Top Ten Moments of 2008...plus a few

Runners Up...

New Years Eve, 2008
Smoking green for the first time with Laurie and killing myself laughing. Cooking great local food, binging on that food and falling asleep content on the quite hillside of Bowen Island.

Seabus Rides in Vancouver... any one, any time I just love watching the city and the mountains loom closer....ahhhh

Girls night with Laura in Zurich. Sex and the City + Champagne + Paris' hotest DJ + Zurich's most adventurous femme fatale= made for one of the best nights out EVER

In no particular order...

10) February 27th 2008... New York City, USA
Dressed in a metal shirt (if you could call it that), white skinnies, my MiuMius and hot pink lipstick, I hit the town with my favorite of favorite ladies Nuala, met up with some mutual friends and rocked the martinis at Marquee.... fast forward 8 hours and I was on the bus from Hoboken to Long Island, watching the sun rise over the Manhattan skyline grinning ear to ear. Fun times.

9) May 27 -29th 2008...Gimmelweld, Switzerland
So Switzerland was full of highs. It is tough to choose between strolls by lake Zurich and cake at Sprungli, but out of all of it Gimmelweld and the Lauterbrunnen Valley were the highlight. Hiking in the Alps, soaking in hot tubs and listening to goat bells, biking through the valley with Danielle and visiting the Tremelbach waterfalls... nature at its best. It seemed as if I was living in a fairy-tale.

8) June 6th 2008...Venice, Italy
I got up early in the morning and wandered alone through the winding streets catching scenes with my camera. I watched the tourists and went in the opposite direction, and wound up at a fishermen's market. Walking among the amazing Venitian produce, and fresh fish with my red heels and red lipstick the fish mongerer's called to me, "Miss Red, Miss Red, smile at us please!!". I truly felt like I was in Italy, fresh food and sexy men.

7) June 12th 2008... Cortona, Italy
I made it, to the place where one of my favorite films was made. But the best moment was when I ordered an appetizer from the restaurant where Dianne Lane pens a postcard in Under The Tuscan Sun. Made of steamed Riddichio, local cheese, barley, cream and "local secrets" I died an went to heaven with each and every bite. And the wine....Oh, the wine!

6) June 14th... Cinque Terre, Italy
Basking in the sun, I decided to go for the best ocean swim of my life. Buoyant in the salty Mediterranean I feel head over heels for the sea, the rocky beaches and mountainous skylines of Cinque Terre. It was so, so incredible.

5) June 22nd 2008... Paris, France
After weeks of museums and galleries I found myself alone in Paris. After a search I found exactly what I was looking for. A beautiful cafe with gorgeous outdoor tables, the freshest of baguettes and streets bearing food, fashion and people to die for. That night Paris leapt to life and I found myself surrounded by musicians and beautiful Parisians partying in the streets. Magic... but what else did you expect it was Paris!!

4) July 1st 2008... Prauge, Czech Republic
Nikki, my cousin and I, walked over the moonlit St Charles' Bridge, we drank an absurd amount of booze at hidden martini bar in Prauge's old town. We found a guardian angel for the night, by the name of Marek, who decided to make it his duty to show us all that Prauge's nightlife had to offer. Two hours later I was salsa dancing to hip hop with a Mexican stranger who insisted on dancing the night away. Nikki and I walked back to our hostel barefoot, across the warm cobblestone in an empty Old Town Square watching the sun rise over some of the world's greatest feats of architecture, stumbling giggling and dancing all the way....

3) Sept. 2nd 2008... Toronto, Ontario
The first time I saw a Ryerson University sign, and knew, I had made it there.

2) October 12th, 2008... New York, USA
Coffee in Chelsea, dance class at Broadway Dance Center. Getting dressed to the nines, and meeting up with BDC's best looking ( and rather good dancing) dancer and having the most fun night out that in recent memory. Never, have I had so much fun dancing and connecting with someone.

1) December 6th, 2008... Toronto, Ontario
Locked out of my house, I got a hot cocoa with Nyomi. We watched "Love and Basketball" gushing over crushes and stories of love life tragedy till 4am. As I fell asleep watching the CNTower put on a very suggestive light show, I realized, I dream of this moment long ago and never thought it attainable. That I would be in one of Canada's Best Journalism Schools, in Canada's biggest city ( and oh so close to NYC) with a great friend and even greater opportunity ahead of me.

It has been a damn fine year....

infidelity and intuition

"What gives, what helps, the intuition?" asks Leslie Fiest in one of my favorite songs of all time.

I think its this very question that makes our intuition so questionable. Facts without evidence...could it be? And yet, too often the words "I knew it all along," or "I had the feeling..." grace conversations laced with regret. Those words left my mouth so many times after the events in July when an email left me knowing that my boyfriend had traded our bond in for another and cheated on me.

Few facts matter but, of them these are the few that do:

I knew....and I ignored it

When I first saw their facebook connection I knew

When she called late at nights and texted in early mornings I knew.

When he refused to introduce me to her,

When I first saw the her email accusation,

When he touched me.... I knew.

But I ignored it...

One night he crawled into bed, home later than planned, kissed my forehead and a voice inside said "He was with her," Clear as day, may as well have been written on my ceiling.

And yet, I ignored it.

Until he admitted it. Admitted that for a month he had lied to me, that when he accused me of having faltering feelings it was him who was locking himself behind bedrooms doors with a woman of reckless reputation. Admitted that it was him who had talked her out of telling me, him who had let me squirm for a month questioning why I could not connect to him when a lie so large hung over his head.

They say hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn. (I question if the pain of infidelity and the scorn that it arouses is exclusive to the Y chromosome)

If I could describe what hearing those words was like, I would say that they were shattering. In a single moment everything was broken, my trust and faith, hopes and dreams for a future together, every effort, every romantic gesture, every happy memory was instantly shattered. Broken beyond repair , I felt as if I caved in the absence of all the things about us that I had used to stand tall upon; gone was this pride in a relationship that was built stepping across borders of countries, expressed in ink stain and brushstroke, suddenly all of the details did not matter. And as I crumbled I shook not only physically in my hands, but internally within my soul.

That quake, that shake, started the tsunami of destruction that left nothing untouched. I was angry, loud, lewd and violent. I hit him. I wanted to take a bat to his car, and stopped myself only because I knew that his little brother wanted it. I sent hateful messages, swore slander in his ear, I investigated and interrogated every detail. Each act was like a grain of small sand, a mere particle of the mountain of hurt that instantly arose within me. And no matter how hard I dispelled these grains of pain, no matter how many of them I spewed, those acts did nothing but scratch the surface of the injustice of infidelity.


But what was most damaging, was that tsunami also destroyed me. Blew me over and made me weak desperate for love and affection to fill the void that was left by our shattered bond. I stayed, I was swayed by the empty promises, the crocodile tears and feigned gestures of apology. Even though I still knew.... I hung on believing that from the wreckage I could still salvage the bond that once made me strong.

I listened, I waited, put my heart on hold. Until conversations turned to accusations, till name calling began and bizarre narcissistic emails commenced, till all most all promises were broken. Only then did I turn away to survey the broken pieces and let Toronto and New York mend me...

This week when I saw them walking together in the streets of Vancouver, I was not surprised. Nor was I shocked by photos of her in his arms, or his final violation of the one promise he had faked the best : that he was rid of her. Yet what did surprise me, was that in some strange way I was happy for the two of them.

The mad hatter, the compulsive liar and manipulator together with his lose mistress, 'they deserve each other,' I thought. In some weird way I am thankful to this terrible twosome.

Indeed they left me scarred, yet in wielding these wounds of experience I have learned. I have come to understand the importance of listening to whispers of wisdom that seem so fact less. Yes, I have really learned the importance of intuition

I have gained insight to what it means to be a woman. I feel that rising from the depths of such maddening heartache helps to build compassion and empathy. Like I have earned my badge to belong to the sisterhood of women done wrong, and in gaining my stripes and colours I have come to understand the bond that women all share and how we must care for each other. ( This is a whole other blog entry really)

True, there have been times when I have become unintentionally entangled in the relationships of others. There have been sad moments of fear when I realized I overstepped and became the third in a triangle of love that left me running far away in opposite directions. I regret the subsequent consequences and I will not make excuses for my actions.

In the end, despite the pain I feel privileged to have survived, to recovered and learned when so many others are not so lucky.

And at the end of the day, if nothing else, the situation makes for damn fine writing material.

Time is a ticking...

Since it is exam season I thought it appropriate to share with you my newest methods of procrastination. Wonderful Web hangouts have made themselves known to me over the past few weeks, some too good to be kept to myself. So, in the spirit of exam season I am here to share them with you all

www.jezebel.com

Run by a group of women, this site combines all things you always wanted to read but couldn't find in once place, news links, sex advice and ruthless gossip all in one fabulous blog. Many of the femme-based articles skillfully walk the line between smutty entertainment and intelligence...fun fun fun

Pot Psychology

Never in my life have I actually found something that makes me want to go and smoke something green, not until I watched this that is. It was a slow go at first but after watching a few episodes I fell hard for the hosts and their stoned antics. Those of you who are Savage Love fans, will find this equally entertaining. Rich and Tracie post weekly videos in which they answer questions under the influence of Mary Jane. Small disclaimer, if you are squeamish this is not for you, questions can tread into bizarre fetish territory, after all Tracie did write a column for Vice Magazine about how she hired a prostitute to fulfill a rape fantasy that is close to erotica.

You Tube, YouTube, YouTube

I have rediscovered my love for late 90's/early millenium R&B. Jagged Egde wearing oversized fur jackets and dancing like they're in a club to a ballad in 6/8 time... priceless.

I have also found an increadible make up artist thats inspired me to go a little further with my make up than before. While I find this useful, I fear that given the fact she only does make up on herself, it is all techniques that would be used on someone with a more caucasian eyes, so my asian sisters are a little out of luck. Still its worth a browse.

Dance videos, dance videos, dance videos.... I keep tabs on my favorites and find new ones all the time. This is how I get stoked for NYC every time.

The animations of musicANDmuffins is so heart warming that I melt everytime. My favorite, Kate Nash's Nicest Thing, a superb song and an oh so cute animation to melt your pre-exam winter woes.

Oh, Canada.

Peter Mansbridge just admitted to "dragging the puck" while waiting for Stephane Dion's address to the country in rebuttal to the creepy, creeeeeepy, disingenuous address to the nation by Stephen Harper.

"This shit is so Canadian its out of control," says my roommate, " Thank God no one gives a shit about us in the world, or I'd have to be really embarrassed for us."

Between the 80's fro of one of the political commentators, the plethora of patterns (polka-dot, plaid and pinstripe in one outfit) on another and the pseudo-apocolypitic storm over Parliment Hill in the CBC graphics, I admit I spent the coverage of the "crisis facing Canada" giggling like a school girl.

Here are my thoughts.

Since I am not a Canadian citizen yet, I cannot vote. Still, I would not have voted Conservative in the last election. That being said I am against the forming of a coalition.

Here is why...

Despite following the news, I still don't know WHY we are discussing, or creating apocolptic storm cloud graphics in the first place.

Since becoming PM Harper has set a precident for being the most secretive leader in Canada's history, keeping a tight leash on all his MP's and controlling what they say to the media with ferocity. So whenever Harper comes across a screen and makes decelerations or promises I simply cannot trust him. Especially when he is all smiles during an address during one of the most heated moments in recent Canadian politics. Though I really don't believe that Flahtery's announcements were really that terrible for the country, I don't have the confidence that there isn't soemthing hidden within the plethora of pages in the budget announcements.

Not trusting Harper is not aided by the fact that he is continuing to make misleading public statements. Things like claiming that forming a coalition is making deals with the Bloc, which has been confirmed to be not true (yes the Bloc will support the Coalition in matters of confidence, but will not be a part of writing budgets etc). As well, as making false statements that the coalition is violating the constitution of Canada....puh-lease.... every major newspaper in Canada has de-bunked that theory.

Of course then, there is the coalition of the NDP and the Liberals. Layton, the sore loser of the last election told Harper to accept his defeat and I couldn't help but think of a mustached barking chiwawa... all bark, no bite that's even worth mentioning. Then there is the disorganization of the Liberals that left them so late in handing in their taped statement to the networks who agreed to air it that it got cut off on CTV and Global. Whats more is that the tape was out of focus and so badly framed it made Dion look like a talking head.

As the daughter of immigrant parents, I have always had a particular skill for deciphering my way through an accent. Still when Dion begins to speak I get confused and spend so much time trying to figure out what he said that I miss parts of his statements. While that doesn't change my opinion that Dion is a learned individual who really could have done some interesting and great things for this country, had it not been for his poor communication skills.

In the end I feel that the only reason we're having this conversation is because the NDP are putting politics over the interest of Canadians and is acting to protect both their own salaries and funding to their parties. Yes, the conservatives have now retracted the statement that they would put an end to government funding for federal parties, however the orginal budget opened a huge window for a mighty power grab by a very defeated Dion to try and win leadership in the name of protecting the economic interests of every day citizens.

Do not be fooled this is all about money, power and regardless of what Dion tries to spatter, partizanship.

It will be interesting to see how Michelle Jean will weigh in on this...

I will be watching, and hopefully things will be more a less apocalyptic this time.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow....

So in moving to this East Coast city of mine, I realized that I have not once in my memory experienced a snow storm. Sure I've seen Vancouver pseudo-snow-storms that leave behind a slushy 10cm of snow, which leaves all West Coasters dumb and frozen with stupidity that nearly shuts down the city. But I have yet to witness a bona-fide scared-to-go-out-the-door, can't-see-you-hand-in-front-of-your-face, careful-or-you-might-freeze snowstorm. So while my other Torontonians are still bitter from the bite of last years winter that saw record snow falls, I am  jazzed that the thought that tonight, Weather Canada is predicting the first snow storm of the season.

I've got my boots, my gloves, and my game face on, ready for what promises to be an oh so fun night.

Oh! And apparently, there are blizzards around here too!! Exciting!!!

"If you are going through hell, keep going"

Good old Winston Churchill...

How can you tell that times have been rough?

I haven't been writing. My journal has been abandoned for so long that it collects dust and I have yet to post since Obama made history. 

Writing is my truth, I bleed words onto pages and screens from the very fabric of me, so whether it is a journal entry or a simple essay I need to believe that what I write is real. Its like I need words to hold something, the addition of my vowels pregnant with life and concenents sharp with truth somehow must equate some figure that leaves a mark, more than just a symbol for a sound, but something with meaning behind.

I just cannot lie when I write. 

So when things get rough, I avoid my truths but turning away from blank pages and screens in avoidance of a plague of sobering reality. Because one always knows, I know when I am deceiving myself, betraying myself, harming myself by continuing to engage in the things that pull me down, so sometimes I run from admitting hard truths.

And in the last two weeks I had reason to run.

7000 photographic memories slipped from the slippery silver disk of my hard drive into oblivion.  Yes, I endured a hard drive crash that left me crushed beyond description. Gone are, all my photos from Europe, recipes from my grandmother, poems, essays, letters and songs. 

Past affairs blazed hot and angry across my screens in voices and tones I have so desperately tried to eliminate from my life : manipulation, selfishness and greed. 

I learnt lessons the hard way, slaps of reality in my face. I slept through alarms, didn't research thoroughly enough, missed work, pulled all nighters and get so frustrated and lonely that too often I could do nothing but cry and pray that some force from the universe would provide some way forward.

I am now one article away from being done...

Where do I stand?

I am in desperate need of a pedicure, my room is a mess (there are post-its glued to the floor, making me feel like a real writer) and laundry need to be done. I haven't put on real make-up in quite a while, and I've made some startling discoveries...

I realized that this city doesn't belong to me yet. Nor do I belong to it, or Vancouver. Which is a frightening thing in the sense that I feel a bit like the littlest hobo, lost and without a place. But not all is lost. Vancouver feels like my hometown, a small place in which I grew strong enough to venture away and develop into something more. I am no longer just a high-school student, no longer just a yoga teacher no longer just a Vancouverite.

And of Toronto, I know this isn't my final destination, but more so a launch pad to New York. It's interesting that I am so determined to make NYC my final destination, but since I was 13, I just knew. There has only been one point in my life where I tried to deceive myself into thinking I would be perfectly happy going back and forth between New York and my city of residence, but that quickly boiled over. No, New York is my destiny and I have never been more certain of anything.

But Toronto, despite just being my launch pad, I want to own it too. I want it to make a mark on me. This city is more alive than my former West Coast home, festivals, events, showcases and parties happen more often with greater vibrance and so far I have yet to engage in all this city has to offer. I know little of this place, I've familiarized myself with some of its corridors, but instead of venturing further I have been desperately hanging on, white-knuckling, any feeling of familiarity. Which is understandable, but as school ends and leaves me without a structure I realize just how rootless I am.  So today I start my journey, back to writing, back to more organization and towards building a greater bond with this new home.

After a pedicure that is....

Election Musings...

Well, it is the eve of one of the most historical elections in my lifetime (if not ever), even the music on the evening news is more dramatic. Personally, I must say I am both excited, and a little terrified.

I sincerely hope that all of my American friends use their votes wisely, go out and make their voices heard tomorrow.

That being said as a "Canadian" or at least permanent resident of this country I feel a mix of emotions.

For one, I feel that the world needs America to elect Obama. In some ways I feel like everyone is willing to forgive the US for electing George Bush, even the second time, but they need some sort of indication that the US is no longer aligning themselves with the Bush Doctrine, something that a McCain victory would in no way indicate. We need America to redeem itself.

I do have to confess that despite desperately wanting an Obama victory, in some ways, I fear it. It has been reported in newspapers this side of the 49th parallel that if Obama were to win, Canadians would be significantly more likely to align themselves with US policy, especially that pertaining to border regulation (soon to be seen at your border stations, mandatory identification cards that provide all your info to the US). Which, given the post 9-11 privacy policies of that country, is frightening.

I am not, however, one of the Canadians that is scared of Obama's contentions with NAFTA regulations. I realize that it could mean a huge problem during an economic era in which even bumps can be deadly. But I am a British Columbian who has seen huge losses in the softwood lumber dispute, which has seen the US violating free trade agreements with little consequence. I am a concerned Canadian who understands the strength of our resources in a time when Global Warming is threatening the contamination of drinking water. A time when the scarcity of oil is putting a higher priority on discovering new ways to generate energy, and Canada has a wealth of hydro, wind and thermal energy capacity. Those types of resources are not things I would want to be traded freely under regulations that too often play to the sound of the US tune. That and hearing the plight of women in Juarez, Mexico which is largely a result of free trade regulations under the NAFTA agreement. So any move to change NAFTA regulations, if not dissolving the concept of free trade (which, really, does not exist) is fine by me.

Now that being said, I am not so sure that Obama will deliver on his promises. Yes, he has campaigned on Change yet that doesn't mean that anything will. Not only would he take over a huge mountain of problems left behind by the Bush presidency, but his "Campaign for Change" has largely been paid for by the very elite he claims to intend to tax and regulate should he be elected. Will he do so? I'm not entirely sure.

That and the problem with politics in North America is not lack of visionary leaders, but rather lack of citizen involvement. After spending a summer in Switzerland, and seeing the effect of a democracy in which the population actively participates (the Swiss show up to vote in numerous referendums held through out the year to vote on legislation at numbers higher than the most recent turnout at Canada's federal election) I am of the opinion that we need not only electoral reform but reform of our entire parliamentary structure. We need to participate, we need to be involved and we need to have power redistributed and handed down to the lower levels (we referring to the general population). We need to learn the power of our voice.

Regardless of whether Obama delivers on his promises or god forbid, McCain wins the White House, at least this election has given the US population a bit of their voice back. I like to think that even if a Republican victory becomes the reality, Americans will not take the decisions of its leaders lying down as it has for the last eight years. Perhaps that is the optimist in me, but I like to have a little faith in my neighbors to the south (the ranks of which I hope to join one day).

I like to have faith that tomorrow they will chose the chance (even if it is small) on "Change". I like to have faith that America is ready for a black president (what an incredible victory that would be).

Tomorrow I will be watching and waiting, hoping that my friends are exercising their rights and taking part of history.

Never thought I would say this but tomorrow I really hope that God (Authority, Creator, Allah, whoever will you) does, bless America.

Ode to You...

In keeping with the theme of "truth" from previous posts, I have decided to post this poem. It's a personal one, that came to me quite quickly after returning from a February NYC trip, fresh with Nuyorican Poets Cafe inspiration.


....... enjoy.......

Today,
We passed in the streets like strangers

For the first time in a long time,
you did not notice me.
So I studied you secretly.

The contour of your chin,
the dip of your collar
where I always seem to slip,
and drip,
into a puddle of desire.

Before I,
collect,
myself.
And remember:
You belong to another.

But,
this poem is not about
secret fantasies,
unrealized possibilities,
or even girlish jealousy.

No,
this soliloquy,
is about how I wished
I could have run to you today,
take your hand in mine and say:

“You saved me.”

A rescue mission conducted in such a secrecy,
not even you were privy.

You see,
I had studied what it means to happy
so I could mimic its exact geometry.
The art of my deception
rooted in mathematical precision:

I stacked my vertebra
so my columns curve
conveyed confidence,

smiled to a specific degree,

while the angle from chin to nape
denoted a sense of pride,
Inside,
the days were darker than the nights.


Until you blazed across my sky,
bright like Halle
constant like Polaris.
You were the beacon that beckoned
me back to light...

Your bright
shone deep into me
until glee was splashed on my face
and with joy glistening in my reflection
I blanked with a lack of recognition
at the depth of my own stare...
...for the fresh happiness that was suddenly there.

During espresso scented conversations,
I nursed myself on your connotations.

Your eloquence and sense
of humor sang to me…
Light arias and soulful melodies.

Your importance—
was and is—
not defined
by your success at winning me—
not by the sparkle of a blue eye
when you flash your dimpled grin.

But, by your ability
to create a change in me:


You were the push, that
flattened my dominoes
of carefully aligned self deception,

The first call
back
to a truth that has always belonged to me:

My own divinity

And for that,
I will always be yours.
Not always in desire,
but always,

in gratitude.

Because, you saved me.
You were the light that
showed me the way home:

back into my own.

Truth...

I'm up late once again... wondering why it seems that I still maintain a Vancouver sleeping schedule while my feet are firmly rooted in an eastern time zone.

Many thoughts have popped into my mind today... whisperings of new and old that rise and fall like the tide, like breath...

I've been reading a lot of other blogs lately, and while they have served to inspire I also question as to why my writing is so different here than anywhere else.

I made a decision so long ago to keep my blog writing impersonal enough so that my emotional self is kept far away. Close friends, lovers, family members are rarely mentioned, emotions are kept behind a veil of secrecy unless they are easy enough to share. While I express my thoughts, I rarely touch on my feelings.

Whats more intersting is that as I filter my ideas, I change my voice. Here is a place of casual wit, while my journal reveals the writings of a hopeless romantic, pages smeared with similie, rhyme and metaphore.

So I begin to wonder what other things I keep secret, and what is worth keeping secret.

In truth I have always admired brash honesty. Women who live fearlessly. Yes, I am a fan of that Angelina, not just because she is beautiful but because she doesn't apologize for testing the waters. And whenever she has chosen to test, it has never been with a small dip of an extremity, but with a headfirst dive into situations that would downright scare me. She moves through her phases, self damaging cutter, award winning actress, Gothic blood veil wearing seductress, lover of women and emerges as a mother, complete and round like her belly that gives life to children both her own and not.

I admire honesty, yet still secretly dwell backstage dreading my own curtain call.

I remember the first night I went to a New York poetry slam.

Late night, in the heart of Alphabet City, I clung to a chair and watched pear shape women spit into a mic that could scarcely keep up with the raw emotion they delivered. And the best poems? Were the most honest, the ones ones about the biggest mistakes: one night stands, past-due relationships, accidental children and purposeful passion. The poems about insecurity, imperfection and accident were the ones that moved me to tears, until I sat goosebumped all over, and for the first time told myself I too was willing to stop trying to be perfect and make a mistake.

True to that silent promise made one cold Febuary night I have been slipping up. Defying the ridiculous "hallmarks" of perfection I once clung to.

I stopped trying to prove I was too smart to care about clothes and make up... and have emerged painted face, glowing all over in Victoria Secret push-up-bras feeling like the center of the universe on a Friday night.

I stopped pretending that I was too wholesome to enjoy the presence of a person for just one night... and boy did poetry ever follow.

I stopped pushing myself to define my appeal by the number on a scale and the size of my pants... okay, so I'm still working on that.

But at the end of the day I am learning, learning to stop wanting perfection. Because what i learnt on a cold Febuary night in New York, is that its not perfection but rather imperfection that makes us so beautiful. Be it the mole that sits above a lip (a beauty mark), or a tale of a tryst told with a twinkle in an eye, it is the things that that undo us that define us in the end.

So, I'm making a push to be a little more honest, more honest with you and more honest with me.

Here are some things you might not know...

I'm ruthlessly self depricating, but mostly in my head.

I read tarot cards... seriously...

I procrastinate more than I would like to admit...

And when I am bored on tranist I look around and guess who would be the best lover aboard the bus or train.

I'm damaged, imperfect, weird, and quirky. But I am begining to figure out, I like it that way.

New York...

I cry each time I leave the city.

Its as if the contour of the city skyline is the prefect puzzle piece completing the jigsaw of my complexities. Like when I am here I am all of a sudden complete, and yet without this "Big Apple" I am anything but. Its true that I learn here, and take home with me new revelations each time I come, strengthened in some shape or form, yet I cant help but feel that there is something that I leave behind.

And I love the place.

I love so big that my love fills the streets and sidewalks, explodes through all places, until it boars through concrete and roots me firmly here, leaving some little piece of my very spirit deep in the heart of this urban oasis.

I walk these streets amidst the car horns, surrounded by the urban decay of tossed away newspapers and crumbling brick and i can't help but fall for all of her imperfections.

What I love about New York, is what I loved about Venice, two cities like old sages, different and yet alike in their attitude. Like Venice, New York is like fading movie star, wearing her scars proudly, signs of addiction, heartache on her sleeve. And while Venice seems to no longer try, letting the locals dress her for the tourists, New York still rocks the rhinestone studded heels, hot pink lipstick and fur coats. New York, comes and goes with bang, or more accurately a taxi horn.

The first time I came here I remember feeling the pull of this place, as if there is a gravity that yanks your forward to achieve. Opportunities for success are endless, there is not just one definition of reward here. So everyone is seemingly reaching for something better, something bigger than they have. Yes, this hub of capitalism creates a tangible, palatable desire within me to go forward, like I get swept up in the current of some great river pushing me forward forever towards my dreams.

I imagine that this is what settlers felt, once they completed their Atlantic journey and first laid eyes on the Statue of Liberty.

While I am sure that the world holds many places that inspire, what I love about New York is that not only does she urge you to reach your destination but she challenges you to do it as loudly ad boldly as one could ever dream. Rhinestone studded heels, boas, lipstick and all.

Life is a party, a broadway musical, a late night cabbarret and steamy backroom encounter. NY life is sexy, edgy, sultury, seductive and ruthlessly unappologetic.

If home is where the heart is...mine is in the streets of New York.

News..

I have a new coffee home

Investment Advice...

About a year ago, I was really concerned about the fact that I didn't have a retirement plan.

Everyone says that its never to early to start planning for you future. So I thought that I should put together a thousand dollars and invest that into some stocks.

Of course one thing came to another (ie one store lead to another) and I never ended up scrounging up the cash to do it.

Now, a year later, the markets have gone haywire and I have learned a very important lesson...

Fashion never fails.

Had I invested my money into the market, by today it most likely would have been mostly gone, yet as we speak my beautiful shoes lie safe and sound in my closet, my trench-coat hangs on its hanger and my jean collection is nicely folded in my drawers. Sure I have lost a yoga outfit or two to the fast handed yoginis of Vancouver... but all and all, investing in fashion was a much wiser choice!!

xo B

Publicity....

I've grown up in an era where people explore their sexuality on the profile pictures of their myspace or facebook accounts, in an era where bad nights and alcohol mishaps are forever immortalized in the zeros and ones of computer file, breakups are blasted across pseudo-"newsfeeds" and first sexual encounters start in chat rooms rather than bedrooms.

I sometimes wonder how this has changed the way feel for one another. Is the Internet helping our relationships or hurting them?

As a woman with family and friends strewn around the world I have always been an advocate of the world wide web. I've had every major Internet network profile that has been popular in the last ten years, from ICQ and MSN to LiveJournal, Myspace and Facebook, I have been there and done that.

But when my most recent relationship fell to shreds, I got a little worried about what my forthright Internet use meant to my emotional state. Of course, I did what any vindictive Internet-era girl would do and skipped egging his car to leave nasty comments (well just one comment...posted over and over about 25 times) all over his "wall". And damn...did it ever feel good.

I dreaded removing my relationship status, for so long I was the lucky girl who owned the profile photo of her and her handsome boyfriend kissing before the Eiffel Tower... but a mere month later I was walking wounded in front of my closest friends and almost forgotten acquaintances. Surprisingly instead of the wave expected embarrassment I was touched and consoled by comforting messages of encouragement.
But months later the story is a little different...

I mean, I admit that I still Google even some of my ex-ex-boyfriends. I still look up old crushes from time to time, sneak peeks at their new lives (and sometimes wives). But is it healthy?

I sometimes feel jealous to think that there was an era when breaking up meant that you didn't have to face a glowing green circle showing you that she or he is online. I resent the women who could walk away and have it be done with over and gone...out of sight and out of mind. Women who didn't have to be reminded of the existence of the jawline that made them weak in the knees every time there was a photo update on so-and-so's page.

And while I envy them, I wonder if the Internet provides us the opportunity to make sure that there are indeed no unanswered questions in life... letting us catalogue our "what ifs" into neat contact groups.

I wonder if the safety of being behind a computer screen takes away from our true knowledge and experience of life's relationship moments. Little things like finding out that the boy in science class really has a crush on you... how much of that thrill is lost when its typed in a chat room rather whispered in the flesh? It scares me to think that I may have kids who have Internet sex before they experience the real thing, and how that may change their experience of it.

I suppose the connection of the web has its ups and its downs. While we have more opportunities to connect more than ever, perhaps we are corrupting and taking advantage of the very thing that truly connects us to each other : our ability to feel with one another in the presence of one another.

I guess at the end of the day, while I support the Internet and all its advancements I will forever and above all else advocate experiencing meaningful moments face to face rather than face to screen.

Quote of the Day...

"I think you should have a meaningful one night relationship."

-- my boss

Dearest Gentlemen....

Please, pay attention.

I do not understand why when I mention that I am a yoga teacher or dancer, a large majority of men are inclined to respond with something along the lines of,

"So, you must be pretty flexible, eh?"

What exactly are you expecting the response to be?

"Oh yes! I should show you how wide I can spread my legs! Why don't you come over later and I will demonstrate in my bedroom!"

Now really...

If I met an investment banker, lawyer or doctor and upon hearing his occupation would respond with , "So you must have a pretty big savings account, eh?" I would be labeled a materialistic gold-digger. So why is it that a man seems to think that he can get away with a comment like that without seeming like an objectifying ass?

Here is a news flash for you...

A woman who choses to pursue any occupation that increases flexibility or fitness isn't doing so so that she can be better in bed (although I am sure many enjoy the benefits in this area). So when you meet a dancer, yoga or pilates instructor, gymnast, etc, please do not consider her choice of occupation or hobby to be an invitation to your sexual inquires.

If you really want to know, learn some subtlety and class and you might be lucky enough to have your questions answered first hand...

Thats all.

psst..

I have a new camera...

Tee's and Quotes...

Highlights from this weekend...

"Broke is the new BLACK" -- T Shirt on Queen St

"Sticks and stones will break my bones, but Haters never hurt me." --T Shirt on Queen St

"Club Sandwiches...NOT Seals" --T Shirt in Kensington Market

"Only needy and ugly people are in relationships, nice people have to wait for the right one." Calvin

"Is that a baby on his back or just baby legs?" Calvin

A shopping tale....

One of the many blessings here has been that my Vancouverite friend and colleague David has also moved to Toronto. Too add to it, his equally fabulously gay friend Calvin has flown out to Toronto to visit. So I joined them for my first visit to the Kensington Market.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Word of advice: NEVER shop with gay men.

Not only are they the most convincing judges of potential purchases, they have an unequivocal talent at getting you to buy something.

A large reason for the purchase of my first MuiMuis was due to a gay salesman. This guy managed to compliment just how good the shoes looked, convince me that it was a smart purchase because the shoes were "timeless" and "every girl needs a pair of classy black heels" all the while talking to me as if I was most stupid woman alive for not buying them that instant. It was one of the most impressive guilt trips of my life, complete with 360 degree eye rolls punctuated by disgusted grunts. This guy made me feel so bad about myself that I actually bought the shoes.

Only a gay man (and perhaps the most passive aggressive of divas) can multitask attitudes with such talent.

So, fast-forward to Friday afternoon: I am in Kensington Market with David and Calvin, and Calvin keeps buzzing in my ear, "This is Kensington Market, and we're shopping you have to buy SOMETHING." The comments flood my ear without stop, I'd pick up the smallest of trinkets, and there he would be "...buy SOMETHING", a pair of ridiculous glasses "...buy SOMETHING", a fur jacket "...buy SOMETHING" a lamp, "...buy SOMETHING."

It got to a point where my inner shopaholic (who has been on a shopping diet) just...couldn't...take...it...ANYMORE!! So at last, one fabulous see-through boho blouse later (purchased for a steal! $18 at a vintage store), Calvin finally shut up.

But it was upon getting home that I realized the next gay-shopping truth: their advice is priceless. Not only is that blouse oh-so-wonderful on its own, now a myriad of skirts which were previously matchless now have their prefect lacy-boho mate . Much in the same way my MuiMuis opened a plethora of fashion possibilities, my new blouse opens fashion doors that were previously in-accessible.

In conclusion, while gay men may be toxic to my bank account, it seems that my wardrobe could always use a little of their influence.

Favorite Things...

There are endless laughs at the"Best of Craigslist"

Check it out, click here.

I laughed till people gave me dirty looks....good times.

Shoot the moon...

Today this Craigslist posting inspired me...

In recent relationships I have often become frustrated by people's adverse reactions to my optimism. I suppose that I could consider myself to be a glass half full kind of girl, a dreamer and someone who really believes in manifestation. I have always figured that I can't get what I want if I don't know what it is.

And its true, sometimes I go out and quiz jewellery salesmen at Tiffany's, sussing out my perfect engagement ring, while being single and a good decade before even considering engagement. Which I admit, is a little extreme, silly and earns nothing but resentment from the diamond sales folk,but hey... one can dream right? After all, I should know early whether 1.5 carats would be enough or if 2 is nessecary....(jokes...kind of)

I've always been picky in life. If I go out and I want champagne and they aren't serving it, I won't drink, simple as that. With inclinations as anal as that, I figure if I plan to be successful and satisfied, I need to do just that: plan it.

That means I dream big with wild abandon. I believe in manifestation, the "Secret", law of attraction whatever you want to call it, I truly believe it works. I think that our successes start as small seeds, little notions of directions we'd like to see ourselves travel in, destinations that we would like to arrive at. And the more you know about where you want to end up the more easily you can take the appropriate path (scenic, less travelled, direct or even short cut) to get there.

Now that's not to say that I think you an sit on a roach infested couch, close you eyes and "visualize yourself in your BRAND NEW CAR!!" a-la-Rhonda Burns' Secret and it will happen. You need to put other wheels into motion, there are other laws in the universe too...the law of action being a big important one. You need to get up off that couch find a job and get on your way to that car, but that process starts with some kind of dream, some desire to act within oneself. So, it's important to dream, to have clear ideas of the things you want in life and love (and diamonds).

And really...

the bigger the dream, the better the results.

T Dot...

Finally, I hung my shelves today, a small yet personally significant (final) step to moving in. Moving in not only to my first apartment, but to my new city. A transition that is not as easy as I may have hoped it to be.

Being relatively well traveled, or at least, accustomed to traveling I assumed that moving to this city wouldn't be unlike traveling somewhere for a longer period of time. Yet this really isn't the case. For some reason there is so much more loneliness to moving, little things are what I miss.

Like calling someone just because...

Like having more than one option for things to do on a Friday night..

Like feeling home in company of a friend...

Like knowing there is someone's shoulder to cry on that is within physical reach...

Those are the small yet essential things that I find are really making things a little more challenging than expected.

Being new means that I have to pursue friendship with a new gusto. Every connection that feels nice means that I throw out my phone number like a fisherman, desperately hoping that someone might bite and call me back. That this time I make a friend worth keeping, and when calls aren't returned, while I don't feel rejected, I can't help but feel a little more lonely.

But its not all gloomy,

This city is far more alive than Vancouver wishes it could be. I've gone out a few times and though I haven't found the exact venue that suits my taste (more on my clubbing adventures next time), I know that its out there.

I've found a fabulous little butcher shop that makes incredible sausage, a mere 5 blocks from my new pad.

My program fits like a glove, every project seems easy because it is what I want to do, what I am inspired to do. Hopefully it is something that continues...

Hopefully life will continue to bloom here and I will truly feel at home sooner rather than later.

Stepping out of the Closet...

Here is my confession.

I am a closeted hip hop lover.

If you were to peer at my iTunes you would find a ton of Fiest, Death Cab for Cutie, Flaming Lips and other indie wonders. Bands which I do love, bands which have nursed heartaches, been soundtracks for beautiful moments and tracks that are frequently my choice on quiet candle lit evenings.

But were you to look at my most frequently played list it would go something like this:

Because of You - Ne-Yo
Lost in Love - I-15
Don't Stop the Music - Riahnna
Give it to Me - Timbaland

You get the idea. So, not only do I love hip hop, I love mainstream, top-40 shake-your-booty-on-the-dance floor hip hop. And when I say love, I mean I listen to these songs like its going out of style: 10 repeats on the subway ride to school another 5 on the way to class, and indulgence mid day and a repeat on the evening commute home....and that is just one tune.

So, here is the thing. While I love these songs they make up less than 10% of music collection. Why, you ask? Because I am ashamed.

Take today for example, I was rocking the pavements walking to school as I listened to Riannah, and I bumped into a new friend. We got to talking about my iPhone (the device fueling my Riahnna dance party) when my screen shot in his direction, immediately I compulsively hid it, in shame that I may be recognized for the top 40 hip-hop addict that I am.

Now really, this is preposterous.

I've grown up with an older brother that called my music 'crap', saying that instead I should listen to the likes of Queen and Led Zepplin instead. And being that I thought my big bro was pretty cool I listened... to Incubus, Wintersleep, I tried punk rock when I dated a guy who was into it, I did the works. But nothing fit like hip hop fits. Don't get me wrong, there no one can get a road trip off to a great start like Freddy Mercury, nor is there anything like listening to Bon Jovi while washing windows.

But when I want to enjoy an otherwise mundane moment, like taking the subway, like getting ready to go out for a Saturday night, there is NOTHING like a little bit of Justin or JayZ or Timbaland. Truth be told, I am the girl who grew up in love with Micheal and Janet, I am the girl who dreamed about hip hop while confined to tondues in ballet class....through and through.... the truth is I LOVE THIS SHIT!!!

A woman's right to chose...shoes that is

In reading my school's feminist magazine (which I do plan to write for) I got to thinking.

Somewhere among the glossy pages filled with interesting chick fueled articles a pattern started to emerge. A pattern denouncing the consumerism of our era, and a corporate driven desire to 'look good' and be fashionable.

But really, since when did feminism become synonymous with a rejection of femininity? Simply because skirts and flowing fabrics are paraded down runways and sold in designer stores, because Karl Lagerfeld choses a model to his taste instead of a woman's (or even the taste of an average man, for that matter) we should reject the entire fashion industry?

Ridiculous, I say.

For me there is nothing more empowering than walking the streets in an banging outfit that just screams sexy, nothing like feeling fabulous about a well moisturized face, with the right shade of lipstick and a new oh-so-volumous mascara. The sidewalks then become my runways, regardless of whether Karl would approve or not.

I don't think that in order to feel empowered about my rights as woman I need to reject the very thing that makes me feminine. And yes, I believe that make up, fashion, flowing fabrics and stilettos are all a part of my femininity. Which isn't to say that there aren't other women out there who feel just as feminine and empowered in a pair of overalls or baggy jeans, all I'm saying is, that is just not the path for me (and trust me I tired it... a whole year of Tommy Hilfiger overalls did nothing but create a pile of unflattering photos).

To me feminism is empowerment, its about a woman's right to create herself without feeling pressured to behave a certain way or become a certain version of herself. And so, while women should have the right to walk away from the design industry and reject mascara, I should maintain my right to daydream about tomorrow's outfit and my next perfect pair of heels.

The truth is the women's movement is about the right to chose, and whether its and abortion or a pair of designer heels, we should be able to do so without discrimination from men, and especially without discrimination from each other.

Lets talk about it...

because its pretty much confirmed.

My camera is gone.

Some where between leaving Vancouver and arriving in Toronto my camera went missing. And I have gone over it every last detail... called every venue at which it may have been left, but so far no avail. It seems I have exhausted all avenues, and my Nikon, my dear darling D40 has left me for good.

And so my heart aches.

I walk around in this new place, and involuntarily compose photographs. I see a chinese man with long whiskers selling lychee on Spadina and think of how I would crouch down low and zoom in to capture the hunch of his backbone. I parade down the streets dancing behind samba bands in school pride parades and I dream of running, as other fellow students, around the event, up on benches, on flatbeds of trucks take pictures from high and low to immortalize my first Frosh week.

But I can't, all I can do is crave to feel the snap of a shutter, and the thrill of a capture. All I can do is miss my camera, left behind, like the rest of my life.

New Begginings..

Grocery shopping takes so much longer when you don't know the store, or haven't built up your own stores.

Stupid things rack up grocery bills, and suddenly I'm sweating over the price of Ziploc bags.

I have the blessing of living within a 5 block radius from a Loblaws (ie Superstore), Fiesta Farms (think halfway between Capers and Save On), and Street busy with independently owned small shops. Fresh is found easily, and best prices can be quickly compared, its ideal really.

My bedroom is nearing completion. I'm simply in need of a drill and level to hang my shelves and really get settled in. My room looks great thanks to my mom, IKEA and Homesense, the only downfall is the lack of natural light, fortunately there is a window that lets in fresh air.

So now, with a great pad, I am ready to set out and begin my journey...first day of school comes quickly.... more updates to come.....

T Dot...dot...dot...

I have arrived.

Random Thoughts...

I have traveled through so many cities as a visitor, knowing that my footprints would so soon be eroded by the hoards of folk whose paths would cross my own. But here, I realize that I am simply taking the first step of my just like it. The new subway route, that I will eventually sleepwalk through, finding the classroom that will become a second home, the new city that will become my own. I live here now, I dream here now, I happen here now... how strange it is.

I cried when I saw the first building that displayed "Ryerson" on the side of it, an iron affirmation that I had indeed made it..got in..stayed in...traveled..arrived...enrolled and now this is the vessel that will move me forward, and I couldn't be more happy that I have made it aboard.

And I am nervous beyond belief, nervous about independance, nervous about school, about really making this happen for myself. I am so sad, neausously sad, achingly sad to have left my nest, home, mom, family, friends, co-workers, students, loves, cafes, restraunts, Westcoast downpours, mountains, the sea bus, the sky train...and...and...

BUT

I realize that today is the first day of the rest of my life. For so long I have been dreaming, scheming of what the future holds for me but now I must leap, and reach for all the dreams that I have dreamed up.

I knid of like it here...

Travelling...

The last lazy days in Zürich have been both enjoyable and insufferable. It was pleasant that whenever I had seen it all I would stumble upon a spot, or a square that took my breath away. What has been so enjoyable is that the folk of Zürich seem to enjoy these spaces as much as me, men walk through parks together after work, couples make out, business folk read newspapers and the glamorous women stroll in their Prada flats.

While I have so enjoyed girl talk with Laura and Timo, lunches, shopping, eating cake and drinking wine over the past few days, I have been secretly counting the minutes to my departure. Of course, I am anxious to see Andrew and have someone to experience travel with, but also I....just...wanted...to...move.

It got me thinking about the nature of travel. While I see travel as an invaluable experience that brings understanding, tollerance, patience and education into a persons life, I also see travel as an indulgent, and even dangerous, escape. As we travel I feel we seek to somehow escape the disquiet, dissapiontment and discontent of our lives. Perhaps its a week in Mexico to forget about work stress, or a month traveling through South America to escape capitalism, or a weekend in the mountains to escape the city, we all run from something.

The very literal word of travel, to move away from one location, be it emotional, physical or spirtual to the next.

Its no wonder that scores of North American twenty-something students spend summers running around Europe, Asia and South America as they escape the pressures of deciding just what to do with their lives, themselves and discovering how they would like to relate to the world around them. I too am guilty of seeking such escape.

I took this trip to experience Europe before heading to journalism school, to enjoy a little down time, but also to get away from a career that has in many ways recently disapionted me, to escape my fight with my yoga practice and to just fill the time and the space until I could finally, finally just start to persue what I feel I was born to do. In my final days of spending time here all of those feelings have moved back into my life, that itch to go forth and make something of myself, the desire to move away from the things that no longer fullfill me the way they once did. And at the end of the day, that disquiet and discontent all gets channeled into the feeling to move on, move forward and explore something, somewhere new.

I have always in some ways admired those who travel for months, years or decades on end. The lifestyle is something I could not handle for too long (I need a larger shoe collection than this type of lifestyle allows). But I also wonder how it is that folk like this can detach themselves from stability both physical and emotional. I think of all the relationships that blaze like shooting stars bright and brilliant, but lacking the true depth that can only result from time with another. I wonder how they can detach from the stability of having a home (and a regular washing machine) physically.

In the end, I feel that travel is a very double edged sword. Travel offers a beautiful escape with life changing and expanding experiences, but can be dangerous, addictive, and indulgent. I suppose one simply has to know the difference between the two.

Last...

These are the last few moments of my stationary life in Zurich. In about 20 minutes I will leave out the doors of the beautiful apartment I have called my home and not return. It breaks my heart to just type it. I have felt so at home here, save for feeling the bite of solitude as I was living alone, I will miss this place to no end.

So here begins my European journey. Its a miracle I managed to pack everything into my pack. I don't know what I was trying to prove when I came here with nothing but a 50 liter back pack and a small Heyes carry on. If any of you saw me pack for New York, with my three luggages for two weeks you'd be stunned to see the lack of things I have brought for this trip.

So now I have very few clothing options, and everything is crammed into my bags with no room for more (don't let that fool you into thinking I won't shop). But, that being said, don't feel sorry for me, feel sorry for Andrew who has to put up with me for two weeks living out of such a small selection. He has to deal with all the packing and repacking of goods, the irritation I am bound to feel when that one grey slinky DKNY top is at the bottom of my pack.

So here I go...first a spend a night or two with Timo at his place, then head to Venice to meet Andrew and thus begins our Euro Tour 2008....

its bound to be epic.

ughhh...

So because I started the "To Switzerland" post a while ago before finishing it, it is listed lower on the page than usual. So scroll down for the latest post.

Or click here.

xox

B

food for thought...

I would have liked to incorporate this into the last post, but it didn't quite fit and it was long enough as was. This was said by a yoga student named Michael during a conversation about quality of life in Switzerland versus the rest of the world. It pertains specifically to the readiness of post-secondary education in Switzerland versus the USA...

"It seems to me, that is almost as if in America education is deliberately unattainable. Like the elite keep people stupid and poor on purpose. If you give people an education you give them a voice. So if the population cannot educate themselves, they cannot fight their government, and the government does not have to answer to their people. It is like the rich make it more unattainable to have more control over the population."

Party like... a ROCKSTAR

So I tried to party in Zurich once more....

And this time I hit it out of the ballpark...

All I needed was a little help, which came in the form of Laura and Pamela.

Here was the formula for success

Sex and the City (the movie) + champagne at a swanky Zurich bar + 3 girls who love to dance + a great DJ + MJ, Bob Marley, QUEEN, Busta Rhymes, Britney, Kanye West, Chilli Peppers, White Stripes + cosmopolitans + some great outfits and make up = The BEST girls night EVER!!!

it was one for the history books...

An oldie...but a goodie.

This post is from my old website... but I like it so here it is for you to enjoy...


“I just don’t have time to write anymore, between teaching, practicing, rehearsing, taking public transit and fitting in what time with my friends I can, there never seems to be enough time to pick up a pen anymore.” I confessed to Monica
“What about writing while on the bus? I’m sure you could jot things down then.” she replied.
I hate being told what to, or more accurately, I hate the mere suggestion of what I could/should/might like to do. No matter how good your advice is, if its unsolicited it will promptly be rejected. This situation being no different: I lied in response. “I only EVER take transit in rush hour, with bags, BIG bags and I NEVER get a seat. So that would be impossible” Success! Another opinion rejected! Monica simply shrugged, though I’m confident she could see through my ploy.
Now,I’m starting to think that my resistance to such input is a bit of a problem, but its all a part of being so brilliantly stubborn (okay,okay so maybe brilliantly stubborn is an oxymoron, but I think my stubbornness is a sign of good character). But of course her comment stuck in the back of my head and a month I found myself the proud owner of (yet another) Moleskine journal, pocket sized this time, scribbling like a madwoman on the bus balancing with my arm halfheartedly linked around a pole, a 30 kilo bag dislocating the opposite shoulder, in a state of utter bliss because I.... ladies and gentleman...I was writing.

I’ve always written. I have notebooks filled with thoughts and stories from the time I was six (SIX!!!). Every major event in my life has been well documented, and I can easily reference any period in times of need (arguments, breakups, blackmail etc.). What’s interesting is not the volume of writing, but rather the quality of it. How, even at the age of ten, (TEN!!!) I strove to not just tell my story but tell it well; with similes, metaphors, tone and distinct style . I came to love parentheses and side notes, triple dots (...), rhyme, onomatopoeia, and any other literary device I could get my hands, or rather, pens on. Still, I never considered myself a writer.
There are women in the world who buy skirts, shoes, shawls bags or boots without, despite or even in-spite of necessity. I couldn’t call myself female if I didn’t like those things; but my problem is not clothes or accesories , I have an uncontrollable urge to spend money on pens, stationary, notebooks, books and anything to do with the very act of writing. My collection contains writing utensils in varying thickness ( 0.01 being my favorite) and colour (Turquoise or ultra fine black are the colours of choice), notebooks, (Moleskine’s in all shapes and sizes) stationary, ( Good God what they can do with paper these days!) and books (I have over 500 books, maybe a hundred of which I have read) in all sense of the word I am addicted .
To leave the house without a notebook and an assortment of pens (minimum 21) seems unfathomable to me. Words get stuck in my head like songs, I cannot control the fact that I have ‘words of the day’. To spend an entire day writing, be it at home, in a cafe, restaurant, on a street or beach feels like a day well spent to me. I fill hours re-writing my thoughts, re-wording, re-punctuating, until they are worthy of the ink and pages I am addicted to. Still I’d tell you “I’d like to be a writer, someday.”
But I live to to write. To find the words to embody the richness of what I experience. But I’m afraid to call myself a... Writer. I fear I’m not worthy of such a title, I have not suffered this art, I am not ready to face the scrutiny of others, I... am just scared of the title and responsibility of : Writer. I fear that calling myself a writer would bring greater judgement (from me and others) of what I produce and how I produce it (How would and could I cope with the rejection of the language that is so dear to me?) I fear it because the very admittance of the thing would force me to demand a new dedication to and a new quality from my work. Which is another issue entirely.
I’ve always wanted to speak to the world through the pages of novels, newspapers and magazines. But a career? How could I allow myself that? Burdened by the knowledge and idea that I am woman fortunate to have an education, and a North American lifestyle. How could I pledge my life to something that would bring me such great pleasure without giving to those who are less fortunate than I. No, I should become a peace-corps worker, a career political protester, a teacher, a nurse in Africa, a Doctor without Borders, a psychiatrist who helps build personal borders, something, someone, anyone that means something. Someone that somehow makes some kind of difference. But then, between enraged scribbles on the Skytrain, I looked up.
I saw a men reading newspapers, women reading books, people of different ages, sizes, shapes, sexes, races and classes reading magazines. In fact on this busy morning, as all busy mornings, it was easier to count the people who weren’t reading than the ones who were. All these people reading the very words that I love so deeply, all these people making the written word part of their day, part of their routine. All of them, and more, all the people on all the trains, in offices, streets, homes, classrooms, toilets, in every corner and nook of the world need and, more importantly, want words. I thought, ‘If just a fraction of them would read what I have to say, then I could make a difference. I could educate like a teacher, heal like a doctor or psychiatrist, fight for ideas like a protester. With the very use of language breaking all borders physical, geographical, psychological.’
Since that morning what has become more clear to me is that in pursuing what I love, I serve the world too. To be happy individually allows all others around us to do the same. By filling my cup so full of pleasure and joy for life that it overflows into others is the only way to successfully help others. Teacher, Doctor, Nurse, Psychiatrist would never fill my cup the way that Writer would and does. We are not born to cower in the shadow of our calling fear it while envying others for theirs. How ridiculous does it seem to reject our true calling and passion so that we do what is seemingly, stereotypically right? Ludicrous!
“Acceptance is art.” A good friend of mine once wisely wrote, and while I’m still working on my masterpiece of acceptance; I am ready to accept that my punctuation is not perfect, my vocabulary could improve and that my flow and structure need work. I am ready to do that work, hear what people have to say, I am ready to suffer for my art.

I am ready to accept that: I am a Writer.

To Switzerland....

Sadly, my time in Switzerland is coming to a close. I am so excited to see the next parts of my journey, to experience Italy, France, see my old hometowns in Germany and Czech again, but I am sad to leave this place.

Switzerland has slowly and surely found its place in my heart.

Indeed some of the stereotypes, Zurich is teeming with bankers, prices are high, the cars shiny and expensive, people are punctual to a fault, the chocolate is amazing and patriotism is high. The swiss are comically stubborn about the most trivial of details, like always calling their currency the Swiss Franc, in line at the store it is not uncommon to hear someone ask you for 34.50 Swiss Francs. The electrical outlets in Switzerland are different from all the outlets in the rest of Europe making things considerably frustrating for even the swiss as many appliances are manufactured with the standard European plug. And yes of course there is the scandal of Jewish gold and assets that were "discovered" in swiss banks long after WWII.

But for their faults, I must say I have come to respect this country. Everything just seems to work. Pensions and government benefits are impressive. Post secondary education is virtually state provided (citizens will have to pay a maximum of 5 thousand dollars for a bachelors degree). Trains and busses run on time (if not a few seconds early) and are the stuff of legend.

Swiss parliament has an incredibly interesting structure. Rather than relying on who wins most votes, Switzerland's federal council is determined by a 'magic formula' that shares power between the four major parties. This council has seven ministers who all maintain regular working jobs as their positions are only part time (this includes the president). The president serves a one year term and the position rotates between the seven ministers of the federal council. Many of the laws are are voted on by Switzerland's population in public referendums that occur many times a year.

Yet, what is most striking in this land of affluence, is the attitude and goals of the people. In my experience, the swiss have moved beyond looking to their titles and bank accounts for validation. It is surprising the joy that people find in their work. While in North America we teach our children the dignity of being a doctor of lawyer while preaching the wisdom of going for a six figure salary, the swiss teach to always do what you love regardless of the perceived couth of the career.

Perhaps it is a result of the education system, or that shortage of money has never been a huge issue in this red and white flagged land. But you feel the passion the swiss have for what they do. Recently in a conversation about occupation a man said to me, "I love my job so much, everyday, I go somewhere new, I meet someone new, and for me this is so interesting." his eyes lit with passion as he described being a Whirlpool Mechanic. What would be considered a menial blue collar job, in which people usually would not feel inspired or stimulated this man described with such joy.

It is almost as if because there is no need to worry about education or because of the quality of it, there is a higher importance placed on moving the quality of life and efficiency of the nation forward. "The swiss have had money for generations," said another student, "they've already had all the cars, the properties, the toys and now are starting to downsize. It is as if there is a collective understanding here that money does not necessarily equate to happiness. People leave their six figure salary jobs and trade in their luxurious lifestyles for a simpler more joyful life."

But do not let that fool you. This is land where mothers walk behind strollers in stilettos, the elderly dress in bright colours and classy styles, and haircuts of children are immaculately styled. Movie theaters have martini bars, leather seats and attendees are better dressed than a majority of the people who attend ballets in Vancouver. The swiss certainly know how to be glamourous be it in a restaurant, a car, walking down the street or around the lake. Of all the cities I have visited, New York, LA, West and North Vancouver, I must say that the swiss are the most fashionable. That being said I am sure that there are New Yorkers and LA folk who out do the swiss easily, but as a group the majority of the population in Switzerland outdoes any other.

But when all is said and done it is the way that the Swiss government treats their citizens that makes me respect them the most. Aside from free post-secondary education, workers benefits are staggering. Each worker is automatically entitled to four weeks of paid holiday a year ( something virtually unheard of in North America). Pensions are surprising, for example, a swiss citizen who worked for some time in Switzerland, now living in Canada can receive a $1,200 pension from the swiss government along with full coverage of his Canadian medical expenses including prescriptions (again virtually unheard of).

With benefits like this it is easy to understand why the swiss are so proud of their country, and why it tops the lists of best places to live. As a visitor, Switzerland and Zurich in particular did not wow me at first, it does not have the same dazzle and seduction of metropolis' like New York, but it wins you over slowly and surely.

I feel I understand why many people see the swiss as rigid for on the surface these are immaculate, rich, punctual and efficient folk. It is when you look deeper that you see the true identity of the swiss, a culture that works hard to drive quality of life higher for both themselves and their country. Had I not spent this amount of time here, I too would have had a very limited view of this population. But after time after meeting so many interesting people, having so many engaging conversations, and gaining an understanding for this place and its people; I can say that I love Switzerland.

I will miss greatly it when I leave.

Laundry...

Means numerous descents and ascents down the creaking wooden staircase that is the only means of moving between the floors of my building. What was first monotonous, and draining has become a fun game for me as I observe the way the lives of my neighbors spills from their apartments and into the hall. Having not met any of them , I make guesses and judgements based solely on the belongings strewn along my journey.

We start in the cellar, the earthy smell of concrete and brick is thick in the cool air, broken only by the scent of fresh laundry from the small space occupied by the washer drier and pile of clothes from whichever tenant has once again forgotten their laundry.

We climb our first flight of steps, not forgetting to turn off the light, and close the wooden door behind us.

We pass four strollers on our way out of the building, this is a place for families. There is a lone door on the bottom floor. Occupied by an older couple, they are glad to be so low in a lift-less apartment building. They are tidy and clean, and rarely hold on to unnecessary mementos, and this is reflected by the lone aluminum waste basket that stands outside their door.

As we climb the steps the earthy smell of the ground foyer is replaced by the smell of aged wood. I always smile, it reminds me of happy times playing in my grandmas attic as a child. Upon turning the corner and rising our second flight of steps we see the overflow of a rich family life.

There are three kids who run this household, with two merry parents trying to keep up. The mom has a knack for interior design, and loves to flip through books of swatches. Unfortunately with the kids, her swatches too often end up outside in the hallway, unloved collecting dust. They are my kind of folk, mac users, as is obvious by the stickers that adorn their kids' toys. Unlike their downstairs neighbors, these are sentimental folk, hanging on to the art work of their kids, old postcards from forgotten friends, and shoes that no longer fit. And when it doesn't fit into the house, it ends up in the hall. Life explodes from their home onto their doorstep and sometimes....falls down the neighbors steps.

Careful not to trip over the teenage shoes, and the toddler toys, we continue upward. To the only childless couple in the building. A chesterfield is kept company by an interesting modern hat stand, which too often hangs empty. While there are no kids, there is a beloved dog, small furry and cute, he's been know to have digestive problems that are the create the only mess in this highly organized power couple's life.

Up once more, and we've arrived on the steps of my outdoorsy, do-it-yourself-er neighbors. They are organized, stacking their materials carefully in labeled rubbermaid containers, they approach each project with mathematic precision. When not attempting a new project they are out enjoying the swiss wilderness, putting to good use the skies that stand carefully zipped up and ready for the next ski season to begin.

Finally we've made it to our door step, or the doorstep of Barblin and Christian. an outdoorsy couple as well, they enjoy hiking in the mountains with their day packs as much as they enjoy biking around lake Zurich in the summer. Travelers, their taste in decor includes trinklets they've picked up around the world: a small buddah head in asia, dried flowers from the country side, a pair of baby shoes in Paris. They are clean folk, and store all their cleaning products carefully behind a white sheet, but regardless of home much they clean they never seem to be able to downsize their ever growing shoe collection...

Step inside for a closer look...

...to be continued.

I SPOKE GERMAN!!!

Walking home from the supermarket close to my place, I spotted a shoe repair shop a block from my place. This was increadibly fortuious since i brought a cute pair of Stephane de Roncoure shoes which I bought a size too small. I packed them in hopes of getting a true European cobbler to fix them.

I walked into tis tiny store, and a little man straight out of a fairy tale came to the front. With his small hunched frame, long polish stained fingers, braided grey hair and gold rimmed glasses, it was all I could do not to reach across and hug him. Anyhow, I asked if he spoke English and he confessed no, so he asked if I spoke Spanish and I said no. So I tried my best in german..and it came out of my mouth without a thought...

"Ich haben shouen"

Now, I realize there is nothing revolutionary about telling a cobbler that you have shoes. In fact, its kind of already implied when you walk in the door. But the fact that I didn't even need to think about saying something in german, or reference a dictionary....

thats a bit of a revolution.

woot.

Party like a grandma....

I partied like a loser last night....

Here's the thing, for a young 23 year, free with her own apartment I have not been doing so good 'living it up'. I usually get off work around 8 o'clock, or 9:30 at the latest. At this point the street patios of the cafe's and lounge's that litter the streets around my neighborhood are teeming with Zurich's most beautiful folk. Each day, I simply retreat home to my pad, cook myself a nice meal, respond to emails, or post blogs, read a little and hit the hay.

I am in one of Europe's prime party destinations, I am free to do as I please and still I stay at home night and after night. Something had to be done, with only two weeks left I decided it was time to go out an party.

I asked around the studio, and got a good recommendation from Markus, a club owner. This guy is so convinced about the place he has recommended me to go, that he is constantly wearing a silver VIP ring proclaiming his dedication to the place. I figured that it must be the best thing since sliced bread.

So I got ready, tried something new with my make up that worked out great, and headed out at about 1:30 as per the directions of the locals. I walked through the red light district ( a stones throw from my place and got to the club a mere 4 blocks from my place.

I wondered if I was at the right place, there was one guy standing outside smoking a cigarette: one lone doorman and no line (quite the change of place from the armies and winding ques outside Granville night clubs). I dig for my id, passport and anything I can show for legit ID, the guy laughs at me glances at my passport and says "thats very nice.." I was stunned....then again the legal drinking age in Switzerland is 16.

So I continue, down the steps to this underground club, walking alone through hallways opening a succession of heavy metal doors all painted black like I'm heading into the depths of the CIA. Then I get there....

And the place REEKS.

There is so much smoke in the air that I am convinced that they've had the smoke machine going over time, but the smell denotes its just cigarettes and weed. So I decide to suck it up. But listen, its not just that every person in the club is smoking but its the fact that for the duration of this club's life, every patron has BEEN smoking. Essentially it was like sticking your face into a bucket of cigarette buts and taking a whiff....and staying there to breathe.

So I stash my stuff...I am going to be a cool party goer tonight. So I start to dance... but the beat doesn't change for the whole hour I am there. Sure it slows down, the crowd stops bobbing, and when the DJ speeds things up again they scream in relief, as if there was actually a chance he may have left it going halfspeed the whole night.

So here I am, annoyed with the drugged up clientele that keeps spilling their drinks on my shoes, annoyed with the every person who can't dance but only seems to be body checking me around the dance floor, I'm coughing (literally) from the smoke, and they bring out the laser pointers.

LASER POINTERS

Suspended from the ceiling are these lighting machines that flash lasers all around the club to the great delight of the party goers. This is when I realized I needed to leave, because rather than rejoicing like everyone else (it did look cool), I immediately cast my eyes downward and thought

"What a safety hazard!! What if one of things hits someone's retina!!"

That combined with the fact I was constantly thinking about the welfare of my brand new Globus leopard print scarf, wondering if I was able to hand wash it to get the smell out, made me decide that I really needed to leave.

So I went home, got on Skype with andrew, ate chocolate and finished the night like every other, safe and sound in my bed.

I really need to work on my cool status....