Prolific Immigrant

We were there for 48 hours and here’s a scrunched itinerary for those of you on a tight schedule.

First, don’t go in the winter unless you’re interested in experiencing the wild tsunami that glides off of the Atlantic and Larry, Moe + Curly slaps into your face. After my first walk along the pier by the world’s largest fiddle, I couldn’t move my mouth to speak proper. This is not an exaggeration.

Lucky that balancing out this exhausting cold is the warmth of the Cape Bretoners** who occupy the City. Everyone says hello, and everyone smiles at you. EVERY.ONE. It is so very lovely to be greeted with smiles at every turn, and like a true City girl, I wonder what the murder/suicide rate is.

On Friday morning, my boss/colleague/friend/I-don’t-know-what-to-call-him-exactly-just-yet and I jumped into a cab at 6.30am and made our way out to the closest lighthouse, which was an approximate half an hour out of Sydney, and to be found in the neighbouring town of “New Victoria.”

Sitting at the tip of Sydney Harbour, she seduces all manner of sailor to shore. I had never seen a lighthouse up close and personal, and so tried to open her door because who wouldn’t?, only it was locked. Sad and dejected I circled the base willing her to open to me. She did not. I froze my face. I returned to the car.

But not before I went down by the water and took this gorgeous photo which makes me wonder if this is some sort of a plank from which Cape Bretoners chuck the bad people.

Sidebar: Though we had hoped to watch the sun rise, Sydney was expecting a storm and so all we saw were rolling burbling clouds. That said, I strongly encourage that you make your way here to watch the day break over the Atlantic on a clear day.

On the way back into the City, we stopped at Fort Petrie where the ground is covered by these beautiful skeletons of a particular flower (anyone know what it is?), and something else which checked my gag reflex. Claws! Or legs! Of cockroaches of the ocean!

We then went on to see lobster traps, before having a lovely and full day at work. Must admit that I was a little panicked I would find lobster feet/claws/toes/fingernails/I-don’t-know-what-to-call-them-either, in the traps. Luckily, there were none, though I would later have nightmares that I had dinner while a lobster sat next to me, staring.

That same evening, I popped over to the world’s largest fiddle. For a while, I was convinced that I was at the wrong place, because I only saw a massive violin, with no fiddle in view. Lucky for me, my other colleague is v smart, and explained: it is the same instrument, but called a fiddle when used to play jerky music. (I am the one who calls it “jerky,” not her. Because I am not a fan of jigging.) I took photos but accidentally deleted them, because apart from my phobia of cockroaches of the ocean, I am a little brain addled.

After dinner that evening, I cozied down by the window to enjoy the storm, before heading out the next day. Here I am trying to say goodbye while on the Sydney Boardwalk, and failing because the wind was far too strong for my parka…

All in all. A super trip I would strongly recommend for a little bit of summer fun.

Additional must eats + sees:
- Anything and everything at the Allegro Grill.
- Pop by the Cape Breton Fudge Co., grab some fudge and a coffee before making your way down to the violin masquerading as a fiddle. The gent at the shop wouldn’t let me pay for my fudge, surely because I was verging on hysterical when I saw their selection.
- Buy something at the Cape Breton Curiosity Shop.
- Marvel at the number of evening gown dress shoppes along Charlotte Street (and try to get yourself invited to wherever it is that these Haligonians party).
- Have the grilled + chilled shrimp at the Governors [sic] Pub & Eatery.
- Take a walk through the neighbourhood situated across Esplanade from the fiddle.
- Have a latte at The Bean Bank Cafe, but only if you sit in either the Don Cherry room or the piano room (where you must play).

…then, make certain to come back and let me know how much fun you had.

More photos here.

P.S. Dear K + F, who took the time to paint the base of the lighthouse: I hope that you will live happily ever after.

———-
** Because Janey is from Halifax, and Halifax is the center of the Nova Scotian community for me, I was calling Cape Bretoner’s “Haligonians” until Ben put me straight.

Dear Cape Bretoners,
Please don’t issue a fatwa against me for this now corrected mistake.
Thank you. Love you.
M

It was the first morning that Dianna and I awoke in Scotland. Since we were to travel overnight, we’d not made any plans for that first day, instead getting to know Glasgow at our leisure. We were at Mrs. Morrison’s Craigielea Guesthouse (highly recommended: 35 Westercraig’s Street) in one of the second floor’s largest rooms.

The floor of the entire B&B was covered in soft furry plaid carpet and there were at least 100 different pieces of artwork lining the walls from ceiling to floor, because Mr. Morrison is an artist.

With a stand up shower, sink, fireplace, dining table, two queen-sized beds pushed together, several dressers, a massive Chinese lantern hanging from the ceiling, two reading chairs, a television, 11 hung paintings, and different coloured walls, our room was confused as to its purpose.

And for this, we loved it.

Unless sleeping next to an open window, I become claustrophobic. During all times of the year, the window remains open. Mrs. Morrison’s window had no screen and was enormous, with a thin sheer white curtain beneath three heavier ones.

Having left the window open, we pulled aside all heavy curtains and left the sheer to roam. It was the sound of rain which woke me, but it was something else which kept me awake. Incredibly, our room had become filled in a mist so thick, I couldn’t see the wall across from me. I had never before, nor have I since seen anything like it.

I stayed in bed breathing very quietly, eyes wide open, and with very little movement as I didn’t wish to scare away the mist. Lush Scotland was giving us a warm hug hello with her most notorious character, and I have never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

==========

You may find Mrs. Morrison here; it appears that she has (sadly) redecorated.

Several years back, Alisa & Ryan were married at Lake Placid. Baby Jane and I stayed at the Trail Head’s Inn in the Bigelow Room, then owned and run by a young couple from Australia.

By circumstance, I ended up with our room all to myself. The room split into two areas, one side of which was the ‘Adirondack sleeping porch,’ once a balcony with an old, squeaky and washed out grey wood floor and a very thin steeply sloped wooden roof. The railing of the porch was a faded white painted wood, and all open areas of the balcony covered with a thin fine green mesh.

It held a queen-sized bed with white bed coverings & a duvet, a small old and worn rug purchased from a Moroccan market, one forest green reading chair, and a beautiful antique cherry wood night table.

This room sat on the opposite side of the entrance from where the family lived, and so was completely silent. Due to the height of the balcony, I couldn’t see anything but the forest’s tree tops as I sat on the bed.

It poured over the course of the night and into the next morning, leaving me drenched in the aroma of rain falling through trees. Nothing existed beyond that space, and I was immersed in overwhelming peace. There wasn’t a feeling beyond the rain, whose misted cool breeze seduced me beneath the duvet far into the early afternoon.

Eventually, I said a humble thanks to God for such a perfect morning, and tip-toed my way across the frozen porch and back into reality.

By ‘One’, I mean her very own personal British Special Air Service Officer, their motto Who Dares Wins. I found Mine in Beirut – he is of the Air Troop variety, flying out of planes, a.smashing things and people, and then somehow super-leaping back to the airplane.

I nicknamed him ‘Killer’. Only I didn’t tell him about his nickname, for fear that he would parachute into my hotel room, ‘Killer’ me, and then leave without a trace. (He’ll know now that it’s on here; Hi Killer!)

How to meet and nab an SAS Boy for yourself
Obviously, you will need to be located in a war torn region. Look for the boys jogging and smiling as bombs drop around them; quite likely, they are of the SAS variety.

If you are really adventurous, hang out near cubby holes where ‘insurgents’ (but only those defined as such by the lucky few not belonging to The Axis of Evil) hide and make chai.

If you are not too adventurous, there’s always the internet café of said war torn region. Spy the only boys who are reading neither the news nor the most recent updates titled Where Can You Hide Today?; they will be wearing shorts, t-shirts, sporting a tan and using a British tongue nearly incomprehensible. If you listen closely, they will make subtle ‘vrooming’ sounds as they move their mouse. #notaeuphemism

My Own SAS Boy and I met in the business centre of his hotel (my hotel sat across the street with a sick internet connection). I didn’t know how to work the computer, he helped me manage and we got to chatting. He had seen me the night prior – a memory I do not hold – when I was lost and asked him if he was Australian. In my proper defence, I was told that we (Canadians) were to be hanging out with them (Australians); I saw a blonde, heard an accent and so approached. Very simple equation if ever there was one, little did I know the level of treachery I had committed when I asked a Brit – an SAS one, to boot – if he was an Aussie.

On the physical size of The SAS Boy
They appear ‘small’ (please don’t Killer me) – My Own being perhaps 5’9”, but they’re packed with strong fibre goodness which allows them to take out a man thrice their height and ten times their weight. Upon great reflection, I do think the compact nature of the SAS has to do with the agility required to leap tall buildings and propel oneself from planes, landing squarely in cubby holes 10,000 feet below.

They are, for those of you interested in knowing, rock hard. I threw random items at Killer and they bounced off as though hitting a brick wall. Eventually, Killer asked me to stop being a child and to stop throwing random objects at him. I mumbled and pouted and he finally let me throw one final tire at him as a farewell to the activity of throwing.

On the character trait of The SAS Boy
Focussed.
Determined.
Alpha.
Male.
Fear-LESS.

These are not Boys with whom one should mess about. While walking around Beirut with My Own SAS Boy, I can tell you that I felt very safe. Very safe, indeed; the safest, in fact. There’s something about their line of duty that makes them radiate an aura of complete and total blanket safety (unless, of course, you’re their target). I guess that would be: because they’re trained a.smashing killers.

The word ‘hesitate’ does not exist in their vocabulary, and for that they are to be admired, as it runs into all aspects of their lives, not just the physical embodiment of their ‘work’. Case in point: Within moments of teaching your BlogMistress how to work her computer, Killer asked to take me for a coffee. Right then and there on the spot. (I thought: If I don’t accept, he may Killer me…and so I accepted.)

After coffee was over, he asked to take me for dinner. Right then and there on the spot. (I thought: If I don’t accept, he may Killer me…and so goes the rest of the story.)

Nothing stands in their way and if an SAS Boy wants something, he does what is needed to make certain he gets it. And this I mean literally; nothing stops them, neither physically nor mentally — it’s a pretty spectacular thing to watch as it drips from them and engages all aspects of everything they do and touch.

On the nature of conversation with The SAS Boy
You will not be surprised to learn that among one of the first lines of conversation I had with Killer was
So…do you ever wonder if what you’re doing is wrong? and then
So…uhm…will I, like, one day be sitting in my living room in Palestine and you’ll fly through a window and Killer me MEANING you may one day get wrong orders MEANING have you ever wondered if you’ve already received wrong orders MEANING have you ever Killered anyone who might be innocent?

Lucky I that Killer has a sense of humour and answered all of my questions, even if it was a mere “I really can’t answer that!” which I think is code for That’s The Line That Wins Most Chicks. But I’m relentless and he nicknamed me ‘Unnie Ot’ which is Canadian to the British ‘Honey Pot’. I stared in wonder and confusion, looking for a translation on the wall, the floor and even the window as I had no idea what that was. Nowhere was there closed captioning for the British Hearing Impaired. (Stupid, Beirut.)

Killer was nice enough to finally tell me that ‘Honey Pot’ is a term of endearment used to describe someone who can pull secrets from people very easily. Upon hearing this definition, I smiled and asked: So, was it you who caught Saddam? And have you Killered anyone? And can you fix the World Cup?

On the reliability / loyalty of The SAS Boy
Apparently, SAS Boys have to be at the ready at the drop of a pin, throw of a hat and wiggle of a bottom. They all have a special beeper that, when it beeps, they have to meet at a certain location, are given their orders and then flown out. My Own SAS Boy was riding his motorcycle when he got beeped; he had to leave it and his keys with his friend so he could fly to Beirut within two hours. This would mislead one to believe they are unreliable to anyone but Her Majesty. As I can attest, I’ve had Mine since 2006 and we have not yet lost touch for any extended period of time. In face, he has always been kind and pinged a Hello email and if we are both in London Town this coming fall, we shall hang.

I have already secured the following from Mine, as he graciously accepted the responsibility should the need arise (and to which he is beholden until I drop dead). If ever I am in a state of terror and I need to be saved, then he shall do the saving. Because if we’re talking true loyalty, it never hurts to have that loyalty come from a friend who knows how to disentangle a b*mb, make one, crash through a window, leap off a building, outrun and outfight most all other men, make ‘vrooming’ noises as he uses a mouse, ride a motorcycle, and look good in a suit. (I knew you’d agree.)

Few city nights are as sexy as a humid summer evening in Montreal. Add a little Zeppelin to this mix and you’re golden.

In this City, I have always found that there is no urgency in action and no reaction that isn’t slightly languid. On summer evenings, this turns everything sensual.

More warming is that, for the most part, no one is shy in their displays of affection.

Watching couples walk by, I couldn’t help but wonder What is it that draws and then keeps people together?

I polled my friends, both male and female.

Almost certainly, all answers began with something akin to “sexual chemistry, obviously…”

When I asked what that meant, no one could go beyond the words “physical attraction, obviously.”

Beyond my immediate distaste for the word “obviously,” I started thinking about sexual chemistry. The reality is that there’s absolutely nothing obvious about sexual chemistry. That it is ambiguous never really occurs to anyone, but rather, they focus on its necessity.

And, it is most definitely a necessity. I don’t believe that anything long-term can transpire if there is no immediate and almost caustic sexual chemistry. It won’t happen all too often in our lives, it may only happen a number of times; it goes beyond visual appreciation and reaches into something much more palpable. The more urgency there is in that initial explosion, the more likely the relationship will at least begin on the right path. Where it will end is anyone’s guess.

If it were a means of physical attraction and nothing more, then we’d be drawn to thousands of individuals in our lifetime, no one in particular standing out. No one unique creature to whom we keep returning, at least in our thoughts. 

I can’t imagine that sexual chemistry is only about wanting to tear one another’s clothes off as that seems relatively pedestrian and a little bit of a bore.

At the sake of sounding like a hippie wanker (this hurts me more than you), I think what’s key is to look for a certain energy in which you want to be enveloped. If you’re any level of mature, then you should be able to read the energy of the person in front of you; if you find yourself poised, relaxed, attentive, attracted, intrigued and wanting to share in that energy then don’t let that person walk away from you. Also, don’t be a rapist.

Ultimately, it’s that energy which makes people stay together: The ability to work through one another to reach our individual as well as our combined potential. And since we can never reach our complete potential, that process is unbroken and takes the suited lovers with it. Always.

Note: I believe in deep and great true love. Deeply bitter wanks incapable of opening their hearts to the potential vulnerability of great love will likely call me naïve…a label I am quite happy to wear because better here than in their blackened and petrified hearts.

(05/07/19)

**********

.1. Would love to hear your definition of sexual chemistry (email if you are too shy to comment). Additionally, dl Natacha Atlas’ Something Dangerous and listen to ’Quand je ferme les yeux’ before any of the other tracks.

.2. Image courtesy of the incredible jeremymasonmcgraw.com

So. I haven’t been home (here) in nearly a month. Beg your greatest pardons and thank you for all of the amazing email messages which you have sent asking after me. As for those of you who continue to yell about my absence…ehr…thank you for you well-intentioned ragey emails; you are v awkward.

I have been away because I am a lunatic who decided that I would spend approximately 15 – 20 hours per week — in the evenings and on the weekends — attempting a writing exercise to confirm whether:
1) I was a funny person
2) this funny person made their way through the written word.

The lovely folks upon whom I inflicted my brand of humour, I had never before met and I needed it to remain as such. This means that I initially scared them, made them wee in their pants, and then finally, (fingers crossed) won them over because I sent them money.

As of today, that comedic writing exercise is on hiatus until September.

I have been searching for a new theme and direction in which to take One Female Canuck, and it dawned on me yesterday: Humor. Humor is my strength, even when I am a sobbing snotting slobbering mess of a human being. (I aim to be v sexy.)

Apart from changing both the name and the design of this home, you may expect a few more things over the course of the summer months:
1) I will be reviewing all pieces, and republishing the ones worth rewriting with humour;
2) I will be indexing, tagging and categorizing all; and,
2) I will be adding new pages and slotting articles accordingly.

One Female Canuck has been a labour of love for the past 7 years. I am excited about what’s to come and hope that the changes will be to your liking else am not above offering you money.

Lots of love your way,
M
P.S. I am leaving for Turkey + Greece next week and will be on complete radio silence for a little over two weeks. (Please don’t yell at me.) All work will start rolling upon my return xx

This film is about awkward dating scenarios.

Like mistaking a feeding funnel for sex toy? Awkward.
Dinner date made up of the boiled body fat of your beau’s ex girlfriend? Way awkward.
Anal rape? AWK.Ward.

Awkward and brilliant. Utterly and completely brilliant if you are the sort who enjoys falling head first into discussions of human psychology and the nature of relationships, adoration and love. More brilliant if you wish to consider the extent to which we have proprietorship over our own bodies. Penultimately brilliant if you want to think about the nature of consumption and human capacity to cruelty. Most brilliant if you are not the sort who defaults to “this is shit and nothing more than for-shock value because I don’t actually get it so will instead pee’n'poo on it“. (Thank you to the beautiful A whose obscure taste in cinema forced this film upon me.)

Inside of the first five minutes, I had paused it to respond to a text from my bestie. Because I am a judgy monkey, I wrote: “Hello, my love! I am watching a film about fatties in pink ribbons and their lovers with bad dye jobs. I am also having Thai. You? xxo”

Caution! Don’t be a judgy monkey. You will be thankful; if not, at least you will be thinking. Promise.(1)

Let me state for the record that the sickos who wrote this film are my heroes and as any proper lunatic who could, I would work in any capacity (slinging coffee! Shining sunglasses!) with this team if they would have me. I mean, the conversations alone must be incredible when one considers the absurd humour of the film. (Imagine the hours spent talking shit with the writers – Patrick Thompson, Alex O’Loughlin and Kieran Galvin.)

There is very little information about the film, but you may watch the trailer here.

Interestingly, I was yelled at by S + M when I mentioned this film. S couldn’t believe I was unfamiliar with the director Brett Leonard. I am quite certain I heard him mumble ‘if I was on Facebook, I would totally unfriend you‘. (This mumble may or may not be entirely made up by me.)

M was shocked that up until seeing Feed, I had never heard of Alex O’Loughlin, at high volume stating into the telephone that “he’s been around forever!” The Story of O is that he is very popular with the ladies; if you are among these ladies, I warn you that in this film he is bewilderingly unattractive (but for his bottom; he has a lovely bottom).

Sidebar: Speaking of bums and Australians, I recently learned that koalas have massive bottoms which they use to securely wedge themselves into trees, and why they never fall out even though completely stoned on eucalyptus. I wish I had this feature of big bum, considering how often I fall out of and over things. For those of you still believing koalas are cute, let me tell you: they are not. They are perpetually bored and they flop about swaying their massive bottoms in a most snobby manner. Also, they have disturbingly long claws.

Before you email to wildly exclaim how “ALEX O’LOUGHLIN IS ATTRACTIVE AND MORE THAN THE SUM OF HIS BUM CHEEKS”, I will cede that I watched with great enjoyment some of the fan videos made in his honor and yes he is handsome now, but not in Feed. Additionally, a shit talent would not have engendered such a rave endorsement, so chill.

Erm. If anyone knows how I can thieve his fans and make them my own, please ping me an email. I want someone to make a video of me and set it to a musical score. They are an amazing and devoted lot, these ladies. Lucky boy.

See the movie.
Godspeed.

(I am off to have cake. x)

———-
(1) “Judgy”. Not a word; should be a word.

P.S. To the creep who just Googled “sex f-ck zoo” and made their way on to this site, note that this film will please your otherwise flat brain.

P.P.S. What’s up Google? See above Post Script.

Do you remember Baden? I wrote this about him earlier: “Having decided to completely nerd out yesterday, I took The Big Bus Tour of Stanley Market and sat on the upper deck where I almost fell into a state of hypothermia, making a new friend named Baden.

My favourite part of the ride was when Baden yelled “MOON!” and pointed at the sky. He was truly lovely, and when he yawned, he finished with a flourish of “OH OHH AWWWOOOHHH’s.”

Finally then, here he is in all his adorable glory. May your bus tours be graced by the likes of he.

Comments closed.

I am ready to go home.

Also, it has become excrutiatingly clear that I am no longer interested in either boiled meaty foods or foods the composition of which I can not figure out. (I was adventurous in Hong Kong because I was experiencing a psychotic episode.)

At the rate I am eating sushi and fruit, I will either forgeo my flight and instead swim back to Canada, or become a guava tree suddenly sprouted and forever forgotten in my hotel room.

Stay tuned!

Comments closed.

Sensitivity is the heart to make peace with the most awe inspired of all for the love.

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

They have a way with English words here, and then to ensure the most awe inspired of all for the longevity, they print these lego’d words on to t-shirts. The above was one such t-shirt which I followed around for 12 minutes in order to write down the full message because calling it a ‘sentence’ seems a stretch. (In my head, the stalking seemed less offensive than taking a photo.)

I think I am in love with Taipei. On that note, I may be delirious as I have been outside since 9 am being awe inspired by…everything.

One of the things which astonished me about Hong Kong was the density of its population, with regularly seen apartment buildings stacking over 10,000 people.

To my surprise, this is not at all the case in Taipei. In fact, the areas which I visited today barely saw a dozen individuals in one given moment.

I did some research and discovered that this is because the entire population of Taipei is in fact at the Taipei Zoo. And by “I did a little research”, I mean that I decided to visit on a Sunday, the eve of a holiday. I am filled with many stellar and awe inspired ideas such as this.

Added to the list of things which I dislike? A crowd. Specifically: a crowd more than half of which are small children. I would like to tell you about my experience at the Taipei Zoo, only I am still recovering and do not wish to relive the trauma of earlier this evening. Suffice it to say that I ran out as quickly as possible, once I was told that the Panda Show (it’s a show? It’s a show!) was finished for the day.

Also the Gondola, about which everyone speaks, sits outside the Gates of Hell the Zoo, and it was to be a 4.5 hour wait before I could hang above Taipei from a string. I decided to instead come back into the city center, but not before climbing (yes. Climbing.) over women and strollers on the metro.

Upon exit to fresh air, I immediately went to my happy place since the last 24 hours: guava fruit. Guava fruit the size of lovely silicone breasts. I have been eating and drinking fresh guava at every moment possible. When guava is most awe inspired of all for the love, no one can resist.

My first guava juice I found at the Sun Yat-Sen Memorial Hall which is, like most traditional buildings here, absolutely massive; and, unlike the other buildings, populated with students practicing dance routines. Michael Jackson is popular here.

His popularity only rivaled by the Buddhist monks I watched and heard sing (is that what it is? Maybe it is prayer?) in Longshan Temple. I had thought that the Temple I saw in Hong Kong was gorgeous until I set my eyes on Longshan. I have no words to describe…wait…oh, yes I do. Longshan is most awe inspired of all for the love. Definitely.

For all intents and purposes, it is an ocular feast. While taking in the rapid explosion of colour and design of the Temple, I surely looked as though I was experiencing a seizure. I believe the only reason I didn’t was because my eyes would occasionally focus on the buffet. (Not really a buffet, but in fact tables of offerings…for Buddha? For the Temple? Do monks eat cookies and chips? Believe it or not, I am honestly asking, so feel free to email my dumb self an answer or two.)

The National Theater came next, as did the beautiful gardens surrounding the Chiang Kai-Shek Memorial Hall and the Hall itself. This is where I spent the most considerable part of my day, enjoying the gardens, the changing of the guard and the little kiddies making peace signs ready for the cameras of their mums…

Great day overall, which only got better when I accidentally found a park of lanterns…and then even better when they all lit up as I was sitting beneath them. Truly, their lighting was most awe inspired of all for the love.

Note 1: I keep wondering why they are celebrating Easter early, but only until I remember that it’s the year of the Rabbit. Hitchcock would have had a field day had he seen the hundreds upon hundreds of faux bunny rabbits all over the city.

Comments closed.