Prolific Immigrant

I was recently in Nova Scotia for work, and had a really wonderful time but for when the winds were UFC-ing my face.

There on Citizenship related stuffs, we were able to look up my original papers. Because I am an immigrant. Just like you! (*Unless you are aboriginal.) As we slowly made our way through the micro-fiche roll, I became increasingly nervous because flopping through my demented head were: ‘What if they have no record that I am a Canadian Citizen? Will I have to change the name of my site? Will they deport me? Will they rush me from behind the filing cabinets?’

These thoughts amplified when the micro-fiche flipped itself into oblivion and no “Maha” was found. My mouth became dry, I eyed my colleagues and thought: I could definitely out-run you, except for maybe the Viking.

Luckily, I didn’t need to do this because they found my photo, and application completed by my baba. My reaction was instant: I wanted to starfish face-plant on the floor and cry a combination of happiness and relief. I wouldn’t have to outrun them, wrangle the Viking, or claim clemency.

My reaction was visceral: Because these documents — which I had never before seen — represented the struggle, hard work, and commitment of my family and so many others like them. That Application for a Citizenship Certificate represents still a love letter to this country, my country.

It also addresses a reality I did not know until I later spoke with my baba, who told me that he was not allowed to submit the application with the word “Palestine” on it, and was instead instructed to write “Stateless.” But he refused, and stood firm that if the word “Stateless” was to appear on our applications, that it would not be in his handwriting, and so it was not. “Palestine” is crossed out, and replaced with the word “Stateless” in a hand-script foreign to my eyes.

The lovely folk printed the sheets and handed them to me as a keepsake. Staring down at them, I thought: Canada, you are one of the greatest loves of my life. I began to cry, and had to immediately place my sorry ass on emotional lock-down.

Because — as already mentioned — I was in the presence of a Viking and I didn’t know him very well. Had I been in the presence of the Sisters only, I would have let my tears fall. But with a Viking, I wasn’t sure with what sort of a reaction I might be met, and feared that he maybe chuck me into a snow bank and demand that I run and find a boat. Dunno.

Anyway. Point is, I was very shaky and excused myself to the washroom so that I might deal in private.

Unfortunately, I walked into the wrong washroom. Really wish I could tell you that I “stumbled” into the men’s, but I had in fact landed my busted ass in the washroom for the impaired. (Maybe I mean handicapped? What word am I supposed to use here, know-it-alls?) Rather than leave immediately, I decided to stick around and figure things out while dealing with my soppy emotions.

Only in place of facing my emotions, I instead discovered my Mount Everest: The toilet seat for the impaired, a mechanism I could not work.

I tried to ease myself onto this contraption very carefully because of the very real possibility that I might wee my leg accidentally (and if I was worried the Viking would chuck me into a snowbank for crying, I was paralyzed by the thought of what he might do were I to wet myself in public).

I am nothing if not determined. So I angled, and then angled some more, I used my yoga techniques, made like a trapeze artist in Cirque du Soleil, got on tippy toe, approached it as though it were a small horse, and even tried to unscrew half of the toilet seat so I might sit on its bare bones; I was met with nothing but the reality that there was absolutely no way I was going to pee on this toilet without risking the dunk of my bare bottom into the water itself.

After eventually accepting defeat, I made my way to the regular toilets (around the corner, down another hall) where I was able to hover like a proper debutante.

Because God works in mysterious ways, my back-alley confrontation with the toilet afforded me ten minutes to subconsciously recenter my emotional compass, and to once more control everything starting at my head, moving down to my heart, and landing squarely in my pants.

Thank you Canada, for both your warmth and your toilets that are not holes in the ground demanding I stick my bottom out like a dancer in a Fitty Cent video, and aim. Please don’t change too much.

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.)

P.S. Specifically, he is of a ‘sabre squadron’ skilled in parachute insertions (HALO, HAHO, static line etc).

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

Here, 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 or maybe I am just some sort of good-times hooker, no one in particular standing out. No one unique and nothing sacred.

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 individuals 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.

There is now a part deux to this article.

(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.

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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!

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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.

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After work, I said a last goodbye to the harbour, and sent a large hug across its body to Luna Park in return for the warm embrace it gave me last weekend.

Before heading home for the night, I spent my evening locals-watching, in hushed tones hearing …we are now looking at what in many parts of the world is known as an Investment Banker. The IB is recognizable by its dark suit, cuff-links and crisp tie, often found pecking at the savings carcasses of others, while their bellies only expand. They are to be approached with the greatest caution, and some argue better left alone as their extinction could lead to global recovery…, and sharing my food with a homeless man who sits ignored by most.

If you have time, food, and / or change to spare, please find him at the beginning of the pedestrian only area of Pitt Street. He has a small red blanket on which you may place anything you would like to share.

This evening was my favourite of all.

Thank you, Australia.

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Thank you all for your amazing tips, tricks and concern re my puff, my favourite remedy that of rubbing tomatoes on my person to alleviate the sunburn. The overdosing on antihistamines has done the trick. I no longer look as though I am gunning to replace either the Gerber Baby or the Michelin Man.

My skin is also no longer lobster red, but rather almond. This morning, I peeled off my forehead (yum!) as I worked. Honestly, at the risk of taunting skin cancer, my burnt off and peeled skin has given way to new baby smooth skin.

And FYI: I am now clinically terrified of the sun. Like, I see the sunshine and experience an immediate gag reflex when considering the recent pain of my sunburn. All I can think is once reading that the most painful way to die is to be burnt alive. (Hi there, Gag Reflex.)

Enough about this, and back to Sydney. After work today, I enjoyed an early evening stroll along both George and Pitt streets (with umbrella and dodging the sun’s rays, performing wild zigzags across streets to hide behind shade). There is a portion of Pitt St which is for pedestrians only and it is filled with live musicians; strong rec that you stop in if in Sydney, and find the drummer. Follow the beat to be mesmerised. I have taken a short video which I will upload upon my return home.

Every single person – including toddlers and premie babies – in Australia engages in happy hour / after work drinking. All pubs and restos past which I ran (with my umbrella) were overflowing with folks enjoying a drink. Why have we classified the poor Irish as drunks, when clearly, it’s the Aussies who will run over their grandmother for a pint?

Maybe this is why I have dubbed them the nicest people on earth…that they are drunk?

No matter. What matters is tonight I watched a performance of Carmen at the Sydney Opera House, and was afforded the opportunity to learn one very critical bit of info about myself: I do not like opera. Nor do I like live theatre which is being surtitled on a jumbotron above the stage.

However, I do love it when a man and a woman opera at the same time and overlap. There’s an official word for this, but I don’t care enough to Google, and so have decided that opera is now a verb. Honestly, if one of the genders rang through a “kaakaa” while the other boomed a “poopoo” into my ears, I (a) wouldn’t understand what they were opera-ing; and, (b) would love it.

Tomorrow: more sun dodging and Saturday travel to Taipei for the last leg of this trip.

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Canberra,
where the streets are pristine and the lawns manicured;
Canberra,
where there’s nothing much to do.

(At least not in terms of what I like to do while visiting a new spot.)

I return to Sydney later this evening, after another day at the High Commission in Canberra.

My Sunday in Sydney placed me on the earliest bus to Bondi, and woke me by a swim in the waters. My rest of day was spent at the Bondi outdoor market purchasing art work, noshing on pasta salad, and drowning myself in fresh fruit smoothies. I also had the pleasure of wandering around the houses in both Double Bay and Rose Bay neighbourhoods.

Creepy or exploratory? You decide.

I went to sleep in Canberra that night, and woke up to eyes the size of eggs; tuesday, the size of watermelons; and this morning, the size of small infants.

I have developed allergies to something. Possibly the sun, or its rays or the weather, the heat, people, oxygen, pillows, dunno…

To these sudden and severe allergies someone yesterday observed how the swelling made me look of a different nationality.

Offensive or imaginative? You decide.

A lovely colleague this morning bounced me over to a pharmacy where the Pharmacist cleverly said “The puffy swollen eyes are not due to the sun. You are puffy because of water retention. Maybe. Maybe you are having an allergic reaction. Canberra is good for that. Maybe. I dunno. G’Day. Take some antihistamines.”

Antihistamines I took; 50 mg of the behind-the-counter drowsy sort. First 30 mg, and then 20 mg.
Essentially, I am high and drowsy while typing.

Thankfully, the 50mg are doing the trick and my forehead is no longer looking like that of Nicole Kidman’s.
I once more have facial expressions extending beyond the oft used sad and confused bloat face.

As a treat to my sorry and sad puffed self, I have a ticket to and will be tomorrow attending Carmen at the Sydney Opera House. (Hurrah!)

Note 1: Aussies are, quite possibly, the friendliest and warmest people in the world. It appears that they were placed on this earth to provide the rest of us with warmth and kindness. Except for those among them who would like to see a return to Australia’s White Policy.

Note 2: Approaching the High Commission (HC) on Monday, I noted that the fence around the HC was engraved with maple leafs, and I was over the moon (though under my umbrella) to see Canada represented. This is a recurring reaction when I am abroad and see my home. Missing you very much, Canada. Even your shitty shitty shitty cold weather.

Note 3: Koalas are fkn scary and creepy. Additionally, they are not bears, but rather they are a marsupial. If I were smart, I would know what that means.

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Happy Chinese New Year (of the Rabbit)!

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Though to post later, I currently type this while seated on the ledge of the pier alongside Luna (amusement) Park. After breakfasting at Kings Cross organic market, lunching at the The Rocks market (where amazingly, I ran into someone I knew), hanging with koalas and kangaroos, visiting the Sydney Opera House, and all day feasting on fresh figs and mango fruit, I decided to spend the rest of my day among children.

And children I found at the Luna Park amusement spectacular. Of note, four year old twins Eva and Lily, with whom I rode the ferris wheel. Chestnut skin, hazel eyes and long golden brown hair they have. Eva is the cautious one who kept requesting that we “don’t look down, please. It’s very far…”, while ensuring that her minnie mouse doll was sitting properly as Lily jumped and climbed over the seats and bars (their father was with), repeatedly sitting on minnie, much to the upset of Eva. The difference illustrated further when their father pointed out a kayak in the middle of the harbour, the sight of which had Eva declaring “he shouldn’t be doing that”, and Lily instead standing, jumping, clapping and requesting “Can I? Can I, dad?”

Beneath a blue sky, along the harbor, amidst a heat wave, a late afternoon of ferry crossings, carousel, roller coaster, and ferris wheel rides feels wonderful on the skin; watching the sky darken across the harbour wonderful on the heart.

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Having decided to completely nerd it 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.

Baden is an 85 year old Australian, residing in the Phillipines for the last 22 years. When we exchanged names, he said to mine “…like Maharena”, and so I became Maharena for the duration of the two hour ride. Role playing with an 85 year old Australian man in Hong Kong; who knew?

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.

Must recommend that for anyone coming to Hong Kong, they really spend as much time as possible out at Repulse Bay. The water is a beautiful shade of azure, and it sits quietly at the bottom of these massive mountains / rocks / cliffs / islands. (This photo I did not take.)

A particularly interesting site yesterday was of the terraced slopes of the Aberdeen cemetery. I love cemeteries and am fascinated by how different worlds enshrine their dead, so this was an incredible site. Although I couldn’t manage a proper photo, the one to which I here link does not do the cemetery justice because it must be seen in full, and from atop so that one takes in the thousands and thousands of grave stones dropping down along the cliff. (Again, not my photo.)

Today is my last day in Hong Kong and I managed to hop on the Star Ferry to cross over to work (landing at the Consulate at 8 am, a full hour before my expected arrival…and that of anyone else’s, hence my ability to deliver this entry before beginning work). While boarding the ferry, I giggled and photographed the warning about safewalking across the gangplank, which to me sounded dirty and left me wondering is this like the time they asked me to recycle my “cum”? (Chill. I have a photo of the recycle box on which it was written “litter, cum, plastic, paper” and am not here mocking anyone’s enunciation. I often default into a language all my own, and so would not trespass that line of rude.)

As I am neither pirate nor sailor, I didn’t know that a gangplank is, according to Google, a board or ramp used as a removable footway between a ship and a pier. Something I know now, but not at 7.30 this morning when I was standing dangerously close to the gangplank, on the wrong side of the gangplank, attempting to take a picture of my pretty coloured ferry while the gangplank nearly made off with my toes.

The official who was ushering us on to the ferry came over and said “危险！移动!”, which I – judging by his expression and gesticulating – am pretty sure translates to Are you kidding me? We have twenty seven warnings in English for dumbasses like you and STILL? STILL! You ignore the damn signs and stand all over the place in danger of being hurt by THE GANGPLANK! MOVE!

Needless to say, I made it to work safely and without further incident, and will be heading back to the hotel at noon in order to wrap up, have lunch and get ready for the airport as it is a nine hour flight to Sydney.

Inshallah, I will one day return to Hong Kong (in either May or June) to visit the following, missed this time:
- Ocean Park, where there are Pandas. PANDAS!
- Big Buddha.
- The Peak, for the view.
- Lamma Island, where the preferred means of transportation is foot or bicycle.

Note 1: I have been eating myself into a state of coma. Daily, I ingest enough soya and linseed bread, teeny tiny roasted peanuts, dragon fruit, and apple / cucumber / mint drink to nourish a small colony of ogres.

Note 2: Whenever I look up into the sky, there are several massive birds circling, with very long wing-spans. I don’t know what these are, but suspect they may be dragons.

Note 3: Dear Hong Kong: Thank you for your warm welcome and your incredible food. You are Janey’s favourite City outside of Halifax. As such, you are by extension a favourite of mine. xox m

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Last night, my cousin’s girlfriend – Mingchao, who resides in Hong Kong – and I tumbled through the SoHo district, though it was only I who on several occasions nearly pitched head first into unnoticed ditches and drainage ways. (Ultimately somehow remaining upright.)

For the above to make sense, I wish I could for you spin a web made of ice, copious amounts of local liquor, ramen noodles, and discussions of communism as religion.

Sadly, I have no such tale to hand you. Rather, the reality that I was merely jet-lagged in an area where ‘Beware. Street uneven’ should in fact be expressed as ‘Achtung! Falling off pavement highly probable’.

We visited Man Mo Temple, and storefront peeked at the gorgeous antique and art galleries across SoHo on Hollywood Rd, finishing our evening at Lil’ Siam (a place I highly recommend, as it is among the top three Thai restaurants I have experienced). I had pomelo salad with sliced shallots and dried coconut, while Mingchao feasted on a tofu peanut salad and a drink the size of her head. It was an entire fresh coconut, the inside of which had been shaved and crushed into a drink mixture; they leave a thick enough layer which you can work through with a spoon, in order to eat whole fresh chunks of coconut. The logistics of this drink are very complex, but well worth the effort. Have it at street address G/F, 38 Elgin Street, SoHo, Central.

Last Mingchao and I hung out was in Tunis, and so it was quite a wonderful night filled with the warmth of friendship and distant family.

Tonight brought visits to both an absolutely stunning Buddhist Temple, inside of which I said a little prayer and planted some incense, and the largest Masjid (mosque) in Hong Kong.

The Temple was breathtaking in its attention to detail, and fun as it was surrounded by over 70 stalls of fortune tellers (none of whom I stopped to visit, as I am entirely disinterested in knowing anything beyond what is present).

What was most interesting, however, were the multitude of deities I saw inside of the Temple, some of whom were animals. As I had always understood (in my own little way) that Buddhism was essentially a tradition of monotheism, with Buddha at the acme, I wasn’t certain what I was seeing.

For those of you who are regular readers, you already know that I attempt to see connections and similarities rather than differences; this is a key part of how I approach faith traditions, and so I was excited to learn that the represented deities were in fact different representations of the one Buddha; for me then, monotheism stands.

Kowloon Masjid, on the other hand, was nowhere near as ornate, but it was beautiful to me. I performed a small prayer – something which I have not done in months, sadly – and then made my way down to the harbor front to watch Hong Kong’s famed Symphony of Lights Show, before capping the night off with spicy kimchi and green tea ice-cream (the former I loved, the later too bitter for me).

Tomorrow evening, I am hoping to find a panda…or four.

Note 1: “Hai”, pronounced as the English “Hi, hello!” means “yes”, something I did not know until earlier today. Suffice it to say that my late discovery of this word’s meaning has made for a multitude of interesting, warm for me, creepy for others, and relatively confusing moments over the course of the last five days.

Note 2: The FKN escalators here function at break neck speed. A speed so high that it’s in fact nauseating, and ACHTUNG! worthy. If I suddenly stop updating, please note it is because an escalator ate me.

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I had an hour and twenty minutes yesterday between the workday and then an evening work dinner. Juiced on perhaps 18 coffee and tea combinations, I decided to MTR myself over to the goldfish, flower, and bird markets.

First, let me state that the MTR system is by far the easiest underground train system I have navigated amongst all others (on which I have been lost) the world over.

Don’t get me started on France’s “press a button and look for the (world’s smallest) light on a map (the size of a Great Lake)” or the UK’s ass-backwards visual representation of a specific line which has always – without fail – seen me lost in the tunnels, elbowing past the giant crowd mumbling mean things about The Tube. Like, if you’re going East to West, the map should be a horizontal line moving from right to left, no? NO! The British instead make it a VERTICAL line going from TOP to BOTTOM. Honestly, how is it possible that these people occupied so much of the world over the course of history?

While we’re on the subject – if you have to spray paint at every pedestrian crossing in which direction said pedestrian should look in order to avoid being flattened by moving vehicles, you should consider changing the system, no? You British. Seriously. (Hi Hannah! Missing you and Chaaaaarl something terrible.)

Back to Hong Kong.
People around yesterday’s markets were stare-y, which I found surprising as there are a bazillion of us non locals (by appearance). I was being stared at by nine out of ten passerbys, and when I would make eye contact, they did not look away. I was making a lot of eye contact, and so almost broke out my awesomely choreographed dance routine to All Night Long. (Janey! Eye contact begets excellent dance routine finishes. I remember!)

The staring was neither hostile nor creepy, but rather of genuine curiosity; as this did not happen tonight in the SoHo district, nor has it happened in the area in which I am staying, it was quite registering on my radar. No rhyme or reason to it, but it was interesting.

I have two large Canadian flags on my backpack for the obvious reason of being identified as thus while international, eh. (Poutine! Snow! Beavers!) While being stared at, I had a very clear image of a friend’s tale from ago: she was here at a fruit market and her head collided with an apple. And by collided, I mean someone threw an apple at her while yelling YANKEE GO HOME.

To my smile, most people were very responsive. To my generally being lost (a lot), most people were also very helpful, the most impressive of whom was one woman who refused to make any eye contact, and instead literally physically – with head down and a lot of Cantonese – pushed me over to a young business-like gentleman in front of us. She ordered him to help me, which he did.

The flower market was gorgeous both on the eyes and on the nose. It looked as though God took all of His unused paint mixtures and dumped them all across this street. And variety! So much of which I have never before seen; so much of which I worried could eat me.

The goldfish market was fascinating yet bizarre, because each fish is in a bag and these thousands of bags are hung next to, above and below one another. It is a maze of fishies.

I found the turtles. This, not figurative. I actually found the turtles and jumped with delight as they are among my favorite animals. (If I lived in a warm climate, I would have a pet turtle and keep it out in the yard.)

I also found the crickets while attempting to catch an avian disease in the bird garden. A disease which would no doubt be worth the songbird experience of visiting this particular garden and birdcage market. Approaching, I assumed they were merely bags of grass for the birds until my eye detected movement in one – then suddenly all – of the bags. I stood ramrod, worried they would see me and attack. Look, there were thousands of them, my worst night terrors come alive if escaped.

After quieting my gag reflex, I crept quietly away and out of the garden to start making my way back to the train station, only to stumble upon (what I can only think to call) Street Meat On A Stick. There was a lot of boiling, steaming and frying going on and it smelled heavenly, and in my suddenly broken English I requested “one. No pig. No pig. No insides. No ecoli. Thank you.” and I left it to the lady to hand me a skewer, any skewer. I was heavily praying it wouldn’t have anything from the fat brown squid which lay steaming with its insides falling out of its ass.

She gave me octopus on a stick. I said a prayer and ate it. It was chewy. I am sure it was hallal. Ha ha.

Note 1: Upon first attempted entry into the turn-stall to the train, I was standing too close and so couldn’t see that I had to insert my card on the vertical side. I kept trying to jam the pass into another slot (maybe a key slot?) until two little girls – with knee-high socks, plaid short skirts, backpacks and pigtails – approached and gently pointed at the correct place for the card.

I call them “little girls”, but they were probably closer to 83. No one here looks a day older than 19. They are all beautiful, with faces of unmarked alabaster (though, interestingly, with tattoos for eyebrows).

(Not spell-checking. Am exhausted. Good night.)

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I flew into Hong Kong on the back of a monsoon. Or perhaps a typhoon. Or just really hard rain.

Air Canada lost my luggage; I am work traveling for the coming three weeks, beginning tomorrow, and Air Canada lost only one bag on a flight from Toronto to Hong Kong.

Come to think of it, I believe I flew in on the back of heavy tears and the hiccups.

I arrived yesterday; it’s currently 4.30 am local time. I, in my hotel room, wearing a very thick bathrobe, overlooking one of the main streets of Hong Kong, and drinking coffee from fine bone china. The useless stress of the last 48 hours is lifting along with the fog which covers this City’s harbour.

Notwithstanding the wardrobe malfunction, Hong Kong itself has welcomed me in a most surprising manner. The drive in from the airport (to Kowloon’s The Langham Place Hotel) was above water, and so most everywhere I looked I saw either large apartment buildings by the waves, the cleanest and most organized shipping docks, and sheer rock cliffs drowning themselves in the water. Beautiful massive, green covered sheers which I only imagined owned with copyright by the UK.

Of what I have seen so far, the City is massive with excellent infrastructure. We are in the heart of Kowloon and it is extremely clean, the fashion know-how of most locals far trumping that of a visitor’s.

Note 1: The driver sits on the right side of the car. Hias, British occupation!

Note 2: The airport is the size of Ottawa. When I enquired about an ATM, I was told it was an approximate 15 minute walk, up on the 6th floor.

Note 3: It’s true! People wear pointed hats so the rain drips off. I didn’t bring a poncho; am without luggage; will buy pointy rain hat, and stay dry.

Note 4: In above Note 3, “people” = 2.

Note 5: “Arcade” here means something very different than in Canada, either “very large building” or “spend money here”. Will let you know as soon as I find out which.

Note 6: Upon entry into the hotel, we were greeted with live violin music and the scent of fresh roses. That made up for the missing luggage.

There is a painting in the main hall which I would like to thieve. It is a breathtaking allusion to modern China meets traditional China, rolled up in the strength and pride of both. (Of course a photo is going to be taken and posted. Speaking of which, your requests re NYC and Berlin photos has not fallen on deaf ears. All forthcoming.)

Note 7: I watched a Buddhist monk emerge from a Mont Blanc store with a large bag. Are there different rules on this continent?

Note 8: Everyone here is shopping for either makeup or perfume. Everyone here also smokes. What is unmentioned in the brochure is that being in Hong Kong is like being in Dubai, only with different facial recognition requirements.

Note 9: My favourite site so far were (what appeared to be) the broken piers, legs without bodies found next to the sheer cliffs on the drive into the City. They have all been replaced by state of the art highways and bridges, so they stand looking crippled and haunted. There is more beauty in them than anything sold inside of the plethora of fashion houses across this City.

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.1. A well-known fact to the US Government: Omar Suleiman is not a man who will lead democracy.

He is, however, pretty awesome at torture. Hurrah for America’s once again “honest broker”-ship.

.2. I had promised you a wrap-up of NYC, but I have neither the energy nor the patience to write more about the fckery by which I was surrounded while there.

Instead, I am here copying for your reading pleasure an abridged version of the email I just sent to one of my friends: …in the Waldorf Astoria so every morning I had the misfortune of seeing the money people of the City…

NY used to be one of my favorite cities in the US, and I couldn’t wait to get out of there…

Everywhere I looked, I saw coagulated the blood of the poor – in the Fendi handbags and the SUV trucks and the mercedes and the Harry Winston adornments of the very people who took the bailout money so they could maintain their eccentric lifestyle. The same people who remain the reason the rest of your country (and devastatingly, the world) bleeds to death.

I was crawling out of my own skin in NYC, nauseas most of the entire time. Leaving couldn’t have come soon enough.

We are entrusted with His money, and we have to exercise that with kindness and humility. But more importantly, with humanity.

Not the case.”

As the days progressed, the more my vision blurred; while looking at these people, I instead began to see the faces of those who lost their homes and their health, their families and their well-being…and in much too many cases, their lives.

I should have stayed with my cousin in Queens Jamaica, where I would have felt more comfortable and not such a fraud.

Very strange how I used to travel last decade, and I am wondering if any of you have seen similar patterns in your behaviour? In my twenties I stubbornly refused to see any of the sights (lamely using finger quotes when spitting out I don’t behave like a “tourist” as though just slapped across the back of my head), choosing instead to behave as though I lived there.

Never mind that I didn’t.
And never mind that it meant I spent 95% of my time lost and trying to wrangle my way back to wherever I was staying, because I believed that locals never carried maps instead intuitively aware of which buses and trams and horses took them to where they needed to go.

Regardless, it was fun and it clearly suited the 20-something gal in me.

Now however, I find myself drawn to things such as the Eiffel Tower (someone just slapped me across the back of the head again) and Central Park (and again). Seriously. I went to Central Park and stared at it through snow and walked through the snow and over the snow and tried to roll a snowball and sit on a snow-covered bench only instead? Another tourist (ugh…eww…) asked if I wanted my photo taken and so he took my camera and photographed me next to a garbage can and when he handed me my camera there was no image captured.

Creepy.

Just like the habit I can’t in fact shake when I travel, or otherwise, which is to wander around and stare at people. Others are kind and call it ‘people watching’, when in fact it is nothing more than maniacal staring. (It’s how I appease the voices in my head.)

I also went to F.A.O. Schwartz and hopped around on the large piano, quietly wishing for the other children to slip and fall off so I had the piano to myself. Just because I am generous in life, it doesn’t mean I like to share.

I remain amazed by my own behavior, but not nearly as much as I was by the coagulated blood all over the City.

With photos, more gore next entry. (But not Al.)

P.S. It is Page not Paige, apparently. Thanks for your emails, freaks.

Ali and I just met.

Technically, I stalked his exquisite photographic skills while still on the Face, when he tagged my girl Yasminah. Flipping through his photos gives the impression of watching candy come to life and I was riveted.

I was also crazy enough to send him a Face message detailing my creepy stalking behaviour and asking if he would like to be my friend so that I could be creepy, only slightly more out in the open about it all.

Photography is his “hobby”. This “hobby” has landed him gigs with the likes of Valentino (the designer, not the Italian gent down the street from your grandparent’s old place), and so really…his eye behind a lens is quite sophisticated.

Tonight we met face to face over one hell of an amazing combo plate of grilled chicken tikka kebab, beef tikka kebab, and beef kebab (one ground, the other pieces) courtesy of Afghan Kebab House (@ 764 9th Ave).

Have you ever had Afghan cuisine? I had not until this evening, and suffice it to say that if I could, I would make a hat of their meats, picking at it over the course of a day, never going hungry. I would also dump all of their rice in a handbag, scooping out handfuls to chase the hat meat. (Pray this solidifies my sexy in your eyes, Reader.)

Please add this resto to your list of places to eat when you are here next. And while you’re at it, strike completely from this list Magnolia Bakery.

Night before last, I had a cupcake from Crumbs Bake Shop on Lexington, so the taste still fresh. Magnolia, compared to Crumbs, can be boiled down to the following reality: whereas the former uses nothing more than sugar and food dye as base for their icing, the later uses real and true and live ingredients such as cream cheese for theirs. More importantly, there is a hint of spice to the cupcakes at Crumbs, as opposed to the straight taste of cake mix at Magnolia.

There is no comparison what-so-ever. It’s Crumbs who takes the cake all the way to the finish line in this instance; their baked goods will make you a better person. I promise.

So, uhm…essentially, I have consumed an approximate 12,000 calories today. Lucky that NYC is built for walking.

(Again: a thank you to Ali for the wonderful dinner and hilarious conversation, and a ‘looking forward to meeting you next time’ to Arlette.)

Additional notes:
* I purchased a Panthers Football t-shirt and nearly capsized in the store.
* This is the only American city where men decked out in thousands of dollars worth of suits, choose to then top them off with baseball hats. We have agreed that they probably remove said hats upon entry into the workplace. But still, it’s really all kinds of NYC-specific awesomeness.
* We are near 80 blocks from ‘Ground Zero’, and so 2 blocks from the ‘Ground Zero Mosque’. Ha ha.
* Unlike the British male (notwithstanding Jason Statham and all pro footballers), the American male has thighs uh-plenty. These thighs are not shy, greeting you at every corner and sneaking up on you in the most unexpected and welcome ways. Well done, USA. Well done, indeed.
* I went in search of (any, though preferably The Guardian) international newspaper this a.m., as I am constantly tripping over the horrific USA Today. Here’s what went down at several locations:
“Hi. Do you carry any international newspapers?”
“No.”
“Do you carry any newspapers?”
“No.”
Please recall that we are – as Laurie puts it – in The City That Nearly Financially Crippled The World.
No newspapers.
Is it any surprise…?

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I am seated at Lexington enjoying a spicy pumpkin bisque soup and listening to Ben Harper.

I am also listening to the couple next to me break up, because nothing says “respecting what we had” like a public dumping. I bet 2 cents that they are fans of Jersey Shore, and these a**hats are killing my mood.

Speaking of a**hats, I did the NBC Studio Tour this early evening (last one of the day at 5.30 pm) with Pages Lauren and Dave. I have been to this City countless times but have never once thought to enter the NBC building, let alone take the tour. It was 5.14 pm when I decided, and so I shelled out the $20 to take the tour.

Fun Fact no 1: less than 1% of the applicants for ‘page’ internships are accepted.

A tour which is tailored to 30 individuals per round; only tonight your WebMistress was the only Loser taking the Tour (and so I told whoever listened that I had bought out the tour – all 30 tickets – because I am that needy for attention). In all honesty, it was sort of amazing because I was able to ask all kinds of questions and step on and over things freely. Because I was the only person on Tour, escorted by two pages, people were staring and a few waving (from behind glass, one of them pointed, made the number ’1′ and laughed).

Dave and Lauren were wonderful (though it seems poor Lauren had a little of the sniffles) and every one we ran into belonged in one of the following two camps: either the “B*tches, I have been waiting around for ONE PERSON?!” camp or the “Check it AWT! ONE PERSON ON TOUR! MIKEY! Ay-oh MIKEY! LOOK! Just ONE person!” camp.

Not surprisingly, no one bothered to mask either their disdain or their curiosity, a curiosity only matched if I were a real live panda making my way through the building. Judging by the reactions, I don’t think that had ever happened before, and so I should have won something, because I clearly somewhere along the way lost my self-respect.

A task completed at exactly the moment I handed NBC $32 for a dvd of my “reading” both the news and the weather.

Fun Fact no 2: NBC places the dvd in a plastic case, inside of a clear plastic bag. Anyone who has walked past me and bothered to look at my plastic bag, knows I am a bona fide loser.

Fun Fact no 3: suddenly, people are giving my parka and I a very wide girth.

I am now going to have a cupcake from Crumbs Bake Shop (@ 420 Lexington) and wander around Times Square to spy on more people.

Additional Notes:
* I am certain that Lincoln (sp?) Town Cars are an alien race, here to take over the world starting at Manhattan. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
* Canada’s beloved Tim Horton’s is branded differently in the US. It’s branded as though it were drawn by Big Al of Happy Days.
* McAnn’s Bar & Grill is situated on Little Brazil street. He got lost while on his way to every other street in NYC.

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It’s been a sopping wet rainy day in NYC. Foolishly, I came with parka and though light-as-a-feather when dry, it weighs approximately 27 kg when wet. Walking around this City, encased in a 27 kg goose-feather filled 27 kg parka is proving to be a fascinating case study in space-time manipulation for those around me.

People here tend to slam in to any passer-by. (Something not followed up with eye-contact, a “sorry” or even a mild “oh!”. The only people acknowledging the body slam are non-New Yorkers; the only ones apologizing are Canadians.) People who have today slammed in to my sopping wet parka have vanished upon point of slam, only to re-emerge 3 blocks later. That’s what wet goose down does. One gentleman was rather adorable and though I tried to wrangle him in for deeper and longer, I failed. I am hoping that I will find at least one more boy buried somewhere in my parka before this day is done. (Godspeed! to me.)

Additional points of interest:

* I have discovered the tastiest and most amazing brand of dried mangoes known to wo/ mankind in the history of the entire known world, this one and all others perished. Philippine Brand; I don’t exaggerate when I write that I would willingly and with a smile knock over an old lady and her walker to access more of this edible heaven.

* I had forgotten just how much money makes its way in this City and how easily it shows within the shoes, implants, botox, and hair colour of its citizens; I believe NYC’s new ‘tag line’ ought to be Gold Diggers Welcome, with sub-tag ‘the prettier, the better’.

* I am officially not a foodie while here because I would rather graze at the street vendors than eat at the $75 per plate restaurants. The street vendors are nicer and their food tastier. Trust.

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Exceptional first night in NYC; evening started out with an in-depth literature and film discussion with Laurie. (Who is, quite possibly, one of the prettiest women on whom I have ever laid eyes. So much that I had to stop her mid-conversation and ask: “do you have any idea how pretty you are?”)

We are staying at the ever famous Waldorf Astoria. There is a gorgeous clock here (with much history, none of which I am aware), next to where our evening began, at Peacock Alley Bar.

Major, my cousin here studying medicine, currently doing his rounds as Vadge Doc (aka o-b-g-y-n) met us for the winding up of the evening at the Hotel, before he and I made our way out on to the streets of NYC where we ate bagels, cream cheese and smoked salmon, capping off our night at The Perfect Pint (highly rec’dd).

The Perfect Pint is arguably one of the quintessentials one must visit in Manhattan, not only for its selection (if you’re in to that sort of thing), but so too for its excellent staff who tend to pay close attention to, and are protective of the female customers.

Case in point: there was a man quite adamant on buying me a drink, and whom the bar keeps refused to allow purchase of said drink because they were intuitive enough / smart enough / observant enough to understand said purchase would not be welcome. They didn’t even need to ask me if I wanted a drink from the creepy man who wouldn’t stop staring at me in super creepy fashion so much that it was creeping out, even though I was there with my oblivious male cousin who wouldn’t have noticed unless said creep had large and not-necessarily firm breasts protruding from his earlobes, but rather understood and essentially c**k-blocked his very wanting technique of seduction, so that I would remain in peace for the duration of my visit.

The Perfect Pint, found at 203rd East 45th St; pop in if you can, please.

P.S. Photos as soon as possible xox

Comments closed.

I won’t be in Canada for most of this coming winter, something that makes me both a little bit sad and a lot excited as it is much travel overseas taking me away from home.

I have decided to deactivate my Facebook account while traveling and only access my email account intermittently. Looking forward to a break from the excessive e-connectivity, I’m hoping to instead enjoy the travel (when I can, as I will be working) and focus on my surroundings and my writing for the next while.

I will do my best to write a little more often than usual, so you can look forward to entries from and about the following locations between now and the end of March:
NYC
Rabat, Morocco
Beirut, Lebanon
Hong Kong
Taipei
Australia
and
Mexico City
(…as well as the outstanding one on Berlin.)

I will keep all comments capacity turned off until no longer traveling.

xs & os

**********
Image taken from the interesting Around the Sphere blog.

Dear Readers,

I frequent too many a café while traveling.

Once more, I write to you from a coffee shop, only this time I am in Paris on a street off of Avenue Montaigne, where we are working these few days.

London was as always lovely, and predominantly person-based, this time around, with my having the chance to spend extreme quality time with Hann & Charlie, Sumaira and even made a new friend: EMILY. I have placed her name in all-caps as that will make her v happy.

You may see all photos from London here.

We flew in to Paris on the day Europe shut down due to 1.3 cm of snow. As a Canadian, I was a little confused by the unraveling, but did enjoy watching my colleague trip out on 4 coffees, bouncing and smiling through Heathrow, Terminal 5. She was divine.

My first ever trip alone was to Paris, and I was likely 19 years of age. I don’t remember it being this incredible; most definitely not this sexy. There really is no way to explain it; it’s not that the people are more attractive, or that the weather is hot and humid, or that you’re getting felt up as you walk down the Champs-Élysées, but rather that it simply is.

It could be all the wine consumed, or the bread and cheese; it could be that their men have fantastic thick hair (1); it could be that breakfast is served until 11 a.m., so you may lounge in bed that much longer; it could be the attention to the smallest detail (all silverware, all china, all real butter and full bodied cream); it could be that everyone wears fur and this gives rise to a sort of animalistic hunter / gatherer environment, and really? Nothing spells s.e.x.y like bow and arrow; but chances are, it is that there exists here in Paris a true sense of indulgence and excess.

That and the fact that they wear their hearts on their sleeves, even though it takes them no less than two hours to get dressed. If the street corner doesn’t have a couple (or more) nearly screwing, then it has a couple (or more) yelling at one another (right before they practically screw). It’s amazing.

I am sort of in heaven watching them not care who watches them. Especially as we are really so puritan in our approaches to public displays of any emotion in North America, where propriety trumps.

For this reason, I have decided that I would like to be engaged to be married in this City. To ensure this happens, I have devised the following list (which I will, overtime, strike through like this as appropriate):

(1) Meet man.
(2) He falls in love with me; I with him.
(3) We travel to Paris.
(4) My mother hides in the suitcase.
(5) My father is on following flight with a gun.
(6) He is detained as gun is not registered. (Father, not man to propose.)
(7) Man – to whom I am simply “woman” – takes me to (insert his own special plan) and proposes to me.
(8) I start the next French Revolution, and document it all with my handy camera, updating Facebook as required.
(9) Above mentioned man and I fight on a street corner.
(10) We almost screw on same street corner, only our puritan sensibilities trump our momentary Parisien affliction.
(11) I purchase a t-shirt which reads: “I <3 Paris”
(12) My father is released from custody; my mother escapes the suitcase; and, we all live happily ever after.

I am seated at Nude Espresso in the Brick Lane market; the weather in London Town has been crisp, bright and without rain.

Having spent my early childhood summers in this Town, and returning so often as an adult, London has become somewhat of an old neighborhood haunt for me. Yesterday, Hannah remarked how odd it was that I was so familiar with the ins and outs of London, like the average resident (if not more so, as my curiosity takes me absolutely everywhere).

Familiarity is a lovely thing for creatures of habit.
Sadly, however, I have become unfamiliar with my favourite British subject: The Male.

These men I once adored, was fascinated by, and to whom I probably always reacted in very bizarre manner. Ever, when I hear this accent, I practically fall out of my chair, my car, the bus, Lulu, topple out of yoga, slip off my skates, vault from an airplane and even a train. Wherever I may be located, I react to this accent quite bizarre-like, and I have always greatly enjoyed the reaction.

This accent, coupled with their very distinct beauty has every single time proven a deadly combination for your girl; darkish golden hair, very white skin with always pink cheeks, full ruby mouths and crystal clear blue eyes. They sound psychotic, no? Doll-like in their beauty, these men. (Blame George Michael, like I do. He’s the one who forever changed the landscape of my interest in men; lucky me, however, I still like them straight.)

Right. So, they have become unfamiliar to me because clearly gentlemen, there is far too much estrogen in your water and it has affected the size of your thighs. (All but you who stopped me to chat in the art studio and I accidentally nodded yes when you asked me if I was Spanish…because your beauty confounded me.) Obvi, I have a thing for men with strong thighs; I have accepted that this must be some sort of biological imperative in my world, that a man come with thick and solid legs. Otherwise, I see twigs and twigs do not sex appeal make.

Speaking of sex appeal, the once notoriously gin driven London Town is slowly changing its topographical landscape from pub to coffee house. Not just the random and boring coffee pimp Starbucks, but rather amazing fair trade roastery coffee houses whose main goal is top-of-the-line flavour and texture. Coffee turned art form, quality in place of quantity.

Hannah and I yesterday did a coffee house crawl, tasting the flavours of three shops in the Shoreditch / Brick Lane district, where Han & Charlie live. First stop was the usual Coffee @, which is really quite student and though would appeal to you all in black, wears relatively quickly. Ultimately, their coffee simply does not compare to those found at either Allpress Espresso Roastery (at 58 Redchurch Street) or Nude Espresso (to which only a leprechaun can direct you).

If heading out for a date, please avoid at all expense Allpress, as the lighting inside is for shit. It is florescent, and I think that about covers the ‘why’ of not going while wearing the pretty. Additionally, the seating is very quite cafeteria in its style; large wooden tables at which several parties may sit. It is, however, the perfect spot to go with your friends for an incredible cuppa, sweets and sandwiches. They warm your coffee cup with boiling water before serving it your way. Very elegant touch, this.

As for a date beginning or ended, Nude Espresso is really where you must head. Everything works, starting with the lighting (not florescent!) to the atmosphere and seating arrangements of cozy corners. The staff are particularly gorgeous, too, and the cappuccino is a must-have as they top it off with swirls of hearts.

Thing is, there are two locations of Nude Espresso, and the one I recommend is slightly off the beaten path; upon entry in to the Truman Brewery Food Hall on Brick Lane, walk out the back door, past the dumpsters and in to the parking lot. On your left, you will see the proper location of Nude Espresso. Go in and ask for Gerard, requesting he make your cappuccino if there. (Make certain to enjoy their God Spank the Queen exhibit, commissioned specifically for Coco de Mer (aside from Rigby & Peller, a must to purchase lingerie when in London Town).

We are off to an industry party this evening, as Charlie is a script writer. This will be very interesting, and will no doubt bring forth many unfortunate stories for this interWeb home.
**********
Re Nude Espresso photograph; aren’t I the biggest creep in the world to take a photo like this, and then not be shy about posting it? He is the owner; his name is Gerard. He has crinkly smile lines around his amazing greenish / blue eyes, all beneath a head of thick waves that were whispering “play with us, Maha” as he and I were chatting. He will also never let me back in to Nude Espresso once he finds I took this photo. (Unless, of course, a smile can get a girl a very long way in these parts.)

 
That’s the mac light which Baby Jane brought as a gift for my Treehouse.

It now sits in my bedroom window and I have decided that I shall use it as (a very large) nightlight.
 
Which reminds me of the Red Light District hookers who were waving at mama, while we were on a tour bus in Amsterdam. 
 
“Look”, she had said, “there are girls in windows!  They look like dolls!  They’re so pretty!  And they’re so nice!  They are waving at us!  Amsterdam is such a nice place full of such nice people!”
 
Her world was too pretty so I never did tell her the truth.

If she were outside my window, she would no doubt smile, wave, and maybe offer to make me a snack.
 
I have said it before and will say it again; I, cartoon, am daughter to a Muppet.

Once upon a time, long ago, there lived a Queen from the Isle of Hooliganslivehere. The Queen was flown to the Side of Canadia, where her sparkly blue eyes fell upon your story weaver and she declared ‘you remind me of my daughter’, a statement I would soon discover was no small compliment. And by ‘no small compliment’, I mean ‘a really, like, really huge big one’.

Her daughter’s name was Princess Hannah, her Hooliganslivehere title She of the Usually Late, and her Indian name Gets There Eventually. Princess Hannah was dating Prince Charles, Him With the Hair, and Indian name withheld for reasons of national security.

After The Queen made her declaration, she provided P. Hannah’s phone number to yours truly and the rest is, as they say, Bob’s Your Uncle. And by ‘Bob’s Your Uncle’, I mean I just forgot the saying I wished to plug in….oh! HISTORY. The rest is history.

Princess Hannah and I chatted over the phone first ever in 2005 where it was decided I would sleep in her castle on (then) Bethnal Green Pasture (‘BGP’, because Princesses like acronyms, you see) when on the Isle of Hooliganslivehere. I believe the first time we met, we were both uncertain of the friendship and the potential for greater and deeper friendship what with her being a Princess and I, a mere Canadian.

By the end of my first visit to her BGP, something had shifted and I had fallen in love with the Princess, as well as with Him With the Hair (because it was he who convinced me to start a thing called a ‘blog’). From that day forth, Princess Hannah and I shared a bond that has only become stronger. Enough to ensure that when I visited Welovefreeshit (above Hooliganslivehere), I popped into Hooliganslivehere to do nothing more than catch a show, have dinner, and a sleepover with both the Princess and Him With the Hair (during which we discussed Briggs Meyers Something I Can’t Spell and Princess Hannah declared that I was a clear example of Something I Can’t Remember).

Recently, I was sent by the Land of Canadia to complete some work in Hooliganslivehere. I was excited because the Princess and the Prince would be in town and we would have most all evenings together for nearly ten days.

Sidebar: I must say that I don’t often like people – something which may come as a surprise to many because I give off the impression that I am extremely social. Which I am. Thing is, I am social only to a certain extent. And then I become extremely antsy and in need of me time to recoup my energy and become social once again. Also, my social extends to one evening and not more. That I am ever excited to be spending multiple evenings with the same individual(s) is a great achievement and it means I really and truly am in love with said folk(s). Otherwise, my attention trails off and I start imagining Taylor Kitsch eating pizza, drinking a beer, and listening to live music while I am perched on his lap.

Ten days of heaven I spent in London. Hannah and Charlie were lovely, beyond measure, incredibly comfortable and warm and engaging and hilarious. Really and truly, they are one of history’s Great Couples. Team Harlie!

Harlie are currently going through an extremely difficult time, and have been for over a year. It is emotionally and physically a challenge faced daily and which Harlie may continue to do so for some time still. For this reason, I would love for each and every one of you to please take a moment and send them your warmth, prayers & strength (as well as energy because they are somewhat Boheme and as we all know, them Bohemes? They love good energy).

Thank you. Love you.

(Of interest: When not in London Town, Harlie can be found roaming and raising olives in the mountains of Portugal.)

Hi everyone – just a quickie to let you know that I will not have access to Facebook until I am in Dubai.

Will write about Syri@ soon enough.

M

The last time I was in Beirut was in 2006 while helping with the evacuation of Canadian civilians. That experience was, to say the least, mind-blowing on too many levels. But even with the blowing of one’s mind, Beirut was still a beauty to behold, and though we were working insane hours and running on very little sleep, we still managed to make it out in the late evenings; ultimately, I think, it was in attempt to forget about what was happening around us.

This reality is something which may very well be specific to Beirut because it has seen so much war. A clear example of this would be us, sitting atop Sky Bar watching and feeling the shake of Israeli bombs dropping on the country. Ultimately, the human mind and body does what it needs to do in order to create a semblance of normalcy even in the most insane circumstance. The blow-back comes only once you’re pulled out of the situation itself and you’re left reliving its brutality.

In 2006, the airport had been blown to shit by Israel. It was a tactical move, the same as the blowing up of several bridges which linked many parts of the country to one another. Because there was no airport at which to land, we were flown in via military helicopter. This time, I came in through the gleaming airport – all of which looked entirely new, for obvious reasons.

I am staying at the same hotel, and maybe even in the same room. Everything appears to be the same.

Only it’s not. Where the billboards were then of Nasrallah declaring ‘The Divine Victory’, they are now of Scarlett Johansson selling Dolce & Gabbana; where the sounds of dropping and exploding bombs would then quiet a conversation, the sounds of car horns and home-made fireworks serve as typically Middle Eastern compliment; where the shaking of this country wouldn’t then let me sleep, the peace of the bed now lulls me to my core; and, where the sky over Beirut was previously covered by the air of Israeli bombs and fighter planes, it is today saturated with the density of humidity.

When I stepped outside of the airport, I was met by the smell of sand and humidity and welcomed by al-athan, the Muslim call to prayer. I was momentarily overwhelmed by what I had experienced in 2006 and had to push back unexpected and surprising tears, saving them instead for the privacy of the taxi…until we were nearly hit by a crazed man in a van who honked his horn and declared – with a fierce waving of his hand – that my taxi driver was a ’7ayawaan’ (translation: ‘an animal’, and not the cute and cuddly variety), even though he was the one at fault.

I am giddy with pleasure to be back. Beirut, you have been missed.

++++++++++
Note: Written while seated on my balcony, overlooking the Mediterranean sea.

Note: The below was written on March 20th, while I was in London. My writing will slow for the next while as I will be up in the air (sadly, without Clooney) next week for three weeks, also for work. I will be in Syria, the UAE & Lebanon. Be safe & keep emailing…xoxoxo

——————–

My Beloved London Town,

If you recall, you raised me during my formative years, providing a warm hug every summer spent with you. I have since returned regularly, though stopped my visits three years back. I fail to find the proper words to explain the ‘why’ of my vanishing.

I have missed you beyond measure, and I can tell you’re not at all upset about my absence because your warmth swallowed me whole the very moment I touched a toe to your streets.

This time, I am here for work and so staying by Trafalgar Square. I plunked my suitcase down and ran to see your streets after a harrowing travel and taxi ride because your tribe does not fix one street in a particular direction, but rather all streets in that particular direction. No matter.

Without hesitation, I ran to Pret to have my favourite nicoise salad, which is from where I write this letter, as I face Trafalger, and as I wave at the several folks who have already waved at me, perched at the window like an awkwardly large cat.

My next stop will be to the Caffe Nero across the street, for her cappuccino and world’s greatest biscotti.

Dear Costa Coffee Shop,

Really sorry that, in my excitement to find Nero, I confused you for them. Also, deepest apologies for then slightly harassing your staff, demanding an explanation as to when and why you had stopped carrying the proper brand of biscotti.

Thanks for helping me out of your shop. I really like it when people hold my elbow, because it shows me they care enough to make certain I don’t trip.

xox m

On my way here, by the way, I stopped into the Playhouse Theatre where I will later tonight be seeing the musical ‘Dreamboats & Petticoats’. Do you want to know how lovely your tribe are? I was looking to purchase a simple – and your least costly ticket – only, the gentleman at the front told me he liked my smile and so was instead going to charge me the same, but for a seat in your double-the-cost-and-bestest section. See, London Town? This is why I love you and have missed you and am beyond the moon, stars and skies to be in your arms once more.

Sadly, however…

Having written that, I must also indicate that your body scanners scare me and the mere thought of them make me feel extremely vulnerable and violated. For this reason, and this reason alone, you will not see me back until I am afforded a choice to be stripped and patted down by a female officer, rather than subjecting my sense of self and body to your technology which literally leaves one stripped naked and photographed. Most especially now that we know your claims at Heathrow are really nothing more than fibs told by lying liars who lie.

Dear Members of British Parliament Who Say That These Scanners Are Not Invasive Technology,

Two simple requests: (1) next session in Parliament, please attend in the nude. We promise to destroy the images immediately; and, (2) before I walk through one of these, I expect every single one of your family members to do the same…females first.

In fairness,
Maha

Still, however, with love, hugs and kisses, I love you (but will spend my vacation time and money elsewhere),
Maha
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All of my London Town pictures may be found here.
&
The ‘Maha’s 35 Things To Do In London‘ has been updated.

Dear Vatican -

I am doing this on the fly and so please forgive my quickness and really shit grammar and spelling; also, I am a Muslimah – and God is my savior, not Jesus. I hope this won’t make you wish to send me to Hell. Thank you.

A few things – primarily, your home is gorgeous and I thank you for letting me in at a cost. Really.

I have some recommendations on how you may improve your generosity. Primarily, I would ask that you improve your signage, because on a few occasions, I didn’t know whether my bum was to my left or atop my head. At first, I assumed this was because of my chosen Faith, until the Catholic with whom I was traveling shared that she was as confused as I.

Second, please consider contracting Disney to take care of ‘the situation’ of the staircase which leads one up to the Dome of the Basilica – your 551 steps are not the problem, but you should have both rest-stops for peeing and drinking. If not, then consider adding some cute pages who would throw water at us as we ascend the stairs (much like those who hang on the side of a race track).

Also, maybe consider adding a slide for the descent. Give your gatherers a choice to slide down…and maybe land in a vat of holy water? This would be fun.

Or, you could possibly have a ride (with ‘It’s a Small World After All’ in the background) that takes one up to the Dome while seated in mini Pope Mobiles, and with all of the different popes coming out and spinning around us. Naturally, your pages would be the ones who help us on and off in their Court Jester like suits. Adorable are they with their gorgeous thick luscious heads of hair. Did you choose them this way on purpose? Do you think they’re pretty? Because, really, they are very pretty, and very young boys.

Finally, my deepest apologies for the near international incident I caused. Two actually. The time when I was waving into your cameras on the stairway from the Dome, and which nearly led to the tumbling down of many of your Catholics. Also, the time I thought it would be fun to stand inside of your confessional and have my picture taken. If you had proper signage (please see above reference) then I would not have thought such a shot would make an excellent photo opp (although it did, as your boys were a little late on the tut-tutting).

Thanks again. All my sisterly – and not in a nun kind of way, although I did greatly admire their hijab – love in Faith and belief in God.

Peace,
Maha

Leaving for Rome & London tomorrow and I promise stories while there; thank you for the well wishes re travels…xox

Video no1 – Kitty took this while we were on Cypress Mountain waiting for the men’s aerials to begin.

Video no2 – The final few moments before Canadian girls win hockey Gold.

Video no3 -”The kind of hail that breaks your face…” (thank you, Baby Jane)

Comments closed.

Blogging on the fly; pardon all shit error and spelling.

Jumped off my flight and landed at Elixir for dinner, with these two gorgeous broads.

Not surprisingly, we were asked to quiet down from one of the adjacent diners. Also, we ate an apple tartatartartine, a sweet French dessert, the name of which I have likely misheard.

Kitty had never been to Granville, and so I took her for a stroll before we ate in the market. She had a chicken butter bowl and I had Mexico’s most tasteless wrap, the name of which I have likely misheard. Note that: Kitty is snack size, smaller ever than the official Olympic mascotians.

Canada Gear 101

Dear Folks Visiting Vancouv for Olympics:

Overkill is indeed possible re how many CANADA gear clothing items you wear at one given moment.
You’re welcome.
Love, m

First sign of ‘winter snow’ was upon our arrival at Cypress (Canadians can’t spell; this you should know by now) Mountain, where we were to watch the Biggest Badasses in the History of Winter Sport; Men’s Aerial-ists Freestyle Skiing FEARLESS Foxes. Copied word for word, that is exactly what is written on the backs of each athlete’s bum. (Note: The American outfit appears to be flannel pyjamas. Canadians can’t spell; American’s can’t fashion.)

Before we watched them, though, we were forced to play with two massive and very aggressive balls which, if not careful, would smack one in the head.

And immediately before we watched them, we watched how Canadian girls do it better; a gorgeous shut-out or shut-down or something against the really terribly aggressive US female hockey-ists. 2-0 wins Canada GOLD in female hockey-ing. (Beautifully done, ladies.)

(I have a video of the last 20 seconds of the game; will upload when home.)

Finally, we watched the FOXES aerial-ing, supported by a Smurf Army.

And finished our evening eating much too much sushi…or that which pretended to be sushi but was neither good, really, nor well wrapped at The Eatery. I strongly recommend you forego this place; but if you must, then only go for a very light and not-so-good meal, and just to enjoy the fantastic art creations hanging above and next to you.

All above photos are from the berry; once home, I will complete the circle and post nicer photos and video. xox from Vancouv. (Go Canada Go!)

This is the final entry about this just last trip to Austin.
I have written about Lisa before – a wonder of a woman who, from the moment we met, I began crushing on rather heavily. Lisa, by the way, is pregnant…having become so just around the time I last visited, and so I have begun calling myself her Fertility Charm. Unless her and her man need me to sit atop their bed while they copulate, I don’t mind being such a charm. (Please wish her congratulations and send her your best belly energy – both men and women.)

Anyway. Point of this entry isn’t her belly, but rather her wonderful and amazing sense of generosity where my very awkward love of COACH ERIC TAYLOR, HI! and Friday Night Lights is concerned.

Lisa, see, has a friend who works with the FNL crew. This friend was able to confirm two things for Lisa: (1) shooting locations of FNL; and, (2) that the day she surprised me with our little FNL sojourn, was not a day on which they would be shooting. Why this later? Because Lisa had no interest in placing myself (and by extension, herself) in an embarrassing situation wherein I would freeze, or worse yet, lunge into inappropriate touching of either COACH ERIC TAYLOR, HI!, Tim Rigglett Riggins, or Tami Taylor.

Honestly, I would be hard-pressed to behave myself in such a situation.

First stop was the football field that the Dillon Panthers called home (GO EAST DILLON!). It was raining and I was exhilarated. Unfortunately, you can’t really see the sameness between the filming and the reality and so my excitement was contained:

I tried to pick the lock that held the wire fence closed and that kept me on the other side of the field. Lisa suggested that perhaps it wasn’t the greatest idea to attempt a break in, so instead, I quite sadly held on to the fence and stared at the field which eluded me, imagining COACH ERIC TAYLOR (!) putting The Dillon Panthers through their drills and making certain they played their hearts out on that field (because they are real people, who play real games, yes?). Eventually, Lisa wrestled me back into the car.

Second stop: Landing Strip, the locale at which the Riggins brothers as well as Buddy Garrity hang. It is a strip bar, and as it was the middle of the day and Lisa and I were without a man (as an excuse to enter), we merely creeped around the entrance and enjoyed it from the outside. Being in Texas meant not even the hint of lesbian-anity.

Third stop: Broken Spoke. I really don’t have anything interesting to say about this joint except that I wanted to return in the evening to enjoy a little honky tonk, but never made it. I am interested in having a dance-off with a local; any local, and so have decided to make this my top priority next trip.

Finally, and most notably, was the burger joint at which most of season 1 was filmed. This place is recognizable as soon as you pull up to it, and Lisa said I in fact jumped out of the car before she had placed it into park. More incredibly, she said that as soon as we walked in, I short-circuited and staring at the ground, turned a complete 360 laughing to myself. I think she’s lying because I don’t remember any of that. I do, however, remember how I felt as though I were to come crashing out of my own skin when I laid eyes on the restaurant, and for those of you familiar with FNL, you will immediately recognise the location spot in the photos.

In summation, the following picture is worth a thousand words. This was taken by Lisa while we were seated in one of the booths at the restaurant (the staff of which would not let us pay and who wanted to feed us french fries, because of the energy vibeing off of us, no doubt). When C saw this expression, she said: “That’s the exact same expression Nora-May had on her face the entire time she was in The Princess Castle”.

Nora-May is five years old.

Thank you Lisa.
Love you.
Owe you.

***************
P.S. I have just returned from Costa Rica. I have been getting caught up with everyone and am relatively exhausted and so not very write-y. I promise to make up for this soon enough – thank you for your amazing emails. Love you all.

Hi!

It’s been a while, and that’s because I was away in Costa Rica where no one wears plaid, and so I really missed you.

It’s kind of official now, by the way, that I have completely blurred the lines between reality and fiction and in my very small head you, Tim Riggins, is actually Taylor Kitsch. (Don’t worry about the small head thing though, because other parts of me totally make up for this.)

Mmmm, I received a very funny email while I was gone (in Costa Rica, did I mention? In the jungle. By the water. Maybe you’d like to join me next time? Rain boots & bikinis…) – it was a transcript of an interview you had done, in which you (1) LOL’d when someone asked if you read the Twilight series; and, (2) indicated that you cover your fun parts in Saxx Apparel, whose tag line is: “Show your balls some love”. Genius, beyond measure.

And speaking of measure…

I’m kidding…but you know, what with all this talk about your panties, it’s sort of inevitable that my small head would be filled with awkward and completely inappropriate thoughts.

Beyond your panty gig, though, is your clear disdain for Twilight. A disdain I share and so yet another reason we ought to be together; a disdain so deep that when I read your response, I started bouncing in my seat and clapping very quickly. Also, I may have been screaming in my small head, with great excitement. (Another reason we belong together? We both like babies – and fyi, for you to keep in mind: not only do I want to birth several, I would also like to rent and lease as many others as possible, please & thank you.)

Finally, last night I got caught up on FNL season 4, episode 8. When you kissed the girl, I couldn’t help but think how I would really like to have your perfect mouth on my very small head.

Hugs and squeezes and giggles,
Maha

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This is the third and final post to part 1: Longhorns crush Denver & a Canuck learns the secret handshake & remains clueless re Football, unless associated with Taylor Kitsch & COACH ERIC TAYLOR

and

part 2: Americans throw the pig’s skin around and HI! COACH ERIC TAYLOR! .

Intifadah: To awaken from slumber.

Before the game began, pomp and circumstance were the leading culprits on the field. Wherever one looked, there were sad little people wearing costumes which were likely sewn by Lou-Ellen in 1963. Take this gentleman, as example, and the unfortunate reality of his long torso, as stuffed within his Cowboy Cartoon outfit. No doubt, on a regular day, he rocks his everyday clothes, and so it must be with great distress that he meets UT’s insistence to dress as Woody from Toy Story, rather than the Marlboro Man…from my dreams.

Alongside the band was a crew of UT students flopping around next to and beneath the State of Texas flag. Among the more memorable points of the evening was when a few of them were caught beneath the flag. Uncertain as to whether or not they would ultimately survive, I overheard one gentleman cry out ‘Oh ma Gawd, them kids is caught’eneath the flag. Fkn BIN LADEN!’

The audience watches as the team comes out on to the field, and as each player slaps the horns of a longhorn beefer hung on the wall. This ritual was not at all a surprise as I have learned from Friday Night Lights, each team has a very specific baptismal right of passage through which each player must enter and exit before hitting the field (e.g., before exiting the locker room, each Panther slaps the ‘P’ on the wall. PANTHERS SUCK! GO EAST DILLON!). What was wholly unexpected to me was the eruption from the fans; literally, as the images began to float across the Godzillatron, the audience erupted and kept erupting long past the point at which the entire team was on the field. I was so busy being shocked that I in fact missed the Longhorns’ run out on to the green.

Before the game began, the Longhorns had a little chat with Jesus, because no one – and I mean no one – pays more attention to Longhorns football games than Jesus Christ (peace be upon him). When it’s game night, there is no room for poverty or lepers, war, famine and disease for The Lord; no doubt, he changes from white robe to pumpkin orange robe on game day. (All snarky sarcasm aside, I think it’s all kinds of awesome that they say a prayer before the game; I really do. GO LONGHORNS! I’ll say a little prayer for you with Allah.)

For the first half of the game, it appeared as though the Longhorns defense were either asleep or drunk. Either way, I was surprised to watch them get their asses kicked all over the field by Denver (or Colorado). So much that I expected, as COACH ERIC TAYLOR (HI!) would have done on Friday Night Lights, Mack Brown to be Angry Hair Yelling at the team. But he was not; instead, he was mostly squatting and watching and secret-talking into his headset. For those of you who watch Longhorns football, you will have seen the Official Mack Brown Squat, which is him, legs bent, hands on knees, looking like he is ready to go for a poop in a Vietnamese bathroom. My guess is that somewhere behind his bum and atop his hamstrings is an invisible $3M cushion which makes this comfy – the $3M being his annual salary.

Luckily, the Longhorns made a serious and amazing comeback and went on to win the game. I will not bore you with the details of the game itself, as you can find them on line, though I will say I would make an excellent football commentator as I was filled with gems such as “The hell?” “What?” “Are they drunk?” “Is that Billy Riggins?” “Do you know Taylor Kitsch?” “Oh! They’re running really fast” “Is my hair ok?” & “Where can I buy a pretzel?”.

I won’t even tell you the final score since, honestly, I can’t remember. I will, however, tell you that for every touchdown, there were cowboys in the corner of the stadium who would fire a cannon…a Longhorns game is not for the faint of heart..after which, this gentleman would run out on to the field and wave the giant Longhorns flag, followed by five others with a flag each, spelling out T E X A S because subtlety is key.

Overall, the experience was amazing and I found myself yelling loudly and with serious pain and excitement and anxiety during the fourth quarter. I had become invested without even knowing it. It helped that I was surrounded by a wonderful group of folks, two of whom are Connie (HI!) and Tams (OLA!). Connie very diligently and awesomely sends me Longhorns updates almost post every game. As of today, the Longhorns have ten wins and zero losses. These boys may just go all the way this year with Mack Brown, making it the Longhorns’ second Championship under his coaching (he would only require one more to equal the championships under the leadership of Darrel Royal – whose son, incidentally, was named ‘Mack’). If this happens to be the case, I plan on taking all of the credit.

In closing, please enjoy the near-religious-fervor overcoming the crowd after the win; this is a video of the Longhorns fan singing the UT anthem…under my breath, I was singing MC Hammer’s Can’t Touch This, in my small effort to sing-along.