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....

Lost... and found....the shopping version

I got lost today.

In missing Vancouver coffee culture, I went out searching for a good coffee today in Zurich. I got lost, (not surprising since i wandered by word of mouth around Zurich without proper directions) and found myself in the lingerie section of Globus (Zurich's Holt Renfrew equivalent). I literally hyperventilated over Dolce and Gabana and Dior undergarments... and the other brands too...holy shit do European's ever know how to do underwear right!! Lace, mesh, tie up undies and bras, bras that hold the breast but do not cover the nipples, underwear in every conceivable cut colour and texture of fabric.

It was a transcendent experience for me. I nearly wept over the red lace bra with black white polka dot bows... (yes that exists!!)

Anyways....

I made it out of Globus, only buying a fabulous silk leopard print scarf, which was a necessary acquisition. You see all of Zurich wears scarves, its like theres a scarf club and every woman is am member ( even some men join). In fact if someone is not showing their membership by donning a scarf, its probably because this is the one day in the week they take a break.

I sought so desperately to belong, a stranger in a strange land, the least i could do was to conform by buying a scarf so that I truly fit in with the locals. Now I can make eye contact with the girls on the streets and feel as if I am one of them...a member of the Zurich scarf club.

Zurich Style...

The sloppy slapping of my flip flops has become offensive in a culture where the click of high heel on cobblestone is the norm. I admit it, I am envious of the swiss girls. If you've ever flipped through the pages of a magazine and thought "Really, who looks like that when they leave the house?" Well, the swiss do.

I have never seen so many perfectly manicured haircuts, expertly accessorized outfits, and immaculate shoes. On Sundays at lake Zurich, if it wasn't for the fact that stores were closed, I would swear all of Zurich collectively went to the salon and stylist for their promenade on the lakeside.

I'm perpetually plotting what I would be wearing if I wasn't living out of a backpack (black short-sleeve with the tie collar, black and white polka-dot skirt, MiuMius). If only the sold Mary Poppin's bags, I could REALLY use one right about now.

The thing is, my inspiration to dress better, girlier is not out of insecurity, or feeling inadequate next to the perfectly put together swiss. Its that the women of Europe inspire me to find the same thing within me, that they express so freely : femininity.

The women here are women: hair styled, lipstick donning, perfumed, highheeled women. The glory of it, is something that must be experienced to be understood. Everything here reflects a woman's right to look good, athletic stores are few and far between while shoe boutiques litter Swiss streets, there are hairdryers are everywhere (Bikram Yoga provides 4!! Two communal hairdryers, in front of a communal primping mirror and one in each of the mens and ladies showerooms), and mirrors are readily available for a mid stroll primp down the Bahnoff Strauss.

What is most refreshing is that the elderly look just as fabulous as the young. Just this week, I was joined by a woman in her late sixties for a piece of afternoon cake at Sprungli (Zurich's top confectionary, and the makers of Lindt Chocolate). The street patio was busy, and so she shared my table, wearing kakhi pants a white shirt and a funky iridescent jacket, she had a wonderfully dyed hairstyle, and after finishing her ice cream was sure to re-apply her lipstick before grabbing her oversized shades to go. Having grown up in Vancouver, I am thankful to the Swiss for showing me that aging does not confine you to fleece and Mark's Work Warehouse fashion.

Having learned so much from these folk, I wonder what the Italian and French women will have to add....

I cannot wait to learn.

A cure for the blue...

I have a strategy for when am upset about things... usually when I am in a terrible rut of a mood, I call Translink. I chose a bus I frequent, (usually the 19 because its always late) and I complain. There is something about the way that complaints department knows how to respond that just makes you feel like everything is going to be okay.

Today I have decided to add to my strategy.

Whenever I am depressed I am going to call hotels in Italy and make reservations. Sure, I will cancel within a day's time but, the experience! I've been calling hotels in Venice to book a room for Andrew and I. since its the weekend when we arrive, there is added urgency to find a great place for a greater price. What once seemed impossible to do under 400 Euro, seemed within reach once a few emails were sent out.

The first phone call I made was to Leo at the Hotel Bernardi "Si? Pronto!" He answered and I immediately melted to a puddle on the floor. I gathered myself quickly and made the correct arrangements. Still I thought I could get a better deal so I called Silvana at Hotel Marte, her cheery nature was contagious. She ended the conversation with an overjoyed "Perfecto!!.... Ciao, Ciao, Ciao!!" As if I had just told her she had won the lottery.

I'm still shaking with the joy of Italian... in reading Eat, Pray, Love once more I am beginning to realize and understand what prompted Liz Gilbert to go and study Italian and why she felt it could heal all her wounds...

Oh how I can't wait for Italy!!!

Zurich... a temporary home

A week has gone by, and today marks day 11 of my trip. Everyone talks about how expensive Switzerland is and I must concur, prices here could stand to be cheaper. But alas, I can't complain. My apartment is painfully beautiful. Situated on the top floor of an older building, its wooden beams and vaulted ceilings won me over immediately. Now, I have to force myself to step out of the house because sitting in front of open windows by my computer, and eating fresh bread and cold cuts has turned me into more of a homebody than I would like to admit. But I have told myself that enjoying my accommodations is also a part of my journey.

Adventures have come in all shapes and sizes. Learning to work a gas oven was a little scary, the elements were not too much trouble, but the oven oh the oven. I looked up on google how to light a gas oven, afer not being able to work it out on my own (and I really tried, for like 10 minutes). I psyched myself out after reading everyones warning, I tried to figure out just how much gas had gotten into the air after trying to light the damn thing for the last 10 minutes, and decided I didn't like even coming to a conclusion. Even after airing the area for ten minutes, I was still convinced that I was going to blow up the apartment and burn down the building, or at least my eyebrows (which would have been equally tragic). Luckily nothing happened, except of course that i lit the thing and made a great dinner.

I've explored a good chunk of Zurich now, but explorations have been limited to my neighborhood, the lake and old town. I've done some touristy things, but still have a small list of things to do. One of which is to go out clubbing, the other to see an exhibition happening which features a replica of King Tut's tomb, hike up to veiw point looking over all of Zurich and do some more drinking and eating at local spots.

This and some more weekend trips to explore Switzerland, and I should leave with a good impression of the place. Expect more adventure stories to come....

Finally..

Its taken me a few days to secure a good internet connection and find the correct adaptors for my Canadian plugs. But I am all set now, and ready to start blogging.

To bring you all to date, I am traveling in Europe for the next two months. I start teaching yoga in beautiful Zurich for one month before meeting Andrew in Italy and traveling with him for two weeks and then visiting my family and the Czech Republic before heading home to Vancouver in July.

Here are some entries I wrote while en-route to Europe.....

Vancouver - Calgary May 2, 2008

Departure… and so it begins.

Some tears and a margarita and I was on my way. In tearing myself from Andrew and making my final phone calls I still remained desensitized to the reality of Europe. This enigma of history and heritage lies before me and I feel like I may as well be going to Winnipeg for the weekend.

As I staggered (I don’t remember asking for a double) from my seat down the carpeted gateway, I laughed out loud. “I am going to Europe.” I thought.

I didn’t even make it through the take off and was out like a light, thankfully closed mouthed and drool free.

The descent into Calgary woke me gently. Conversation bubbled around the airplane, eager Europe bound passengers reciting their travel itineraries eyes bright and eager like small children.

The hour in Calgary offered me an opportunity to flex my journalism

muscles. Finding out from my fellow passengers the EuRail passes can only be bought outside of Europe, I had 45 minutes and a cell phone to figure out how to score a pass. Andrew came though with a flight center phone number and I managed to secure a pass that will be available for use three days from now. Crisis averted.

Amsterdam May 3, 2008

I arrived in the Amsterdam airport and wasted no time. I b-lined to the Capri-Sonne juices and bought a bag of Haribo coke bottles. I nearly squealed when presented with all the yogurt options, man Europe has it right! With a Body Shop and Whistler Water, this airport is so heavily westernized its disappointing.

Though I would love to spend the day in Amsterdam and fly out to Zurich tomorrow,

I managed to find a flight for under 200 Euro to Basel where I will catch a train to Zurich and arrive with enough time to get somewhat settled.

In recent conversation a friend told me that our sense of smell is our strongest of the five. While I briefly stepped out of the airport, my nose filled with the small of cured meat and European cigarettes, and I recognized it. Like, “oh yes, this is the smell of home.”. Could it be that I remember?

The people are already well dressed and beautiful, but I am still searching, hungry for an experience that will make me feel like I am in Europe

more to come tonight I promise......