Bloghopper

My Pudgy Prowler

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Sun, 08 Aug 2021 22:55:00 +0000

He came in the back door. The screen door was closed but he was low and determined. And hungry. A little push and nudge of the nose got him under the screen and led him to the enticing odour of the cat food. I’d like to give him forgiveness for the need, a starvation so deep it overrode all fear of two-footers, but he was a well-fed pig of a raccoon. And hungry. He could have been there 2 minutes or twenty. He could have watched for my every evening journey to the man cave and waited for me to pass or he was just there, then, with hunger and opportunity and nothing but a screen door in his way.

It’s not that I don’t like raccoons, it’s just...they scare me. And I hate what scares me: bosses, racists, bullies. I don’t like rats, they totally gross me out, but they run when they see me. Raccoons get on their hind legs.

So, I’m in my hallowed place. My Fortress of Solitude. My Cone of Silence. My Mancave. I’m chilling with a glass of wine and doing what a person does with darts, drums and time to kill. It’s after dinner and before TV so in these post-children days it’s uninterrupted time with me. There’s a computer out here so I check email, cruise YouTube and get the personalized newsfeed. It’s the bomb. But a look at the clock says She’s waiting so I stand to stretch and get ready for this night’s entertainment.

The studio stands on the same footprint as the former garage and is separated from the house by a few Escher-esque decks and stairs. I pull myself up and along and arrive at the screen door. I hit a button and it slides open with a whoosh that alerts the pudgy guy chowing down in the pantry. He bolts for the door that’s now only blocked by me. I jumped (and probably squealed a little) and landed on him. He wasn’t hurt but spun on the spot so throwing the last of the wine in my glass at him seemed like the most appropriate action. The wine and stomp were discombobulating enough for him to spin further and dash for the safety of the interior of my home. FUCK.

Trees are green. So are my curtains. So when Pudgy retreated he sped through the kitchen, across the living room and up the curtains for refuge. I stood frozen in the doorway processing what just happened. Looking straight ahead I could see to the far end of the living room. To the couch and curtains. And I saw this raccoon slowly poke his head from behind the curtain to assess the situation. He sees me and waits, silently saying, “Your move”.

I have a gun. It looks like those machine guns you see in action movies and does indeed fire plastic pellets at 500 feet per second. Enough to sting but not break the skin of a raccoon. In this moment I’m not debating the wisdom of buying it for my 15-year-old son (something about teaching responsibility) but ecstatic that it’s on the counter in the pantry.

Giving myself courage with a growl, I grab the gun from the pantry and go out another exit from the kitchen; the one that leads to the hallway and another entrance to the living room. I see him from the hallway and he sees me. If I go into the living room, I can get to the front door and give him an escape route but I have to get closer to him. I’m almost out of courage but other than locking myself in the basement for the night, I’m also out of options. I draw up the gun and put him in the sights and growl like a really mean dog with the first step. He’s motionless, maybe amused. I move sideways towards the door, shifting the gun to my left hand like I do this every day and open the front door.

Back in the safety of the hallway I stared him down and waited... for a few seconds. I was a lot more courageous in retreat, so I retreated further to the kitchen. I regained my sightline from the backdoor to his hiding place and where I had my own escape route but I also blocked the way he came in. I just thought of that now. Probably not my best move.

I yelled and fired and he just looked at me. “Holy fuck”, I thought, he’s a tough son of a bitch. I yelled and shot again with a similar result and if he could he would have given me the finger. I had practiced a few days earlier (hence its ready-to-go state on the counter) with a paper target to determine the accuracy of the sights and where best to line them up. I decided I would try the sights cuz yelling and firing from the hip wasn’t working. I lined him up, fired and he jumped. Who knew raccoons could widen their eyes and looked surprised? His glare at me was both shock and anger and revenge was on his mind but he could smell the night air from the front door to his left. He leapt in that direction tearing branches from the jade plant and leaving bewilderment in his absence.

I’m still bewildered. That was my first combat and it's been playing like a movie trailer in my head. I think I won but She called the pest control company. Three days later he was in a cage waiting for pickup and relocation and I’m pretty sure it took him three days to come back because he was so scared of me. Maybe not, but now he’s chilling on a farm in Langley and I’m reading up on symptoms of PTSD.

Culture Shift

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Tue, 16 Apr 2019 06:08:00 +0000

He was minding his own business. And his business at the moment was to finish smoking a ridiculously small joint he’d constructed from an emptied cigarette tube. Dolores was in their room scanning possible Netflix shows as he went to put himself into a movie-viewing frame of mind.

They’d been in Mexico a little over a week and everything had gone as hoped. No hassle at the airport, the room clean, cheap and close to the beach. The weather had been exactly what they came for. It was so trouble free it felt like it would go on forever, much like when his hockey team wins a stretch of games then loses. The disappointment is surprising. A few losses in a row and a new norm sets in until he’s pleasantly surprised when they win.

The current norm in Mexico was that the culture of marijuana had shifted. Nathan knew people who’d spent time in a Mexican prison back in the ‘70’s and had to be bailed out by their parents. They were charged with possession though their story was they’d picked up a hitchhiker that had some pot. It was a finger-wagging story the parents of the parish told their children to warn them of the evil called marijuana.

But Nathan loved smoking pot. He had since grade 11 and it became a pretty constant companion by grade 12. It had been a part of most social situations and he tended to gravitate towards people that shared his love. He was aware it made him quiet and self-conscious but he was normally a gregarious, fast-talking guy so he decided this was a good balance.

He’d stayed in Mexico the year before with an airbnb host who left an open bag on the coffee table and encouraged him to roll for the both of them. The host told him a story about being pulled over by the police, as gringos often are, and the officer grabbed his hand and sniffed his fingers. The officer declared that he had been smoking pot and it was jail time. The hero of his story said “No way, but here’s 500 pesos. Have a nice day”.

On this trip, Nathan had seen people on the beach smoking pot. Vendors of pipes and paraphernalia quietly offered to sell something to go with it and he smiled as he declined, the childhood stories still lingered. He wasn’t surprised when an itinerant vendor stopped at his beachspot selling pipes and more but surprised himself when he started thinking “Why not?”. When he asked “Do you have any papers?” the deal was done and a few grams of green were in his possession. No papers came with it but the fellow tourist on the recliner next to him said, “It’s ok, I already got one rolled” and sparked it.

Two things happened when Nathan smoked pot and in spite of 50 years of indulging he was always surprised. The first was that in a secure environment it was dry eyes and a bumbling buzz but in a strange environment it was paranoia. Keep your head facing forwards, just move your eyes, they’ll know you’re onto them if they see you move your head. Scratch your right ear when walking past that next doorway to block the camera. That kind of stuff.

The second was that he got cold. He felt like his core heat was extinguished and even cool air made him shake. Thoughts of hypothermia and a youngish death made him turn inside, ball up and breath out into his shirt to savour all that life-saving warm air.

And here he was, in a most unsecure place - the place his parents had warned him about - and the next part of today’s tour was snorkeling. But the afternoon was delightfully uneventful. The water was Mexican warm and the core fire stayed lit. No police boats came by to smell people’s fingers and there were no dogs sniffing gringos as they got off the boat. The new norm had taken hold.

In the cab it was decided that after a vigorous day of snorkeling and tanning an evening of Netflix and chill would crown the day. “I don’t have a paper”, said Nathan. “Ask someone for a cigarette and hollow it out”, said Dolores. Nathan had trouble with that. He didn’t like to ask people for stuff, like ever. He figured if he was still a smoker he’d have smokes and it was his distaste for bumming smokes that helped him quit. Dolores rolled her eyes and asked the first smoker she saw if she could bum a smoke… and then gave it to Nathan right in front of the guy. It wasn’t the worst part of his night.

A few minutes back in the room yielded a few puffs concealed in paper and Nathan went for a walk. Nathan liked his neighbourhood; a block and a half to the beach, less to the stores and restaurants, clean and safe - while the sun shone. When the restaurants closed and the stores pulled down their metal defenses the few streetlights sparkled on the discarded bottles and threw deep shadows beyond that sidewalk-busting tree.

“Once around the block”, he told himself and set off. He turned left and a few meters past the motel he pulled it out. He lit it as he walked and glanced to his left as he stepped around the tree that forced him off the sidewalk. Behind it stood a young man in silence, intent on making eye contact as he walked by. Nathan’s head snapped forward and his arm dropped to his side as he feigned nonchalance and cupped his puff.

Ten more meters and a glance over the shoulder was appropriate. There was no gang ready to pounce so he re-lit and turned the corner. There was more light here though the 24-hour store on the next corner was closed. Just ahead two vehicles were nose-to-nose with hoods up in the traditional gimme-a-jump pose. Nathan glanced at the men staring at their engines as he passed and smoked.

Ten more meters and the sound of running feet behind him set off alarm bells. Paranoia time; don’t look back, swallow the joint. “Senor!” Nathan turned and raised his eyebrows in fake curiosity. He saw a twenty-something in uniform. “Fuck”, he thought. His hockey team was about to lose. The young man came on purposefully and put is hand on Nathan’s shoulder. “Senor, ven conmigo”. Nathan didn’t need his high school Spanish to know the language of a man on a mission. He was first being taken back to where the young man thought he’d thrown his joint. He was encouraged to join the officer in the search for the missing roach but being non-existent, it refused to reveal itself. A couple of pre-teens who saw the action sidled close and were enlisted to search as the young officer took his catch back to the senior officer.

As they approached the vehicles, Nathan noticed that the raised hoods had blocked his view of the police lights on top of the pickup.

"I should have known", he mumbled to himself, "I'm going to die of terminal stupidity".

The senior jumpstarter looked at Nathan and grabbed his right hand. He pulled his fingertips to his nose and shook his head. “Prohibido”, he said and pulled handcuffs from his hip. Nathan’s balls shrunk. “I don’t have any marijuana!”, he proclaimed. “Some people passed me on the street! They handed me something. I said No thanks and handed it back. That’s why my hand smells like…” “Prison”, said handcuff man and Nathan babbled.

“Es possible a pagar una fina?” Nathan didn’t know the word for ‘fine’ but hoped it would get across the message. Could he pay a fine for his miscreance? The mustachioed officer looked about to ensure the gathering crowd had slipped into the shadows and slapped his hand down on the metal surface of a box in the trunk of his pickup. Nathan wanted to be a model prisoner. He followed the leaders lead. He put his hand on the metal box to demonstrate his willingness to co-operate and show he didn’t need to be handcuffed if his captor was going for a walk.

The officer looked at him but said nothing. Nathan, now really confused, asked again, “Es possible a pagar una fina?” A moment passed. The officer looked at him, took a slow breath and said “One hundred dollars” and double-tapped the box. “Ahhh!”, thought Nathan and almost missed his back pocket as he dove for his wallet. “No tengo dolares, estoy Canadiense”, he explained for his lack of desirable currency. “Tengo solo pesos. Un mil?”. His offer of a thousand pesos was a hope that it was close enough and the exchange rate would save him about 35 bucks. He was actually negotiating his bribe. A serious nod ended captivity.

He rifled through his wallet, through the tens, twenties and five hundreds and found two, side-by-side. He pulled them and the officer looked away and lightly resumed his double-tap on the box. “Ahh!”, thought Nathan, “I am so fucking thick!” and placed the bills in the pay slot. He looked at the officer. The officer looked back. A heavy second passed followed by the slightest of nods from senior officer.

Nathan quick-stepped to his room, 150 meters back from the near disaster. Dolores, without looking up from her magazine asked, “So you didn’t get arrested, My Love?”.

Why I Play

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Fri, 08 Mar 2019 04:11:00 +0000

I played at the Imperial last night. My god that was fun. It’s a 500+ seat venue in the heart of the downtown eastside although I’m sure the figure reflects capacity because few seats were to be had and I needed seats for the peeps that brought out their support and bucked up $50 for this charity event; Battle of the Insurance Bands. It’s sponsored by the Insurance Institute and is an opportunity for people in that industry to hobnob, swap cards and buy a drink for that client you want to keep. The only requirement to be in the battle is to have one band member actually work in the industry and that’s where my niece came in.

“Hey uncle John”

“Hey Jess”

“So there’s this thing…”

Seems she’d always wanted to sing in a band and this was an amazing opportunity and wouldn’t we love to play in a great venue to a sold out crowd? Uh, yeah. Every musician’s goal is to play in front of people, the more the better, right? No. For many excellent musicians the thought of exposing themselves in front of anyone who’s paying attention makes them sweat. Playing in their room or with a few close friends can be transcendent but performing is an anxiety-provoking event on par with public masturbation. And it’s not a bad analogy. To do something that gives you such insane pleasure, in public with optimal results, isn’t easy. You’d either have to work their presence into the process in order to heighten the experience or work really hard at pretending they’re not there.

Me, I dig it. So I said “That sounds great” and we jumped into the river that took us to last night. This was the tenth anniversary so was moved to the larger venue from last year’s Blarney Stone. That too was a great venue for about 300 people and with more actual seats. We competed there against 3 other bands (the winner gets to choose which charity gets the proceeds) and we didn’t win but were so well-received that we were asked to return this year – but not to compete. The format for the 10^th anniversary was to invite the winners of the past 4 years to compete for the bragging rights for best in a decade. But they also wanted a band they liked to open the show…us.

‘Us last year’ no longer existed. The fabulous lead guitar had found greener pastures while I ignored my Vancouver life on an extended European tour. The keys guy was deemed replaceable but if I could just get the lead singer to return my calls I thought we could rekindle this. She finally did and we started to fill in the blanks.

Steve’s friend had seen us play, liked what he heard and was willing to grab his keys and climb on board. Gene’s mostly a rhythm guitar kind of guy (he doesn’t want to make it cry or sing) who also provides some lead vocals. Jessica took the lead on a song to showcase her addition to the band and added backup vocals to support Natasha’s powerhouse vocal range.

And then there’s the rhythm section. I’ve known Steve longer than he’s known himself. I watched him make his appearance in the world and held him moments after he started breathing. While his mom and I split up when he was only 9 years old we’ve managed to stay close. Living nearby means frequent contact, jams and grandkid visits. His bass and amp are in my studio so our rhythmic licks get a regular polish. He’s also an accomplished guitarist and songwriter and when we chose songs it was funtastic to be able to do original material.

Singing someone else’s songs is like repeating a joke you heard; you may still get a chuckle but real laughter comes from original material. But we didn’t have enough of our own so the process of selecting the perfect songs began.

You know on American Idol where they say “Oh Dude, you got a great voice but that song choice…” We wanted to do what we could do well and then added other criteria. Getting the dance floor filled with danceable tunes was the first. We wanted songs that would be recognizable so people who listen to lyrics could sing along but preferably not tunes that had been overplayed. A little uniqueness would go a long way.

Ten days before “The Gig” we’re informed that they also want us to close the show with a 45-minute set. Until then they were musing other ideas like a jam session with members from all the bands joining in but finally realized the logistics were beyond anyone’s organizing ability. Our first set, like all the other bands was arranged for 30 minutes, 7 songs. Closing meant another 11 songs. Another original? I voted for Joan Jett and the Blackhearts but it didn’t get any traction. Emails and ideas bounced around. We knew the opening crowd would be thin and sober so our bigger set should be number two. The smaller, early crowd meant we could re-play some numbers from the 1^st set in the 2^nd and two were chosen. Nine to go. Other songs were moved from the 1^st set to the second and replaced with songs we’d done at some point in the past. We dug a little deeper and revived songs we’d done long before the current iteration of the band. Two more off the radio were needed and added and we were ready to practice.

Ten days meant we only had one more practice planned after the session where we shared the need for 11 more songs. Fortunately, most were able to squeeze in one more day and decisions about what to play when, where and how were made. Arrangements for every song had to be created and rehearsed; remembering starts, breaks and finishes has long been my Achilles’ heel and I needed to play them over and over again to drive them home, so they happened without me thinking about it.

Everyone in the group did exactly as I hoped, they took their part and practiced the bejesus out of it so when we got together we just had to stitch together the parts. How well those parts are stitched together defines the tightness of a band and two practices wasn’t going to get us super tight. But it could get us loose enough to ride it out.

The day came. Jess and I unloaded the gear left at the studio and we stood in the empty hall. I stared at the ceiling soaring overhead. I peered into the depths of the two-layered balcony and into the faces of the 575 people that weren’t there yet. Hands stuffed deep into my rear pockets, I walked, looked and nodded at what I imagined. This was going to be the biggest gig I’d ever played but my mind returned to the first. An elementary school gymnasium rented by a group of CB radio lovers, the folks that brought us “Breaker 19”, was my first step onto a stage. Those four wooden steps behind the curtain felt like a springboard onto the stage at the Coliseum. Head down, soft sweat all over and two sticks in my right hand tapping against my leg. I’ve been skydiving, scuba diving, bungee jumping and remember the first time I had sex; none of that beat that night but in trying to outdo it I tried a lot of things I might not have tried.

Doors open at 5:00, show starts at 5:10. I figure I’ll get back there by 4, give me lots of time to set up the drums to my liking and stake out some territory for my peeps. At 4:00 I’m still looking for a parking spot and get a call from Jess,

“Apparently we were supposed to be ready for a sound-check at 3”.

F#*k! But they were lovely guys, patient and used to working with amateurs. With an undertaker’s dispassionate disposition, they gently got us ready for our big night.

And it was pleasant let down. You can’t do something for the first time twice. But like a junkie trying to recreate that first high I kept trying; bigger bands, bigger venues, bigger songs but no. My cherry’s gone and nothing is going to beat that first time. But in writing this piece, I've discovered that I've kept on playing not because I wanted it bigger and better but because it’s just fun to play.

Feedback Fuel

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Sat, 16 Feb 2019 00:20:00 +0000

I bared my soul and someone applauded.

So I’ve kept on writing, for better or less better, because that’s what motivates someone to keep on keeping on, feedback. Would any musician, artist, writer or ditch-digger do their best to carry on if no-one said “Hey, that’s pretty good!” I’m still searching for the ‘why’ as in “why don’t managers of endeavours mundane and more give (free!) positive feedback to people that are doing just what you asked them to do?” Paycheques look exactly the same but those with positive feedback leave with a lot more and show up early on Monday morning.

I feel a rant coming on. I can put that aside to say “Thank You” for all the positive feedback I’ve received since starting this blog. I’ve never seen myself as a writer, still don’t, but when someone says “Hey” I want to keep hitting the keys. Nothing is more motivating than someone other than myself saying “I like that”. It’s energizing beyond my comprehension.

There was a lady helping out with track and field practice when I was in elementary school. I tried the long jump for the first time and beetled down the track as fast as my tiny legs would carry me. Where track stopped and sand began I leapt and soared a few feet. I didn’t know if it was good or bad but I heard her voice: “Wow! That’s really good. Next.” I got in the back of the line to await my next turn and as I got to the front I heard her say: “Here he is. Here comes our star”. And I felt like a star. I’d found my calling. My parents would be so proud they’d tell their friends. Maybe a TV station would get wind of me and let the world know I existed.

It wasn’t until I got to high school and tried out for track and field that I discovered I was rubbish at that and most other sports mostly because most sports favour larger people. And because I don’t have the athletic intelligence needed to be successful. But I tried and kept on trying because in grade six that lady told me I was a star. I tried basketball (I’m 5’6”) and never got past the tryouts. I tried football (I was maybe 145 lbs) and kept getting knocked down until eventually stopped getting back up. I settled on wrestling because I only had to fight guys in my own weight class but even there I lacked the killer instinct necessary to win many matches. But for six years I tried because someone told me I was a star.

I recently submitted two of my stories to the annual CBC writer’s competition. They get something like 10,000 entries per year so I’m not holding my breath but it’s something I never would have ventured if someone hadn’t said “Wow! That’s really good”. So I’ll keep y’all posted as I await the call from Margaret Atwood.

What to Think About When There's Nothing to Think About

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Sat, 22 Dec 2018 00:50:00 +0000

It's a wave. Humanity is a fixed number of bodies within a confined space. An ocean of humans with ripples made by those with stature and resources to see a little further but generally it's just a large pool of us. Through it all run regular swells, generations of us, every 20 years or so. But because it's a confined space we get to the end, the edge of our existence. And that's when the undercurrent forces the swell up, to reach up as high as it can get and to look around before it crashes into the future. I'm there. I'm at the crest, excited at the view because I'm seeing things I've never seen before and I'm fully aware of why I'm here; the end is near. Admittedly, the end has been a little nearer every day but I never thought about that, there was work and a growing family to think about.

Not working creates a vacuum, and you know how nature feels about that. The word 'abhors' comes to mind. I'm not thinking about my job, I'm not thinking about my union work or its members. I'm not thinking about anything a person swimming through life's ascending years would think about. Which leaves a lot of time to think, so where to direct one's thoughts? The most common response I hear from people when I ask "How you enjoying retirement?" is "I don't know how I found time for work." An empty vessel is quickly filled by the mundane. Stuff you could put off til the weekend becomes urgent. A friend's request becomes a mission. A curiousity becomes an investigation. Nature loves that.

I'm still new at deciding how to spend my thoughtful hours. The first 2 1/2 months were spent travelling so lots to think about there and it's a mindful, in-the-moment experience. In the 2 months since I've been back I've kept my hands busy as fulltime caretaker for this old house but other than writing this, my mind has been put out to pasture. I don't think binge watching series on tv during my previous work hours qualifies as quality use of my brain, as fun as it is. You can have too much fun, ask any addict. I'm approaching the point where I'll need to bring my mind back out of the pasture - while it's still in good enough shape to be of use - and resume how I spent my working years; seeking success as the result of effort. But where?

I'm renewing my nursing license in January - it'll take a third of my pension cheque - so some p/t or casual work will fill a few brain hours and if I enjoy the work it could continue into 2020. I doubt it. I retired because I could. Because my dad died at 69. Because I wanted change. I wanted to see what else I could do and I'd already been a paperboy, a janitor, bar owner, bartender, realtor, musician and nurse. I've been getting some positive feedback from people about my writing (thank you) and I enjoy the challenge so I've fantasized about writing a book. There's lots of fodder from my various 'careers' that I could fictionalize with a little effort and there's the rub.

My sister wrote a book. She told me how she had to impose a schedule on herself that mimicked her working day. She would start at 9:00 and take recess at 10:30 (she was a teacher). Lunch was a full hour followed by an afternoon of pecking. She would challenge herself to put down x number of pages in a day and if she did it early rewarded herself with a get-out-of-the-office card. Other days she'd stay late. I've been most successful when I've had the framework imposed on me. I shambled out of bed in a stupor, railed against the traffic on the way in but loved what I did and the day flew by. I know from having been my own boss that I can be way too lax with my only employee.

In the series that began with Chrysalis I wrote about my previous transformation in the hope it would guide me to a new dynamic change but ended it with the realization that there was desperation behind the motivation that fuelled that change. Desperation and unhappiness are fantastic fuel for change but I haven't felt either in many years so I need a new source. Maybe this is why publishers give an advance to authors; it forces them out of bed to complete their part of the bargain. But no-one's sending cheques my way so I need a new motivator and as I type it's becoming clearer.

Ego. Freud would have a shitload to say about this, about how well you like yourself determines how happy you are. A weak ego needs lots of affirmations to stay happy. A strong one, not so much. Both are ugly in the extreme; needyism vs narcissism. We're all on that continuum and form a bell curve that looks much like the swell of humanity rolling through. My habit has been to not stay fixed in one spot but to move around within the swell, staying aware of what my ego needs are and adjusting my choices accordingly. Just as I know when to trust my judgement and when to lend an ear, I know when I need positive feedback to keep working and when to just get the job done.

I'm not playing softball next summer. I play most every year but last year I had switched over to a men's over-50 league. These are guys who had been pretty fair athlete's as youngsters and continue to play into old age. Their bodies are softening but their self-image is still weekend warrior come to do battle. I've always been healthy but rarely athletic. I think it's a timing thing and on the athletic intelligence continuum I'm just barely in the top half. I got a lot of negative feedback which I pushed through but at the end of the season I looked back and said "Well that wasn't very much fun". A stronger ego might ignore other's displeasure and focus on enjoying playing. I'm not that strong and if I'm not having fun it's time to do something I'd enjoy more.

So you, Dear Reader, are my fuel. The most energizing moment in my writing came when someone who had tripped over my blog (Fine Young Weasel), read a piece I wrote, "Talking About Grief" (April 11, 2008) and liked it so much asked my permission to submit it to Post of the Week competition. It won and I suddenly had high octane fuel in my tank. I wrote with a vengeance, I tried poetry, fiction, op/ed; anything that came to mind. Those ageing warriors have trophy cases at home to stroke their egos and keep them playing, I go back and read comments.

Day 13 Santorini on display

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Fri, 14 Dec 2018 02:25:00 +0000

After a week in Galatas it was time to move on. So we went to Perissa on Santorini Island.

We stayed at this place mostly cuz

it had a pool which was an

absolute necessity in

35+ weather.

There was hill behind the hotel and from our poolside vantage point we saw a small chapel. We climbed up for a closer look.

The chapel wasn't much and it was locked,

But the view made the walk worthwhile

There were a few nice buildings in Perissa,

But it's mostly a beach town.

Which is where we hung out with Lui and Anita

When we weren't chilling, we visited the other towns on the island and saw Fira...

And Oia.

Pretty, but not a lot of greenspace.

The most popular tourist attraction was free; watching the sun go down.

The sun sets on Santorini.
And we're off to cruise a canal in southern France.

At Journey's End a New Life Begins

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Sun, 09 Dec 2018 09:33:00 +0000

The adoption process was exhausting

Morning came. Earlier than usual cuz, well, we had a baby and they just wake up whenever. It had been a dozen years since I'd held one of my own or got up in the middle of the night so as much as I loved the weight of him in my arms, the work of fatherhood was making itself known. But this morning was looming large. We were going to meet our son's mom and she was getting her chance to say goodbye. Sometimes we have to say a permanent goodbye to our kids, sometimes they die, but to say a forever goodbye to a child you knew was going to be alive all your life?

The agency was in a strip mall in Oak Park (hometown of Frank Lloyd Wright) just west of Chicago. For the second time we sat and stared at the door. Inside was our son's mother and...what do you say? Thanks for the gift? But Tammy was a wonderful young woman whose courageous strength made the transition from her to us happen. She held him in her arms and as I held the camera she explained to him why she had to let him go. She told him that he was a gift from god, that she loved him, loved him so much that she would suffer the loss of him to get him a better life. I cried, we all cried, even Luka cried and then we laughed, nodded and hugged. It was done.

We talked a while longer and she told us about her hopes for her son. She wanted him to have opportunities and support. She wanted semi-annual letters and pictures so she'd be kept abreast of his growth. She wanted him to be all that he could be and she wanted him to be Catholic. Now I was born and raised on that stuff. Choir boy, altar boy, catechism class and fulltime Catholic education. At an all boys school. It was our family culture, diet, routines and why I'm number 7 of 12 kids but in 1981 (Oct 31, 9am) I did a 180. I decided there was no god. Life is a result of random but predictable phenomena, nature plodding forth, so no need for a mythical being.

She wanted him baptized. "Uh, ok" I said. It didn't mean we'd have to go to church or forgo meat on Fridays. They sprinkle some magic water on his head and he'd be instantly absolved of original sin and - if he doesn't fuck it up - get a ticket to heaven. It was a small price to pay compared to the $20,000 we'd spent to get to the point where we would be holding him and agreeing upon terms. And besides, how hard could it be? You call up the church, tell them you want to baptize your kid and they say "How about Sunday at 2?" I put it on the list of things to do.

Adopting a child from another country means dealing with not just the legal process of adoption, but simultaneously sponsoring someone to become a Canadian citizen. Both processes had lengthy steps that consumed the next week. We went to court to see a clerk who filled out a paper and handed it to a sheriff who tapped Luka on the head and told him he was officially being served papers to inform him that his parentage was being challenged in court. Two days later we stood before a judge to answer her questions about why we wanted to be parents, how we could provide for him and what his family life would be like. I guess she liked our answers because with a nod of her head a paper was stamped and Luka Alexander Antonio Gojevic became a legal entity.

I was a father all over again. Rejuvenated by necessity, I charged into the new life I'd created. I loved school and with all the change around me I knew I was on a highway to my future. I worked hard and graduated at the top of my class (hey, if you can't brag on your own blog, where can you?). And my transition was complete, the suffering, single dad was gone and replaced by married John with a child on his knee. The routine of a job gave a structure to the day that had been missing all those years and allowed me to climb in any direction I chose. I'd never been happier.

Then 15 years went by. Luka never did get baptized but not for a lack of trying. I called the local church, the same church I was baptized in and was directed to the nun in charge. "Well" she said, "You need to be a member of this church." "I can do that" I thought. And then I thought some more. I wasn't willing to park my beliefs to get access to a local baby and with a baby in my arms I felt even less inclined to be hypocritical. Breaking a promise competed with compromised values for my attention and eventually lost. I chose to remain loyal to my beliefs and quietly forgot my promise.

It's cliche to say "When you're having a good time..." so I won't say it but my career flew by. I'll write in future pieces about my experiences in the downtown eastside, hospital work, a psychiatric forensic hospital in Wales and a geriatric outreach team but those years are now behind me. I'm still doing some casual work but for the most part I'm reinventing myself and writing about my last reinvention has been an attempt to look at that process from a distance to discern the key components. More than anything I needed the support of my wife who shared not just half the load but provided the encouragement I needed. And that's still here. I still have the energy but there's no stock-piled fuel for change that existed when I went through this before. You need to be unhappy to want change but I was happy in my job so no deposits to the change-fuel bank were being made.

So change this time will be different. I won't be exploding in any direction any time soon. I'm looking at a lot of things but mostly it's just looking. I'm enjoying idleness and the small accomplishments in an unstructured day and waiting. For something.

Day 6 Galatas

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Fri, 07 Dec 2018 04:57:00 +0000

Day 6

Galatas

*click to enlarge

The Assumption of Mary (when god's mom got into heaven) is celebrated by Catholics on Aug 15 all over the world but it's celebrated differently everywhere. Here there's candles in bread, sermons in microphones to big speakers on closed streets and a parade led by a guy in a black-hooded cloak.

The view from our front door.

I wasn't very good

We had to endure a week in this place

That's our hotel, the Poros View, on the hill across the water.

It was named for the hill I was standing on.

Best little beach ever.

And possibly the worst. It was called Koloni and was a half hour cab ride outside of town. It was billed by UK's Guardian as one of the best beaches in Greece. 50 meters of gravel with no services.

Somebody paid somebody.

But we had a pool at the hotel so we didn't suffer tooo much.

How I Met My Son

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Sun, 02 Dec 2018 21:25:00 +0000

The call. THE call. It was a Thursday afternoon, I was home from school and the phone rang. It was the agency in Chicago that had a proposition. There was a baby, it was already born but only a week old. Were we okay with that? Uh, YEAH. “And sorry, you know all of our kids are African-American but he’s actually Mexican descent. Is that okay?” Uh, YEAH! “Okay, well don’t get too excited, she’s kinda flaky but I have a meeting with her tomorrow in a park to show her your portfolio and a few others. If she shows up and it looks good, I’ll call you.” She said maybe 4:00.

Next day Deb and I, sitting, watching the telephone at 4:00. Still watching at 5:00. At 6:00 we looked at each other, took a deep breath and sighed into the next valley. Then the phone rang. They were in a park, she’d seen our package but wanted to talk to us before making a final decision. She told us a little about herself, about the father, about her other two children and how she couldn’t handle any more with just her and a welfare cheque. She asked about us and I kicked into salesman role. I told her about me becoming a nurse and my other kids, Deb told her about being a teacher and working with young kids and when she said she’d named him Antonio I sang a song my mother sang to my brother Tony…”Oh my Antonio…” It was thicker than peanut butter but this was our chance. The social worker got back on the phone and said “I’ll call you back”.

And she did half an hour later. “How soon can you get here?”

We were on a plane that night and took an empty baby car seat with us. Antonio was with a family that did a lot of short term foster care for this agency. Shortly after his birth (and maybe long before) his mom decided she had to give him up and when she got home gave him to a neighbour. A day later she walked by the adoption agency and then stopped and went in to ask questions about how to legally give away her child. They sat her down and gave her a cup of tea. After hearing her story and finding out where her baby was, they told her what had to happen for her child to be given up for adoption. They discussed her rights and what would be in her best interest as she moved into her future. I wasn’t there for that conversation but there must have been talk about where she wanted him to grow up, what colour or religion should the parents be and how much contact did she want. They told her that the people that had her baby had to go through the same process as all other prospective adoptive parents did for it to be legal. They said it was important that they get the baby away from the people that had him before they got too attached. And she agreed.

We got off the plane with an address on a scrap of paper. Get a car, get a map, get a son. A freeway here, a highway there and a few side streets later we were parked in front of the house and we stopped to look at each other in our last childless moment. “This is it, last chance to change your mind”, I said. She whispered “I’ve waited my whole life for this”. We held hands and looked at the front door. Another deep breath and we leaned into the peak we were about to climb.

Antonio, soon to become Luka, had been with his mom, his neighbours and this foster family in the first week of his life; he nestled into my arms in sleepy contentment. We gathered what little info was available: “He sleeps well”, “He has 3 ounces each feeding, sometimes more”, “Very settled baby”. It was time to fill the empty seat and put this new family in forward motion, it had been a very long day and there was an even longer week ahead. We were to meet his mom the next day at the agency but first we had to find our hotel. We didn’t have cell phones or GPS but we had a map and an address and a baby happily settled into the back seat.

With Debbie the Navigator calling the shots we arrived at the hotel just as our son began to stir. It was feeding time. We pulled in front of the hotel and I jumped out to check us in. Deb got our son out of his seat to comfort him realizing we needed to get into our room to make his formula. She came into the lobby to inform me of this and closed the car door behind her. I had left the keys in the ignition. The auto-lock function, meant to make us feel safe, sealed the formula in its steel and glass prison with the engine running. Panic set in immediately. Deb had an empty bottle in her hand and nothing else. The stores were all closed and Luka’s stirring became a wail. We called AAA who said they could get into the car but it would be at least an hour. Up in our room we paced and patted and hoped it would be sooner than later. I put some of the complimentary sugar in warm tap water to try and fool him into thinking he was getting a meal and he was curious at first but soon realized it wasn’t hitting the spot. He wanted real food and communicated that real well.

And thus began our new life with our new family. The guy showed up around an hour later, released our belongings and took our money. Luka, with a full belly and a dry bum went to sleep while mom and dad opened the champagne they’d brought for this very moment. Deb, the grandmaster of orchestrating the adoption process, mapped out the week ahead; there was paperwork waiting at the agency, at immigration, at the doctor’s office and the courtroom. But it was meeting Tammy, Antonio’s mom, the next morning that took up most of the conversation. She hadn’t seen him since he was removed from the neighbour’s house by the foster family a few days before. Would she change her mind? Could she change her mind? Would Luka go to her and become Antonio forever? I brought our movie camera to document the moment for Luka and knew it would be intensely emotional; I knew nothing.

Day 3 Athens

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Thu, 29 Nov 2018 08:02:00 +0000

Day 3

Athens

*click to enlarge

From the roof deck of our hotel. I always thought Acropolis and Parthenon were the same thing.

No.

The Parthenon sits on the Acropolis.

You already knew that.

Serious drama

There's not a lot of shade up there

Some things just look better in black and white. Don't know why.

It was a highly amputated society. Hard to get to old age with all limbs intact.

We practically had the place to ourselves

Bye Ladies! I'm going to Galatas.

Adopting a New Way of Being

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Tue, 27 Nov 2018 04:26:00 +0000

I didn't know how much I didn't know. I had no idea how tough it was to become an adoptive parent, in fact, from a distance it looked a lot easier and less painful than enduring a pregnancy and giving birth. Couldn't we just go through a catalog and pick one out? But every province, every state, every country has different rules about adoption so there was a lot to learn. We started by attending an adoption fair - I know, I hadn't heard of them either - where there were booths set up by various agencies with poster pictures of smiling families. The Ministry of Children and Families was there to promote adoption of foster kids and offered discounts for adopting 'special needs' kids. In talking to various professionals we learned how expensive and lengthy a process this was going to be.

It goes something like this: to adopt a child you have to be approved by the province to get a license to adopt. To get licensed we had to open our lives to multiple intrusions into our private affairs, our bank accounts, our social lives, our home. We were interviewed (a 'Homestudy') as were our teenage children and extended family. It's an excellent time not to have a criminal record. To guide you through the process you need an agent and that's who'd set up all those booths at the fair. We naively chose an agency in Victoria thinking that would expand our hunting ground. We could keep our ear to the rail in Vancouver to see if there was a baby coming our way and our agent in Victoria would do the same. It didn't take long to figure out he/she wasn't going to come from either one.

Infants are the most sought after by would be adopters. Any mother unable to have one naturally, naturally wants one anyway they can get it. Most of us don't consider kidnapping so adopting one is the only (legal) option. My sister gave up her baby in the early 60's because good Catholic girls didn't get pregnant outside of wedlock. It was taken immediately after birth and it was given to a 'good' family; she didn't actually see her daughter until 30 years later. But today the only babies available are born of mothers that value human life so highly that they would rather give birth and give it away than have an abortion. That moral structure is closely aligned with most religions and consequently, if you were going to adopt a baby here you probably belong to the same church as the mother.

But god, religion and I hadn't been on the same page in decades. I could have gone back just to get something out of it that I wanted but you and I both know that would have been wrong. In retrospect, most people attend church or refer to themselves as Catholic or Jewish because they get something out of it. For some it's the sense of community, for others it's the belief that god knows who shows up on Sunday so if you want him to smile on you be in your seat. So after a year of local looking we expanded our horizons to find that moral mother that would accept Deb and a heathen like me as parents for her child. We did it but it took a lot of time, a lot of money and one false promise.

When it looked like it wasn't going to happen here we looked first at China (they had a booth at the fair). There were lots of girls available as the result of their one child law and most people wanted their one to be a boy. But the youngest would be at least 8 months old because the bureaucracy with China is extensive and time consuming. We met some people who'd adopted from Guatemala and they were so happy that we joined the Guatemalan Adoptive Parents Assoc. We looked at the Ukraine and Russia but post-natal care was suspect and again, they would be close to a year before you brought them home. Anywhere in the world any baby already born was going to be at least 8 months old before you got to hold it. Except Illinois.

Deb found AdoptionLink, an agency in Chicago that connects would-be parents with mothers that haven't given birth but have already made the decision not to keep it. They're mothers-to-be that want to choose the parents of her child and with whom she can develop a relationship that could stretch into the future. We could even be there for the birth if we chose. Illinois laws give the birth mom a three day window to change her mind after the birth but that's a small risk if you've developed a relationship and she's remained unwavering in her decision. And there's the fly in your soup.

Not long after our agent sent our package to Chicago we got a call. An expecting mother liked it and wanted to know more so a teleconference was arranged. She liked us enough to say yes and a correspondence grew as her baby grew towards its arrival date which was still half a pregnancy away. All moms at this agency were African-American though all the staff and all the adopting parents were white. Kinda weird. It may have been because the disparity in wealth between white and black was stark enough that there just weren't sufficient resources for black moms before or after the child was born. Which would have meant more black babies available and the need for an agency just for them. I don't know that for sure. I never asked and maybe didn't care; we just wanted a child. A healthy child so pre-natal care was discussed including drugs/alcohol, sufficient food and support.

As the baby grew so did mom's love of the creature within and shortly before the birth she disappeared. No more phone calls, no more emails and the picture and letter that had come the old fashioned way sat on the desk smiling at me. I've never had a miscarriage so don't know the physical pain but the sense of loss was profound. We moped for a few days wondering "What next?" and "What about those thousands of dollars we sent them?" It wasn't long before the phone rang again and it said "We found you a new mom". As we got to know her we were sure we'd taken a step up. She was a computer programmer, her mom and dad were both doctors. She was healthy, smart and single but was on a career path that didn't include a child. The correspondence resumed and we moved slowly forward to the day when she stopped responding as well.

"Maybe we need to re-think this. Maybe an older child is the way to go. One that already has a healthy track record and mom's already out of the picture" And then we got THE call.

Day 1 Paris

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Fri, 23 Nov 2018 07:45:00 +0000

Day 1

Aug 6, 2018

Do I look like a tourist in these shorts?

We touched down at 8:00am and went straight to the bike tour company, dropped our bags and went for a gallon of coffee. Then pedalled. And yeah, it was 2am Vancouver time.

Our teeny weeny loft was easier to book than find. But find it we did and after a few zzz's headed out into the night.

We found a train, found Montmartre and a bottle of wine.

And thus began an epic, 10 week journey that took us through France, Greece, Portugal and Spain.

Day 2

It took a week to get over the jet lag but as we did we wandered.

Took pics.

Then edited the shit out of them.

Took this from the top floor of the D'Orsay.

Where I saw the original of a painting I'd seen a hundred times.

On our way to the Louvre we passed this old church. Notre Something.

Which had a cool window.

But some things look better without colour.

We skipped Mona in favour of Venus.

Then it was time to chomp on the Champs Elysees

No regrets.

We couldn't not see that big tower at night

We couldn't not take its picture

You can click on any of these pictures to enlarge or go full screen. I finished the last blog with "And then the call came". I'll tell y'all about that next time but just realized I can post pix for the first time and kinda excited ( a picture says a few million words) so now I can mix it up with pix of the trip...

Giant Leaps

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Mon, 19 Nov 2018 06:53:00 +0000

There'd been a lot of prep. In getting ready for my new identity I'd done aptitude testing, exploration, volunteering on a crisis line, bought a house, reversed my vasectomy (not by myself) and got engaged. But the two biggest steps were still waiting for me; changing my vocation and my parental status.

The wedding was still a few months away when the day came for my fertility test. It was out at UBC in a nondescript office on the main floor of the hospital. The sample needed to be fresh out of the gate in order to get a good sperm count so it was delivery on demand. The young lady behind the counter provided the necessary cup and whispered "there's some magazines in the drawer..." My face got warm. I cleared my throat and avoided eye contact as she pointed me in the direction of a small, private room. It was tiny with a metal desk and a chair as its only occupants. The four blank walls could neither distract nor encourage vigour but the old Playboys were in the drawer.

I took the result to the lab and the guy asked me, "You wanna see?" "Hell yeah", I said. He prepared a slide and there they were, sliding around, looking for somewhere to go.
"Hey, you know where we're supposed to go?"
"Nah, but I don't think we're even in the right neighbourhood."
What shocked me were the number of broken boys in the mix, lying there dead before they were even born. I assumed everyone (or no-one) would be swimming by but lab guy assured me it was normal and I was back in the game.

But the big game, my job, was still under consideration. I'd whittled it down to something in mental health and the testing had said it would be a good fit but I'd never done anything like that and I still hadn't seen a job that wasn't self-employed and achieved with just a few years of fulltime school. Volunteering at a crisis line seemed like a good place to try myself out and they provided some excellent training. I learned about empathy and active listening. I learned not to give advice and how to coax people to give themselves advice. I learned how to set boundaries to rein people in and learned how to identify key issues and let people run with them. I learned how to call police while keeping the suicidal caller on the line. And I loved it. So the testing was right, I was in my element, now if I could only just find someone willing to pay me to do this I'd know where was supposed to go.

Just had a quick insight into the workings of crisis line therapy. In writing this piece I referred back to some of the stuff I wrote in 2008 about grief and reread the piece on writing as a tool for recovery. I wrote that the therapy lies in the time spent with fingers hovering over the keys thinking about how you feel. That introspection gets written and edited until you get it right. The pressure drops as you sort through your fears and take some of your sadness and put it into the computer. The crisis line worked the same way; it allowed people to speak their thoughts and staff responded with what they heard. The caller would then clarify (edit) and rephrase to get close to what they were feeling. It helped them to sort through the confusing emotions and unload the weight. Grief is a shitload of weight to carry and whether you choose analog or digital to download the result is the same.

While the fertility testing told me what I wanted to hear, a year later we were still childless. The fertility doctor we waited 6 months to see looked at the file for the first time then looked at us and shook her head. "Just enjoy the sex...". Her remark was patronizing and stupid but mostly just sad and the truth we feared sat on the desk between us. Undaunted, Deb began researching adoption and she set her criteria for a baby. She wanted a baby. A real baby baby, new to the world and unattached to anyone. Too young to have suffered post-natal neglect, someone that would grow up to have only known us as her parents.Boy, girl, White, Black... it didn't matter so long as he-she was a baby and healthy. There were a lot of steps, a lot of money and a lot of waiting - years - but we got started.

Deb knew someone who knew someone that worked in a profession I'd never heard of; psychiatric nursing. A little research revealed there was a program at Douglas College that graduated wannabees after three years who then wrote an exam that, if successful, made them Registered Psychiatric Nurses. So I went to their open house. Instructors gave talks on various aspects of the work their grads did, what the pay was like, and what was needed for a successful career. I was hooked. My years of coaching myself through grief and loss could be turned outward and put to good use for others and now, myself. I could use my past to shape my future.

The program was three years, a year more than I'd hoped for but a little flexibility was needed if I was going to get where I wanted to go. To keep the mortgage paid we took in homestay students and I took part time work that related to my approaching field. Six months into the program I hung up the real estate license I'd clung to like a life preserver for 16 years. They say you have to lose sight of the shore to explore new horizons so I turned 180 degrees and sailed my ship in a new direction. And then the call came.
👫👪👫👪👫👪 👪👪👪👪

The House I'll Build for the Wrens

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Mon, 12 Nov 2018 08:04:00 +0000

Three years after meeting, falling in love and marrying Deb I was still selling real estate. I had reversed the vasectomy in the hope of creating our love child and shortly after signing a year lease on a beautiful home in Marpole we decided to buy our home in East Van. We'd been dating all of five months when she came to meet me at a new listing I was trying to flog. It was a Sunday afternoon and my Open House went until 2:00 or whenever it didn't look like anyone was going to come. It was 1997, the market was still soft and I was happy to have whatever company came through the door. I think I bribed her with a promise of a nice lunch if she'd drop by.

She did drop by and as she sat on the couch in the front room the warmth of the building's heritage seeped into her imagination. It still had the original wainscotting and fireplace. She firmly believed that beneath the wall-to-wall carpet lurked an original wood floor begging to be refinished. The kitchen and bath were dated from the 60's - maybe even the 50's - but it had lots of room to accommodate the two teens with us along with our hoped for addition. "We should buy this house" says she. "Uuhh" says I, "$359,000 is a LOT of money." Buying a house was the last thing on my mind. I was still focussed on a career change and school time and making a baby and nobody else was buying, why should I?

As we talked, another couple came in accompanied by their Realtor. I gave them a brochure and answered their questions but the sales job was up to the their guy; if he was going to get half the commish he was going to have to make it happen. I was hoping for my own buyer to just walk through the door and say "I want it. Write it up". Which is exactly what happened except I was engaged to the buyer. Well the Realtor did his job and called me a few hours later to say "I have an offer". Deb and I had talked more over lunch and came up with a number that we could afford and hoped the owner would accept but now we were in a competition. The process goes something like this: You tell the owner that there is more than one offer and they get to hear all the details of all offers before deciding to accept one or proposing a counter offer to the one they like. So Deb and I had to talk some more.

My assessment put its value at somewhere around $350,000 and anything she got would be a windfall. She and her husband had paid $6,000 many years before but as a widow for many years the maintenance and size were too much for her. I didn't know what the other couple was going to offer but I knew we only had one chance to put our best offer on the table so none of the typical '5-10% less than ask and see what happens'. We decided to offer full price.

The other offer came in at a reasonable $345,000 and boy were they pissed. They felt I had an unfair advantage which is probably true as she was my client (I had also sold her mother's home) but the bottom line was I offered more money. Their complaint to my manager got a reasonable "They offered more money" response and quickly faded away but now the real problem screamed in my face - where was I going to get $359,000?

As I contemplated that I also contemplated on how things were developing below decks. I'd had the operation and the boys had resumed their previous size and maybe some vigour so maybe it was time? Doc says "Give it another month. I'll set an appointment for you out at UBC." I didn't know what that meant at first but the truth took shape over the next few weeks and I built up a vision of what the room would look like.

Of all the roles we play our job is the prime contribution to our identity. Well, personality but then the job and I was still working on that. I'd done some aptitude testing that suggested a lot of things but when placed against the template I'd formed from my criteria - two years of training and a job with a paycheque at the end of the rainbow - an area revealed itself. Health care was something I'd always been interested in but in my young distracted days it didn't happen. I was a father at 22 with three more right behind so my days were spoken for, but now? I could be a nurse in 2 or 3 years but my 40 year old body wouldn't take the rigours of that noble profession for long and really, I was more interested in people's mental health. A psychology masters degree could take 6 years or more. A psycho-therapist could be trained and accredited after 2 years but they were mostly self-employed or working in low-paying (but warm and fuzzy) jobs. And heck, I didn't even know if I'd be any good at it. Somebody said "The crisis line is looking for volunteers".

So I found the $359,000 and I'll tell you how. I didn't have much in the bank but I had a credit card and a commission. Deb already owned an apartment and sufficient income to maintain it but didn't have any loose cash lying in wait for an opportunity. I'd written the offer subject to approval of a building inspection and got the report a few days later. There were suggestions on there about the roof and furnace and I came up with a number, $9,000, to get the house through its biggest expenses in the near future. I went back to the owner and said "Here's the inspection report. It says the roof and furnace are about to go. If you knock $9,000 off the price I can use that money to get it done and my growing family won't be living with rainbuckets and without heat next year." She said she'd already decided in advance of receiving the offer that she was prepared to accept $350,000, exactly what I'd told her it was worth. I suggested that instead of lowering her price she pay a bonus of $9,000 on top of my commission. That would give me access to the money I needed for repairs and help keep property values in the neighbourhood up which would make all her neighbours very happy.

It also gave us a downpayment for the house. The credit cards took a beating as we paid Property Transfer Tax, appraisal, assessment and legal fees. And the loan to value ratio was still too high for us to qualify for the payments. And unless we got the mortgage for 75% or less, it would have to be insured by CMHC and the cc's were bursting at the seams. Deb's mom gave us a second mortgage that was registered on title and reduced the first mortgage to an affordable level. We hoped there was a little more life in the furnace and roof but kept the rainbuckets and a load of firewood on hand as we headed down another road.

Going back to school fulltime with a fulltime mortgage was going to be a challenge. We knew we couldn't retire until it was paid off so set an aggressive path. With uncomfortably high payments we could have it paid off in 15 years (Freedom 55). That didn't happen. But lots of cool stuff did that made the extra 2 years of mortgage payments worthwhile and I'll share test day and the rest of the steps I took to redefine myself later.

It Made a Vas Deferens

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Mon, 05 Nov 2018 02:39:00 +0000

When we’re young we make big decisions in a heartbeat: “I think I’ll be a Realtor”, “Buy a pub? Yeah, I’m in”, “Wanna get married?”, “You’re pregnant? That’s cool.” You’re immortal in the first half of your life so it doesn’t matter what you do, you can always change it later because there’s lots of later left. When wife #2 said we had to get married - she didn’t want to live in sin anymore and the last guy left after a few years of co-habitation – I shrugged and said “Okay”. I figured I’d been through divorce before and it wasn’t that difficult or expensive. Not a good starting point but I didn’t want to move and felt there was a 50/50 shot at things working out (see my piece on luck). I was still sub-40 and the end of time wasn’t on the horizon yet.

But it was making its presence known when I contemplated becoming a father at 43. I walked the beach and stared at the ocean. I talked to my brothers and other friends about it, the same people that told me I should absolutely not get married just because getting divorced was easy. But I didn’t take their advice then and was probably only asking because I wanted to think out loud and show myself I was actually thinking before making a big decision. It was my brother Peter who said “Looks like you won the lottery”. He said it was exactly what I was looking for: a fresh start. Divorced from the mother of my children, there was no ‘co-parenting’, no discussions on what we could/should do in any situation regarding our children. As the non-custodial parent in the early years I had no say in what school, what activities, what anything. Here was an opportunity to be the father I wanted to be and I wasn’t going to count on luck, I was going to remember the mistakes I’d made and do everything necessary to make this work. I had the vasectomy reversed.

I explained to Deb, in business-like fashion, that I was willing to provide the sperm she was buying each month, that I was warming to the idea of being a father again and that I saw us creating a family and a future together. In exchange for my genetic material and support of her cause I wanted some sort of assurance this was going to work and the only mechanism I envisioned that could give me that was a wedding. Perhaps the most unromantic marriage proposal, ever. Her response was intriguing: “You sure you want to do that?” A cryptic yes followed by a note taped to her door when I went to see her the next day. It said “Ask me again”.

Vasectomies are covered by our medical services plan and can be done in your doctor’s office in about half an hour. I had mine done by an ancient vasectomist in West Van who said “Bring a jockstrap” and “Don’t forget to shave…everything”. In our pre-procedure conversation I mentioned that I’d read an article about prostate cancer and the suggestion that there was an 80% increase in those who’d had a vasectomy. “Yeah…well…” He hummed and hawed and suggested that it was more likely due to guys being seen by a specialist such as himself are more likely to be diagnosed, or some such thing. My brain was saying “You gotta think about this”. My mouth was saying “Okay”. A half hour later wife #2, who was convinced children would conflict with her tee times, was driving me home. It may be the poor memory but I recall little pain or even discomfort and I was back at work the next day.

Vasectomy reversals are the polar opposite. It’s not covered by MSP, it’s not done in a doctor’s office and there’s no guarantee it’ll actually work. But, convinced I was starting down a new path, I ponied up the $1500 and made an appointment at Lion’s Gate hospital. It was a few months away so I didn’t think about it much until the day of. Upon arrival at the appropriate counter, I was sent to a nearby room and told to strip and put on one of those ridiculous gowns. I slipped on the slippers and waited and let the anxiety build. The sounds, sights and smells of a hospital were giving me pause, this was a big deal and I was going to be awake. The nurse tapped on the door and I asked her if it was possible to have an Ativan before we began. She said she’d ask the doc but he declined. Dick. I shuffled into the operating room and I assumed my position with feet in stirrups, legs spread and torso leaned way back.

Three doctors hovered, chatting about their golf games and the optimal number of stitches for reattaching a vas deferens. One lifted my testicles and inserted a needle. Then another, and another. Most guys are sensitive, even protective of their boys. Me, I’m a pussy. I even think about my boys getting a bump and I feel a gut punch. And he kept going. Ten, maybe 15, injections to freeze me well enough to start cutting and then they started. That’s when it started to feel like a dentist visit. You’re frozen, so there’s no pain but he bangs around in there and you feel the vibration and squeak and smell and try to think you’re somewhere else. But this wasn’t my mouth, he was pulling on tubes in my groin and I couldn’t put my mind elsewhere. A few times it caused a knee jerk reaction as I tried to protect myself so one of the docs held down my leg, gave me a frown and asked me “How could that hurt?”. I’d like to yank on his tubes.

A couple of hours later I hobbled to the waiting room to await pickup by the woman who was hoping to benefit from the new plumbing. Unlike the vasectomy, recovery from this was also a big deal with the biggest attraction being the boys. They were now triple their usual rotundness and wanted to be left alone so they and I lay back and waited. And waited. The sun arced across the sky and my bed became a sundial as its rays came through the window and moved up my left leg. I watched it inch its way up my leg five times before I risked putting on pants and sitting down. But I recovered and was told that in a few months I’d be well enough that I could get vigorous with the equipment and produce a sample that would tell us if it was worth the effort.

So...a new address, new living companions, new roles and new plumbing. Big strides down the road of change but more were needed to get to the destination. And the destination was defining itself as I went.

Stay tuned.

Chrysalis

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Fri, 02 Nov 2018 07:50:00 +0000

The dust is beginning to settle. I landed with a Whump last week, back in Vancouver, and raised a dust storm of things to do as I thudded into the unknown. Three months into retirement and the pension cheque still hasn’t arrived. Airbnb needs a little more nudging to provide the refund they promised. My car engine seized, it was towed to the dealership two weeks ago and they’re still trying to decide if the warranty is valid. What do you mean we’ve paid full cable, internet and phones while we were away? And on and on.

Putting out fires has filled the void where work once engaged me but I’m not a fireman, I’m a nurse. I thought a lot about retirement beforehand but think I thought more about what I wouldn’t be doing than what I would be doing. Not getting up in the dark and sucking chocolate/sipping coffee to wake up then joining the morning river of angst to work. The week has passed, the fires are dying and I’m finding time to write, time to think of who I am now. The early part of retirement will be finding a new identity.

We don’t change identities every day, some people never do. But I’ve done it. Identity isn’t just what you do for a living, though it’s a major part. Identity is all the roles you play - father friend husband - as well as how you see yourself and how others see you. In my late thirties I went on an existential ride and started questioning what I’d done, who I was and was I happy? If not, the time for change was running out; the classic mid-life crisis but ridden over a span of years like an curiously long wave to a surfer. Precariously balancing myself on a board of family and work I peered ahead, not knowing what was coming but looking for new possibilities. I was a full blown adult in an unhappy marriage, a realtor scraping by in a soft market, missing my kids and full time fatherhood.

I started reading newspaper ads for employment just to see what other people were doing for a living and to see where I might fit. I realized almost immediately that anything worthwhile needed a few years of training so I needed to set criteria. How much time could I invest? How much debt could I take on to get there? What were the job prospects when I finish? I’ve been self-employed my whole life which can be wonderfully free while incredibly restricting; showing houses took precedence over seeing soccer games but I could see a mid-week xmas pageant. I wanted a feel-good job, something warm and fuzzy that made me feel good about what I did and I wanted a paycheque at the end of the day. Sometimes I shared a client’s joy when they bought or sold property but mostly it was just business with overhead and being on the make all the time. The first criteria I set was: I don’t want to be self-employed. The second was I was willing to invest 2 years of fulltime study to launch a new career.

Not surprisingly, my equally unhappy wife said “Not on my watch”. So the first step in renewal was departure. She was pretty happy when we met, when the market was strong and money was plentiful. But the market turned south in the mid 90’s and my income was cut by half. She was particularly unhappy whenever my kids were around and always felt she played second fiddle, that I was happier with my kids than with her and that their needs came first. How sad if it wasn’t true. My youngest daughter was now on a waitlist for a lung transplant and as her health failed, her mother felt a need to spend more time with her boyfriend. I know, it didn’t make any sense to me either but here was the opening I needed to move in another direction. I told wife #2 that wife #1 was struggling with three teenage kids and that I needed to take custody of the older two (15 & 17 years) so that she could focus on the well-being of the youngest. With them as leverage, I avoided the whole discussion around our mutual unhappiness and we parted (mostly) amicably. It was November 1996.

And thus began the most difficult period of my life. I’d taken a 2nd job to make sure the bills were paid so started at 6am M-F and went til noon delivering packages for UPS. Then it was put on a suit and tie to play Realtor until 9pm, the unofficial shutdown time for cold calls though actual contract writing and negotiations went until after midnight. Saturdays and Sundays were Open Houses or driving prospective buyers around so there was little time for a social life though there was a huge gap to fill. I was lonely. And busy and worried and frustrated at not being able to move ahead being so weighed down in the present. The present was meeting the needs and enduring the hostility of teenagers while watching my daughter wither. I have a strong memory of that time: I was kneeling on the living room floor, exhausted physically and emotionally. I wrapped my arms around myself for comfort and sank back. My head dropped forward and I slowly curled myself into a ball. I fell to my side and brought my knees up as high as I could. I wanted to be as small as possible, to compress myself into insignificance, to disappear just for a moment and wallow in the weightlessness of my pity pool.

Then the call came; a boy had been hit by a car while riding his bike home from school. He was dead but his organs breathed new life into other children including mine but it didn’t come easy. Rachel was the youngest lung transplant they’d done and a first at Children’s hospital. I could (and probably will) write pages about that experience but not now, this is about transforming myself.

I kept putting one foot in front of the other hoping I was headed towards somewhere I wanted to be. Leaving #2 was a self imposed catalyst but it didn’t have the impact of, say, a meteor hitting the earth and wiping out the dinosaurs. That pushed change into another direction

Whoa! Those words were written 10 days ago and then the ‘puter crashed. Kinda. Turns out the charging cord wasn’t uptodate so battery died, laptop shop shrugged, nephew in law says get a new cord, Amazon delivered and here I am. I also put a new (used) engine in my car.

So where was I… Right, single dad, struggling, hoping for change. And waiting for that spark, that something, that person that could ignite the desire-fuel I’d stockpiled. I know, kinda cheesy but there I was and then she came. She told me straight off she wanted a baby. I said “I had a vasectomy”. And “I already had 4”. “That’s ok”, says she, “I’m going to a clinic”, “Every month”.

Gimme a couple of days. I’ll tell you more…

For Cindy

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Tue, 16 Oct 2018 23:08:00 +0000

Anticipation: waiting for something to happen. Only I didn't know what I was waiting for. Weeks before we had slotted time for Pere Lachaise cemetery, a famous burial ground for those that want to be remembered and those we want to remember. Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde and thousands of others call it home and we had 2.5 hours to see what there was to be seen. Rick Steeves, the travel entrepeneur that had talked us through Athens was here again, directing my steps, adding music to enrich the scene and making sure we saw what others came to see.

But Rick didn't know I'd been here before and I didn'tknow what I wanted to see until I started walking. June 11, 2001 I pushed my daughter, Rachel, down these cobblestone paths. It was a lumpy ride in a wheelchair but she never complained. The doctor said she had somewhere between 5 months and 5 years to live and a good year of that was behind us. This was our chance to deepen our connection, do something different and mostly to see EuroDisney (she'd been to Anaheim and Florida so this was a bucket list thing). Weather while we were here was crap and we wore raincoats most days including the day we visited Pere Lachaise.

She had a lively sense of dying, of wanting to know how they were remembered, of what the afterlife looked like. I'd been seeing a therapist who helped me get on her level and tried to see the future through her eyes. So together we walked this park of people who didn't want to be forgotten. We visited Jim Morrison and Voltaire but mostly we wandered the quiet paths and absorbed the tranquility of the space. Rick Steeves pointed out today that it's about the same area as Disneyland. We wandered and looked, contemplated the lives lived and lost and she was comforted by it. It was like seeing a home you'd bought but but go back to see before moving in so you could decide what furniture to bring with you.

As we strolled we happened upon a sepulchre with her name on it. Famille Rachel had been placing their lost ones there for the better part of 200 years and it was a photo op not to be denied. An arch with her name framed the young lady in her wheelchair, bent but smiling in her blue raincoat. And that's what I looked for today. It didn't come as part of the pre-programmed tour and in spite of my swivel head search had not bee seen. As we were about to leave the park I saw a security guard focussed on her cell and interupted "Parlez-vous Anglais?". "A leetle". I prattled what I wanted, she shrugged and pointed. There was an administration building not far off and as luck would have it (check out Looking for Nika) they were open. This lady spoke even less English but Deb stepped in and made it happen. We left with precise directions to the spot I had taken Rae's pic 17 years ago. It was less dramatic than I'd remembered and the sun was on the wrong side but there I was, breathing deep of the past.

And all of that was hours ago. We got home, I typed as Deb showered and then we headed out for our last night in Paris and another new adventure. This time it was jazz, Parisian jazz to be precise, and as cranial-crashing as only new sounds can be. She'd found someone online that offered to take the uninitiated to a dark corner of Paris for a musical experience that we couldn't have found on our own. I'm certain that's true because there is no way that we would have found this pay-by-donation venue with its excellent musicians and hidden location. We took the subway to a prescribed spot and waited at a cafe. And waited. I neared the end of my glass of wine when a young woman slid close on her bicycle. "Deb?" she asked and Deb nodded. It was a like a drug deal from a movie. I excused myself to answer the call and let them speak French and as the bladder relaxed asked myself "What the f... am I doing here?" When I returned the bill was paid and we were being led across the road to a wide gateway I hadn't noticed from our perch. Beyond was a wide cobblestone path going up to an abandonded building. Colourful lights lit our way and in the widening ahead plastic tables and chairs accomodated our co-conspirators. We wended through, passed through a door, then another and found ourselves in a large dry deserted space. It was the sort of space you'd expect to find the homeless with graffiti the only decoration on the decomposing walls. But on one side was a bar with beer taps and the far end had a stage. We kept going and found a courtyard beyond so we grabbed a few seats and gotinformed about what was about to happen,

Our guide was a young woman, part jazz singer, part music therapist and she gave us the skinny on what we were about to see. "Just wait", she said. A few moments later an extremely tall black man came through a door and said something in French that got everyone moving. We managed seats in the front row and faced a group of musicians who had taken a vow of never getting beyond 30. All male, a nerdy type sat at a grand piano to my left, five sax players of various sizes aligned the front row and the rhythm section filled the rear. The stand up bass and drums created a below decks engine that pushed these front runners along at a captivating pace that got everyone in the room ectstatic. The guy on trumpet, squeezed between the saxes and piano, would have played lead guitar if he was with Led Zepplin. People danced and clapped, swayed their heads and slapped their knees. An hour and a half later and I'm saying "That's what I've got to be working on".

An amazing show but like all good things had to come to an end, kind of like this vacation. It's around midnight and we have to be up early enough to strategically pack our bags to transport our treasures home. I'll sign off for now but still have some treasured memories about this pilgrimage I need to share and honestly, lots of thoughts seeking release. Talk soon.

Ends in View

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Sun, 14 Oct 2018 17:57:00 +0000

The Arabic symbols floated up through the water, rose to the carved wood ceiling 20' overhead and stared down at me. I lay on my back in the body temperature water and stared right back. We were in a restored hammam, an Arab bathhouse which was much more common when the Moors were here. But tourism here is heavily dependent on their Muslim history and the economy is heavily dependent on tourism so they've deftly mingled tourist wants with some verifiable pieces of the past. Tourists want a spa and a back rub and hey, Muslims we're big on cleanliness so we make that desire look like an authentic step into the past. I'm sure the original version was a loud meeting place for men to hammer out deals and get a good soak away from the wife. Today's is a hushed spa with dim lighting, multi-temperature pools and choose-your-scent massage. I particularly liked the cold pool with ice piled around the edge and the salt pool with an overflowing vat of salt at one end.

I've been luxuriating in the role of tourist for the last ten weeks but it comes to an end in a few days. We're currently in Jerez de la Frontera having arrived yesterday via Blablacar and today was a sojourn to Cadiz. It was a 30 degree day on the downtown beach and they take this fabulous weather so much for granted that they don't feel the need to provide services. Sure, there was a guy willing to take some money to sit in one of his chairs but no washroom, no refreshment stand. The majority brought their own chairs and bevvies and not a word of the English language was heard.

Which was nothing like Torremolinos. Like Mexico to Canadians, Costa del Sol is Spanish soil but really a British playground with pubs, breakfast fryups and eating times more in line with British rhythms. Torremolinos is littered with bars and beachfront restaurants all designed to provide respite to weather-weary Brits who are vacationing, not travelling. Which is good because there's nothing of interest there other than a beach and good weather which was the magnet for Deb and I. We were exhausted from the trials of discovering, photographing, walking, getting lost and found. We (Deb) booked a magnificent condo overlooking the beach courtesy of Airbnb with a kitchen that enticed us to cook a meal and a washing machine to restore our travel-weary clothing. The meal was frozen canneloni that was as bad as it sounds but the empanada stain from Seville was finally removed. Unfortunately, what we came for wasn't there. Poor Deb, sometimes I feel bad about her sharing my bad luck. As luck would not have it, the two days of rain they get annually happened as we arrived. Rain so heavy it made the news in Vancouver with flash floods flowing to the sea and taking several tourists with them. Bamboo was stacked high on the shore, torn from some distant shore and thick rolling clouds blocked the sun and didn't roll away until we got in our blabla car bound for Gibraltar.

When Deb was planning this journey and I saw we were going to be in this part of the world I said "We gotta go there!". I didn't know why but I had to see the rock. I didn't know it was a British rock but as it grew in the windshield my understanding grew with it. It's British territory so part of the British way of seeing things, of the way my mother saw things. The Rock of Gibraltar was synonymous with steadfastness, someone you could rely on, someone who was always there when you needed them. My mother often used it as a positive descriptor but I hadn't heard it in decades. It had sunk to a subterranean level until I stood before it. To get to it you have to go through customs (kinda, they just waved us through) and cross an airport runway. On the other side we jumped in a cab and said "Gondola please!" and a few pounds later we stood at it's base. A little more planning would have revealed we needed more time. Our tentative driver got lost looking for his boyfriend who joined us for the drive and he felt more comfortable driving slightly under the speed limit. It's not a big place but needed more than 90 minutes we were left with. We stood in the lineup for 20 minutes before realizing we couldn't make it to the top and back before our next driver showed up for our trip to Torremolinos so our visit consisted of a drop off at the gondola and a walk back. Still, the sudden understanding of why I was there and the photograph made it worth it.

I'm at the point where, as I'm about to step back into my 'real' life, to make comparisons between here and there. But I'm hungry and we meet the next driver at 6am for our flight to Paris. Talk soon.

Lucky: part one

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Thu, 11 Oct 2018 18:17:00 +0000

"Are ya feeling lucky, Kid. Well, are ya?" Dirty Harry proferred an existential question; do you feel lucky? Staring down the barrel of a very big gun may not be the best time to answer this question, it's something that you already need to know. Are you a lucky person? Some are, some know it. Some aren't and also know it. Not everyone thinks about it, assuming it's all odds and if they flip the coin enough eventually it'll come up half tails and half heads. I used to take some comfort in that.

I used to feel that shit happens, it happens to everybody but I've been paying a lot more attention lately and realized shit doesn't happen to everybody. Some people, in spite of having very little input into a positive outcome, do well. Some people believe in God and prayer so they can tip the odds in their favour, others have good social intelligence and can foresee an outcome and align their behaviours accordingly. I don't believe in god, or at least not the type that's paying attention, and rarely foresee with any accuracy the outcome of my behaviours but I had faith in science, in physics, in the odds.

I'm not blind to the good things in my life, I'm part of the 1%. I have good health, I own my own home, I love my city, my country, my family. But I'm not lucky. It was bad luck to find my son dead in his crib. Odds range from 1 in 1,000 to 10,000 depending on where you live. But there he was. The odds of having a child with cystic fibrosis is 1 in 3,000. The odds of having a second child predecease me of natural causes is incalculable. But there she went. I used to think "Holy cow! Those are some long odds but I 'beat' them" and even thought if I could beat those odds I could beat the odds against winning a lottery and bought a lot of tickets. Never even came close. It seems there's a difference between good luck and bad luck...

Those are bigger ones but there's been medium and small. The medium variety would include not getting a job I was qualified, experienced and had the seniority to get. They gave it to a woman for whom I was her union rep when she was called on the carpet for her poor attendance. She had no experience in the posted job but they didn't want me because I was an outspoken union steward. An easy grievance to win the union told me but as we went into it my union folded into another and the ball was dropped and didn't get picked up until the timeline was almost expired. My new rep assured me it's all good, we got this. Then he had a heart attack. By the time it got picked up again the timeline had expired. I've had a number of experiences like that, all ugly. The small ones are the simple things like games where the roll of the dice or cut of the card will give you a smile or a frown. I've had a lot more frowns than smiles and would never leave anything close to being important to something where I have a 50% chance of winning.

About a year ago I started to give it some serious thought. I'm coming up on the last quarter or so of my life and can look at the bigger picture and I'm glad I waited. Seeing your self as perennially unlucky would create perennial unhappiness. But now I'm looking back and weighing things out and aware of the possibility of giving more weight to the sad outcomes than the happy ones so last year I started one simple test. Electrical plugs are polarized, they only fit in a socket one way. If you check it before inserting you'll get it right every time, if you don't check you've got a 50% chance of getting it right. Same for USB cords into your computer. I decided to never check and see if I would get right the first time. I've been successful about 20% of the time. "But keep going" you could say, "and it would have to balance out". Maybe, but I'd have to get it right 80% in the next year. Maybe I never get back to even before my days are done.

But here's the important thing; I'm not unhappy. In spite of it all I'm very happy. At times I've had to force it, remind myself of all the good things in my life, think about people that have had it worse and my happiness floats like oil on an ocean of misery. Throughout it all I've remained hopeful, convinced that if I just kept going things will get better. After the first and second marriages failed I tried again and found la femme des mes reves, the best person I've ever known and while she beats me more often than not at our favourite game, have never been more in love.

I'll be home in less than a week (now in Costa del Sol but more about that later) and my son has been practising his tattooing skills. I told him to practise the word 'grateful' in Olde English script, it's going on my right arm.

Carried away in Cordoba

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Mon, 08 Oct 2018 20:59:00 +0000

Happy Thanksgiving! They don't thanksgiving here so no turkey, no cranberry sauce, no pumpkin pie. We had roasted noodles served with shrimp and garlic aioli coloured black with octopus ink at a table (you pay a premium not to stand while you eat) in an alley. Still warm here so the coolness of the alley felt good - we needed to let the sweat we worked up during our private flamenco lesson dry out as we cooled down.

In 1986, one September afternoon, I was in the Unicorn pub on the Expo site in Vancouver. I had a season's pass so had tried most of the pubs there but this was one of my favourites. I forget who I was with but there I was enjoying my brew as the joint slowly filled up. A lot of the entering patrons looked similar; heavy set with thick necks with reddish white complexions. It looked like the Indian summer was taking its toll on their cheeks and they were all wearing sports jackets. Some were leaning against the bar, some were at tables engaged in conversation then one began to sing. I turned my head to see which voice had been unleashed by the beer but before I found it another voice elsewhere joined in. I swivelled my head in the opposite direction to see who had the talent to create a harmony when another voice, this one right beside me, also got in on the action. In a burst of sound the way the sky can open up and drench you in seconds all the men in jackets struck the same soaring note. I was in the middle of the Welsh Men's Choir and they lifted me on the cloud of their crystal clear chorus.

A few nights ago in Cordoba we were in a bar. Deb had heard about this place as being somewhere that spontaneous music and flamenco could erupt. The sort of place where pro's hung out with each other and if the mood or alcohol took them they just might do what they do just because. The bartender told me 'Jesusito' was in the next room. The locals believe him to be the best Flamenco guitarist in the world and if we were lucky he just may play. As we waited and drank our sherry, another new love, I googled him and found a gaggle of utube vids. He was impressive but in the bar so far, silent. So we're talking and drinking and we hear some music in the background. Deb asks, "Is someone singing?" "No", I said "that's a recording". It was a men's group singing in perfect unison with only guitar. So we chatted some more and I looked over to a newspaper whose headline proclaimed 55% of 'tourists' were actually illegal immigrants when the dark-skinned woman beside me asked in perfect English "What do you make of that?" I didn't know what to make of her. I'd assumed she was a local with limited (local) English skills. Turns out she was local, knew everyone, had lived in Florida and missed it. So we got to talking and Deb asks her "Is there someone singing upstairs?"

She lets on that yes, there was a group upstairs called La Clandestina, a well-known local group that performs a style of music that's part barbershop quartet, part men's chorus, part musical play and all Spanish folk. She says they're quite secretive in practice as they hone their art primarily for competitions and in all the time she'd been there she'd never actually been in to see them. But then she asks a woman behind the bar if there was any chance we could be taken upstairs to listen outside the room. She said she'd ask and away she went. A few minutes later she came back with a look of surprise and a shared-secret smile on her face and signalled us to follow her. She took us up a few flights of stairs and as we approached a door slightly ajar she held a finger to her lips to ensure we were silent. The few inches of light coming from the door crack showed a room stuffed with men all sweating, waving and singing. They finished the number and the guy that had been our bartender downstairs and is now their guitarist upstairs sees us through the crack, checks with his bandmates and pulls open the door.

He sees the phone in my hand and waves a "NO!" finger. No video, no recording. No problem I say. Deb and I step into the room and drag two chairs into the corner where we're largely ignored for the next hour. There were 18 men in the room, the youngest around 20 the oldest around 60 and they sang as if they were having conversations in small groups. Heads nodded in acknowledgment and fists were raised in anger all to emphasize the lyrics which were beyond me but the emotion was unmistakeable. They would stop mid song, discuss how it should be and start again. I felt like a fly on the wall at a Beatles practice session.

When done, we all retired to the bar and I got a chance to say "Wow!". They appreciated our appreciation and shared there stories. They all have day jobs, get together twice a week and it was clear the camaraderie was as big a part of the gathering as the music. We didn't get to hear Jesusito play but I got what I came for; some authentic local music and a reward for going off the beaten path.

I'm almost done sharing my experiences in Cordoba and want to start telling you about Granada (the Alhambra!) but it's late and my pillow is calling. We're off to Malaga in two days for some beach time and just saw the weather report; the first rain since leaving Vancouver. Hmm, should make for some interesting writing.

Andalusia 101

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Sat, 06 Oct 2018 12:06:00 +0000

Seville is now a memory, many memories actually, some of which I'm going to recount here and now as well as my 62 year old memory will allow. Our pace has changed dramatically since parting company with four of our company. With them it was a more relaxed way of being with lots of downtime and I recall saying that the less I did, the less I wanted to do. Now my excuse is we're on the go all day every day and there's little time tell you about it. We only have two and a half days in Cordoba and as this was once the largest city in Europe, its history is rich with the intermingling of Moors, Romans, Visigoths (did you know they were Christian? Go figger), Jews and Gypsies. Each had a profound impact on today's culture; food, dance, language and religion have all flowed from the forceful rivers of the dominating powers and my 60 hours here aren't near enough to absorb it. But we're trying and I've had some of my most emotionally exciting moments as we dip our toes in Andalusia. But first Seville.

Like Cordoba, it was the birthplace of the Renaissance and is home to the largest Gothic Cathedral in the world (twice as big as Notre Dame) but it wasn't the history that drew us out of our new digs shortly after arriving, it was hunger. They're known for their tapas and we wanted to know them so away we went but it was Sunday night. Restaurants throughout the city are bursting at 10pm and, as we saw pedalling home last night, still ovrflowing past midnight. But it was Sunday and our place was well off the tourist path so food wasn't everywhere. We trudged the cobblestones, despondent with unsatiated tummies and cuiriousity when we saw a light behind an open door in the near distance. "Could be a restaurant", I thought and ventured in, squeezed past a few people in the narrow hallway and saw a woman standing behind a counter. A closed door on my right had a sign that I decipheredd as saying "Don't open unless there is applause". I approached the lady and asked "Tiene comida?(Do you have food)". "No" but then added "Tengo solo empanadas". "That's food", I thought and said "Dos y dos cervezas". She handed me the beer and I handed them to Deb and as I turned back to get the food I heard the applause. I turned around again to look for Deb but she'd also heard the applause and had entered the room. I slipped in and found her in command of two seats in a small hall where impromptu performers took turns on stage. The first guy sang and played guitar. I couldn't understand the words and he was okay but nothing I hadn't seen before. The second guy spoke into the mike briefly to explain what he was about to do then stepped away and acted out a soliloquy with all the passion and arm waving the role required. Unintelligible but impressive. The next one up pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and recited some of her poetry. As did the next one, and the next. Not being able to understand any of it didn't detract from the moment, it was an intimate look at how Sevillians see themselves; passionate and lovers of the arts.

Which we got to see again the following evening but in different form; Flamenco. Deb had booked us some seats to see what was purported to be some of the best Flamenco in the world in a small venue that seated maybe 30 people. We spent the day seeing the usual sights: the cathedral ( got a picture of Christopher Columbus' tomb), Encarnacion and more but then decided the city was too big with too much to see so we got the 'Coles Notes' version by buying tickets for one of those hop on hop off buses. The tix were good for 24 hours so we used it to get around to the sights but also to get back and forth to our apartment which was outside the more popular areas. We hopped off at our apartment towards the end of the day to put on clean clothes and make ourselves more presentable as the show was VIP (and came with a glass of wine).

Siri has become my new best friend and her British accent guided us to the door of the Flamenco Museo and throughout the narrow twisting alleys of Seville. She got us there on time and we settled into a brick vault for the performance. I wasn't sure what to expect. I'd seen a little on tv in passing in the past and knew there was some foot stomping and castanets but that was about it. But what you don't get on tv is the intensity, the brush of her dress as she storms by or the spray of the guy's sweat as he twirls. It began with a guy and a guitar. The lights were dim with a soft spot on him and his hands. His fingers flew over the strings to bring out the sweet sounds of classical guitar and set the mood for what came next, the singers. One male, one female to create the soundtrack for the dancers. They sang with a ferocity we'd first experienced with Fado and while I again couldn't understand the words, at the point where she leaned over in her chair, eyes closed, fist on her heart, mouth slack, it felt as if she was sprinkling her tears on her child's grave.

It stopped. The lights dimmed slightly and a man in high waisted pants and a woman in a floor-brushing gown and severe hair style slipped in. The music began softly then abruptly ended with a stomp of their feet. And it began. An hour of changing dancers, changing costumes, changing tempos and moods. It's made me rethink my decision to take up tap dancing, well maybe not but I couldn't stop myself from falling in love with the art. It mixed the rhythms of tap with the power of clomping with the beauty and story of dance. I applauded and cheered and told the people coming in for the next show they were in for the time of their lives (their blank stares said they didn't speak English).

Wonderful. And yet that wasn't the most magical moment. That was last night but our Blabla car to Granada is picking us up at a point I've got to find. I believe we've got 4 nights there so will find some time to tell about last night, the night before and our last night in Seville.

Bla Bla Bla

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Mon, 01 Oct 2018 19:16:00 +0000

I'm now in Seville. That's Sevila on the Portuguese signs on the way here and Sevilla (sayVIya) now that were here. We're now down to two having parted company with our four travelling companions this morning. We'd spent 7 weeks in each others pockets and it was surprisingly fantastic. Maybe it was because we're all adults and know how to keep our insta-thoughts to ourselves or maybe it was the copious quanties of wine but we not only survived we flourished. The most challenging setting was six people on a boat and while we each had our own tiny bedroom the common area was less than a studio apartment. Much less. And yet for two weeks we danced around one another with the closeness overpowered by the joy of the company and the scenery that floated by. Having six people meant we could rent much larger places than the two of us could afford so when we weren't on the boat we were in a mansion (with pool), a penthouse suite (with pool) and a hilltop villa (with pool).

But now we've embarked on the last leg of this epic journey and will spend the next two weeks in southern Spain. Ever heard of Blahblah Car? You're going to. It's a new app that hooks up people going on road trips with people who need transportation. So if you're going up to Kelowna and want someone to pay for the gas, you put yourself on their list and they hook you up with someone else that wants to get to Kelowna. We met Mariana this morning, a young woman who's from Faro - our starting point - but now lives and works in Seville. She's often back to see family and routinely drives the 2+ hours alone. She picked us up at the train station as well as another young woman who needed a ride. The four of us chatted down the highway in a mix of Portuguese, Spanish and English and paid 12E each for the pleasure. Uber wanted 200.

Faro is the capital of the Algarve but even the taped voice in the PutPut train said it's not a tourist destination. There are some distant beaches accessible by ferry and a 13th century cathedral but not accessible to tourists because it was being used for mass. So we passed the time waiting for our ride lingering over lunch and discovering the 'Distinguished Gentleman's Ride'. I was curious why I kept seeing well-dressed guys walking about and Deb said they were waiters. "That's a lot of waiters for a small town", I thought. As we entered the plaza in front of the cathedral we saw them congregating with a wide range of two wheeled noisemakers. There were scooters and Harleys, rice rockets and sidecars and everything in between. We sat on the steps and watched the crowd grow to several hundred. I asked a young guy in a bow tie to explain but got a shoulder shrug. His dad came over to explain that this was an event that takes place the last Sunday of September in 600 cities around the world and is a fundraiser for men's health. I'm always the last to know. They gathered for a foto on the cathedral steps and then, led by a police escort, roared there way through town and out onto the highway.

Our week in Algarve was again divided into "Let's sit around the pool" and "Let's go to...". There was a Saturday market to visit where clothes and such from South America were on offer so we indulged and I came away with new shoes (Oh Lord, help me find room in my luggage) and another collarless shirt (they always look so good on holidays and gather dust at home). Across town on the same day was the farmer's market and as it was Deb and I's turn to cook, my tiny town driving skills got a go and we managed to maneuver streets small and narrow to secure lamb, chicken and meatballs for our couscous. We also got in two beach days; one at Albufeira and the other at the most beautiful beach I have ever been to - Praia do Barril. The Portuguese have been working hard to protect the salt marshes that line their southern coast, they're key breeding grounds for storks, herons, flamingos and a few million other things but they lie between the mainland and some very impressive beaches. To get to Barril there's a small train transporting beach enthusiasts from the parking lot through the marshes out to the ocean. Or you can walk the 3' wide trail for 15 minutes. The reward for the effort is a beach with the softest sand, a gentle breeze and not a sound but the pounding surf. This is where the violence of the Atlantic meets the warmth of the Mediteranian so wave jumping was the sport of the day. There's no hotels but it's very well-serviced with several restaurants, showers and change rooms - everything I needed and wanted for the perfect beach day.

We got to Algarve the same way we got to Lisbon only this time our driver was Rui. We were expecting Antonio but Rui said he was his replacement and it could have been a scam but he had a nice car so we piled in. Rui knew the roads, was prepared to give us his entire day and drove real fast. So fast we had time to stop and explore Evora and Monsarraz. Evora was a sizeable medeaval town but large enough now to be a bedroom community and enough of its claims to fame intact to be worth the visit. There was the usual beautiful cathedral and church museum claiming to have a small piece of Christ's cross (I swear if they put all the claimants together there'd be enough lumber to build a cathedral) but the most interesting and creepiest thing I've ever seen was also there, the bone chapel. Apparently there was a graveyard where they wanted to build a chapel so all the graves were exhumed and the bones were used to decorate the walls, ceiling and arches of the chapel. Rows of skulls with femurs and humerus (it wasn't that funny) arranged in symmetric patterns. Honestly, how could you focus on your worship with mom and dad literally hanging around? I asked Rui "What the f!@k?", he responded with a shrug. We also stopped at Monsarraz, a moorish castle from around 800AD but it had been a key military site since prehistoric times. It occupies some impressive real estate so with the help of the Knights Templar it was returned to Spanish control around 1100AD. There's gorgeous views, important if you want to see the enemy coming, and a bull ring still in active service - we apparently just missed the bull killing season - but today's occupants mostly just meet the needs of the tourists.

But now Algarve and Portugal are behind us. We just spent a full day walking the streets of Seville and I'm more than a little impressed. It's Spain's fourth largest city and seems to have achieved that perfect mix of history and modernization. Dinner here is even later than Portugal. It's now 9:10 so I'm going to put on my big boy pants and head out to further test the tapas they're famous for.

Stops Along the Way

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Thu, 27 Sep 2018 22:24:00 +0000

Travelling is hard work. And I don't mean the heavy lifting of finding the right terminal, the right road, the right house or even the packing/unpacking, lifting, walking and waiting. It's the differentness of everything; the toilets and undrinkable water, the keyboards and road signs, the language and the customs but mostly it's the changed routines, of doing things differently because you're in a different place. I wrote a piece I intended to post last night but when I went looking for it, it was gone. I'd mostly finished it the night before, waxing eloquently about socks, or rather, their absence for the last two months and then highlighted it and copied it and went to bed. So there it sat, minding its own little electronic business until Deb got up to do her thing on our shared iPad. Because I'd left it highlighted, the first keystroke wiped it out. It's backup on the clipboard was erased as soon as she copied something and several hours of brilliance disappeared. That's the hard work of travelling, shared space and equipment, working your new routines into the routines of the people you're with. It's massively outweighed by the joys of the company I share but you're not going to hear about my socks.

We're now in the Algarve, a large region that covers all of southern Portugal. Specifically, we're in a villa atop a hill overlooking the town of Loule´ about 20K from the shore but beautiful in the distance. I'm now typing on my Kobo cum word processor and enjoying some independence (though if I wasn't travelling I'd have the advantage of a mouse) and wishing I'd thought of this sooner. And look, now I can use italics... We came here from Lisbon and, like our move from Porto to Lisbon, made several worthy stops enroute. Betwixt Porto and Lisbon we explored Bacalhau Buddha Eden and Ovidos. Bacalhau is salted cod and can be found on the menu of any self-respecting Portuguese reastaurant so not sure what it had to do with this well-groomed park or what the emphasis of the statuary on Buddhism had in common with a predominantly Catholic country. But there they were, Buddhas galore, big and small with dragons and hundreds of Terra Cotta soldiers only in bright blue. The woods were littered with hundreds of gnomes and the acres of lawns sloping towards the lake were pockmarked with modern art like the headless guy standing on his, well, neck. I liked the two curvy statues made of wine bottles and the sea of hands reaching out of the sand but indifferent to the spinning diamond and intimidated by the giant ant. The exit, like most tourist attractions, was through the souvenir shop but here the only thing on offer was wine and the specialite was a blue concoction as incongruent with red grapes as a buddhist garden in Portugal. Still, it was a nice walk.

Our second stop was Ovidos, a medieval town with enough of its bones intact to make restoration worthwhile. The Roman cobblestones were repaired, the walls rebuilt in (mostly) original fashion and electricity was added to run the airconditioners. The original layout was maintained so the 'feel' was as if you were there several hundred years ago and the view from those walls was undeniable. It was a nice spot for lunch and a taste of their special concoction "Ginja". It's basically a cherry liqueur with lots of cherries in the bottle and goes spectacularly well with chocolate. So well, in fact, that it's served in 1 oz chocolate cups which are consumed immediately after the bevvie. I had to buy a bottle but suspect it won't make its way back to Canada.

Our second abode in Portugal was a penthouse suite in Monte Estoril and I told you about our time there in my last post but not about our crib. The last on was a mansion out in the country but now we were in a penthouse suite that overlooked the ocean. There was a pool and deck below but why go there when you can bikini watch a few minutes away? We tried a day at the pool but Bob was there courtesy of the peacocks next door and there were no pounding waves, no ocean to entertain the eyes, ears and nose. The ocean at Monte Estoril is the north Atlantic, so not particularly warm but a refreshing counterpoint to the 37 degree heat.

The light festival was on in Cascais while we were there so Lui and I thought we'd check it out. We hadn't actually spent any time there so it was a good opportunity to explore its attractions and see what a light show was - it wasn't fireworks. It was better, lighting technicians and artists combined their strengths to bring some 'whoah!' displays to the common man. Imagine a three story antique building used as a backdrop for multi-coloured light projections in multiple shapes in sync with the tune that kid is playing on a piano or another building covered in spyrograph shapes that change with the movement and figures held by the childen under those lights over there. Dancers and walkers were followed by lights on the rink-sized floor that changed with their speed. Wish I was stoned. Sprinkled amongst the wanderers were beer stands, burgers and bacalhau. I especially liked the first beer stand that sold me a beer for 3E in a solid plastic cup. When I brought it back its refill was 2E. Great idea, great party.

But now we're in Algarve and spent today at a beach 26K away which we achieved with our rented bus. But about that and our stops to get here I'll tell you next time cuz the Kobo's out of gas, my eyes are weighing heavy and I still have to figure out how to get this from here to the blog. Cheers.

Loving Lisboa

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Sun, 23 Sep 2018 09:53:00 +0000

So what have I been up to? Let's see, I last wrote about our mansion near Porto where we did battle with Bob, enjoyed Fado and port and celebrated a birthday. We divided the week there between pool days and excursion days and have done the same with our week in Estoril. Tomorrow someone's picking us up to take us a few more hours south as we chase the warm weather so tonight when we get back from dinner I'll have to start restuffing my bag. It's 8:15 and the rez is for 8:30 so I'll fill you in on the last week when I get back.

We're back and dinner was fabulous, thank you very much. We shared sangria on the boardwalk as waited for our seafood kebabs to arrive. The almost full moon sent its rippled trail right at us, the waves caressed the beach and a warm breeze brought the ocean scent to our table. It was a perfect setting for our last meal in Monte Estoril. It's got its own train station; not quite Estoril, not quite Cascais (KashKISHE) but walking distance to both. We got on the train the night before last for the forty minute ride into Lisbon because we had a Fado (FAdoo) craving. We'd been hooked on our first serving and like drug addicts chasing that first high we were left wanting. The singers were ok but not as good as what we'd seen and felt. The food was ok but overpriced and service was lousy but none of it ruined our trip into the city. We deciphered the ticket purchase machine (sort of, we got it wrong and had to squeeze 6 people into the handicap booth to get on the train), clickety-clacked down the rails to the big city and promptly got lost. We had arrived a few hours early to experience the market we couldn't find so we found a patio instead and enjoyed cocktails watching Lisbon (Lisboa) harbour. With a half hour before our rez we discovered there was a taxi strike on (they have Uber here and they're pissed) so it got complicated. Four of us got in a TukTuk for his last fare of the evening while the other two waited for an Uber to make an appearance. Both the TukTuk and the Uber got lost trying to find the restaurant but adventure is as much getting lost as it is getting found.

We didn't actually get to see much of Lisbon but that's ok cuz the next day Juao (zhuWOW) arrived. That's John in Portuguese and my new name for the rest of our time in Portugal. "Wow Juao" has become part of our lexicon. We'd met Juao when we presented ourselves to Sintra, a district with castles, palaces and history but soon realized it was spread out and we're a group of old folks with limited mobility and even more limited knowledge of what to see. Enter Juao who saw our perplexed faces and ushered us into his oh-so-cool van. Spacious and air conditioned with a fridge and a seat that gave massages. He took control and told us what we didn't want to see, where we wanted to eat and quizzed us on Portuguese history. He declared that the biggest and best of damn near everything was right here in Portugal, this guy loves his country. Our first stop was the Palace of Queluz. I'd been to Versailles and this was identical in layout, gardens and architecture but without the crowds. Then it was a 'real' Portuguese restaurant well off the beaten path and I think lunch is becoming my favourite part of our go and see days.

Our next stop was back to where we met Juao to battle our way through the throngs to see a colourful castle atop a hill. It started out as a chapel built by the Hieronymites in the Middle Ages and was popular with pilgrims but over the years lightening and earthquakes took their toll. King Ferdinand thought it would make a nice summer residence so he outlawed the religious order and started throwing money at it. It turned into a disneylandesque structure with bright colours and billion dollar views. He eventually gave it to some Duchess he had the hots for but she didn't feel the same and donated it to "The People" around 1900. It's now a Unesco World Heritage site and if you don't mind shuffling slowly like cattle through its interior it's worth a visit. Or you could just go to Disneyland.

Then it was off to the countryside through the tiny towns with their tiny streets to get to Cabo da Roca , the westernmost tip of continental Europe. The backing soundtrack as we stared out the windows was Juao asking "Did you know..." and "What do think that is?" Windy, beautiful and thick with Chinese tourists, Cabo was worth the effort and the effort would have been significant for those fearless drivers who maneuvered those massive buses through those tiny streets. I'm told the proliferation of Chinese tourists is due both to their booming economy and their government's strategy of allowing tax cuts to companies that keep their employees happy with free trips and such. Happy workers don't revolt.

As promised, Juao showed up the day after our Fado outing to show us the Lisbon we'd missed the day before. We pulled up in front of a monastery with a 200 meter lineup to see tiny rooms and he said "No,no that's stupid. We're going to the Mariner's Museum right next door. The height of Portuguese history was there and we had it all to ourselves. Vasco da Gama and the other early navigators that unlocked the new world were there. They'd rounded the tip of Africa to establish trade routes with India and China. They found the Azores out in the middle of the Atlantic, they visited Newfoundland and said "Uh, no thanks" and sank their culture deep into South America. For a few hundred years they were king of the ocean followed closely by the French, Spanish and Dutch and eventually the British who took most everything from them in the 1800's. "We were too nice", said Juao who then found another delicious restaurant off the beaten path, something we'd never have found on our own. We started with the fish and spicy rice, washed it down with vinho verde and then the meat platter took over the centre of the table. I think most of the planet's creatures shared space on the that plate, a vegetarian would pale at the sight.

The waterfront with its sights and sounds was followed by a visit to the top of the city where we found another cathedral but this one had a side chapel with all the interior walls covered in ceramic tiles. They're everywhere here and it was explained that the pictures are painted on the assembled tiles in the factory, painted in various designs, reglazed and shipped. These tiles showed the violence of the Moor invasion with praying Christians looking like porcupines from all the arrows in them and women having their breasts cut off with big scissors. Kind of unusual for a church.

We got to Estoril from Porto courtesy of Antonio, the same fellow that will be arriving shortly to take us south. Yes, it's the morning after the night before and it's time to get this show on the road. Bags are packed, last minute checks have been done and Deb's tapping her toe by the door. We'll stop at a few places on our way to Loule just as we did on our way here but I'll have to tell you about it later. The future beckons.

In the Shadow of Fado

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Mon, 17 Sep 2018 21:30:00 +0000

The Big Slow Down is upon me. The less I do the less I want to do. Getting up from poolside to trudge into the house to get another beer feels like a lot of work. But I did and I see the iPad is partly charged so maybe it's a good time to hide from the sun, let the skin cool and tell you what we've been up to.

I woke up to an email this morning from Airbnb informing me that they had provided all my personal details regarding our listing on their service to the State of Vancouver and my listing was inaccessible and unalterable. Hmmm. At first I thought it was something to do with the bedbug situation; the guest that alerted me to the bug's presence was unhappy with the refund I offered her and has lodged a formal complaint with Mother Airbnb. But no, Ami in Bombay informed me via chat service that the info was requested by the Vancouver and they were obligated to comply. Fortunately, I had taken out a license to do what we're doing and he sent me a screen shot of our listing showing the license number. So I guess I'm good. There's a new guest in our home and if the exterminator has done a good job I won't be getting an itchy email telling me they want their money back too.

So...Porto. We've been here a week and I haven't shared any of what we've been up to other than the impressive digs. As planned, we were picked up at our boat at 6:15am last Sunday and the large taxi took us and our mountain of luggage to the train station in Beziers. The train took us to Toulouse. A plane took us to Lisbon where we waited for 5 hours for another plane to take us to Porto. There was no taxi large enough for us and our luggage so guys in one, girls in the other. The girls had the address so it was written on a scrap of paper for us with instructions to pick up groceries en route. The taxi driver couldn't read the handwriting on the scrap of paper but he could read the phone number so he called the hostess who was able talk him in, not unlike an air traffic controller. The addresses here are kinda random so even the GPS's have trouble as we discovered several times with the rented car's GPS. And there's lots of 'Rua da Igreja' (Church street) in the small towns surrounding Porto. We thought we were in Maia, we're actually in Muro so the return to the house from the rental agency (at the airport where we started out) took an extra hour or two.

But we made it and the next day decided to check out Espeniho. It's another small town, south of Porto but on the ocean and it was market day. With a couple of souvenirs and some chorizo in our bags it was time to look at the ocean. It was big, choppy, cold and windy; a dramatic change from the canal that had held us in its narrow grip for two weeks. A beachside cafe agreed to let us in at the unheard of hour of 5:30. Many restaurants don't open until 8pm and dinner goes to midnite but I grabbed a table, held up 6 fingers and they saw the value in the early business. Food was brought out before we ordered as is their custom. Bread, prawns, melon with prosciutto were laid out with the idea being if eat them you pay for them. We pushed it aside, found things on the menu we thought we'd prefer and enjoyed a pretty average meal in an above average location.

Miss me? After that last paragraph I returned to poolside to resume baking. I had hidden for a few moments in the cool of the interior to escape the blazing exterior and heck, it was my birthday so felt entitled to come and go as I pleased.

I had skipped the 2nd car rental day to write and float in a vat of silence as my 5 travelling companions piled in for a tour of Porto. I finished my last post mentioning my first Uber ride and a 'wish me luck' but neither me nor the driver heard you. Like us, he got lost, took an extra hour to find me but managed to get me to the restaurant in Porto for a reunion of the balcony people and an evening of Fado. Now this was something. The restaurant sat 32 people (I counted) so it was an intimate environment to hear folk opera or Portuguese blues or Country without the twang. It's a unique musical experience that began with a blend of Portuguese classical guitar (lute-like with 12 steel strings) overlaid on the rhythm laid down by an acoustic guitar. I swayed to the gentle rhythm and the more vinho verde I drank, the more I swayed. There were several beautiful instrumentals - then the singing began.

The young man that had just brought my wine and appetizer took a position between the two guitars and composed himself. Hands clasped together, he lowered his gaze, took several slow, deep breaths and opened his mouth to let the sadness out. He sang of the pain of wanting something he could never have, of lost love, of suffering and the depth of his sorrow mingled with mine. He touched a place I thought I'd buried so deep only I could touch and gave it a voice. I cried and I couldn't understand a word he said. And he was just the appetizer.

He was followed by a young woman whose voice soared as she paced the room and looked hard into our faces, accusing us of infidelity, of stealing her children. Powerful stuff, no? Then the main attraction slowly made his way to the centre of the restaurant, his jacket hung over his shoulders Hollywood style circa 1950. His grey-haired composure exuded confidence as he smiled gently, gazing around the room and nodding at the smiles. He started slow and low forcing his listeners to listen hard. He drew us in like an angler jiggling his bait and just as you go to chomp down he lifted his head, his arms, his voice leaving us slack-jawed, wide-eyed and looking up. He sang a number of numbers with the liveliness increasing as he went. Soon we were clapping and tapping and so happy to be following the Pied Fado as he led us down his musical trail.

The last day of the rental car was used to get us back into Porto to check out its namesake - Port. On the south shore of the Douro river that divides Porto are the wine caves and I was expecting caves; you know, damp, dark and cool. They're not, they're warehouses, lots of them, that feature wine tasting rooms with staff that know their stuff. We tried tawny and ruby and 30 yr old stuff and agreed it was much better than the ten year old rubbish. We got snobbish real fast and even bought a bottle which we enjoyed at my birthday dinner which I'll have to tell you about later because tonight Deb and I are cooking and she's already started, tapping her toe in the kitchen and wondering where I am (I'm hiding in the bedroom). I'll tell you we're now in Estoril (outside Lisbon) and enjoyed a few 'wow' moments enroute. But more later.