount of hair gel
14. Mix a proper punch
15. Speak eloquently
16. Play a musical instrument
17. Seduce in a foreign language
18. Wear the same clothes as the day before, in a new way so nobody notices
(NOTE: often used as a result of #18, and can lead to a forced knowledge of #3)
19. Jump a fence

Additionally, there are some that would apply only to women, such as knowing how to:

1. Repair a run in your pantyhose
2. Run in high heels (speaking of running)
3. Drive in high heels (if #2 fails)
4. Defend yourself (if necessary, using the aforementioned high heels)
5. Pick a lock with a hairpin
6. Wear a short skirt tastefully
7. Apply makeup properly

8. Carry your belongings without carrying a purse
9. Select the right brassiere size
10. Deal with the pain of a bikini wax

So, dearest Reader – what would you add?

…

The Challenge :: Transient Dichotomy of the Indecisive Mind

2008-04-02T12:53:00.000-07:00

Written in response to a challenge by a friend, to write a poem based on the title "Transient Dichotomy of the Indecisive Mind". This is what I came up with, in 11 minutes:
___

Transient Dichotomy of the Indecisive Mind?

I am the mirror broken in two
A reflection’s reflection answers the question of who?
Equivocation is my vocation,
Uncertainty a part of my essential equation
A fork in the road is my ultimate stress
Before I begin, already I digress
I have been trained to favour precision
What dilemma, when coupled with my indecision!
My psyche is always in contradiction
My condition, though, is no stranger than fiction
A strong sense of purpose is too hard to find
The result of the transient dichotomy of an indecisive mind…..…I think?

___

Defining Character :: The little things that make us who we are

2008-03-13T22:00:00.000-07:00

I bet you didn’t know…

That I listen to Gregorian Chant while studying
That I can recite the Greek alphabet on command
That I think a properly danced Bachata can be foreplay
That I’ve been known to play Antakshari with myself
That I am fiercely protective of my shower time
That I hate socks, and love anklets
That I will wear sandals every summer until the last possible moment
That I need to wash my hands before touching clean laundry
That I genuinely believe in Echinacea
That listening to Buddha Bar brings tears to my eyes
That I sometimes secretly indulge in cheesy historical fiction novels
That I dream of someday owning a sailboat
That success, for me, would mean writing for National Geographic
That I don’t like my own butter chicken – I only make it because everybody else loves it
That I love the smell of cooking onions because it reminds me of home
That I’ve never been able to make it through Braveheart without crying
That I have an obsession with palm trees
That I love Frank Herbert Sci-Fi novels
That my greatest fear is regret
That I live for the limelight
That Navroz is my favourite holiday
That fighting narcissism is a daily battle
That I play dumb because ignorance is bliss
That tea, to me, is a pastime, and not a drink
That I am passionate
That I never forget the good

:)

A Word of Wisdom :: Written to Myself

2008-02-25T20:24:00.000-08:00

Written during one of those elusive moments of pure clarity:
_______________

Why waste your breath on what may not be,
While the grains of time slip by?
Your worries cloud your better judgement -
And thus you deem yourself blind

Yet these veils that hide the truth from you,
Are of your own fabrication.
Your views are marred by the thick fog,
That is your own creation.

As tarnished mirrors show not true reflections,
Soiled glass is not a window.
Open those eyes, not of your face but of your soul,
See that your life has purpose.

You idle and waste all the gifts of your being,
And then you claim you are empty.
Banish this smoke that your comfort requires,
And marvel the joys of creation!

You beg and plead and ask for a difference,
Yet the change is of your onus.
Those who suffer in fact, suffer in silence
You who does not, complains.

What right have you to be tired of this world,
Whose nature you have yet to see?
Beauty surrounds you in all shapes and forms,
Fill your empty vase with its blessing.

~RAR - January 2005

____________________

-

The Plight of the Triangle

2008-02-24T10:56:00.000-08:00

One evening this past autumn, I was at the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra, enjoying a brass and percussion arrangement of a Mussorgsky piece. As I watched the percussionists scamper about on stage, running from one instrument to another, my eye fell upon an oft-neglected instrument. Sitting on a plain table, nestled meekly between the xylophone and the timpani, was the triangle. So neglected is this instrument that in all the years it has been used, no one has ever thought to give it a proper name. Instead, it borrows its moniker from its shape, resulting in an instant negative reception amongst sixth grade geometry students. The triangle is by far the most humble of instruments – for once it was pure steel, a material respected for both its strength and flexibility. Alas, all pride was beaten out of it as it was bent into its destiny – as an incomplete triangle. A real triangle would have to have its ends touching, but the triangle instrument has an open angle, and therefore it isn’t real triangle after all. Adding insult to injury, the instrument was then assigned to the class of (seriously, look it up) - idiophones.

The poor idiophone spent much of its time waiting. Patiently, humbly, it was silent throughout the piece, awaiting that precious moment after the tuba solo where it would finally be played. The moment arrived, the triangle was struck once, and its pure sound began to reverberate through the concert hall, only to be…silenced?!? What injustice! The percussionist had silenced the note, the tuba had resumed its solo, and the triangle was returned to its corner. What dismal existence! To toil in waiting for so long, to struggle to summarize one’s existence in a single note – only to have that note silenced by the hand, the very hand, that began it! What tragedy!

And so, mes amis, the next time you feel that your struggle to express your identity is limited by your circumstances, remember that it could be worse.

You could, after all, be the triangle that wasn’t…a triangle.

The Fine Line Between Genius and Insanity

2008-01-30T11:26:00.000-08:00

Genius and insanity can be no more than a hair’s breadth apart. If anything, they are not mutually exclusive, and perhaps one follows the other. I believe that genius is a special quality unto itself. The intelligent person can reason through a problem – the genius will go beyond the bounds of reason and actually solve it. It is that final leap of intuition, that final deviation from the comfort zone of taught knowledge, that distinguishes genius. So one would almost have to be crazy in order to look at the world the way a genius must – out of the box, out of the ordinary. Sometimes, genius is the precursor to insanity: the more you know, the more you realize you don’t know. The more you know, the more frustrated you are with your own lack of understanding, or with the lack of understanding of others – this can lead to a breach from reality. Regardless, my point is that we should accept the closeness between the two, and be conscious of it in our decision-making.

Think twice the next time someone denotes your latest idea as being “crazy” – it might just be your genius talking.

The Sterile Society :: Our Fear to Engage the Other

2008-01-20T21:59:00.000-08:00

Somewhere in the last 10 years, political correctness has gone awfully awry. What began as an endeavour to protect the rights of the minority has resulted in a Lysol-ification of culture. Take the ongoing replacement of the traditional “Merry Christmas” with the so-neutral-it-hurts phrases of “Happy Holidays” and “Season’s Greetings”. I myself am not Christian, but like many Canadians, I have grown to love the Christmas season, because it is a cultural holiday inasmuch as it is a religious one, and I warm at the thought of being wished a merry one. While being wished Happy Holidays instead doesn’t bother me much, I am very concerned about the deeper psychological effects on our society: our fear to offend has driven us to such a point that we no longer engage each other. It is a vicious circle – an action is taken, someone complains, and then everybody else is afraid to take a similar action, lest anybody else complain. My fear is that we are moving towards a sterile society, in which we are reluctant to build relationships with our proverbial neighbours, for fear of offending them. Was it not once customary to visit a new arrival on the block – whereas now we never open our doors to faces we don’t recognize?

If a person smiles at us, we look away, if they begin a conversation, we question their motives. Perhaps it is a conflict-torn century that has taught us that it is better to avoid confrontation altogether. Yet what if, I ask, a friendship might develop after that initial confrontation? What if that stranger who smiled turned out to know the answer to the question you had been pondering all day? What if that conversation you decided to pursue after all, whatever the initiator’s motives, set into motion your next business idea…or the chain of thought that might lead to the cure for cancer?

Human interaction is essential to the workings of the universe – but we can benefit only if we step up and stop ignoring it.

-

The Inner Other :: Look Into My Eyes :: Posts from Praha, Volume I

2008-01-16T11:47:00.001-08:00

The following is an excerpt from the journal I kept during my studies in Prague, as part of my Inter-religious Dialogue and Encounter course.
_____

July 6, 2006

The Inner Other :: Look Into My Eyes and Tell Me What it is You See

When I came across the quote: 'Inside each of us there abides an other' in Dr. Bryant's text, I was reminded of the recent appearance of HH Queen Rania of Jordan on the Oprah Winfrey show. Queen Rania is a very eloquent speaker, and amongst the insightful things she said that day, one in particular stuck in my mind. While I cannot remember the exact words, the message was along the lines of: "Once you feel that others are like you, you want for them that which you want for yourself". Therefore, along with the realization that inside each of us there abides an 'other', we should understand that inside each other there abides a self. It is the "a little piece of you is me and a little piece of me is you" concept. This realization of our common humanity, of the connectedness of our souls, is crucial as it helps us overcome the very US and THEM mentality that I think is the greatest danger to dialogue. The sentence: "Meeting others, beyond differences and comparisons is the catalyst whereby we encounter our own hidden and unmanifest selves" is a thought that I agree with strongly. It also highlights the very important need for face to face interaction. I was always taught to look into a person's eyes when addressing them properly. There are so many sayings about how when one looks into another's eyes they are seeing the essence of the other person, or as some would romantically put it, into their souls.

Whichever interpretation is chosen, I strongly believe that when looking into a another's eyes, you are connecting at a deep level, beyond simple conversation. Is it merely a coincidence of physics/biology/science then, that when we look into a person's eyes, we see also our own reflection in them?

The Death of Soul, or the New Revival?

2008-01-01T19:23:00.000-08:00

Lately it seems that lyrical finesse is optional in Hip Hop music, so long as there is a catchy two-step dance to go with the song instead. Please don't misunderstand: I have no problem with "crankin' dat soul" ...it just makes me wonder, what ever happened to the real soul music? To good slow jams and the days of R&B boy bands? So far, it seems that Remy Shand and Robin Thicke are the standard bearers for soul, showing that skin colour is irrelevant when compared to vocal ability. And while K-Ci and JoJo and All 4 One are releasing albums, Keith Sweat's latest single didn't place in the charts. The crux of the matter lay in my fear that today's teenagers don't have the same appreciation for good R&B. On the other hand Mary J. Blige is still going strong, so maybe there is still a 'real love' for soul amongst the people.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I wish I'd hear Twisted on the radio more often - because no amount of bling-flinging can replace a good slow jam....

Relative Values :: You are NOT smarter than a fifth grader!

2007-12-26T09:32:00.000-08:00

Much as it might pain us to admit it, the vast majority of us are not necessarily smarter than a five year old, at least in some very important departments. Certainly, we can solve multi-variable vector calculus functions or write prize worthy critiques of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness...yet if it takes us a mere 30 second video clip to convince us of what we should value most, then perhaps we should re-examine our own intelligence. Some define intellect as the ability to make conscious decisions, and intellect is said to be the principal factor in the human capacity for differentiating between good and bad. If, as I argue, our ability to shape our own values is compromised as we grow up because we are more likely to buy into society-defined values, then we are actually losing intellect as we age.
While children often make rash and impetuous decisions, what makes them wiser than us is that those decisions are often made based on their own values, over societies' values. Sadly, the pressure to conform soon takes over, and the phase seldom lasts. Once, when I was five years old, I was playing the lucky dip game at the Eid carnival, in the hopes of winning a toy doctor's kit that I had seen some of the other children carrying. On my last ticket, I didn't win a doctor's kit, but I did win the prize that most of the older children were vying for: a framed Jurassic Park poster. While everybody around me seemed to be very excited, and many of the people around me tried to trade their prizes (I even remember being offered a wall clock) for mine. I left the melee to find one of my friends, who herself had won two doctor's kits. I then did what was to me the most logical thing in the world - I traded my poster for one of her doctor's kits. When my older brother found out, he was furious, and asked if I knew how valuable the poster was. Had I had the nerve, or the ability to articulate how I felt, I would have explained to him that the poster had NO value to me. I valued being able to play doctor, and the poster was a static object that would not help me accomplish what I valued, whereas the kit was something I had genuinely coveted because it mattered to me - not because it mattered to everybody around me...

Of course, in me, like in the rest of my peers, society's values began to become my values, and while there are many positives amongst the values of my society, there are also many negatives, and I have lost that ability that children have to compare those values against my own...

2010 Olympic Mascot Mayhem :: Because 'Hello Kitty' is sooooo Canadian

2007-12-03T07:36:00.000-08:00

This week marked the unveiling of the official Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympic mascots. The rumours circulating in the days before stated that the mascots followed a 'First Nations' theme. I figured it would be some sort of fitting emblem of Canadian natural heritage...something along the lines of a beaver, or a bear...a moose, perhaps? Imagine my dismay when I saw that the official Vancouver 2010 mascots looked less like polar bears and more like...Pokemon?!? I mean, really, is our Olympic initiative so much over-budget that we have decided to use reject mascots from the Beijing 2008 Olympics and save on design costs? Okay, maybe they aren't Beijing, but definitely Tokyo! Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with animé in itself, I just wish that we would have seized on this opportunity to promote truly homegrown artistic genres!

Let's face it - these mascots make it seem like the latest addition to the Winter Olympic game roster is Dragonball! Yes yes, the children love them - of course they do, the mascots are cute, and children are the most easily influenced by fads. If the characters were inspired by First Nations legends, though, wouldn't this have been a great opportunity to have introduced the children to First Nations artistic styles? I stand by my opinion - I don't like them. Even the names are awful - except maybe for the sasquatch. Sumi? Miga? Not only do our mascots look like Pokemon - they have names like Teletubbies! Really, we underestimate the ability of our nation's children to pronounce three syllable words! If we're trying to avoid confusing the children, then why did we make the mascots hybrid animals? What would be so wrong with having Miga be either an orca, or just a bear? They call it "sea bear"...I call it schizophrenia - make up your mind, little cartoon!

Aha! Maybe they decided to call it a 'sea bear' so that people would be so busy trying to figure out exactly what a 'sea bear' is that they wouldn't realize that Miga is actually just Hello Kitty with a faux-hawk!

World AIDS Day :: Apathy - The Other 'A' Word

2007-11-30T22:20:00.000-08:00

If you are reading this, take a moment to reflect. Today is World AIDS Day. Until twenty-four hours ago, I didn't even know that. Until twelve hours ago, I did not know that approximately 22.5 million people in Sub-Saharan Africa are living with HIV, or Human Immunodeficiency Virus - the sexually transmitted infection that causes AIDS (Acquired Immuno-Deficiency Syndrome). Six months ago I was in Uganda, and while I did notice that there was a vast amount of AIDS clinics there, I ashamedly admit that somehow I did not understand the scale of the problem. Six hours ago, I was almost content to say a little prayer of thanks that I was not living in Sub-Saharan Africa, where my parents grew up, and go on my merry way...that is when I realized that I had nearly fallen victim to the other 'A' disease that is plaguing young people, especially here in North America - Apathy.

Fifteen percent of adults in South Africa are HIV positive. Does our generation not realize that though they be on another continent, these are our fellow men? FIFTEEN PERCENT! That's AT LEAST one out of your Telus Fave 8! Though we may be fortunate to be geographically removed from the pandemic, all I am asking is that we not be emotionally removed. Though not all of our professions allow us to work on the frontline in this battle, there is something even we can do. The Secretary General of the UN, in his statement on World AIDS Day, calls for leadership, for the abolishment of the stigma associated with AIDS - for it remains one of the greatest barriers to treatment. I ask only for awareness. Take a minute and peruse the material on the UNAIDS website: http://www.unaids.org/en/Issues/Prevention_treatment/stigma.asp.

There are a lot of starfish on this beach, and if we all wait for the next guy to pick them up and throw them back into the ocean, what needs to be done will never be accomplished. AIDS is killing us, and so is our apathy.

West Coast Woman :: Oh No, I'm a Vancouverite!

2007-11-30T21:18:00.000-08:00

A few months after my eighteenth birthday, I traded in my metaphorical cowboy boots for my metaphorical, rather heavy, suitcase. Over the past five years, my mobile phone number has changed nine times - each time due to a re-location. Despite the nomadic status of being a co-op student, I had always maintained that I was, at heart, a Cowtown Girl Gone East. This notion was shattered yesterday on my way home from work. Desiring something to read, I picked up the latest copy of the Georgia Straight before I boarded the bus. I thought nothing of it, until I found myself browsing through the section on action forums...and that's when it hit me. I was reading the Georgia Straight! And looking for forums! On Environmental Protection? I looked down in the hope that the harrowing thought that was upon me would somehow pass, but instead found confirmation in my patent-leather-peek-toed feet: I had become a Vancouverite.

I took a quick self-inventory to see if had somehow slipped into West Coast-dom. The answer was positive on all survey questions: I eat sushi on a weekly basis; I practice yoga, Pilates, step class, AND walk the seawall; I wear skinnies with flats, own multiple umbrellas, and recycle everything possible. I crave the latest TNA metallic handbag, have equal preference for Blenz and Starbucks, AND I know what Matcha really is. My evenings out involve either the symphony, the art gallery, or Science World! I know that Drake comes before Davie comes before Helmecken comes before Nelson comes before Smithe comes before Robson, etc. I can recite the White Spot menu on command, know which number 17 bus to take to get to where I'm going, AND know which kiosk in the Asian Market has the cheapest Hello Kitty gear - not that I bought any! I seek articles by Gwynne Dyer, actually bother to watch David Suzuki on The Nature of Things, and realize that nine times out of ten, straightening my hair will prove to be futile.

Alas, I could deny it no longer - I had become a Vancouverite - and I kinda liked it. If being a Vancouverite meant that I appreciate a healthy lifestyle, want to preserve the beautiful view, and actually care that tomorrow is World Aids Day, then it was a good thing.

I had nearly declared my newfound identity openly when I was reminded of one pivotal fact: In order to be a true citizen, I would have to cheer for the Canucks. BLASPHEMY! Of course, with that thought I returned to my senses, and decided that I needed a new pair of cowboy boots, complete with silver spurs, to remind me of my roots.

This Week In Pictures :: A First Foray into Fotojournalism

2007-11-22T17:00:00.000-08:00

November 22, 2007: Funny Face in the Window!

Window washer at my office - 19 floors above grade!

That's Downtown Vancouver in the background.

...I think he missed a spot.

November 18, 2007: Some things are worth slowing down for.

Setting sun along the Sea to Sky Highway

October 2007: Tree and Me. UBC Campus

November 2, 2007: Household waste intended for the Burnaby Incinerator.
The result? Enough electricity to power 20,000 homes!

October 2007: Fall Colours under Patterson SkyTrain

A Mystical Journey :: The Power of Passion in Performance

2007-11-06T22:28:00.000-08:00

When asked to identify the best part of A Mystical Journey, the Sufi devotional arts performance I attended several weeks ago, I was initially at a loss. To single out one aspect from such a multi-faceted show would be akin to choosing a favourite brush stroke on a masterpiece - nearly impossible, for every stroke, every act, is elemental to the experience. After a moment's thought, though, I realized what made the journey so...mystical. The purity of Choir Hazrati Hamza's voices, the rythmic zeal of the Dalahoo daf players, the elegance of Houria Aichi, the perfect axis of Tahleelah's twirls - all of these elements were astounding in their own rights, yet they were most astounding for they were fundamentally expressions of the same sentiment: passion. It is this passion of the performers that rendered a performance into a veritable journey. Uninhibited, the artistes allowed us not only to observe in their connecting with their creator, but also to actively participate in it.

Those who have read my paper on the Sistine Madonna know that I am a firm believer in the notion of art as a spiritual experience. The ability for a piece to be such an experience, though, lay in the degree of devotion of the artiste, for their art. I sensed peace and purity during Choir Hazreti Hamza's performances, perhaps analogous to the peace they would try to find when they established themselves during the Yugoslav breakdown. I sensed elation as Salman Ahmad rocked the audience into a super-charged rendition of Dama Dam Mast Kalandar. I felt grace at every jingled step of Parul Shah's. And I swear, there were tears in my eyes as Sain Zuhoor sang his heart, and mine alongside. My heart itself beat faster, at Dalahoo Ensemble and Taleelah's frenzied zikr.

I am forever indebted to the performers, for through them I experienced a Mystical Journey indeed. For a few fleeting moments one Sunday, I was not listening to the music. I was the music.

Only Love Knows the Nature of Love :: Ishq Da Rutba, Ishq Hi Jaane

2007-10-28T20:40:00.000-07:00

I cannot recall the first time I came across the phrase "God is True Love", but one of the most striking places I found it was tattoed across a person's back. While the concept may appear to be a product of the 'new age' spirituality that has been captivating North America since the 1960's, the statement is old as it is bold. One need only look at 13th century Sufi literature, for it is rich in parables that describe this exact concept.

Taking the notion a step further is the famous Qawwali Ishq Da Rutba, Ishq Hi Jaane. For those unfamiliar with the term, Qawwali is a form of Sufi musical expression - to denote it as mere song would be an understatement. The phrase "Ishq Da Rutba, Ishq Hi Jaane" roughly translates as "Only love understands the true nature of love". It is especially important to note the term Ishq is reserved for the most fervent forms of love, and in a Sufi context, denotes the love of creation for the creator.

Enter the Transitive Equality Postulate - better known as the "if a=b and b=c, then a=c" deal. If God is true love, and true love is ishq, and if only true love understands the nature of ishq, then would it not be fair to say that only through true love can we understand the nature of God?

Click. So that's why Rumi beseeches us to be lovers! The intoxication of which he often speaks is metaphorical for being in such a state of love that we merge with love itself. Lofty ambitions indeed, but they are not so disparate from our daily dealings. As Aga Khan III described:

"I firmly believe that the higher [spiritual] experience can to a certain extent be prepared for by absolute devotion in the material world to another human being. Thus from the most worldly point of view and with no comprehension of the higher life of the spirit, the lower, more terrestrial spirit makes us aware that all the treasures of this life, all that fame, wealth and health can bring are nothing beside the happiness which is created and sustained by the love of one human being for another"

So love, so that you may not only know love itself, but God also.

...or have I just said the same thing twice?

Fr-Wrench Manicure :: I'm being stalked by marketing firms

2007-10-24T17:26:00.001-07:00

It's happening again. The marketing spies are back! Everytime I watch the television, I see moments of my days captured not in the programs, but in the little snippets of corporate genius that come in between - TV commercials. This first started to happen to me in my teenage years. That LaBatt advertisement with people riding in shopping carts? Been there, done that, nearly got killed as a result of it, all in the seventh grade. (Thank you Alissa for saving my life!) Howabout the other LaBatt Out of the Blue commercial with the impromptu hockey game? Try an impromptu soccer game with Portugese students in the Lisbon airport at 3 am, barefoot and without knowing a word of Portugese!

Okay, so maybe these activities aren't exactly uncommon...but answer this question: how many people do you know handle wrenches with perfectly polished nails, on a daily basis?

Dell's latest XPS commercial is simply a high budget interpretation of MY WORKDAY, with slightly skimpier outfits, that is! Perfectly polished nails gripping mildly grimy wrenches - and who said engineers weren't sexy? The notion is representative of our age, best described by our GENE 452 design team slogan: "Where fashion meets functionality"

Were it merely the lone case of this commercial, I would not jump to the conclusion that I'm being stalked by advertising agencies...but today I came upon a second example. The latest Cadbury commercial shows another typical Rehana moment: Sitting on a bench on top of a mountain, sliding off my red peek-toe heels, and savouring a Caramilk bar. Fine, it was a Mars bar, même chose!

Perhaps they ought to re-write the old adage, because it seems to me now that it is neither 'art imitating life', nor 'life imitating art' - it's art imitating MY life!

Say It Right :: A case of writer’s block :: (= Say it Write?)

2007-10-01T21:03:00.000-07:00

There is an old adage that states that ‘some things are better left unsaid’, and there’s an old Sufi story that explains how the human tongue can be both the sweetest and most bitter thing in the world. For the most part, I find the “better left unsaid” adage is best applied to those words that prove just how bitter the tongue can be. To explain the wisdom behind biting one’s tongue in the face of cruel words would be a waste of my time – those with even an ounce of common sense and compassion practice the habit already. Instead, my focus is on the fact that we should not hold back from letting our kind thoughts turn into kind words. Sometimes, some things must simply be said.

This past summer, for the first time in my life, I experienced writer’s block. It’s not that I did not want to write. Not only did I want to write, I needed to write! I wanted to write about lovely summer sunsets, but couldn’t. I needed to write when Zaf passed, but couldn’t. I could not finish any of the letters I started to write in this time. The few that I did manage to complete were so formal that they did not seem to come from my heart. Somehow, it seemed that my ability to communicate was stunted. As a person who is otherwise fairly articulate, it was especially frustrating – I had so much to say, but the words would not come.

It was only a couple of weeks ago that I realized why I could not express myself. It was because I held back. It was because there were some things I needed to say before I could say anything else. Like a pause in a song as it awaits the final verse, I could not continue with my chorus until the lyrics of the verse were spoken. Though the majority of them were wonderful, they were not all kind words, but they were not bitter. They were genuine, though, and in that lay their value. I always knew that the world needs to hear our thoughts, especially our positive ones. What I did not realize was that it also has a way of getting them out of you. When something is weighing on your mind, silence is not necessarily the answer. While it is patience and grace that stop us from our cruel thoughts, it is pride that prevents us from sharing our kind ones. While I suffer from pride, much like the rest of the world, I am realizing that there is greater satisfaction in giving praise than in withholding it. I see that the joy in telling a friend, a lover, a family member how much you love them is not dependent on them telling you the same in return. I realized that some things just need to be said, so I knocked down the dam, spoke my mind, spread the love, and I am happy to say that I’m back. The world is in need of proof that the tongue can be sweet too, so bite only the spite, but let the warm fuzzies flow.

…and you know what? That’s exactly what Zaf used to do…

:: A Fine Balance between The Saint, The Surfer, and The CEO ::

2007-06-03T21:44:00.000-07:00

I began to read a book two years ago that I never finished. Ironically enough, it was another book by the same author that enlightened me as to the fact that you don't have to finish every book you start. Some pursuits are simply not worthy of your time, other times you are not worthy of some pursuits. I think in my case it was the latter. Somehow I feel that I am finally worthy of it though, because all of a sudden, I see its worth. Allow me to elaborate with a bit of a timeline:

- Two years ago, I read the book that I never finished: It was Robin Sharma's "The Saint, The Surfer, and The CEO". A good enough read, but all too similar to his other works, so I abandoned it.
- Backtrack to ten years ago, when I read "When You Hear Hoofbeats, Think of a Zebra". I decided then that I wanted to spend a year in a tekke, learning about Sufism. Bit of a saintly pursuit, isn't it?
- Last year, I saw the documentary "Step Into Liquid", and decided that I wanted to learn to surf. Yup, I want to be a surfer.
- This year, I began considering doing an MBA. Anybody else see a trend here?

So a few weeks ago it hit me - I wanted to be all of those things in the title of Robin Sharma's book: The Saint, The Surfer, and The CEO. Not necessarily in the traditional interpretations of those roles, but moreso in the roles that each of those personalities represent. I am currently struggling to balance the desire to do good in this world, the desire to be capricious and enjoy this world, and the desire to do well in this world.

This struggle is not mine alone though. It is a struggle that I feel each person faces at least at some point in their life. The beauty of this model is that these goals are not mutually exclusive. How lucky are we to be able to accomplish all of these things simultaneously? By that I don't mean that one should be the president of a pro-bono surf shop. The key is not to forsake any one of the three in our pursuit of one or the other.

So the next time you take inventory of the person you are becoming by your actions, make sure that your inner Saint, Surfer, and CEO, are all in sync.

:: Coincidence? I think not.::

2007-05-19T13:50:00.001-07:00

I have never been one to believe much in coincidence. The workings of the universe are far too intricate, too symmetric in their beauty, to be the product of randomness alone. I have oft argued that symmetry itself, or the perfect alignment of the human figure, ought to be proof of the existence of the divine - since the orderliness of these things defy the notion that a lower entropy, or disorder, is what matter would seek to attain.

:: Jackson Pollock’s Drop Sheets :: The Bigger Picture

2007-04-11T10:15:00.000-07:00

Amongst the Lessing Institute courses I took during my séjour in Prague last summer was one entitled Religion and Art. It was my first foray into the realm of fine art, all my university courses until then were either Engineering or Management Science related, and it made me wish my course load back home had left me room for similar subject matter. Amongst the artists we discussed in that class was Jackson Pollock – the American abstract painter renowned for his gigantic pieces that were sometimes difficult to distinguish from his drop sheets. In the class we discussed how viewing his pieces could constitute a religious experience because they allowed you to lose yourself in something greater than yourself. His works are not only physically vast, but in their abstraction they allow for infinite interpretations of their meaning. Amazing, isn’t it – that a two dimensional object can have such depth? After the course, I had tucked my thoughts of Jackson Pollock into a corner of my mind reserved for concepts that require deep meditative thought. Rumi, Khalil Gibran, and Gary Zukav spend a lot of time in this corner. As I wrote my last blog entry about Mama Africa, though, these thoughts resurfaced. I think they were already at the subconscious forefront of my mind when I talked about how we are all specks of paint on some great mural, a part of the bigger picture. As I read the post over, though, I realized what it is about Jackson Pollock’s works in particular that allow us to grasp this concept.

(Photo: Jackson Pollock, Number 1, 1950 (Lavender Mist),1950, National Gallery of Art, Ailsa Mellon Bruce Fund, 1976.37.1 )

Within both structured and abstract art, each speck of paint is indeed part of the bigger picture…but in structured art, we view each speck first as a part of the smaller subsystem. Let us take the example of a painting of a pot of roses on a table. If we were to look at a stroke of red paint on one of the rose petals, we would see it first as essential only to the petal. Somewhere in the shape of the rose, we would forget the little specks of paint that are the building blocks for each petal. So all we see are the rose and the table as separate objects, and we fail to see the basic relation between the two – that they are essentially just amalgamations of the same thing – paint! Enter Jackson Pollock. In his large abstract murals, there are no roses…no tables, no vases, and no structured shapes at all. There are no defined figures to separate the drops of paint from each other, or from the bigger picture. The barriers are broken. There is no doubt then about the relation between each of those specks. Each and every one of them, like each and every one of us, can only be identified only as a unique, integral part of the bigger picture.

:: Mama Africa a la Rehana :: Flashbacks of Uganda

2007-04-07T18:03:00.000-07:00

This earth. This red earth. How fitting that it be the colour of blood, this soil, for I have always felt this land itself to be alive. This earth, from which I feel drums beat when I touch my hand to the soil, as if I were feeling the heartbeat of this land itself. Ahh, but this beat is familiar, for if I touch my hand to my own heart, I find the same rythym. It comes as no surprise, for it is in this land that my parents hearts first began to beat. Ahh yes, I know this rythym. It is the rythym of the elephants running across the Mweya savannah. It is the rythym of the wildebeast traversing the Serengeti plains. It is the sound of the chimpanzees calling to each other in Kibale. It is the sound of the rain falling on tin roofs. It is the roll of the thunder in the open sky...

...It is the sound of Mama Africa going about her day.

I have always said that there is something about this place, some intangible quality that enables me to feel more...alive. I found this on my first visit to East Africa, to Tanzania in 2003, and I find it again here in Uganda. Here, in Africa, we feel more alive because we feel more connected to the land. Here human beings are still subject to the whim of mother nature. When the rain falls, the road may wash out. Nature reigns supreme, and we have not found a way to insert the human will to achieve between us and the ground we walk upon. Perhaps it is even reflected literally in the fact that many walk barefoot in this corner of the Earth.

When the lion hunts the gazelle in our gaze, we are but spectators. We cannot help but be aware of our own insignificance as an individual within this world. Yet somehow this does not alienate us from the land - instead I feel that it connects us to it. It is as though in realizing that we are no more than a speck of paint, we realize also that our speck of paint is part of something greater, some enormous mural that is made up of a hundred billion specks of paint, but that would not be the same without each one of them. The great beauty of Mama Africa lay in its ability to remind us of this.

:: Two Sunrises and a Sunset :: Dubai Fly By

2007-03-23T09:26:00.000-07:00

The adventurous in life are easy to recognize. They walk with a spring in their step, they speak with laughter in their breath, and if you look in their eyes you will see a reflection of their world alongside an everpresent mischievious twinkle. The fact that they have a kayak with them in the airport doesn't hurt either.

Such was the case with the girl standing in front of me at the boarding gate for my flight from Dubai to Entebbe. Okay, so she didn't have her kayak with her at that time, but it took me merely seconds to realize that she was going to Uganda for some sort of adventure holiday. Needless to say, we struck up a conversation and a few minutes later, Kayak Girl was my newfound friend Lea. And oh how opportune it was to have found company, since moments later it was announced that all Emirates flights were going to be delayed - some even cancelled.

The next eight hours were spent in queue after queue, depressing most of all for their redundancy - it was the most disorganized redirection of flights I have ever seen. I can only imagine how much worse it would have been if I did not have her company, or if the rest of the people whom we ended up in line with were not courteous. Thankfully, good company always makes the time go faster, and there were moments where it felt like we were eager fans waiting to go to a concert. Except that there was no concert. Or music. Or anything really to look forward to, now that I think of it. Ahh yes, there were moments where we were more like an angry mob, ready to storm the Bastille. If someone had a pitchfork with them, I have no doubt it would have come out. Then again, if someone managed to get a pitchfork past security, there would be greater issues at hand. Yes, there was much fist shaking, many angry "hear hear"s, and good manners seemed to slip away as people's tempers began to flare.

After three straight hours of waiting in queue, Lea and I got moved to the next day's flight, and decided to make the best of the unexpected stopover in Dubai. Why not, right? I mean when life gives you lemons...try and switch them for limes, they're better.

In-Flight Butter Chicken...

2007-03-11T03:37:00.000-07:00

So I'm blogging from Birmingham airport and I have six minutes to copy down what I wrote on the plane:
______________

You know that distinctive aroma of a South Asian car? On Air India, the entire plane carries that aroma - I really don't mean to stereotype but it's TRUE. I smell like butter chicken right now - and that wasn't even the meal they served! Speaking of stereotypes, it seems that I am the only person on this flight who hasn't maxed out my baggage allowance either in terms of weight, size, or number of pieces. Also of note is that every time I was in a lineup (should I say queue, since I'm in the UK?), the staff would assume I was with whichever gentleman happened to be standing behind me. Correction: they would assume I was with whichever MIDDLE AGED gentleman happened to be standing behind me :S. All told, when you get an entire row of 5 seats to yourself (better than first class, I say - I fully slept lying down!), get biriyani for dinner, and get to watch the latest Bollywood hits, you really cannot complain. Plus, the flight attendants look so adorable in their saris! Good service too. I buzzed the stewardess when I woke up to ask her for a glass of water, and she came to my seat with one already in hand to give me before askign what I needed! Now that's service!

Oh, and the "Safety Demonstration" is soooooo much funnier in Hindi. I wish I had recorded it. They were so co-ordinated, it almost felt like a hindi music video. The saris kind of added to the effect. All we needed was for John Abraham (gorgeous Indian actor) to come through the curtain dressed as a pilot.

The plane is mostly full of NRIs (Non-Resident Indians)...there are a few Brummies though, who in the boarding lounge bore the unmistakable expression of "What have we gotten ourselves into".

____________

:: Just Do It ::

2007-03-04T18:58:00.000-08:00

All controversy over production facilities aside, I think that Nike does have something right: their slogan.

If I were able to summarize my vision of what 2007 should be all about in one sentence, it would be those three words that I have seen flashed across my tv screen many a time...

Just do it.

Recently I have been telling my friends of one of my greatest pet peeves: When a person says "I have always wanted to do that" in the face of an opportunity to do just that which they have always wanted to, but then does not proceed to seize that opportunity. This ires me to no extent! If you have always wanted to do it, and the chance to do it is but a mere step away - what are you waiting for? Of course I'm referring to activities that are overall positive in nature. By no means should we be impetuous in major life decisions.

The past few months have been amongst the busiest of my life. In addition to the continuous commitments that I have, this semester has been filled with amazing activities that I had promised myself I would do: trying fencing, learning to tango, jamming with the university's drum circle, joining the outer's club and learning to boulder, writing for the newspaper, attending a PI lecture, learning to knit, teaching children...and the list goes on!

I have come to the realization that oftentimes people have the desire to try new activities, but are reluctant to do so without the guarantee of company. The result? Everybody ends up in cliques that do the same thing all the time. Though I am all for routines and weekly happenings that we can count on, I strongly feel that we need to step outside our comfort zones. Yes, it takes effort to do so, and yes, it takes balls to do so....but mark my words when I say that the more you do it, the easier it becomes!

It's a wide world out there, filled with SO MUCH opportunity. My great fear is that we will completely overlook it unless we make a conscious effort to reach beyond what is already familiar to us and try to grasp that which we desire to be familiar with.

So the next time you find yourself in a situation where you think to yourself "I have always wanted to do that"...live by this ever so simple mantra, my friends...and just do it.

(The strawberries are just there cause they look pretty)

2007-01-12T19:45:00.000-08:00

:: I'd like that in writing, please ::

I like to make lists. Anybody who knows me, knows that I take a special pleasure in crossing things off of lists. Whether they be items on a grocery list that I have purchased, errands that needed to be run, or books that I'd promised myself I would read, somehow I feel better about doing them if I had them on a list. Sometimes, if I accomplish something that had been weighing on my mind, but that I had forgotten to put into my day-timer, I'll still write it in after I finish doing it, just so that I can have the pleasure of crossing it off...

I think that there is a lot of benefit to putting your tasks in writing. To begin with, it will prevent you from forgetting what it is that needs to be done. That's the obvious benefit. I also believe in putting my hopes and dreams down on paper. I'm a strong believer in the notion that positive thoughts bring positive results. I think that good things will happen to you if you believe they will. Whether that is a function of the effect of your thought process on the universe, or whether that is simply because you will be able to recognize the inherent good in life because you are looking for it, I leave to you to decide. In both cases, the point remains the same: good thoughts, good intentions, breed good tidings. To think something good will happen is a reflection of a person's optimistic perspective. Similarly, to say or write that something good will happen is a reflection of that good thought. So...writing is stronger than just thinking, and thinking good will make good...ergo, writing good will make good.

So the next time you have a nice thought, have a little wish, or have something you hope to see done - put it to the pen!

2006-12-14T20:34:00.000-08:00

:: The Inflection Point ::

I used to be an over-achiever. That was a long time ago, and it was mostly thanks to a sharp memory. The benefit: good grades growing up, without a need to do homework. The cost: never learning the value of hard work in school. Now, those people who learned to work hard are the over-achievers, and I am faced with the even greater challenge of apathy. It is no great tragedy that I am not doing as well as I used to, because if there is a strong enough desire to attain something, then the commitment to undertake the necessary work naturally follows. What concerns me instead is that somewhere in my downward spiral, there was an inflection point. A point at which I not only ceased to perform well, but at which I stopped even wanting to. Looking back, I am now trying to understand what caused me to change. Where, in my life, was that inflection point? I realize that it happened sometime in high school. It happened when I stopped defining my character by my grades, and started instead defining it by my lifestyle. A small step in that direction is good, because it is essential to maintain a well-balanced lifestyle.

I did not take a small step, however. I took many small steps, that added up to one giant leap. Since that time, mediocrity became an option and Excellency was no longer the standard. It is not to say that I stopped challenging myself. I earned my IB Diploma, was accepted into my university of choice, and even selected the program I thought would be most difficult for me to pursue as higher education. I have not lost my dreams, I have merely deferred them. I achieved each of my little goals, but somehow now I am not doing well enough within them to reach my greater goal. What happened, I ask? It is not for a lack of inspiration, that much is certain. Perhaps it is a lack of follow through. The greatest danger, though, is that the farther you travel in the wrong direction from that crucial inflection point, the harder it is to turn things around. Unless you're a higher degree function, in which case you may have many inflection points. So maybe that's the key - we all have to function at a higher level. Fair enough, then what does it take to turn things around? Aha! At last the essential question, which brings me to my point: that in some cases, failure is a step towards success. Not for everyone, but for those of us who are on the wrong side of the inflection point. The first step to turning around is realizing that you're going in the wrong direction. And so perhaps we must hit the bottom, so that we are forced to look upwards again.

Perhaps it is best described by the adage: "Even a kick in the ass is a step forward"

2006-12-10T23:51:00.000-08:00

:: Mountain Child ::

I recently had the pleasure of watching Dana Brown's documentary on surfing, Step Into Liquid. Suffice it to say, there were moments of such beauty in that film that I was left breathless, with my recently acquired desire to surf further fuelled. The film mentioned the necessity of the surfer to be close to the waves. My Prague roomate was an avid surfer, and decorated our room with photographs of surfing to ease with the feeling of being landlocked. I realized then, that the wave, or the abode of waves, is a sacred place for a surfer, as it is for me. My sacred place is not the abode of the transient (yet timeless) waves of the ocean, but that of those jagged, stone waves that are my beloved Rockies. Frozen in time, on whose foothills lay my beloved hometown. For the 18 years that I lived there, I took them for granted. They were the landmark by which my internal compass was calibrated. I grew up knowing that every morning I when awoke, I could look west to see the crimson rays of the rising sun reflected upon their snowy peaks. I knew that in their valleys I would be reminded of my own insignificance, for they are a testament to the silent shouldering of a century of weathering, while maintaining their majesty. I have oft complained at Southern Ontario's lack of natural beauty, and what I miss most of all, are my mountains. Yes, MY mountains...not exclusively mine...but mine nonetheless. I named them as a child, I spent lazy summer days with my toes in their rivers. I bathe beneath their waterfalls, I climbed their heights, drank freely from their streams, and to this day, I am still lost without them. I often ask myself whether, after graduating, I would remain in Ontario, or return home to Alberta. I think of the friendships I have made here, for I have no attachment to this land, only to its people. Can I stand to leave those friendships behind? Then I think of the mountains, for they too, are my friend....they shelter me from the wind, chastise me for taking too bold a risk, they are ever present, inviting me to leisure amongst them.

I know that I am a Mountain Child. I know, in my heart of hearts, that wherever I settle, there must be mountains. Be they my beloved Rockies, the towering Hindu Kush, the ancient Andes, or the Sierra Nevada beside the beautiful city of Granada, I long for their protection, for the moments of awe that they offer me. Amongst them, I can best admire His creation, as one who seeks to know the author through his works.

2006-10-28T22:54:00.000-07:00

The Perpetual Nomad ::

The more days that pass, the more I realize how much I can relate to that Nelly Furtado line - "I'm like a bird, I'll only fly away...I don't know where my home is". Four years of packing your life into two suitcases and moving every four months certainly makes one feel a little flighty. It's almost like being a distinct species, the perpetual nomad. Kind of like the house hippo, but not quite. I can fully see them doing a Discover Channel episode on us: "The perpetual nomad can be identified from several visual and behavioural patterns. The females often carry oversized purses. This is because the perpetual nomad is often deprived of the amenities of the common home, and so they tend to carry their such amenities on their person. These include essential items such as water, mirrors, band-aids, tweezers, nail polish remover, travel size deodorant, dish soap, thumb-tacks, Christmas cards, and potting soil. The perpetual nomads are also known to 'nest'. That is, they often place sensory cues in their domiciles that allow them to carry a sense of permanency from residence to residence. This usually manifests itself in the form of photographs, posters, or pot-pourri. "

Yessir, National Geographic is coming for us. In all seriousness though, it's true. I think that people who move around a lot learn to build their home wherever it is they go. Isn't it therefore only fitting that they carry those things that make a place home with them? There is a difference between a house and a home. The house may change, but they say that home is where the heart is, so I suppose the home does have a permanent abode.

The more I think of it, the more I feel that home is not a place...it's an idea. Home is the feel of the fireplace on a cold day, home is the smell of fresh flatbread in the morning, it is the sound of your family's voice. Home is the memory of waking up as a child and reading the newspaper in your mother's lap with the lazy Saturday sunbeams touching your toes. That memory is in your heart...and so home is in your heart...accessible whenever you need it, and with you wherever you go.

2006-09-07T21:53:00.000-07:00

Expo Latino :: The unstoppable Nuna’y and my little moment of heaven

A couple of weekends ago was the annual Hispanic Arts Festival in my fair hometown, more commonly known as Expo Latino. I like to call it the oye-como-va-guapo/I-didn’t-know-there-were-this-many-good-looking-people-in-this-city festival. In all honesty, though I was not born with Latina blood in my veins, there is surely some Latina fire in my soul. I love the language, the dance, the warmth of the people. Over the course of the weekend, which for me meant three days and two nights of salsa dancing under the sun and stars, I got to see and feel the culture of some of my favourite countries. Those of you who know me well can attest to how often I lament that I left a piece of my heart in Granada, Spain. Well, once again Iberia has claimed another piece of me. Perhaps a lustier one…but more on that later!

One of the most astonishing acts I came across over the weekend was this FABULOUS Bolivian-Canadian band called Nuna’y. These guys are machines. They honestly performed in their booth for the whole festival! From 6pm to midnight on Friday, from 11 am to 11 pm on Saturday, and from 11 am to 8 pm on Sunday. I think it’s amazing that a band of 5 people can hold out for that long. What really struck me was their energy…these guys really LOVED what they did. At one point, one of the members was taking a break and eating a sandwich, but even then he was jamming to the melody being played by the rest of his bandmates. Not only do these guys have stamina…they’re very talented too! I wonder why on earth David Visan hasn’t snapped them up. Maybe I should be their manager. The thing is, that by the end of the festival (I went all three days), I was so used to hearing their music, that they almost became a little part of me. It felt as if everywhere I went, they were there. Picture a bunch of 5 South American men in woven ponchos playing their instruments behind every curtain u pulled back, beside every traffic light you pulled up to. So…I bought their cd. Now they really are with me everywhere I go. And the sound is so crisp its like they're in my backseat. I think of them as my own personal soundtrack. Maybe I’ll get sick of them for a few days, but I know it won’t be long before Nuna’y conquers again.

So Nuna'y was fabulous, but I must admit that the highlight of the weekend (and gala event preceding the weekend) for me was something else. And oh boy, these boys were just that: something else. Imagine (and here’s where I talk about the lust)….Imagine seven Spanish men, dancing the soulful Flamenco…with infusions of ballet and modern dance into their steps (see the pic above). Now it gets better. Not only are these seven men Spanish, and talented at what they do. They’re Spanish, GORGEOUS, SUPPLE, RIPPED, and talented at what they do. Yes, these seven have the bodies of firefighters. Trust me, I got to see them shirtless. But alas, the plot thickens…what I got to see was seven gorgeous, supple, strong, talented Spanish Flamenco/Ballet dancers…with their shirts off! But wait, that’s not all ladies…I mean, it can’t be that hard to find seven good looking (and I mean REALLY good looking), well built, talented men with great rhythm out there, right? Try finding them in the same family! These seven, Spanish, gorgeous, supple, strong, talented, shirtless Flamenco/Ballet dancers are BROTHERS. I kid you not. Google them: VIVANCOS 7 is the name of their company. It was my fantasy come true. The first time I saw them was at the gala event, and I swear every woman in the audience was fanning herself with her program while they were on. Myself included. They make it seem like they are dancing just for you. Hotter than anything I had ever seen in my lifetime, including the Brazilian capoeira dancers and Chilean pop-star dancer dude in a leafy skirt that came before these guys. It was my little moment in heaven. I took a friend of mine to see them when they performed again at the festival grounds. She had to put her plate down because she couldn't tear her eyes from them, and I actually had to close her jaw for her. Yes, they are THAT good. So good I almost wanted to cry. So yes Spain, carve another notch in your bedpost, because you have claimed yet another piece of my heart.

2006-08-28T09:29:00.000-07:00

Prague in Retrospect, Part 3 :: The Appeal of a Foreign Man .:.

One of the great delights of Praha, that can sometimes be a disappointment, is the fact that it is an international crossroads. It is a delight because one meets people from all corners of the earth through its streets, sights, and city nights. It is a disappointment because sometimes it is hard to find a Czech person in the melee, which makes it hard to understand the soul of the city…and it is the soul of a city that I seek most when I travel.

In keeping with my perpetual optimism, though, it was wonderful to meet so many people. In all honesty, in my four weeks in Prague, I think danced with more men than I had danced with in four years. Over my time there I met people from: America, Australia, Austria, Brazil, Britain, Denmark, France, Germany, Haiti, India, Italy, Jamaica, Poland, Russia, Switzerland, and the list goes on…

I had always thought that I had a particular fondness for European men, but what I realized while I was there was that I actually have a fondness for foreign men, and it is not at all particular. My friends and all agreed on this, and found ourselves more attracted to the non North-American men while we were in Prague. Naturally, there are some very, very attractive North-American men – trust me, we met them too. Still, I think that being from a distant land gives one an edge. It’s all part of those charismatic quirks that are so attractive about a person, which collectively I have termed the Intrigue Factor. Being from a different culture, speaking a different language, knowing of a different dance - it all adds to the mystery of a person.

I can best illustrate this with an example: One evening in Prague my roommates and I were at the lovely Lavka on the Vlatva for an evening of dancing under the stars and over the river. From afar, we spotted a young man with an eclectic sense of style that appealed to us all, since we were all sure he was European. He was wearing man-capris (I call them manpris), a dress shirt not tucked in, and a tie loosely fastened. It was hot…we thought he was Dutch…he was hot. I had the incredible urge to pull him in by his tie to come and dance with us. I had the urge, my roommate had the nerve and did the honour of reeling him in to dance with us. From then on he was called tie-guy. So convinced were we of his European nature that it never occurred to us to even speak to him in English. We danced with him for quite a while, and though we thought his style of dancing was slightly odd, we figured it was a European thing and hence forgivable, and even a little funky. As Mugatu would have put it: “Tie guy…so hot.”

At the end of the night we finally decided to ask our uber-sexy euro tie-guy where he was from…just so that we could hear his uber-sexy euro accent. If only we had braced ourselves for the reply…because tie-guy told us in a not-so-sexy American voice that he was from the not-so-euro city of Chicago. And just like that, the minute he spoke in that all too familiar non-accent, he wasn’t so sexy anymore. His tie/shirt/manpri combo somehow didn’t work anymore, and we could see his ‘libido driven puppy ravages a bedpost’ dancing style for what it was. It was so disappointing, so…anti-climatic.

If only he had been European, he could have gotten away with it...just by being foreign. Yet, once we realized that he was relatively homegrown, he suddenly wasn’t so appealing anymore. So what was it then, since his style and skill no longer seemed so hot, that had attracted us to him before? It was the concept…the notion that he was different, a stranger, a new territory to explore, a new vibe to discover…

And it is that notion, ladies and gentlemen, that is the appeal of a foreign man.

2006-08-23T14:47:00.000-07:00

Prague in Retrospect, Part 2: A Preoccupation with Defenestration .:.

Only in Prague would there be a final exam question that asks for the definition of defenestration. I realize many of you are now thinking: “Oh no, she’s hit us with another of those five syllable words again!” Fear not, dear readers, for I will explain...

Defenestration is the act of throwing someone out the window. Yes, there is a word for that. Don’t look so surprised. Someone came up with a word to refer to books printed before 1501 (incunabulum)…so why not a word for throwing someone out the window? The thing about defenestration, and the thing about Prague, is that there seems to have been a lot of defenestration in Prague, as a form of executing one’s political or religious adversaries.

Of course, it is not always very effective. The famous second defenestrations of Prague, in which a Protestant assembly tried and found guilty a pair of Catholic governors for violating certain religious freedom rights, occurred in 1618. As punishment, the governors were thrown out one of the high windows of Prague Castle. The catch? They all landed in a pile of manure and survived. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, shit happens. Now we know where WB cartoons get their script ideas from.

I actually saw the windows that they were thrown out of on my tour of Prague castle. It is indeed pretty high, and this time there was nothing to soften the blow.

2006-08-15T09:16:00.000-07:00

Prague In Retrospect, Part 1: The KGB Makes a Damn Good Omelette .:.

I arrived in Praha from London via Amsterdam. Why they had to take me to Amsterdam to switch planes I shall never know. I mean, honestly, I was first flying westwards, then back eastwards again. Sometimes I think there are flaws with the whole concept of airline hub cities. Mind you, one cannot really complain - that's two meals and twice the beverage service. When I was investigating flights from Calgary to Prague, one travel agent tried to route me from Calgary to Chicago to Toronto to Stockholm to Prague. Yes, Stockholm. I told her she might as well route me through Nairobi while she was at it.

Coming back to the subject at hand, though, my first day in Praha was uneventful. That is, aside from the fact that I mistook the cash machine for the change machine, which co-incidentally resembled a pop machine. Alas, I managed to get some Korouny in my pocket and my future classmate and I found our way to the residence. Korouny, or crown, is the Czech currency. Being North American students by the end of the trip we were calling the money Coronas.

Now the college itself had quite an interesting history. Somewhere in my readings I had heard it was the former KGB residence. Someone else said that they heard it was the former KGB prison. I think the rooms were too nice to be a prison, although the foot-thick concrete walls did make for curiously effective sound insulation. More than anything it felt like what it is now, a student residence. That is, aside from it's maze-like design. Sometimes I felt like a lab rat wandering the corridors. Oh yes, and the only other KGB-esque experience we had to endure was cold water shower torture. For six days, our hot water was cut out. What was left was not just some room temperature slightly cool water, it was ice cold, Rocky Mountain Glacier cold, my heart stops when I step under the shower cold, kind of water...seriously! Apparently there is this 'city-controlled rotating hot water outage' that happens every summer. Okay Big Brother, whatever you say. I wish someone could explain to me why the five star Hotel Diplomat across the street didn't suffer from this 'city controlled rotating hot water outage'. Oh well, in all honesty the weather was 30 plus and I now have a great appreciation for hot water.

Breakfast was included in our accommodation, and generally we had enough credits with breakfast to buy a sandwich for lunch too. If we hadn't used enough credits for each meal, the lady at the till would just put something on your tray. Sometimes a banana, sometimes a juicebox, sometimes a wafer like object you couldn't quite identify - mmm, those were my favourite. But for all the lack of smile and 30 minute breakfast lineups, there is one thing to their credit...

The KGB makes a damn fine omelette.

*Disclaimer: although the building that now houses the Masarykova Kolej was indeed once the KGB residence, there is no KGB and Masarykova Kolej has nothing to do with them....really...no I'm serious...oh no, not the bright lights again!

2006-07-20T02:01:00.000-07:00

Praha a la Rehana .:.

Highlights of the past week...

Salsa dancing, internationally (I love how dance is a universal language)...

Shopping for amber in Krakow, Poland. We call it Krak-OWWWWWWWWW because the men are, how shall it put it? GORGEOUS. Monika do you recognize this church?

Watching the opera Don Giovanni in the very theatre where Mozart premiered it over 200 years ago.

Getting friendly with local statues on the way to watch the said opera.

Strolling through old town in all its beauty.
(Photo yet to come)

Actually making it to Mecca once in my lifetime...well actually this was Mecca the nightclub, but still, it made for funny conversation topics on the bus ride home from Poland. "So does anyone know how to get to Mecca?"..."What kind of music do they play in Mecca?"
(Photo yet to come)

Just picking a direction, and walking until I decided I didn't want to walk anymore. Probably the best way to discover Prague.

- Making Mehndi (Henna) from scratch, using plastic cups, potato chip bags, and tweezers, and coffee from a coffee machine. (Supposed to use coffee water and put it in an iron bowl. I didn't have an iron bowl so I used a plastic cup (I had an extra because I couldn't understand the Czech coffee machine and accidentally ordered milk tea)...anyways no iron bowl so I used a plastic cup and put my tweezers (which are stainless steel and steel is mainly iron) in the cup). Wow that was a lot of brackets. Nested brackets too, kind of like those Russian nesting dolls, which I see a gazillion of every day.

Seeing the Sistine Madonna at the Gallery of the Masters in Dresden, Germany.
(Photos yet to come)

Visiting the Museum of Communism and buying witty postcards with slogans like "It was a time of happy, shiny people. The shiniest were in the uranium mines"...The wit, the wit!
(Photos yet to come)

2006-07-08T12:47:00.000-07:00

Cows, Classes, and Churches: A week in Prague...

Prague is a city of contrasts. For example a fabulously modern (and very efficient) metro system runs below buildings that date back to the 13th century...buildings that are now used as cabarets, clubs, and casinos. As you look across the city, church spires and television antennae both reach skyward. A confluence of the history and history in the making.

(Cowtown - the European Version)

The city is very touristy, yet the employees that cater to tourists (servers, hotel reception, etc.) lack the service mentality found in many other tourist centres. Songs in English blast from speakers in shops and clubs, yet very few speak the language. Of course, I have no right to be frustrated about this - I am the one in the foreign country and should therefore learn to speak Czech, not vice versa. And I have been trying to, though it is a difficult language to learn for someone with no background in Slavic tongues. My grievances being cited, I can now say without reservation that I still love this city! There is so much history, not only in the grand, event-inspired sense but also in the human sense.

One of the quirky things I love about Prague is the gardens. It seems that they are tucked into every little corner, but you have to search for them. My favourite is just a few minutes away from where my classes are being held. I love to go there and enjoy the shade and cool spray offered by the fountains. The majority of the gardens I have found so far are Italian in style. The gardens surrounding the Prague Castle are also very beautiful, with stunning views of the city.

My views on the city aside, here is how my week has been. The first few days were really a matter of getting oriented. On Wednesday, there was a trip to see a "Black Theatre" show. Now this is not theatre performed by people of African descent. Although on a side note, the clubs here will refer to Hip Hop, R&B, and Reggae/Soca, as "Black Music". So much for political correctness. So yes, Black Theatre is a type of mixed media show. It is a combination of black light theatre, dance, mime, and video. But really the best way to describe it is like Alice in Wonderland - TRIPPY. Or maybe like one of those movies from the 70's that sometimes air on Showcase Television. You know, with weird music and no spoken lines. For a minute in the show I was worried it was going to turn into clown pornography. Fortunately that didn't happen. I did enjoy it in a way, but at moments it was almost too trippy for me. And I thought Bollywood films were a stretch...

Thursday we went clubbing to a nice place downtown - Duplex. When we first got there, there was an awful singer (who might actually be a Czech celebrity given that there was a fair amount of press present), crooning (if you could call it that) some awful song in an awful key. We almost left, but decided to wait till the end of his set in the hope that something better was on its way. What came up next was totally unexpected - it was a fashion show. In the middle of the club. Nuts I tell you. Then after the fashion show the dj finally took over. It was house music, but I thought it suited the venue. Now when I say this, I have to explain that parts of this club were like a circus! There were mimes, go-go dancers, a Moulin Rouge swing (complete with a girl throwing confetti while swinging on it). And then half way through the night they brought out a big sheet, like those parachutes from primary school. And they pulled it over the dance floor so we were all dancing under it. A gong show I say, but an absoloute blast! Funny though, there were a few South Asians (aka brown guys) there from London....so here's one of the lines I got... "I heard there was one Asian girl here, I guess that must be you". Oh yeah, real smooth.

Then last night we went to Karlovy Lazne. I call it Karlovy Labrinth. 5 floors, different music on each one, not a place to lose your friends! Check out the pics below.

Church in Old Town

Walking through a courtyard in Prague Castle

The first floor of Karlovy Lazne

2006-07-03T09:13:00.000-07:00

Portraits of Prague:

Karlov M0st (Charles Bridge) over the Vlatva River

A peacock in the garden

2006-06-30T15:24:00.000-07:00

I Like London London London

The fact that I have only had a chance to blog on the eve of my departure is a testament to how upbeat my trip has been thus far. Tomorrow (I) I will be in Prague, but today allow me to fill you in with some of the highlights and eccentric moments from my stay in London and the surrounding country side.

It's been a blast really. I've been shopping in the quaint town of Guildford, eaten at a popular London gastro-pub in the heart of the city (which my cousin is a partner in - bonus), said my salaams to the Queen (by that I mean we drove by Windsor Castle - see pic), I even got to spend a morning at the gym and racquet club. I went to Wembley (aka fobtown) and had Chaat, and of course did the whole tourist thing by riding the London Eye.

Speaking of the London Eye, I wonder if some people resent it. I think some might think it to be the London Eyesore. I didn't mind it. Mind you I did feel like I was in the incubator with 25 other adults. Kind of odd when you think about it...all these humans in little bubbles going round in a Ferris Wheel. There's probably a hamster somewhere in space doing a study on us - Homo Sapiens in a Bubble - winner of the interstellar science fair. Then at the end of the ride they make everyone stand along one of the edges of the capsule for a souvenir photo. The flash was so bright that for a second I thought they were trying to erase my memory. Perhaps they were trying to make us forget the question many were asking by the end: What exactly did I pay $20 for? I think they should make it go faster. Make a ride out of it. Give the elders a little excitement, yea!

Moving on to the sporting events. Sadly England didnt play while I was here. Still the Italians in Woking had a little impromptu parade an hour ago when they won against the Ukraine. Nice to see the cheer. The other major event is Wimbledon, also happening at the moment. Now those of you who know me know how much I love watching Wimbledon, and the whole concept of it really. How badly I would have loved to see a match in person. Well day before yesterday Wimbledon took on a whole new meaning for me. No I didn't see a match. I saw the uglier, seedier, dirtier side of Wimbledon....I saw...duh duh duh...the traffic. Yep, ladies and gents for that hour and a half we were stuck Wimbledon to me translated into headache. Shaking my fist in anger I shouted from the sunroof: 'Damn you Wimbledon, damn you'. Okay, so maybe it didn't go THAT far...but I certainly wasn't pleased. Funny how your perspective changes. For the record, I havent even seen a match on TV since I've been here. All this gallavanting about leaves me little time to lounge. Not that I'm complaining.

Today, of all the places I could end up, I visited.....WATERLOO. I mean, really, I just can't seem to escape it. I tried to start the Water Water Water school cheer....but everyone just looked at me funny like I was having a medical emergency. Mind you, Waterloo is not exactly an area, just a train station. So I've learned not to say that I live in Waterloo. I know the whole hobo thing is very chic right now, but I don't want to give the wrong impression. Oh wait, that's BOHO chic, not HOBO chic. Shit, I knew those paper bag purses were a bad idea!

It's funny some of the language I've picked up. Nothing new really, just some replacements for words. I don't say lineup anymore, I say queue. I've stopped saying bathroom because it sounds too formal, and have finally switched over to saying loo. Now this poses a bit of a problem that I never thought of earlier. I can't shorten the name of my dear university. Because if I say that I've lived in the 'loo for the past three years, again they either look at me like I'm a hobo or wonder what kind of nasty indegestion I've had.

HAPPY CANADA DAY!

~Reh

2006-06-15T16:50:00.000-07:00

A Day Gone Wrong

They say that when it rains, it pours. Today was one of those awful days where so many things went awry that I had to pinch myself to ensure that it wasn't a nightmare. Speaking of nightmares, that's exactly how my day began. And speaking of rain, did I mentioned it has been pouring all day? But let's rewind a few hours...

I awoke this morning from a nightmare that involved an incompetent train conductor (whose gender I couldn't figure out) that was making everyone late, and monkeys in a hammock that mocked those of us on the train trying to get into Downtown Calgary, which looked more like the African savannah in my dream. Random? You bet. But those of you who know me wouldn't put this past my conscious thought, let alone the sub-conscious. Anyways, in my dream I was running late, and true enough I ended up being late for work in the realm of reality. This means either that I'm psychic, or that my lack of punctuality now extends to my dreams. Most likely the latter. Despite running late to work I had the sense of mind to grab an umbrella. Of course, little did I know that to call what I had in my hand an umbrella would be a misnomer. An umbrella is supposed to be useful. This one was not. I spent the walk to the train station (allow me to mention the pouring rain once again here) wrestling with the thing. No really, I mean it. My umbrella attacked me...albeit with the help of the wind, but still, it attacked me. This surprised me because I always thought to have a good relationship with inanimate objects. I have a tendency to apologize to tables when I bump into them. I maintain, however, that I had to DEFEND myself FROM my umbrella. It's a good thing I now have contacts in the law industry. To make my walk even more miserable, along with the rest of my day, I realized the difficult way that the waterproof sealant of my boots was not working. Translation? Water in my boots. All the way to the station, my socks kept getting more wet, and they still haven't dried.Of course, for most people the above is what defines a bad morning, but I had one more experience to make mine positively awful... at work I was crouching down to pick up some files, and I did so in an awkward position. Not awkward in the sense that I would injure myself. But awkward in the sense that my pants split. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, just like in the commercials, my pants split right along that crucial seam in the upper-thigh-between-legs area (I don't like the word crotch). Ha ha. There you had your laugh. Fine, laugh again...Ha Ha. But don't blame my ghetto booty. It was just the position I bent down in, and actually the fact that my pants were too LOOSE (so the inseam was lower, making it prone to tearing if I spread 'em in a particular way).

So I am now sitting here at work with a rip in my pants that would put Daisy Duke to shame. THANK GOODNESS I wore a long tunic that hides it. At least the morning is over...

For the record, though, it is still raining.

2006-06-11T11:32:00.000-07:00

Wanderlust ::

I am a self-diagnosed dromomaniac. Before the raunchy amongst you begin to speculate on the meaning of this word, allow me to clarify that a dromomaniac in no way refers to a dromedary that is a nymphomaniac.
I believe the correct term for that is camelus hornius.

A dromomaniac is one who has the uncontrollable urge to travel: one who is afflicted by wanderlust. That being clarified, allow me to introduce myself...

Hi everybody, my name is Rehana...
(Hi Rehana)
...and it's been two years since my last international flight.
(Everyone claps)

But alas, I am about to fall off the wagon, though maybe they shouldn't call it a wagon if the people are suffering from an urge to travel. I rephrase: I am about to fall off the stationary block of concrete. In two weeks (insha), I'll be heading off to Prague (via London), to study Interreligious Dialogue and Encounter. It'll be a nice break from all the Engineering courses, and I'm really looking forward to it...I'll be posting my travel blog here, so keep checking for updates.

I think this is one addiction I'm happy to revert to, so someone wish me bon voyage!

2006-05-04T22:05:00.000-07:00

Lemme see your grillz

When I was growing up, which I assure you was not THAT long ago, having braces or retainers for your teeth was not considered attractive. Often labelled as having 'train tracks' or being a 'metal-mouth', those of us unfortunate enough to have foreign materials dans la bouche were the subject of great teasing. If that alone was not enough, it often cost our parents (or their company paid dental plans) thousands of dollars to improve our incisors. Why then, is there a sudden desire to put the metal back in the mouth, with the increasing popularity of grillz?
Note that I say grillz with a 'z', and not grills of the George Foreman species. We've heard about them, some of us have seen them, some specific footwear brand enforcing hip hop artists are even singing about them.
Young impressionable minds everywhere are spending hard earned (well, most of the time) cash on a gold plated version of the typical hockey player's mouthguard. Yet are they worn while playing sports, as a protective measure? Non monsieur. Do they make teeth more aligned, like their orthodontically approved counterparts? Nope. Do they give the wearer a retainer-like lisp while they're worn? Yeth! Thomehow I fail to thee the attractiveneth of having teeth like a pirate and thounding like Tweety Bird. So really, if someone could kindly explain to me what is so fabulous about grillz, I would be most appreciative.

Sorry, I mean apprethiative.

2006-04-12T13:15:00.000-07:00

We're all going on a summer holiday...

Family Traditions: Loved by many, hated by some, practiced by most. Earlier today I was fondly recalling my favourite family tradition. Every year since the mid 1980's, my family and I would spend two weeks RVing in BC's beautiful Okanagan Valley, and spend the following fifty weeks looking forward to the next time. Every year was magical in its own way, although some things were an annual staple. I will always remember those summers as a collection of idyllic moments...Eating ripe cherries freshly picked from the trees while the sun warmed our backs...Biting into peaches so succulent that the juice would run down my chin, a welcome treat after losing my way in the orchard...The moonlight reflected on the water as we spent our evenings skipping stones into the lake. One year we were especially fortunate: there was a meteor shower while we were camping, and we all slept outside in our sleeping bags watching the celestial spectacle. Friends and family would join us from all across the country, and some nights there would be thirty of us at a time. At least once per season, all of us would tie our inflatable boats together, and float down the river channel - sipping sodas and dancing in our dinghies. Sometimes the weather would turn against us - I recall my cousins and I holding together the tarp torn by the storm so that the elders could eat on the table beneath our makeshift shelter...and that particular bolt of lightning that I could swear came through the tent when we were praying...I remember seeing the damage in Kelowna the morning after, boats upturned, trees uprooted.
I remember the feel of sand between my toes as we played volleyball on the sunny days...and my failed attempts at learning tennis. I remember the soft rustle of the trees made by the wind and the sway of the hammock. I remember the two years we didnt go - there was a terrible fire. Much to my dismay, I found out the next year that it destroyed the historic wooden trestles that we used to bike along. It was a bleaker, starker east bank that greeted me when I looked across the lake the next year, yet it was still familiar.

I will always remember that place as my little piece of paradise on earth. Nowhere else have I ever felt so attached to the land, and it is in this land that strengthened the attachments to the people that matter most. If it weren't for the hope that I will continue to return, it would be painful to remember. When such bliss is within one's reach, however, one would be foolish not to return...so I look back with only happiness, and I look forward with anticipation.

2006-04-09T07:17:00.000-07:00

Did the music make my mood, or did my mood make the music?

This is an excerpt from one of my personal journals, written in December 2004, after listening to Karunesh/Alibaba. It was in response to my thoughts on the title of this post: Did the music make my mood, or did my mood make the music?

Is there some other device that can alter one's mood so effectively as music? One's soul is calmed by the whispers, the melodic whispers, of the shehnai. Yet one's spirit can also be awakened by the rhythmic beating of the conga drums.

I often feel that each person's life has its own unique soundtrack, and as much as a mood can be influenced by music, so a mood can be expressed by music. It is a universal language, and it evokes the same sentiments in so many. Could music be an archetypical form of beauty, and if it is archetypical, then is it not merely a form, but the object itself?

Just as there exist colours that are beyond our imagination, are there sounds whose beauty we have yet to grasp? It is another thought that adds to the mystery of life.

A more recent thought along the same lines:

Music has been used to tell stories for centuries. Take the ballet for example. No words, merely music and movement - yet few fail to interpret their meaning. I recall my first experience with music alone telling a story. My parents owned (and still own, I hope) a cassette tape of a recording entitled "Khyber Mail". As we used to listen to it in the car, my parents explained that the music was supposed to reflect the passage of the Khyber Mail train through the mountainous route that connects what is now Pakistan and Afghanistan. At the age of five, I would close my eyes, and not just listen to the music, but FEEL it. I could hear the swift rhythm of the trains rolling along the tracks, the gentle flow of the wind, the long arduous climbs, and the merry descents. It was the first time I understood the power of music - the power to transport you to an entirely different atmosphere. The power of music to make one's mood. Somewhere a composer who had taken the Khyber Mail train also knew the other great power of music - The power of one's mood to make the music.

2006-04-07T12:39:00.000-07:00

Franglicismes

Isn’t it funny how people will label someone as having a certain “je ne sais quoi”*, and then spend the next 10 minutes describing exactly what it is that makes the person so fabulous. They “sait” exactly “quoi” they’re trying to say. What’s particularly interesting, though, is the English equivalent when someone is trying to describe a characteristic that is common but difficult to articulate. As opposed to the French who humbly proclaim that they don't know, in English, we assume that the listener does…ya know?

* French saying that translates into “I don’t know what”, used as a noun.

2006-04-06T13:51:00.000-07:00

Perception and Reality:

I know that I am far from the first to believe that reality is shaped by perception. There is a whole section on classical philosophy that treats the subject. An extension of Perennial Philosophy that I am believing more and more each day, though, is the notion that reality is based on collective perception. For example, why do we hear accounts of 'Black Magic' occurring in other parts of the world, whereas here in North America the 'supernatural' often takes second place to science when rationalizing an event. Yet I have come across individuals who, despite basing their entire belief system on logic and physical science, swear to having witnessed 'Black Magic'. If our perception shapes our reality, then a thought remains an archetype until we give it form in our reality. What I believe to be true, however, is that it requires a collective perception to determine whether some ideas will ever become physical reality. Perhaps one person's belief is not enough, and it requires an entire society to give an idea the thought energy it requires to become a physical reality. Many people in East Africa believe in Black Magic. Therefore, in that region, Black Magic has the potential to become a reality since the majority of perception allows it. In North America, we hear much less of the sort, since North American perception inhibits it from becoming a reality. One then wonders, is the condition for existence in the physical realm that all of society needs to believe in something in order for it to be true? On the other hand, is it an indirect influence: does all of society need to believe in something in order for us to believe it to be true, with our believing it individually the only condition for existence in our own physical realm?

Despite all the ranting, this could have positive results. Maybe if we all believe that chocolate has zero calories, I can go and eat the 1 kg package of Dairy Milk sitting in my kitchen without any guilt...

Try it with me...
Chocolate is calorie-free...
Chocolate is calorie-free...
Chocolate is calorie-free...

Maybe I'll just it eat anyway.