Wandering . . .

Revelation

2009-04-17T17:19:00.005-06:00

Somewhere in the winter that spanned the last months of 2000 and the ones that began 2001, I was troubled by scripture. As I worked out my vocation, I just didn't understand the passages that related to my gender. On the one hand, Joel 2 and Acts 2 sang out that when the Spirit came, both the sons and the daughters would prophesy. The legacy of such women as Priscilla, Huldah, Anna, and Deborah gave me assurance as I explored what it would mean for me to teach. I had been given a great gift of an education in God's Word, and my heart burned to share it.

I just didn't know what to think of 1 Timothy 2: I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man. One of my assignments for a Pauline epistles course was to memorize the whole of Paul's letter to his young friend. As I recited it aloud, I would speed through verse 14. It seemed like such strong language. How could I reconcile my gifts and passions with this little mighty verse.

Another one of my assignments was to read a commentary on 1 and 2 Timothy, and Titus. I was not keen on this assignment since any previous commentary reading I'd done was wordy, boring, and above my head. So with little expectation, I began to read and found my heart strangely warmed. Over and over the author reminded me that this letter was written to a particular context at a particular time. Timothy was in Ephesus, a place where false teaching was flourishing. Women were among the ones advancing false teaching. So even though women prophesied and likely taught in Corinth (1 Cor 11:5; 1 Cor 14:26), it is best they not teach in Ephesus.

As I put the book down, I felt at peace again. And I thought, "Wow. I want to be able to read scripture the way this guy does." That guy is Gordon Fee.

I never cease to marvel at how God strings the yarns that come together and make our stories. The way people on three continents shepherded me to Regent College in rainy Vancouver. The way I heard of the legend that is Rikk Watts, a New Testament man who keeps it rooted in the Old. Then one day as I perused the school's website, I came across that guy's name again: Gordon Fee, Professor Emeritus. It was then I knew for sure that Regent was the school for me.

This last semester, my final semester, for my final course, I was able to take Revelation from Gordon. At eight o'clock, two mornings a week, my coursemates and I would nestle into the chapel, coffee cups in one hand, pens madly scribbling in the other, trying to soak up as much wisdom as we could. The great apocalypse/prophesy/letter that closes our canon became not a cryptic timeline of eschatology, but a reason for worship, a promise of restoration, a call to persevere amid suffering, a warning to not be lulled to sleep by empire, and a great vision of Christ himself that awoke our imaginations with its striking imagery. It became rooted in the first century and the churches of our ancestors in the faith, and in the hope of the New Jerusalem coming down, our restored Eden.

Last Tuesday, we listened to Over the Rhine and a sermon written by Kasemann, sang a hymn, and listened to Gordon teach us the final verses of John's vision. Then his daughter got up and told us that we had just heard his final lecture as a teaching professor.

I was reminded of a moment from Frederick Buechner's Now and Then: A Memoir of Vocation, page 17, when he speaks of his mentor, the great scholar James Muilenburg:

He was a fool, I suppose, in the sense that he was an intimate of the dark, yet held fast to the light as if it were something you could hold fast to; in the sense that he wore his heart on his sleeve even though it was in some ways a broken heart; in the sense that he was absurdly himself before the packed lecture hall as he was alone in his office; a fool in the sense that he was a child in his terrible candor. A fool, in other words, for Christ. Though I was no longer at Union when he gave his final lecture there, I am told that a number of students from the Jewish seminary across the street attended it and, before entering the great room, left their shoes in the corridor outside to indicate that the ground on which the stood with him was holy ground.

We hadn't had a chance to take off our shoes on Tuesday, but we did weep, and rise to our feet clapping. Thank you, Gordon for choosing the path of teacher. God has used you, and God has been present.

Still Alive . . .

2008-03-10T00:59:00.004-06:00

One of you said in a recent email that you planned to read my blog in order to catch up on my life. That reminded me that my poor blog has been in a season of drought for quite some time. So I will quickly update you on my life post-last post....

Some Place to Live: The Housing Soap Opera

At the end of last summer, I moved into the "Spanish Villa" with three dear friends. As I carried boxes and boxes of books into the house, it felt good to know that my books, my friends and I would live in this house for at least a year and a half, at least until I finish my degree.

Then my roommate Katie told me that on that very day, she had espied a realtor taking photos of our house. Soon the house was on the market. And the fun began.

Last semester, I was out of the house by 7 or 8 in the morning 6 days a week. The only day that I could ever enjoy a leisurely sleep in and a relaxed afternoon was Saturday. The realtor's favorite time for scheduling open houses - Saturday afternoon. It seriously felt like a curse in my over-committed, over-scheduled, sleep-deprived life. So each Saturday afternoon, I would have to clean my little room and vacate my house. Or I would stay, studying in the living room like a caged monkey for strangers to stare at before they explored my bedroom. I invariably felt violated.

The realtor's other favorite thing to do was notify us Monday night of open houses on Wednesday afternoon. The problem was two-fold: (1) when my life gets hectic, I inhabit my room like I am Taz from Looney Tunes. Things literally go flying and I leave hurricane-like destruction in my wake. (2) Between Monday night and Wednesday afternoon, I literally had no time to clean up the disaster area. Tuesdays I enjoyed a 14-15 hour day of classes and meetings. Therefore, sometimes strangers wandered through my mess; some probably saw my underwear.

Then the house sold in November. Then the sale fell through in December. Then a non-English-speaking Korean couple bought the house at the end of January, and they did not wish to continue our tenancy. So that left us homeless by the end of March, which is perhaps the worst time of year for graduate students to move due to exams, papers, and lack of available housing.

I think next week I'll start packing my books.

I am a winner

A couple of years I lamented that I never win anything with those game cards they give you when you check out a Safeway. Good news - I won this year! It wasn't the trip to Thailand I covet so much - rather a leather case containing two sets of playing cards which I still haven't opened. But the point is: I won.

Weightier Things

I love the city of Vancouver dearly. You really can't beat the natural skyline of the North Shore mountains or the beauty of the waves rolling onto the beaches or the tall ancient trees of the parks. But honestly, my favorite place in the entire city is the second floor of a condemned building in the infamous Downtown Eastside, known as the poorest postal code in Canada. This sacred space is called the Great Room.

Since January 2007, various friends and I have been involved in this part of Linwood House's ministry to women. My heart has been broken often by the painful stories of the lives of my new friends, but I have also rejoiced because I have seen God's hand at work. If any of you would like to know more, contact me by email.

Nee Hao!

2007-10-29T00:50:00.000-06:00

Old Friends in New Places

It has already been over four years since Arleen and I decided to move to the other side of the world. I will never forget how nauseous I felt on the plane ride over the Pacific when the enormity of my decision finally dawned on me. As the next few weeks unfolded in chaotic unfamiliarity, I consoled myself with the fact that my time in Taiwan was only temporary. It was a mere interruption - soon I would be back in Canada living my "real life".

Today, I was emptying the dishwasher, reaching for an upside down mug. I smiled at the letters MADE IN TAIWAN emblazened on its bottom. Here I am in Canada, living my "real life" and I am confronted with the reality of Taiwan. When I see MADE IN TAIWAN, I no longer envision an abstract place full of factories. I remember a smoggy wonderful place full of factories, monkeys, scooters, green tea, night markets, and people I love. My time in Taiwan was only temporary, but indeed it was real life.

When I flew out of Kaohsiung's airport that final time in 2005, I thought I was leaving Taiwan behind. Once again, I was wrong about that island nation.

My life in Vancouver is surprisingly full of Taiwan, especially in the last few months. David and Jamie's beautiful faces still appear at Regent on occasion. Nickie's studying at UBC, but we don't get together often enough. Dana just finished at UBC, and Sherri just started. James and Liezl, then Mike and Kathy paused in Vancouver before beginning new lives in Canada. My cell phone rings and it's beautiful Leanne who still remembers me after years of my absence. Julie is only a call away.

I never expected Taiwan to affect me so much, and I never expected the blessing of being able to continue friendships with the people I shared life with in Kaohsiung. Each of you are a blessing . . . You make Taiwan seem closer than Frontier sometimes.

Praise God!

The garbage strike is over!!!!!!!!

Who needs sleep?

2007-09-30T16:59:00.000-06:00

I hate garbage strikes.

Since sometime in July, the civic workers in Vancouver have been on strike. No swimming pools. No libraries. And no garbage pick-up.

It didn't affect me until I moved a month ago. A private company removed the trash at my old apartment. But now on the hill in Kerrisdale, the oldest population in Vancouver, I too suffer because of "Sam's Strike".

But the creatures love it - squirrels, raccoons, and the dreadest skunk. One night, I was coming in through the gate when I heard a little rustle by the bush. I looked down, expecting a friendly cat. Instead, an angry skunk charged at me, his tail too fluffy for my liking. I turned and ran for the door - the locked door. As I fumbled with the keys, I kept looking back to make sure he wasn't a rabid skunk that would chase me.

Two nights later, Mary and I came home together, stomping our feet and making jokes about skunks. I turned the corner to our entryway and there was Mr. Skunk, guarding our door. Just my luck . . .

Slow Suicide

Sometimes I get a Superwoman complex. I think that I can take three classes, finish up a correspondence course, work two TA positions, spend a day volunteering downtown, work a couple shifts at the golf course, and still have time for a social life. When I wake up on Monday morning, I know that I won't have a time for even a cat nap until maybe Thursday afternoon. I am slowly killing myself.

A New Favorite Quote

Last weekend was the annual Regent Retreat. Memories from a year ago kept flooding in and overwhelming me, making me cognizant of all that has happened in the last year. The people with whom I now share my life - I have only known them a year and somehow it seems longer.

Crystal and I tented this year, through a cold and rainy night and another cold night. Sunday morning dawned and as she ate her breakfast, I disassembled the soggy pine-needled Coleman tent.

My friend H. Ross observed my efforts from across the roadway. I disappeared to wash my grimy hands and Crystal returned in my absence.

H. Ross called out to her in his Mississippi drawl, "You missed the tent taking down."

Crystal replied that indeed she did.

"That Jen Gilbertson, " H. said, "she knows how to handle her Coleman."

You've all been waiting to see . . .

2007-08-09T23:44:00.001-06:00

my uniform!

This was taken by my aunty Sherry after a long shift of pouring wine and clearing plates. Only a few more weeks til school . . .

Happy Canada Day!

2007-07-04T00:49:00.000-06:00

I am somewhat of a Facebook deliquent. So look at me . . . two blog posts in one week . . .

Sunday morning, I was at work at the golf course's annual free pancake breakfast. I stood in the bright sunlight in my ever lovely faux tux outfit with sunglasses and a special edition club Canada hat. Basically all I did was throw people's plates in the garbage. The creation care aspect of my heart screamed a little at every deposit.

A group of kind old ladies had gathered to enjoy the mornings festivities. One sweet lady I recognized from a previous evening. She walks with a walker, and has quite thick glasses. They were seated in another server's section, a darker skinned male waiter.

As I walked past her, she stood up a little and said, "Excuse me, sir. Sir! Sir!" There was a guy at her table so I was a little surprised when I realized she was talking to me.

"Um, Ma'am, I am actually a lady, but how can I help you?"

"Oh, sorry, but with the hat, I thought you were a man. Your uniforms are so slimming, you know."

Hmm, the uniform makes me appear a little bloated. I took the comment with a large grain of salt since it came from an obviously vision impaired lady. One of the life goals I have set for myself is to not be one of those people whose gender is obscured into androgyny. I don't want to be the person where people have to guess Man? or Woman?

Well, I guess on Sunday, I failed at one of my life goals :)

A Few Comments

2007-06-27T00:31:00.000-06:00

Rant

One of my profs told me in his beautiful Scottish voice that if a student suffers through a rainy Vancouver winter, she ought to stay and enjoy the beautiful summer.

I've been told June is a beautiful month in Vancouver.

But June 2007 has been a month of rain and unseasonable cold. I did not move to Vancouver for this.

Accomplishment

On Saturday, I finished work at 1:30 in the morning. I was up at 6 and running at 7 in the Scotiabank Half Marathon with my good friend Sarah and her mom. A half marathon is a mere 21 kilometers.

Things started out well. Then came the thunder. Then came a few drops of rain. Then came the torrential downpour that reminded me of one afternoon in Bangkok when the streets flooded to my knees in a matter of minutes. Wet. My mood worsened everytime my foot descended into a puddle. I kept having to wring out my shirt as I ran.

2 hours and 25 minutes and some seconds later, we arrived at the finish line by Stanley Park. Our names were announced as we came into the homestretch. A final small burst of energy and I was done. Finished. Handed an Inukshuk medal - perhaps my only sports medal, unless I got one from curling back in the 90s. Instantly cold and instantly stiff, we limped to the car like old grannies. May I never get arthritis.

Sarah's mom beat us by about 8 minutes. Nice.

We had brunch. Then I went to work where I wear those old lady pants, and that night, I had the walk to match.

Elegy

One of my favorite blogs has not been updated since February 19, 2007. I have lost track of how many times I have checked to see if it's been updated - has anything happened since the new hairs? Alas, I wonder if it has lost momentum or lost its life ever since the mania called Facebook took over the Western world.

My own blog is in semi-hibernation during this phase of my life where I am rooted instead of nomadic, where my life has pattern instead of adventure. I'm already planning to take my backpack and GO once I am finished this degree. About two more years to go . . . But in the meantime, I suspect this blog will feature monthly or bimonthly posts.

Old Lady in Training

2007-05-08T16:36:00.000-06:00

I consider myself a fairly easy-going person. I usually don't get upset too easily. I usually don't worry too much. But there are a few things that I hate immensely, things that get me upset quite easily. At the top of that list is job hunting. And since it is summer and I need to make money, I have had the distinct displeasure of parading around with my resume.

A digression . . . One look at my resume and you know what I'm about. I might as well print it on the back of a tract, and include "The Four Spiritual Laws" under my special skills section. My resume screams, "This chick is more than religious. She is a religious nut." Christian education, Christian jobs, Christian volunteer work . . . Basically every interview turns into an apologetic session. I've discussed everything from the Trinity to inclusivism to sin to the value of other religions. Job hunting tires me out because it ends up being a spiritual exercise.

I am currently working at a private golf course where cell phones and denim are strictly forbidden. I forgot to change out of my jeans before heading to work yesterday, and realized my error as I neared the parking lot. I hid my lower half behind cars so that members on their way home wouldn't see me and report me to the authorities. If anyone saw me, I have yet to hear about it.

This is the most culturally diverse place I have ever worked. Filippinos, French, English, Italian, Japanese, Chinese, Malaysian, First Nations, Quebecois, East Indian, Persian . . . The big boss of the food and beverage division is a large Austrian man with a bulbous nose who towers over us all like Hagrid in a suit with suspenders. As a generic Anglophone Canadian, I am pretty boring.

My first day was traumatic because of the uniform. A men's tuxedo shirt, which when tucked in reaches my knees. A men's vest, teal green front, buttoned and cinched at the back giving the impression that you might actually have a waist, but then again, you might be pregnant. Then a bow tie.

But the kicker of it all is the pants. Tuxedo pants. High waisted. Polyester. Pleated. Tapered leg. Wait - when I say high waisted, I mean HIGH WAISTED. I am an old lady in training. My torso has disappeared. The trunk of my body is being eaten by my pants.

The girls say the members' wives designed the uniform so we'd be unattractive.

Ten Days in April

2007-04-24T15:46:00.000-06:00

Disclaimer

When I am a student, I use up my words. I write papers. I talk in discussion groups. I am continually reading, even on the bus and when walking to friends' houses. It has been hard to find the time and mental space to post entries in this blog. But even harder is finding words.

Good Friday

Classes had just ended. I rewarded myself by sleeping in, and then I headed downtown to the Catholic cathedral for stations of the cross. For my Biblical exegesis class, I was working on a paper about Jesus' baptism in Luke 3, and therefore my mind was on the beginning of the gospels, and not the climax, not the cross.

The cathedral is in the part of downtown that slips into the east side. After travelling Europe, I feel I am using the word cathedral loosely. But then I imagine myself a poor Canadian immigrant wanting to build something to the glory of God, and am then amazed by the beauty of it all. I came up the grey steps and was ambushed by a reporter.

My eyes danced wildly. Microphone. Camera. Guy in a suit sticking microphone in my face. Oh no! I'm not wearing make up. I'm not wearing earrings. "What does Good Friday mean to you?" "Um." All I can think about is baptism. "Why can't you eat meat on Good Friday?" "Um, I'm not Catholic. I'm Lutheran." Are Lutherans not supposed to eat meat? I escape and join the devout nestled inside. Surely my interview will hit the cutting room floor. I felt so fragmented that I assumed it came across fragmented as well.

I love the people. Faces of every color and age and class. As we kneel to pray, the creaking of old knees is hidden by the creaking of the kneelers. We relive Christ's walk to Golgotha, his death, and burial. I look up, remembering that Jesus referred to his suffering as a baptism to be endured. A shaft of light comes through a high window, shining like heaven on the mottled body of Christ kneeling and mumbling prayers in faith. We all know the story. Jesus doesn't stay dead.

Easter Sunday

Joy. Whenever I am far from family, God provides me with new family in times of celebration. Twenty-some of us gathered to feast on lamb and sweets and wine and each other's company. I bring my first-ever apple pies like a kind of offering. My heart overflows with love. He is risen. He is risen indeed. Because of him we live. And Easter Sunday, we live it up.

Monday to Wednesday

Argh. Exam week. Two exams and a paper. There are two places I can be found: the library or holed up in my house like a mole who never sees the light of day. To lighten my mood, I wear my Old Navy cowboy hat on Tuesday. This however, always makes me paranoid. I meet people and assure them I am not actually a cowgirl. I just like to dress up. An obese homeless man pushing a shopping cart smiles, and compliments me on my hat. After I say thank you, he asks, "Are you from Calgary?"

Thursday

The Greek test over, I sat down in earnest to finish that paper on Jesus' baptism. About half way through, I stopped and headed downtown to support my friend at her graduation.

My friend has just completed a program in conjunction with a university so my friend Katie and I want to support her by going to the party. The project she was involved in is called, "The History of Sex Work in Vancouver". Provocative title. It was a provocative night. Our friend has a big heart, always feeding people, but has a strength of character, being the only one in the program to not see sex work in a positive light. We are very proud of her and the paper she wrote, and she was glad we were there, and introduced us to a lot of people.

We met current sex workers, a police liaison officer, transvestites, important people from universities, workers from downtown programs, among others. It was a different crowd from the one I'd spent Easter with, but as I looked around this room, my heart filled up with love again. When Jesus walked among us on earth, he hung out with "disreputable" people, and I think he would have been comfortable in that room.

Before Katie and I could head home, what we thought was going to be a can can line or some kind of dance turned up to be a burlesque striptease. I was pretty uncomfortable, and really hoped I was the only one taking a break from that paper on Jesus by seeing a show like this.

Friday

I handed in the paper. Then I slept.

Sunday

One of my Sarah friends (Rinaldi) and I put on our running gear and attached chips to our shoes and joined the throng lined up on Georgia St. It was time for the Sun Run, a 10 kilometer run around Vancouver, and the largest race of its kind in Canada. This year, there were over 54 000 people. Sarah and I had doubted ourselves and signed up for a slower time than we should have. This resulted in us continually passing people, which made me feel like I was fast. I have never been and never shall be fast, so I enjoyed this feeling immensely. Coming over Camie Bridge, we began to sprint our way to the finish line. My progress was impeded by the narrowing area as we ran down the off ramp combined with the runner pushing a wheel chair.

When it was all said and done, we finished in 52:56, both scoring the exact same time and finishing in the top third of the racers. Now half-marathon training begins.

Postscript: Monday

My mom emailed to say a family friend had seen me on Vancouver TV. I got excited, thinking it was the recently ran Sun Run. Um, no.

My interview didn't make it to the cutting room floor after all. Yikes.

Endurance

2007-03-26T20:49:00.000-06:00

Growing up, no one ever labelled me as athletic. In fact, phys. ed. was my least favorite class. My mom scheduled my piano appointments for that time slot so I could miss it once a week. In my senior year of high school, I actually took a spare instead of gym class. Perhaps not so ironically, that was the year I discovered I actually like to run. I don't have superior hand-eye coordination or speed. My one athletic gift is endurance.

This morning came without its usual companion the rain. The sun waltzed in, acting like it had never been gone. My heart soared and my stinky old Adidas runners carried me to the Sea Wall, and I began to jog to Kits Beach.

False Creek was still. The pathway quiet. The mountains no longer hidden by a veil of cloud. Flowers were blossoming on every tree, in every flower bed. And if I listened, I could swear I heard a bird singing in the distance. Perfection. Vancouver is beautiful.

Coming around the corner by the Marine Museum, I crossed paths with an old man with a pair of dogs. As I jogged past he said, "You won't be able to do that when you're twenty-five." Feeling smug, I retorted, "I'm twenty six!" and continued to the beach.

(On later reflection, his comment makes absolutely no sense. If one's jogging is done at 25, that is a sad state indeed. I hope he meant 55 or 65.)

Vancouver in the spring is wonderful . . . when it's not raining.

Musings of the Shortest Month

2007-02-23T18:01:00.000-06:00

Happy New Year!

Welcome to the year of the Pig!

Vancouver just isn't the same as Taiwan. Children aren't running around with firecrackers here. But I did venture to Chinatown to look at the gate and to remember red envelopes and vacations to warmer places and the Nian monster and the black haired children who stole my heart and never gave it back.

To celebrate, I am going to KTV tonight with a friend who used to teach English in Taipei. I'll sing out loudly for all of my friends from the Kaohsiung days, especially the motorcycle gang girls.

Water

Stories about Vancouver are inevitably stories about rain.

I bought a pink umbrella to try cheer myself up on the rainy days. To my disappointment, everywhere I go, someone has the same umbrella. I prefer being unique.

Unfortunately, the water doesn't always stay outside.

One of the core classes at Regent is "Christian Thought and Culture". In two semesters, we go over the last two thousand years of the Christianity in regards to theology, philosophy, economics, the arts, science . . . Last November, I had settled down to write my paper on John of Damascus's Christological defense of icons, amazingly for me, a full two days before it was due. Heading to the kitchen for my supper break, I stopped short in the hallway. My foot was wet. Like I stepped in a puddle . . . um, the puddle on the carpet outside my bedroom door.

It wasn't coming from the ceiling, the dishwasher or the washing machine. The entire "dining room" was absolutely sopping. Soon all my towels were wet. Johanna and Ben brought some of theirs and Jo and I kept Ben from tearing the wall open to look at the pipes. The water seemed to be coming from under the wall, from the neighbor's apartment, and was warm. In the neighbor's apartment, the lights were on, but no one was home.

After several hours during which Steven came home and our landlord Tim came by, the building manager's turned the hot water off for our side of the building. It turned out that the neighbor's washing machine had kept filling and filling . . . I wrote my paper the next day to the sound of an industrial blowing fan in my tiny apartment. The place smelled musty for about a week.

Last week, two days before my paper was due, I was remembering (with no fondness) the events of last semester as I sat at the dining room table. I set my foot down on the floor. It was wet. Oh, the irony . ..

This time the neighbors were home, but I still wrote my paper the night before it was due.

Spring

In Saskatchewan, February (I vote to get rid of the first r) still means cold. It means that winter is long from being over. February means down jackets and mittens for a long time to come.

Here in Vancouver, it hasn't snowed for a while. And for a few days this week, the sun shone so brilliantly that it almost fooled me into believing that it could be warm outside. I opt not to wear the sandals and capri pants, but I do venture outside with my sunglasses to absorb some of that vitamin D I so desperately need.

I am ready for spring. I am ready for summer.

Figuring out why I'm tired . . .

2007-02-04T23:39:00.000-06:00

Back in the day (you can determine what day that would be), people lived where they lived.

Maybe they wrote a few letters. A long distance phone call was a big deal. A trip across the country unusual.

Me? I don't know where I live. I keep trying to live in all the places I've lived before while attempting to be fully present where I am.

I write very few letters. I check my email more often than I brush my teeth. I blog and read the blogs of my friends. My cell phone is always with me, and if I am not talking on it, I might be texting one of my brothers. I've lost count of how often I've flown over mountains and oceans. If my wireless internet is on the fritz, I can hardly function. It's hard to be fully present where I am because I spend so much of my time and energy "keeping in touch". As if I weren't busy enough, I recently signed up on Facebook.

And I am thankful that technology has provided a means for me to remain in the lives of the people I love even when I am far from them. But sometimes it gets to be too much.

I try to be omnipresent . .. . living everywhere and experiencing everything all at once. I try to be omniscient . . . . knowing all the events and thoughts of the people I love and even some I don't love. And I end up tired because I'm not omnipotent. I just don't have the power. I've been trying to be God. The problem is that I am not God.

Perhaps my time would be better spent praying for the people I hold in my heart instead of feeling guilty for not responding to their emails.

I love Buechner!

2007-01-08T22:50:00.000-06:00

My friend Sarah tells me that sometimes she has intellectual crushes. I think I have a literary crush on Frederick Buechner. I have long appreciated his book, Telling the Truth - although it does not unseat Till We Have Faces as my favorite book (besides the Bible of course). For Christmas, my mom gave me Peculiar Treasures: a Biblical Who's Who by dear Frederick. Here are a few excerpts that will hopefully prompt you to read some of his work yourself.

on Lazarus
"Recent interviews with people who have been resuscitated after being pronounced clinically dead reveal that after the glimpse they inevitably all of them get of a figure of light waiting for them on the other side, they are very reluctant to be brought back again to this one. On the other hand, when Lazarus opened his eyes to see the figure of Jesus standing there in the daylight beside him, he couldn't for the life of him tell which side he was on." (p. 102)

on Sarah and laughter
"Nobody claims there's a chuckle on every page, but laughter's what the whole Bible is really about. Nobody who knows his hat from home-plate claims that getting mixed up with God is all sweetness and light, but ultimately it's what that's all about too.
"Sarah and her husband had had plenty of hard knocks in their time, and there were plenty more of them still to come, but at that moment when the angel told them they'd better start dipping into their old age pensions for cash to build a nursery, the reason they laughed was that it suddenly dawned on them that the wildest dreams they'd ever had hadn't been wild enough." (p. 173)

on Gabriel
"She struck the angel Gabriel as hardly old enough to have a child at all, let alone this child, but he'd been entrusted with a message to give her, and he gave it.
"He told her what the child was to be named, and who he was to be, and something about the mystery that was to come upon her. 'You mustn't be afraid, Mary,' he said.
"As he said it, he only hoped she wouldn't notice that beneath the great, golden wings he himself was trembling with fear to think that the whole future of creation hung now on the answer of a girl." (p. 44)

on Hagar
"The story of Hagar is the story of the terrible jealousy of Sarah and the singular ineffectuality of Abraham and the way Hagar, who knew how to roll with the punches, managed to survive them both. Above and beyond that, however, it is the story of how in the midst of the whole unseemly affair the Lord, half tipsy with compassion, went around making marvelous promises, and loving everybody, and creating great nations, like the last of the big-time spenders handing out hundred dollar bills." (p. 52)

Frederick Buechner. Peculiar Treasures: a Biblical Who's Who. HarperSanFrancisco, 1979.

'Tis the Season

2006-12-23T10:45:00.000-06:00

'Tis the Season for Illness

In the days right before final exams, I was conquered by a cold bug. When you have to know pretty much everything about Christian thought and culture to the year 1500, you don't want to be sneezing and blowing your nose. But I survived and hopefully I fared well on the exams.

I spent last weekend in Calgary with my cousin Shandi and her tiny toddler Sebastian. He has everyone wrapped around his finger and he knows it. I just can't help it - I love him so much. Unfortunately, Sebastian was sick.

Sebastian's dad is Filippino so on Sunday, Shandi and I went to a Christmas party for the culture society of the Pangasinan province of the Philippines. Shandi and I stuck out a little because we are not Filippino. I felt a little more conspicuous since I am not part of their closeknit community. We were listening to overly loud Christmas music, looking in curiousity at the half dozen clowns making balloon animals and eating cold hot dogs, when Sebastian threw up. So we went home.

Baby brother Grant picked me up and took me to the Hat. When I arrived, I found out that Sebastian was learning to share. In fact, he had shared his illness with me. Isn't giving what the holidays are all about?

'Tis the Season for Coming Home

I feel like a little kid again as I anticipate my second post-Taiwan Christmas. Advent has been an extra long season for me this year. I've been attending Christmas parties since the start of December and practicing Christmas carols with a choir since mid-November. For the last month in my Greek class, we've been translating Matthew 1 and Luke 1,2. I have been immersed in Christmas. I have been overwhelmed by the Incarnation.

This is year will be the first Christmas away from home for an Australian friend of mine at Regent. He shared with me an interesting thought on Christmas. We think of family and coming home, but in way, that's the opposite of what happened that first Christmas.

Jesus didn't come home; he left. He came to earth. He left his father. He took on skin. Even Mary and Joseph were away from home; they weren't in Nazareth and they had no place to stay. Christmas stunk of animals not cinnamon and evergreen branches. It wasn't comfortable and it wasn't home.

Home on the prairies, I don't want to think about exile and foreignness. I'm too busy enjoying family and home, a sense of belonging. Images of the last few days of homecoming run through my mind. Shandi and I laughing at Mike's bedhead. Sebastian's pitiful face before he blew chunks. Nana's bright smile with her new teeth. Poppa's hugs that always smart a little because of the pens in his shirt pocket. Grant wearing a mid-80s brown pinstripe suit to a hockey game. Gregg almost plowing into a herd of deer on our way home from that same hockey game. The parents happy faces because all their children will be home. Grandma Irene delivering the mail. Silly small things. But this is home.

Augustine of Hippo said, "Our hearts were made for You, O Lord, and they are restless until they rest in you." Maybe we could say "they are homeless until they find their home in you." The Incarnation makes it possible for us to find our true home, our home in God.

Ho Ho Ho!

2006-12-13T18:01:00.000-06:00

Like most students, I am celebrating the start of the holiday season by writing final exams. I hit a few Christmas parties in between nights of study and solitude. Today was my first exam of the week and two more will follow in the days to come. Then I will board a WestJet flight for Calgary and eventually wind my way to the winter wonderland of Frontier. Brr.

With the morning's test over and a couple hours of study finished in the library, I headed home for lunch. Walking to the bus, I felt something dripping on the back of my leg. The first time, I assumed it was "mysterious wet", the phenomenon of somehow getting moisture on your person from unspecified and unseen sources. This was a common occurrence in my Taiwanese life. After another drop on the same spot, I knew the rain was coming from my backpack. Indeed, my water bottle had burst its top and dowsed the contents of my bag, including a pink sheet of paper which felt inclined to share its dye with everything around it. A pink puddle emerged on the sidewalk. Just another day in my life . . . A good Samaritan stopped and gave me a plastic Safeway bag. She turned out to be Anna, a Christian girl who likes to study in Regent's atrium. So perhaps I made a new friend/acquaintance. But still, the soggy books and papers were disheartening.

But seeing the bus pull up brought a smile to my face. I had hit the jackpot. The Santa bus. Stuffed animals were lined up on the dash. Splashes of red and Christmas decorations circled around the driver . . . who was none-other than Santa Claus himself. I showed him my bus pass and wished him a hearty, "Merry Christmas" before taking a seat.

Thank God for blessings like a stranger with a Safeway bag and a Santa Claus who exchanged his sleigh for a bus.

Canadian Winters

2006-12-07T23:23:00.000-06:00

I like hot weather. It's a theme that anyone who has read this blog would be well aware of.

Now, I do like snow. I just don't like the fact that snow is cold. My internal thermometer still hasn't reprogrammed itself from my time in Taiwan.

The weekend before last, it snowed. And it was beautiful. Big fluffy snowflakes drifted down from the sky, twinkling like stars in the orange glow of the streetlights. It was peaceful . . .

But so unlike BC. I've been told it never snows here. I left my trusty purple and green sorrels at home in Saskatchewan. As I trudged through snow-laden sidewalks on my way to the bus, I missed those loud boots. The snowbanks kept getting bigger because no one in Vancouver knows how to deal with snow. No one has a snow shovel. No one knows how to drive. (I saw a car - I think an old style Citation - motor down Broadway with chains on the back tires. Slight overkill, I would say. ) When we woke up to a winter wonderland, everyone seemed to be wondering.

I am from Saskatchewan. A few inches of snow is nothing to worry about. I put on some layers and took a bus to Regent. When I arrived, the parking lot was suspiciously empty. The building was suspiciously dark. A sign hung haphazardly on the door. Regent College is closed. It didn't even occur to me that snow would stop school. I am a farmer's child. I go to school even when it is blizzarding outside. I stood a while looking at the sign, somewhat dumbfounded. Then I made my way back to the bus. I ran into a friend, an Ontarian who also laughs in the face of snow. Together, we fled the campus and joked about British Columbians and their incapacity to deal with snow.

I guess the snow should remind me: I do live in Canada.

Blessed are the poor

2006-11-23T22:20:00.000-06:00

When I was in Warsaw, the beggars gathered around the door of the church.

Now in Vancouver, the beggars gather around the door of the Shopper's Drug Mart.

A New Vocation?

2006-11-04T18:57:00.000-06:00

Taking the Bus

Since I am now a Vancouverite and the Stink Bug has not accompanied me here, the bus has become my almost-exclusive means of transportation. Other than the hot muggy atmosphere created by the rainy days, I really don't mind mass-transit. Plus, I have timed my routes so I almost always get a seat . . .

Last night, I went to my friend Sarah's house. At Regent, I have many friends named Sarah. In fact, for once in my life, Sarah is a more popular name than Jen. On the way to Sarah's, the "Next Stop" light kept coming on, but when the bus would stop, no one would get off. Mr. Bus Driver was not impressed. It happened several times. His mood worsened. He stopped the bus, and looked in his rearview mirror at me and said, "Is your bag touching the wheelchair bar?" Apparently some buses have a touch bar for easier access for disabled people. I was not aware of this . . . so yes, the stoppages were my fault!

Ironically, when it was time for me to get off, the pull string on my side was disengaged so I could not request the stop. I was scared to touch the bar so a girl requested the stop for me. I felt like an idiot.

Oh well.

A Different Bus Trip

A long long long time ago, I went on a journey to another country. Well, it was just October and it was only the United States, Washington State in particular. So I put on my thrift store backpack that is falling apart after its escapades in Europe, and walked to Granville Street, found a bench and waited for the "Quick Shuttle".

I was soon joined by a skinny guy who was also on his way to the Seattle area. On the bench, we swapped a few travel narratives and then discussed present reasons for being in Vancouver. He was waiting for a visa to go work in London.

Upon learning of my studies at Regent, he asked, "So are you going to be a pastor?"

"Uh, no."

"That's too bad. You should be a preacher. You have a sexy voice."

Hmm. Well, in spite of that comment, he was my bus buddy for the rest of the afternoon. He even pointed out that my previous Christian education must have failed me because I am not married. Once again, hmm.

Camping

Now, don't get me wrong, I love my new friends in Vancouver. God has blessed me and I am having a lot of fun . . . (oh, and I am learning a lot as well.) But there is nothing like time spent with old friends. There is nothing like not having to explain yourself or sum up your entire life in a few minutes so a relative stranger can understand a microcosm of who you are. I love being known without having to explain. And I love being in the company of friends whose love can be seen through the story of the years and felt in the present moment and depended on in the time to come.

So Matt and Nicole, Popich and Mrs. Amy Popich, and a couple friends of the Popiches, and of course, I camped by a fort by an ocean. We built a fort out of driftwood, ran around in old bunkers, played with fire, and hightailed it for the tents when the rain started to dowse our fun.

It was the first time I'd been with them since the two weddings. Periodically, my mind would step back and pause in wonder at all that has happened in our lives. I felt incredibly blessed to be there and to know them.

Football is more than the Roughriders

If you are from Saskatchewan or know anything about people from Saskatchewan, you will know that the Roughriders are our team. Expat Saskatchewanites take the green and white with them wherever they go. One of the apartments in our building has a Roughrider welcome mat. I'm tempted to go knock on their door and try form some kind of friendship.

If you have gone to Caronport High School in Saskatchewan, you will know that historically, Cougar football is about as successful as Roughrider football. Okay, maybe less. But that is not the case this year! The boys just won the first round of provincials. My pride in this is not due to a great love of the Cougars, but my sarcastic cousin Michael. He can sure run some touchdowns. I wish I was in Saskatchewan to see him. Go Cougars Go!

(Michael cracks me up. He loves the TV show 24. He wants each episode to be totally surprise and will not even watch the ads for the upcoming episode. He will literally cover his ears, frantically change the channel . . . I am tempted to watch the ads and phone him, telling him part of the plot before he can hang up.)

My New Life

2006-09-15T16:56:00.000-06:00

Kevin George Gilbertson

After leaving Frontier only two weeks earlier, I found myself on a plane high above the prairies, bound for Regina and eventually home. Saskatchewan is breathtaking as we fly over it. The checkerboard of fields is visible in every direction. The beauty is only a distraction from the reason Steven and I have come home: Uncle Kevin has passed away.

A few days after my arrival in Vancouver, Dad called me with the sad news. It had happened earlier that day, in Moose Jaw where my uncle had lived in the Valley View Center for over forty years. The news hit me harder than my brothers and cousins because I was the one who had been blessed by knowing him.

During my first year at Briercerst, I spent every Thursday night visiting Valley View Center with a ministry team. I'd take Kevin for walks in his wheelchair. He'd drive me crazy by continually pulling off his socks or feigning sleep. Both tricks ended with him erupting in laughter and a smile stretching across his face. It was during those visits that he became more than my disabled uncle. He became family.

The funeral was precious. Family and friends surrounded us to celebrate his grace filled life. It was an honor to be there. But the real blessing had been knowing him. I look forward to seeing him again . . .

http://fpbfssl.sasktelwebhosting.com/Obituaries/2006/GILBERTSON%20KEVIN/kevingilbertsonfull.htm if you want to read about him some more . . .

I Live in Vancouver

I cannot sum up the last weeks of my life. I love Vancouver. So many quirky things happen to me here. I have been blessed so tremendously. Sometimes I am overwhelmed . . . I'll share some adventures later . . .

Unemployed & Homeless

2006-08-28T13:33:00.000-06:00

More Goodbyes

When I moved to Medicine Hat to work, I never expected I'd get so attached to the people I'd meet. Golfers, cucumber pickers, and waitresses . . . I feel like I'm always saying goodbye. That's the problem with leading a solo nomadic life, I suppose. As I sang country karaoke with a friend from the golf course, I wasn't really thinking about the song we sang, "Cowboy take me away." Instead, I was thinking "Closing Time" where "Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end . . . " Tomorrow, I fly to Vancouver and a new beginning. But eventually that beginning will bring goodbyes.

Driving Home

There are two major ways to get to Frontier from Medicine Hat. One route is a little longer, but on faster better highways. The problem for me is that you stay on the boring TransCanada way too long. The way I prefer takes you past Cypress Hills Park where you might just see a moose. Then for a stretch, you have to take a gravel grid road because the highway around Old Man on His Back platuea died over a decade ago.

When you turn south onto the grid north of Claydon, you experience the beauty of the prairies and you realize that they aren't as flat as you always thought. You find yourself driving on the top of a hill and below you is more than an expansive horizon. You see a checkerboard of fields and a lingering haze that makes the view somewhat magical. And I know I'm almost home.

If you drive this road at night, look left. The twinkling collection of lights is my village, tiny Frontier. It seems so near, but it will take you half an hour to get there.

Quality Time with Dad

Dad works a lot. When he gets home from work, more work awaits him. There's always work when you're a farmer.

Sunday morning. My first Sunday at home in many many months. I wake up, yawn, and head to the shower. One problem. No water. The pump from the well quit. And you probably won't find a new one on a Sunday in small town Saskatchewan.

Fast forward to Monday night. Grandma picked up the new pump in Shaunavon so after supper, Dad, Radar and I mosey over to the well, unaware of the complications that await us. We had to bother a famer/electrician for some missing parts. Then we had some tangles with hoses. But by 12:30 that night, we had water. And covered with rust and sludge, man, did we need it. I was ready to take a shower.

Hopefully, I won't need to do any plumbing or electrical work in Vancouver.

Days until Unemployment

2006-08-13T21:05:00.000-06:00

The Last Days of Summer

In just three days, I will be going back to my previous occupation of unemployed vagrancy, which will be soon followed by the poverty of studenthood. But it's all worth it. It's just hard to believe that soon I will not be picking cucumbers or bussing tables.

The Day from H E Double Hockey Stick

A few weeks ago, we were pruning at the greenhouse. It was hot and I hate pruning. They set me loose with a large exacto knife and tell me to trim the plethora of shoots that sprout from every possible spot on the vine. And then the shoots have shoots, and so on. When I can no longer handle the boredom, I imagine myself an explorer with a machete, wacking my way through the jungles of Vietnam, or perhaps Africa. It keeps my mind occupied for a few minutes, and then I'm bored again.

This particular Tuesday, I was in particularly poor spirits as I drove home about lunch time. I went into my aunt's little house which never ceases to remind me of the Lego houses I made as a kid, and found the door to my room open. I never leave it open because the too curious cat and the hurricane of a dog are quite fond of my room. Hurricane Karmoy had hit my room, leaving a wake of destruction, most noticeably a pair of shoes. Not my shoes. Grant's girlfriend Stef's shoes. Pieces of them were scattered all over my bed. As you can imagine, my mood did not improve.

I had to leave the house. So I drove over to the Boylan's Drug Store where the Canada Post counter is to pick up a package of Sherry's. After waiting for half an hour while one lady was helped by two people, I found out the package was actually at the downtown location. Great. So I threw the van into reverse and hit the gas to avoid the traffic. Then I heard a sickening CRUNCH!

Now, in my family, it is Grant who makes stupid driving mistakes. It is Grant who has had accidents. Until the crunch, I had never had an accident. (Well, in a car. I did have a minor scooter collision, but it was definitely not my fault.) I feel like I have taken a driving lesson from the school of Grant.

I got out to find an old, unattractive car. The windows were rolled down. Empty cigarette boxes on the floor. An ash tray full of ashes. And a sauder gun on the passenger seat. And yes, a freshly smashed in front fender. And no sign of the owner anywhere. I left a note on the windshield, and drove up to my grandparents' house where Gregg had to listen to me cry and did his best to calm me down.

We went back to the scene of the accident and the car was gone. On route to get Dr. Pepper slurpees, we saw it cruising in all its dented glory. The owner didn't call me for a few days. I had begun to hope that he didn't care about the damage. It turned out that he did.

No LPGA for Me

After working at a golf course for many months, I finally golfed there. Gregg and I did nine holes today. Maybe on Tuesday, I'll do the back nine. We shall see . . . What do they call it when you're, um, say 6 or 8 strokes over par?

Getting Prettier

2006-07-13T13:17:00.000-06:00

At the golf course, there are three categories of food and drink service workers: the restaurant, the snack shack, and the refreshment cart. At different times, we waitresses have remarked that it seems the prettiest girls end up as cart girls. At least three of ours are blond and quite slender. It seems being pretty is a requirement for driving the refreshment cart around the golf course.

Well, I must be getting prettier because on Sunday, I became a substitute cart girl. So I had the pleasure of cruising around in the refreshment cart, which has a governor on it so that it goes even slower than the average cart. It was hot and there weren't a lot of people out there. And it was dry and therefore dusty. By the end of the afternoon, I looked like I'd been standing down wind in a field where someone was doing sommer fallow. There was a lot of dirt in my ears.

Confessions of a Difficult Woman

2006-06-23T19:44:00.000-06:00

THE GOLF COURSE

The other day at the golf course, one of the regulars was celebrating a promotion and buying drinks for his friends. After beer, champagne, wine, vodka, and port, he felt it necessary to come talk to me where I was chatting with the bartender. "Jennifer," he said, "I think that all men who have known you - not known you in the biblical sense. All men who have known you have found you difficult." He went on to say that he liked me very much and that I added a lot to the atmosphere of the restaurant, but I am difficult.

Hmm, I didn't think I was that difficult. Any feedback on the ramblings of a drunk?

But the mayor and the radio announcer think I'm a nice girl.

I watch a lot of sports at work. I'm saddened by the end of the NHL playoffs partly because the Oilers lost and partly because that means I'll be watching more golf and baseball. Thank goodness for FIFA World Cup. I am not a huge football (as in Canadian football, not soccer) fan. But growing up, I remember one player who would do flips after touchdowns. Good old Gizmo.

I served him a ginger ale at the golf course this week. A celebrity I'd actually heard of.

BACK TO THE PORT

For three years of my life, I lived in the town of Caronport, beside the Trans-Canada highway in Saskatchewan while I attended Briercrest Bible College. My brothers and cousins followed me there, only to attend the high school. A few years ago, my aunt and uncle moved their house there. This year was Jonathan's turn to graduate so Gregg, Stef (Grant's girlfriend) and I piled into Gregg's overly loud T-Bird and headed for Saskatchewan.

It's already been four years since my college commencement. My sixteen year old cousin Michael told me that I'm old. But it didn't hit home until I started recognizing some of the various people I went to college with.

One of the trombonists from my time at Briercrest was there with his wife and son. His hairline was receding even back then, but now most of his upper scalp is exposed. It wouldn't look so bad if he didn't have a mushroom hair cut. It reminded me of Curly from the Three Stooges.

THE NEVER ENDING BEETLE SAGA

One of the cooks at work is stalking me. He reports to me every day where he's seen my car in the city. He even figured out where I live. Thankfully, he's happily married and not creepy so I don't have to worry. Just another example of the farting beetle's star calibre.

She has acquired yet another quirk. When I drive home at night with the headlights on and make a turn, the headlights alternate between bright and dim. So now I am forever flashing my headlights at whoever is unfortunate enough to be on the road with me.

FREE TIME

For some reason, everyone is dying ot know what I do in my free time. The answer is easy: I sleep.

Cucumbers have Ears, the Mayor Drinks Miller Genuine Draft, and Other Random Tales

2006-05-23T16:04:00.000-06:00

TIME

Time is a sneaky character. He gives the illusion of being slow, but when your back is turned, he runs. I feel like he has stolen the month of May from me. But until now, I was too busy to notice. Either he stole my blogging time too or I was just lazy, but in either case, I haven’t updated y’all for almost a month. However this time, I have not received any nasty emails or comments. So if anyone is reading this, the entry may be long. Your eyes may need a few breaks.

THE GREENHOUSE

After being unemployed (and having a hedonistic good time) for nearly a year, I began work at the golf course. Finding that I still had time on my hands and fearing the financial pressures that studenthood brings, I felt it necessary to get another job. Totem was no longer hiring so I took a job at a greenhouse in Redcliff, Greenhouse capital of the Prairies, just outside the Medicine Hat city limits.

If you take a serious drive through town, you’ll agree with the “Greenhouse Capital” moniker. I get up BEFORE 6 am and am melting as the sun makes its way higher into the sky. The people are nice, and I feel like I’m getting to know the cucumber plant quite well. (The ears are the bottom two leaves.) I started the job in time for a new planting and soon the plants will be littered with the green vegetables. Too bad I’m not fond of cukes . . .

The crew I work with mainly consists of women – mainly moms and students. But there are two guys and they are low German speaking Mennonites. They are not the kind of Mennonites who are from Manitoba or Pennsylvania. These are the Mennonites who come up from Mexico. The current two boys are named Jake and Corny. Apparently, the last two Mennonite boys were also named Jake and Corny.

THE GOLF COURSE

Maybe it’s because I know it’s only short term, but right now I really enjoy being a waitress. It’s social and not physically demanding. It can also be downright funny. A few weeks ago, one of the Managers misspelled the name of the course on a sign which he had placed in the clubhouse.

A drunk couple offered to adopt me the other night.

For some reason, my name tag also includes the name of my home town. Everyone can see that I’m “Jennifer from Frontier”. I have had to listen to every stupid joke about the word “Frontier” and every connection anyone has ever had to Frontier. Also I have the pleasure of explaining where it is. And can someone tell me why the word “Frontier” makes everyone think of Vegas?

Another act of crime at the golf course: someone broke into the pro shop. Instead of stealing thousands of dollars worth of gear and clubs, they merely took the cash out of the register. They were arrested the next day when they tried to use a credit card that had been left in the till. I guess that makes them dumber than the kids who burned down the carts.

As I serve in the clubhouse, I am meeting a few Medicine Hat celebrities. Not being from Medicine Hat and not having been in North America much lately, I usually don’t know who they are. The mayor was in the other week. When he told me he wanted to charge his tab to his account, I asked him for his name. I had no idea he was the mayor. Now I hear his name every time I listen to the radio. Oh, I also know a local radio announcer. Now if only I could meet a celebrity that I’d actually heard of . . .

THE BEETLE

If you’ve known me in my North American life post-high school, you know that I drive a pink 1974 Volkswagen Super Beetle. To say it is flashy is putting it mild. Every day, I see someone punch their friend and shout, “Pink Punch Buggy!” When people walk or drive down my street, I see them stare at the bug.

My bug has found another way of attracting attention to itself. I’m used to stares – I mean, I was a white girl in Asia. Yet, I could do without the attention my beetle gets when it backfires, which it has made a nasty habit of doing. As I drive down the street, it farts and I see pedestrians jump straight up in the air.

Okay, a part of me thinks it’s funny.

STUPID SAFEWAY

A year ago, Gregg and I were sitting on the beaches of south east Asia, eating pineapple and avoiding jellyfish. (If we were fighting, sometimes we were avoiding each other. We spent an entire day on Koh Phangyan fifteen feet apart on the beach, ignoring the existence of the other. It was nice to have a day when people didn’t think he was my boyfriend.) Sometimes in the heat of the greenhouse or in the freezing cold of the restaurant’s AC, I pine for the beach. I think of white sand and a dark tan and tropical fish. I think to myself, “A year ago, I was in paradise.” Basking in the sun in the backyard full of dandelions just doesn’t compare to the seashore of the Pacific or the Indian. Man, I wish I was in Thailand, reeking of Hawaiian Tropic and sipping on a banana milkshake.

Right now, Safeway has a promotion. With every purchase, you receive a card with four little doors. Under each door are three symbols. If the three symbols under one door match, you receive the prize the symbol stands for. One of the prizes is a trip to Thailand. Every card Safeway gives me makes me feel like Charlie Bucket looking for the golden ticket and the opportunity to tour Wonka’s factory. I always save it until I get to my pink punch buggy. I take a deep breath, recite the mantra “Thailand . . . Thailand . . . Thailand” and slowly open the doors.

Invariably, I win nothing. I hate Safeway for getting my hopes up.

CODA

My allotted blogging time for today has expired. You’ve been briefly updated on my life with its events and non-events. Someday, I plan to read your blog as well.

If you ever want to come visit, I would serve you some cucumber.

Keep the Change

2006-04-30T19:32:00.000-06:00

Rain. Rain. Rain. When it rains, people don't golf so much. And if people don't golf, they don't come to the clubhouse so I have nothing to do. The monotony of my boredom was broken by the pack of teenage boys who appear to reside at the golf course. They took pity on me and actually tipped me today. I was quite surprised and kind of touched.

Last week, there was a fire at the golf course. Someone felt it was necessary to set some golf carts on fire. I understand that some people enjoy arson, but what is the purpose of burning golf carts? There are more enjoyable things to burn.

Welcome to the Toque

2006-04-13T15:42:00.000-06:00

Often when I am cold, you will see me with a knitted hat on my head. We Canadians call this piece of headwear a "toque". And the "Toque" is my Poppa's nickname for the city of Medicine Hat, the "Gas City", which Rudyard Kipling described as having "all hell for a basement." And the "Toque" is now where I live. (At the mention of Medicine Hat, I can almost hear Melissa J. growl a little bit and recollect the old farmer in the pick up admonish her on her driving.)

If you've read my last few posts, you know how content I was to be home on my farm near Frontier with Radar as my constant companion. As often happens in life, my plans did not work out mainly because there was no work for me . . . not yet anyways . . . perhaps later . . . maybe not . . . I waited a few weeks and then headed to Medicine Hat to find a job before all the college students snatched up every available opening. It was hard leaving Frontier and all the summer plans my heart had made. But perhaps they were just my plans, not God's plans, and therefore we know that He only has something better in store. I just have to be patient and wait and trust.

So here I am, bunking in with my Auntie Sherry in her little house, with a cat who follows me around staring with her yellow cat eyes. The lamp in my room is one of those that you have to touch to turn on. The problem is that it has a mind of its own, turning off and on whenever it wants, even in the middle of the night. As soon as I arrived, I developed a sore throat and cough, eventually necessitating a trip to the walk-in clinic with the doctor whose earrings were as big as her ears. But I'm recovering and getting used to small city life again.

And I have begun a new occupation. As an aspiring teacher/professor, I've learned to welcome all the various life experiences I can get. Every job I've had has been full of crazy stories and people and precious life and spiritual lessons. I'm sure this one will be no different. I am a waitress at a golf course clubhouse. It's the start of the season and still quiet so a family of deer wander across the grass and nibble on the trees. The peaceful scenery should be appreciated now before the months of crazy busyness begin.

And when those months are over, hopefully I'll be in Vancouver. I have been accepted to grad school and am looking forward to it with immense anticipation.

During the last month or so that I was home, people who I hadn't seen for a while kept asking me if I was living in Medicine Hat. I'm not sure where they got the notion - perhaps because I worked up here for a couple of summers. Truthfully, I was a little annoyed that they'd assume things about me without asking. But now I smile a little at the irony. For now, I live in the "Toque".

The Prairies

2006-03-29T15:38:00.000-06:00

After a couple of years in Asia, it's been nice to be home in the wide open spaces of Saskatchewan. My heart is full of love for my homeland (even though a big part of me would love to hiking around some mountains) and this sentiment has determined which books I've been reading. Currently, I'm rereading Wallace Stegner's Wolf Willow. Stegner lived a few years of his life in my home area, summers on their homestead on the US border and winters in the town of Eastend (a town north of Frontier). I want to share with you his words on the Prairies . . .

Desolate? Forbidding? There was never a country that in its good moments was more beautiful. Even in drouth or dust storm or blizzard it is the reverse of monotonous, once you have submitted to it with all the senses. You don't get out of the wind, but learn to lean and squint against it. You don't escape sky and sun, but wear them in your eyeballs and on your back. You become acutely aware of yourself. The world is very large, the sky even larger, and you are very small. But also the world is flat, empty, nearly abstract, and in its flatness you are a challenging upright thing, as sudden as an exclamation mark, as enigmatic as a question mark.

It is a country to breed mystical people, egocentric people, perhaps poetic people. But not humble ones. At noon the total sun pours on your single head; at sunrise or sunset you throw a shadow a hundred yards long. It was not prairie dwellers who invented the indifferent universe or impotent man. Puny you may feel there, and vulnerable, but not unnoticed. This is a land to mark the sparrow's fall.

Wallace Stegner, Wolf Willow, New York: Penguin Books, 8.

I think that any prairie dwellers out there would understand what he means.

Captivated by Magic

2006-03-15T20:29:00.000-06:00

The Sunday before last, I awoke in a new world, a winter wonderland with magic dancing from the sky. Even though we dismiss it as a burden which we must shovel and plow, snow is magic. It covers over everything, hiding the bareness brownness of winter grass and icing the branches of the leafless trees. The sun glistens with increasing intensity as it reflects from the snowy banks. I shield my eyes and try to take it all in.

When I got home from church, I dug my snow boots out of the closet. They are not just your run of the mill winter boots. These are Sorels which almost every Prairie child had in the early 90s. Mine are a bright shade of purple with green and pink accents. Very stylish (well, in the last decade) and still, the warmest boots I’ve ever owned. I tied the laces, called my dog Radar, and ventured into the snow.

I ran. I ran through banks and drifts that on a few occasions neared my knees in height. Usually the snow only came half way up my shin, but I remember my childhood days when, encumbered in my boots, snow pants, jacket, scarf, large mitts, and toque, I would hardly be able to move in this much snow. I remembered the annoyance of socks which fall down inside one’s boots as I felt mine slip down and settle somewhere near my toes. But I didn’t care. We were playing in the snow, the magic snow, the snow that many Africans and Asians can only dream of, as if it were some unattainable fairy tale or a legend that grandparents tell.

Radar is a snow dog. He rolled in the powder and then ran with his nose down, smelling and tasting the snow. Then he looked up at me with his smile and a pile of snow on his nose and his eyes seemed to say, I’m so glad you’re here with me. I kicked some snow at him and he bit at the flakes in the air. Then I walked with my toes pointed out and mimic tractor tracks as Radar ran circles around me.

Even though my cheeks were getting the tingling cold feeling, I took a few minutes to think, standing in the middle of my farmyard with snow falling and falling and falling. I thought about how my sins are whiter than snow. But echoing in my head was Revelation: Behold, I make all things new. As I looked at the world around me, indeed, everything felt new.

New. I have new plans now. Okay, they’re not new, but I’ve finally decided to act on them and see what happens. I applied to graduate school for the fall semester. The sense of direction and calling is welcome, but a fear lingers about how it will all work out. I have a strong sense that I should be returning to studies. The other day when I was cleaning my room, I found three new packs of looseleaf. I guess I should use them up. So perhaps next winter I will not be dancing in the snow banks of Saskatchewan, but fighting depression because of the rain in Vancouver’s sun starved winters.

In the meantime, I may remain in my home town, perhaps return to a former summer job in the manufacturing plant. I always looked good with a blue collar. These could be my final Frontier days . . .

Um, I think I’ve said that before. I'll leave the future to God, and enjoy the last moments of snow as it melts away into spring.

Finding my place at Home

2006-01-26T22:33:00.000-06:00

It's true that North America is cold, but thankfully it has not been as cold as I feared, as I dreaded it would be as I contemplated moving home. Sometimes I feel like I lead a charmed life because God always tends so sweetly to the little things in my life such as keeping me from the cold. Last week, I basked in my friend's sunny and warm appartment in Vancouver and received word that back on the farm, the windchill was reaching heinous temperatures of perhaps minus fifty Celsius. I was so thankful to be where I was.

So perhaps you wonder where I am . . . and all I can say is that I am wherever I am. The nomadic temperament that somehow made its home in me has not relented from keeping me on the move. I have received some almost rude emails from some of you, chiding me on neglecting to write on this blog. I am touched that people actually read this, but even more touched because I know that if you bother to even check this blog a few times a year, I must hold some kind of spot in your heart. There are many people in my heart, and chances are, you are one of them.

Where has the time gone? The last three months of my life have been beautiful and frustrating and joyous and exciting and boring and in many ways, completely wonderful. The future still stretches before me like a dense fog that never goes away on little cat feet. Yet, in the strange way that must make sense to some of you, I am confident that I am where I am supposed to be. And for the majority of that time, I have been in Frontier, my village in the middle of nowhere in the grassy plains of Saskatchewan where I used to know everyone's dog and pickup. I say "used to" because contrary to popular belief, things do change in small towns. When I go to a public function, I arrive a little flustered because I no longer know who is there because I no longer recognize vehicles.

Whenever I am home on Sundays, you'll find me at Bethel Lutheran Church on Main Street where generations of my family have worshiped and served God and I myself was nurtured and taught to love him. I am so easily distracted while there because of all the changes. Babies have become children and children have become adults and the pillars of my youth have become old men. Community people who I've always known are now part of my church family. Childhood friends are married and beginning their families. And I thank God for sustaining our village.

I've tried my best to leave this tiny place and the tender comfort of my parent's never-quite-empty nest. A few things routinely prevent me: my penchant for wandering (and therefore very conscious fear of being "too" settled), a handful of computers which all choose not to work when I need them (I had to pull out my ancient Toshiba laptop one afternoon when four other computers had fell through on me! How can I write a resume or apply for jobs if I am in computer poverty?), the joy of being around friends and my too precious family again, and finally, my dog Radar.

Whenever I return home, our Sheltie will wag his day and follow me around non-stop for a day or two. To say our family loves him puts it mildly. We have entered that realm of doglovers that the rest of the world finds pathetic. We catch ourselves monopolizing conversations by telling disinterested people all about Radar. Since I've been home, the poor guy has experienced health problems resulting in operations on both eyes and his rear end. I've been the official dog nurse, driving him to appointments, holding him while his eyes and bum were violated, cleaning up messes, and giving him medicine and eye drops. After being shaved, cut, sewed, and a few weeks sporting a cone, he is better.

And I have absolutely ruled out the possibility of a career in veterinary medicine.

The rest of the time, I have enjoyed just being there. Being there for Grant's hockey games, even if they don't win. Being there for my friend so I can babysit her precious baby Tyson and see him grow (and grow and grow . . . he's pretty big). Being there for Young Adult Bible Study and rejoicing at the spiritual growth of my oldest friends. Being there for my parents . . . making Dad eat salad at lunch as we watch The Cosby Show or Newhart and helping my perfectionist Mom pick just the right shade of mat for a framing project. Being with family . . . going to a movie with Gregg and Shandi, swimming with Shandi and her baby Sebastian with his beautiful dark eyes and stubborn mohawk . . . (he's stolen my heart), crib games with Nana and Poppa, driving to the city with Grandma Irene, eating lunch with all my great aunts, hearing about World War Two from Vic and Garda, watching Super Bowl with Michael and repeating the funniest (and inappropriate) jokes from the movie "Guess Who", having God answer my prayer for my disable uncle Kevin who was so sick we didn't know if he would make it . . .

I literally could on forever. I haven't made a cent in the last few months, but I have been so rich. I wouldn't trade this time for anything. I may be acting like I'm retired, but some of these people won't be here when I do retire (if I can ever afford it! Yikes!). Almost every day, I feel inexpressably blessed by my Father in Heaven who cares so much about my measly life on earth.

Right now, I'm in Nickie and Phil's living where if the sky cleared, I would be able to see Mt. Baker. A week ago, I was in Montana hiking with Andy Lytle. Then Heather and I came to Washington and BC where she works with African Children's Choir. I visited Jo and Ben in Vancouver and rode around in Dana's car. I made friends with an English girl named Tamsin. I drove around in Seattle where we met up with Mandy and made it to Josh Popich's wedding in time to change our clothes in the church bathroom. I cried as Josh and Amy became man and wife. I met my friend Rob's beautiful new wife Darann and instantly loved her. I hung out with Matt and Dave, the Coulee Dam boys. And everywhere I've gone, my heart has been full of joy.

And I guess that's one of my prayers for you - that your heart would be full of joy, no matter what your circumstances.

Merry Christmas

2005-12-24T09:19:00.000-06:00

All this took place to fullfill what the Lord had said through the prophet: "The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel" - which means, "God with us." Matthew 1:22-23

Like most people, I usually get pretty excited when it is Christmastime. But this year is a little more exciting for me. I feel like a little kid again. I've spent the last couple Christmases in sub-tropical Taiwan, trying not to cry as I thought about the celebrations that would be going on without me back in Canada. This year, I am home. I even wrapped my presents even before the tree went up. I've baked all kinds of cookies and other Christmas stuff. And since the Gilbertsons are good little Norwegians, the celebrations start tonight, on Christmas Eve, and I can't hardly wait. Then we have the Aadland Christmas tomorrow.

The more I think and contemplate Christmas, the more important the phrase "God with us" becomes. Jesus came to earth to be with us. The creator joined the creation. It simply amazes me. I hope that as you celebrate the ancient birth of Christ that you will remember that God is still with us today.

Aunty Jennifer

2005-12-13T15:55:00.001-06:00

Tuesday, November 15, at about six o’clock, I got off the National Express bus into the dimly lit station in Durham, England. Through my dirty glasses, my tired eyes tried to focus and find a familiar face. Soon I was hugging my dear friend, Heather Lytle, and saying hello to her Scottish friend Kyle.

Heather and I were roommates at Montana Wilderness School of the Bible, back in the last century when we were still teenagers. About a year and a half ago, she took a big risk in her life and became fully involved with a ministry called Music for Life, which you may know of because they are behind “African Children’s Choir.” Choirs composed of poor orphaned African children travel around Western countries representing Africa to the wealthy westerners. When the tour is over, the children go back to their home countries and receive educations and a better life. Heather saw a choir in concert a few years ago and would often tell me about it and sometimes make me watch videos about it. Therefore I was not too surprised when she took off to South Africa one summer to work with music camps. Then I was not surprised at all when she decided to be a chaperone with the tour choirs.

We hadn’t seen each other since before I had left for Taiwan, but our friendship wasn’t affected. We picked up some pizza and then headed to the retreat center where the kids were waiting. The choir consists of South African AIDS orphans. Many of them had been in the music camps she’d worked with previously, but back then, they were unbelievably thin and wounded. We entered the building and I found myself surrounded by joyful chocolate faces with big beautiful eyes and even bigger beautiful smiles, pictures of health. I could see how these kids had stolen Heather’s heart.

Since chaperones and older people are addressed as “Auntie” and “Uncle”, I was dubbed Auntie Jennifer. I’ve never been an Auntie so I didn’t always respond to my name. However, whenever they’d talk to their teacher, my head would turn at the sound of “tea .. “

We gathered in a room for evening devotions. Kids would take turns leading out in a song. I started to cry as I looked around the room at children dancing before the Lord, their faces radiant, full of love in spite of all the hurts they’ve experienced in their short lives. Song after song, and then they listened so well during the devotional message and then eagerly came to the middle for us to pray for them and bless them.

For the kids who had enough positive points from the previous weeks, they had a pizza party. When we got kicked out of the room so the custodian could clean, we cosied up in a small lounge and Heather put in a DVD of the Live 8 concert from Hyde Park in London. The choir had been there and sang with Mariah Carey, and then came out again for the finale. I held one precious girl on my knee while at the same time I saw her on the TV screen singing and dancing beside scantily clad Mariah. I think it was the first time the kids had seen it and it was fun to see their faces as they saw themselves. They cheered when they saw Robbie Williams (ugh) and got all excited to see Annie Lennox (she’d made friends with them that day). But perhaps the biggest reaction came during Paul McCartney’s appearance, but not because of the great Beatle. Rather, they loved his hefty animated drummer. They had been lined up backstage for the finale and were able to peek through the curtain and had a great view of this intriguing man.

For the finale, all the stars came out and sang “Hey Jude”. The kids filed out as well and one by one, most of the celebrities gave up their microphones and handed them to the children. By the end, you couldn’t hear a single famous voice, but you could hear the angelic voices of the children for whom the concerts were planned. These kids are the hope of Africa. One of the final frames of the DVD is a close of one boy, nicknamed “Big Brother”. He’s singing and smiling and dancing and lifting his hands in the air. If only the world would understand that Jesus is the reason he sings.

After the kids went to bed, Heather showed me a behind the scenes clip. Now on the screen, I saw her eating ice cream and bossing the kids around. Sir Paul McCartney is standing there with them. To explain who this important man was, Heather mentioned something about “Yellow Submarine.” The kids exploded into song. It was pretty cool – Paul standing there while a bunch of African kids sing a Beatles song.

The next day, I tagged along on their every day duties. While they had a meeting, I supervised the classroom. The kids hardly made a peep – a little different than my Taiwan classroom. But then Kyle arrived bringing a very special woman, an African woman whom I liken to Mother Teresa. She goes from village to village, finding only the neediest children and rescues them. It’s because of her that most of the children are alive today. They ran over their desks and engulfed her in a big hug, shouting, “Auntie, Auntie!” It was overwhelming. I wanted to join the huddle.

In the evening, we went to the birthday party of one of the aunties. It was in honor of her sixtieth birthday party at her home church in Durham. Instead of gifts, people made donations to Music for Life. We ate a very English supper and then danced in another room and then had cake and plum pudding. I stayed in the bathroom for a bit while a couple of girls played with the scented lotion. I had never found scented lotion very wonderful before, but to these girls, it’s almost fairy tale like. We sang and danced and played and ate all evening. One little guy kept blowing up his balloon and then would sneak up and expel all the air on my face or neck. Unfortunately, the air was mixed with saliva. I may have had to chase him around the room a few times.

When I came to England at the beginning of the trip, my only experience of church was St. Paul’s Cathedral whose emptiness haunted me as a sign of the spiritual state of England, and many other parts of Europe. But as I made merry in this church in Northern England, a new church whose members love each other enough to throw a birthday party which African children could enjoy, I was encouraged. God’s hand is on England as well, and there is always a remnant.

After my time with Heather and the choir, I felt so blessed. If you ever have an opportunity to see an African Children’s choir, do. Do because you will see a bunch of miracles with your own eyes. If you would like to know more or to support their work financially, please go to their website www.africanchildrenschoir.com

Heather bid me goodbye at the bus depot at midnight. I awoke in London and boarded another bus for Gatwick airport. Unfortunately the traffic was nuts and my bus was so late. But fortunately, I found Meridith quickly and our bags weren’t overweight. Gatwick Airport is rather ghetto. We watched crappy movies until we arrived in Calgary, but enjoyed our final time together. She’d been refreshed by her time in Brighton and had slept a lot more than I had. And thankfully, at the airport, I didn’t have my luggage searched.

Soon Sebastian, my five month old cousin was grabbing my finger as I hugged his mom Shandi. It was good to be back in Canada, although I’m not quite ready to call it home

And after hugging each other goodbye, Meridith’s and my European adventure came to a close. People ask me how Europe was, and I have to answer the same as I do when asked about Asia. Good. There’s too much to say. I don’t know where to begin. But for those of you with strong enough eyes to read all these entries, I think you understand.

D-Day

2005-11-30T16:44:00.000-06:00

June 6, 1944 . . . A large majority of people from the Western world would be able to tell you that this was D-Day when the Allies stormed the beaches of Normandy. I’m ashamed at how little I knew (and still know) about this legendary day. I can’t give you a history lesson because I need to study and learn. But as I toured a few of the important sights from over sixty years ago, I learned so much and grew so much in respect for those valiant men.

After a phone call to the tour company, we bided time at the Place de Quebec, chatting with some American tourists. Eventually, a van emblazoned with “D-Day Tours” came around the corner, and out popped the guide saying my last name. Vincent, our very French guide, was clad in cargo pants and a bomber jacket, and we soon learned his military history. In stereotypical French style, he made gestures with his hands – even when he was driving – and spit came flying out of his mouth as he talked. Due to my lower stature, I often felt moisture on my face and tried not to get too grossed out. Our fellow tourists for the morning were a nice American couple. They had signed on for the full day, but time wise and financially, we could only afford the half day. (Meridith had already seen most of the sights on her high school trip several years ago.)

We barrelled down an old Roman road headed towards the coast, and flew past an ancient road marker before we arrived at our first stop, a Canadian cemetery. Standing in a Canadian cemetery, you are actually on Canadian soil. The plants are all indigenous to Canada. British soldiers were buried with the insignia of their unit or division on their headstone. Canadian soldiers have the simple honor of the maple leaf. I can never visit a war cemetery without crying. I wander and read the headstones and epitaphs of young men who never made it home to their moms, sisters, brothers, wives, fathers, and children. At the base of each stone is a message from the family and even sixty years later, their loss seems almost tangible. Each cemetery has a guest book for visitors to sign. I am always at a loss for words and can only write a meagre “Thank You.” There isn’t much more that I can say.

There were five beaches that were a part of D-Day. The US forces took Utah and Omaha to the West. British forces took Gold in the center and Sword in the east. Our Canadian forces had Juno beach in the middle of the British beaches. Due to weather, the operation had been bumped back a day so troops had stayed an extra in the overcrowded ships and vessels. They were weak when they stumbled on those beaches to make history.

We stood on Juno beach beside an old German bunker, now decorated with Canadian memorials and our beloved maple leaf. I tried to imagine sixty one years ago when my countrymen landed and faced an unsuspecting German army. The yellow sand has drifted up so that the once tall at the beach’s edge is only a couple of feet high. The waves rolled in as they have for millennia.

There is a town called Courseulles-sur-Mer, the only port on Juno beach. Its capture was pivotal to the D-Day effort, and the task was no minor one. My Saskatchewan high school education had neglected to teach me a very relevant piece of history. This difficult task was achieved by none other than the Regina Rifles and the Royal Winnipeg Rifles. Prairie boys, some of them from my local area, had taken on a huge job and miraculously succeeded.

If you ever find yourself in Courselles-sur-Mer, there is one museum which you must visit: the Juno Beach center (http://www.junobeach.org/). Opened only two years ago to honor the Canadian veterans, it documents not only the efforts of the soldiers themselves, but also the effort at home. It was strange standing in another country and be reading a piece of my own history. On display was a pennant from Medicine Hat. It was all tastefully done with multimedia and interactive displays. In the final room, there is a memorial. If you look up, the names of all of Canada’s World War II dead slowly scroll by. It would take a couple of days at the center to read all the names. When I was there, it was on the letter S. I had wished it was on the final Zs because I have reason to see the very beginning.

When French Canadian soldiers went into the French towns for the first time, the local residents were quite confused. Before their eyes was someone whose uniform looked very British, but yet they heard their native tongue.

In the days following D-Day, the Allies set up two artificial harbors: Mulberry A (for the Americans) and Mulberry B (for the British). Huge concrete pieces were hauled across the channel, ingeniously designed for the task at hand. A storm destroyed Mulberry A so Mulberry B was used for everyone. Incredibly, pieces of it still exist out in the water on Gold beach.

That was all we had time to see, but what did see on our tour meant so much to me. A part of it comes simply from being a patriotic Canadian. Another part of it is that after seeing so many of the horrible affects of the war on Europe, it was nice to see something victorious. But the part that brings it closest to home is my Great Uncle Dick, a man who I never met, but still lives on in our hearts as a beloved family member. From what I know of him, I would have loved him. Since Aadlands live almost forever (Uncle Teddy is still quite the character at 97), I would have known him if he hadn’t felt the duty to go to war.

Uncle Dick Aadland

Richard (Didrick in Norwegian) Aadland was born in Norway over a hundred years ago. After a stint in North Dakota, the family moved to the Shaunavon area where several more children were born. Dick’s baby brother is Poppa, my mom’s dad. He enlisted in the forces in 1943 and was shipped overseas in 1944, joining the Regina Rifles in Belgium. He died in 1945 while fighting in the Netherlands, close to the German border. He may have missed fighting in D-Day, but some of the men who he spent his final days with risked their lives on Juno Beach.

When I was in Antwerp, we watched the sunset over the Scheldt River as we sat beside a memorial to Canadian soldiers. When we were in Krakow, a Dutch man declared that he was liberated by the Canadians. A lump goes up in my throat knowing that that memorial commemorates Uncle Dick. In a way, that Dutch man was liberated by Uncle Dick. And now somewhere in the Netherlands under a headstone bearing a maple leaf like the ones in Normandy, his body lies. And once again, I can only say, “Thank You.”

If anyone is interested in the history of the Regina Rifles, local veteran Don Rapley highly recommends a book (which my family has and I have begun to read.). Look to Your Front . . . Regina Rifles by Gordon Brown and Terry Copp, published by the Laurier Centre for Military Strategic and Disarmament Studies, Wilfrid Laurier University, 2001.

Once our tour was over, we stopped by the British cemetery in town. Several different nationalities are represented there. How many countries in the world suffered from the hate that began World War II?

We had to wait until the tourist office opened. The French take such long lunch hours. We had planned on taking a ferry across the channel, but were having troubles getting straight answers about transportation to the ferry terminal. The lady at the tourist office told us what she knew. But the whole experience was rather frustrating.

Trying to figure out info is even more frustrating to due to the lack of accessible internet in rural France. I think that tiny towns in Laos and Vietnam are more internet friendly. While using the expensive internet at the post office, Meridith received news about Obed. Meridith’s brother and sister in law were expecting a child. Their friends’ daughter is fond of the Biblical story of Ruth and dubbed their unborn child “Obed.” While sitting on a plastic chair in a French post office, Meridith learned that she was now Aunty Meridith because of the birth of Morgan Elle. She was delighted that Morgan was healthy, yet disappointed that she was unable to be there for the event because Morgan made her debut into the world a couple weeks either. And unfortunately, even Mer’s parents were out of the country when their first grandchild was born! But we got to see a picture of the little angel and I know that Aunty Meridith had a very good time holding her just a few days later. (Coincidentally, Morgan was born on the 12th, the travel day when Mer was feeling ready to be home.) We decided to celebrate Morgan’s birth by going to see Bayeux’s most famous sight.

Bayeux has been famous for an extremely long time for a treasure it possesses: a really big tapestry. It is about 70 meters long and Mer said it looks like the one at the start of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. (I don’t think I’ve ever watched that entire movie. I have seen Robin Hood: Men in Tights though.) The admission was SEVEN EUROS! That is over ten dollars Canadian. We decided we didn’t need to spend that much to see a rug.

About this time, we found out that the shuttle I had planned on taking to the ferry terminal no longer ran. They had neglected to tell us that, but were willing to converse with the tourist office lady in French. In addition, taxi prices jacked up after seven o’clock. So basically, if I wanted to make the ferry that night and not pay twice as much for a taxi, I had to leave right then. I was half an hour late to take the night train from Paris to London. Because I needed to be in England the next morning, I had to leave ASAP and the ferry was the only remaining option. I had plans of my own in England and Mer wanted to go to Brighton, but not on the night ferry so we had to split up. When I arrived in the train station at the next town, I got a friendly taxi driver whose English was only slightly better than my French. But he knew where to take me. I arrived at the ferry terminal with over four hours to spare so I sat and read most of Meridith’s copy of Pride and Prejudice. Then I boarded the boat at 11:30 pm and made myself at home in my chair. The boat was quite fancy with a cinema and several restaurants and shops. I didn’t care because I was so tired, and soon joined the other people in my room and slept on the floor. When I awoke, I was in England.

And it was in England that I became an Aunty too. (No, my brothers didn't sire any children.) But first I had to take a bus to London and another one to Durham, way in the Northern part of England.

Hectic Days in France

2005-11-24T22:19:00.000-06:00

Last night, the temperature dipped below zero Celsius. To me, this is beyond cold. In Taiwan, it’s really cold if it’s below ten degrees. But then again, there I have to drive a scooter and there is no such thing as a furnace and the floors are carpet, not tile.

So where was I in my monologue? I need to write it down before I forget. It doesn’t matter if anyone reads my entries because someday I’ll be old and I won’t be able to remember clearly so I’ll be really thankful for all this writing I’ve been doing.

Friday, November 11

Armistice Day (aka for Canadians, Remembrance Day) was a rather dead day in the town of Blois. Nothing seemed to be open and not many people seemed to be out and about. We thought that the chateaux we wanted to see would be open, but the quiet Friday morning streets did not make us hopeful. But then Meridith found the tourist office and a very nice lady told us how to use the buses and confirmed that indeed, the chateaux were open for business.

The first stop was the Blois Chateau. It was built in a few stages and really looks like four buildings stuck together. For example, the Gothic wing is connected to the Classical wing. It’s interesting, but it doesn’t look quite right. One of the most interesting features of the castle was a spiral staircase on the outside of the building, full of salamander carvings for the salamander was the symbol of King Francois I. Catherine de Medici lived and died in this chateau. One of the rooms featured hidden cupboards which Dumas wrote about in one of his books. The fireplaces are so huge that a grown person can stand inside and not have their head going up the chimney.

In the afternoon, we paid way too much for a bus and I of course fell asleep on the bus, waking up as we pulled up to Chambord. This chateau’s exterior is way more impressive than Crazy Ludwig’s castle. Innumerable peaks and towers and columns protrude out of the roof. It’s even more impressive when you learn that Chambord was built simply to serve as a hunting lodge. The living quarters themselves are clustered around a cruciform hallway. Each level is connected to the others by a massive stone staircase whose design is attributed to Leonardo da Vinci, who lived in a nearby town. It’s a double helix so while one person goes up one set of stairs, another person can go down the other and they’ll never meet. It made me miss the pagodas in Zuoying in Kaohsiung. The castle had been fixed up and made a lot more touristy than what Mer remembered from her previous visit. Francois I had began the construction on this castle as well so his trusty salamander showed up in a few places.

For supper that night, we stopped at a little pub that advertised pizza. They didn’t start serving food until 7. So we waited.

Saturday, November 12

One of the most annoying things about travelling in France is that transportation networks spider out from Paris. To get almost anywhere, you have to go to Paris first. Mer lamented not having a car, but I’m pretty used to not having a car and since I sleep a lot, I don’t mind sitting on a train all day. So we took a train to Paris and then another couple to Normandy. The day did get a little long – especially when one train was full and we were obliged to stand for forty minutes in the little entry way by the bathroom. A lady with a severe nicotine addiction would try to sneak a smoke at every stop and twice, nearly got her head cut off when the door snapped shut. Another good reason not to smoke . . . Actually, I don’t think that happened on the travel day at all. My memory is already getting fuzzy. It may have been on the way to Blois.

On our last train that day, we spotted a girl with an English newspaper and a Mountain Equipment Co-op bag. Since she was obviously Canadian, we tried to make conversation with her and her companion. They were perhaps the least friendly Canadians I’ve ever met. One girl was from Winnipeg and was less than impressed to find out Mer is from Steinbach. I’m used to Canadians being extremely friendly and greeting one another like long lost friends. They definitely broke my stereotype.

We arrived in the town of Pontorson in Normandy just before supper time. The hostel was closed for the winter – yeah, the travel books didn’t tell us that. The hotel we wanted was non-existent so we grabbed a room at the Hotel de France. The room was small, but once we got the proprietor to replace the light bulbs, it was nice and bright. And this hotel was always conveniently located right beside the train station.

Since it’s not high tourist season, the tourist offices aren’t open on Sundays. And it was near closing time on Saturday so we had little hope of finding out any desperately needed info. We were lucky to catch the office before it closed. This was very important because this was the only public access internet spot in all of town. We had a half an hour in which to find out a few things. This half and hour cost us more than six dollars Canadian. There was nothing to do in that town and we had no TV in our room. So I got a pretty good sleep that night.

Mer unfortunately didn’t. I make decisions better after I sleep. She sleeps better if the decision is made. I hadn’t made up my mind about a few scheduling decisions and she wasn’t too happy about that. Sorry Mer.

Sunday, November 13

A few miles north of Pontorson stands Mont St. Michel, an ancient fortress monastery established on a chunk of rock. At high tide, especially during the solstices, the hill is an island surrounded by the sea. The cathedral is teetered on the top of the hill with impressive support to keep it balanced on top of everything. It was an old Benedictine monastery where the monks were not allowed to see out. The monks lived on the upper level, nobility visited on the middle level, and everyone else was received on the lowest level. It’s an amazing sight and it definitely caught my eye long before the bus dropped us off at the base.

It’s no longer a monastery. It’s been a national monument for over a hundred years – when the people decided the government should stop using it as a prison. So now it’s a tourist trap full of restaurants and gift shops. But the echoes of days gone by reverberate off the old stone walls and the ramparts that offer a view of the sea – or the quick sand at low tide.

A small church on one of the lower levels caught my eye so we wandered in and found that mass would be starting before too long. So we came back at the appropriate time. A group of older men was performing a concert that night, and this choir was at the mass in their good Sunday suits. Their voices were not high class, but still charming. The room wasn’t full, but it seemed like those in attendance were there for the right reasons. There seemed to be an absence of the typical French tourists who were milling around the rest of the hill. The music was done in French or Latin. I took French at school for years, but I must confess, I’m better at pronouncing Latin. The service was nice and we felt quite comfortable there.

In the afternoon, we joined an English tour of the monastery. A delightful French woman who complained about the rudeness and loudness of her countrymen toured us through the various levels of Mont St. Michel proper. I felt like I was taken away to the Middle Ages and all those old movies we’ve all seem. We had to run to make our bus back to Pontorson and then had to sit and wait for our train to Bayeux.

Bayeux is the first town liberated after D-Day. Smaller villages were liberated first, but Bayeux is the place where De Gaulle came and made his speech. Our hostel was called Family Home and after we rang the night bell a few times, a grumpy and frumpy woman emerged from the back and showed us a room where the beds were so comfortable that I could have slept in them forever. We met a couple other Canadians there as they too emerged from the dark peripheries of the building. One guy was friendly due to loneliness and a couple others were moderately friendly. It was definitely an interesting place from which to visit the D-Day beaches.

From France to Frontier

2005-11-23T19:24:00.000-06:00

At this very moment, I am sitting in front of my parents’ computer with our beloved dog Radar at my feet. The temperature in the house is colder than I would like, but I know that even colder temps will plague my existence as Jack Frost makes his home here for the winter. It’s strange to be back here in Frontier – where I was immediately enlisted to help with the weekly senior’s meal. Wednesday lunch is the time for all the grandmas and grandpas to assemble in the senior citizen’s centre to enjoy such delicacies as steak or meatloaf or roast beef. All the old ladies were straining their eyes to figure out who the young woman in the kitchen was. Eventually, they figured out who I was and had to come and say how they didn’t recognize me. It’s definitely strange to be back in a place where everyone knows your name. Well, if they don’t know your name, they know your mom or your grandma or maybe your great grandma and put you into your place right away.

But it’s even stranger to think that less than a week ago, I was on the other side of the Atlantic with Euros and Pounds jingling in my pocket. Already, it seems like a lifetime ago. I’ll try to catch you up with my final week and a half in Europe. A lot happened so expect a few more instalments.

Let’s go back in time to Wednesday, November 9th. Rain was spilling out of the dark clouds while we sat on the RER train taking us to the outskirts of Paris. We didn’t see any rioting during our time in Paris, although once we saw a bunch of cop cars race out of the station bound for the suburbs. We actually met a few tourists who didn’t even know that the riots were going on. We had no fear of going to this particular suburb though because it was day time and it was Versailles.

My first sight of the palace made glamorous by Louis XIV, the Sun King, was rather soggy and drab, full of black guys running through the mud puddles trying to sell me an unwanted umbrella. The architecture may not be as splendid as that of Neuschwanstein, but the size is definitely worthy of awe. Lines of Asian tour groups waited outside the doors with their umbrellas. We kept our hoods up and looked in vain for a place to buy entrance tickets. Everything seemed closed except for the gift shop. Mer went inside and returned with the discouraging news: the Versailles staff was on strike. How very French of them to be on strike. Everyone was lined up in hopes that the strike might end soon.

Since Mer loves gardens and parks, we began to walk around the gardens behind the palace. During the summer, you have to pay just to be in the grounds. Statues, fountains, flowers, and trees are all arranged tastefully and rather lavishly. I think it would be almost overwhelming. As you go further from the main palace, the gardens become more of a natural woodsy park with a cross shaped canal through the center. A couple smaller palaces are nestled in the back. It must be very nice in the summer months.

We were not there for summer, however, so we didn’t have to pay to get in. Everything had already been winterized. The flower beds were all tilled and put to rest. The fountains were turned off. Smaller side gardens were locked. All the statues were covered with sacks. And it was raining and I couldn’t get into the palace so my mood kept getting grumpier, especially as I contemplated all the things I could be doing in Paris instead of waiting for Versailles to open as I trudged through soggy winter gardens. Meridith was enjoying the garden nonetheless and I tried to be a little more cheerful and push aside my negative thoughts and pray for the Frenchmen to go back to work.

Which thankfully, they did.

That afternoon, we donned the ear phones of our audio guides and made our way through one ornate room to another. We learned about the getting up and going to bed rituals of the kings. People would wait for hours just for the opportunity to help the king get dressed. It seems so ridiculous now. I would get tired of so much needless pomp and circumstance. The wall coverings were so ornate. A lot of the original furniture had been lost or destroyed through the turbulent years of revolution and then war. It was just interesting being in such a famous place where so much history had taken place. I saw the doorway through which Marie Antoinette had tried to escape the revolutionaries. I saw the marble courtyard where the French used to riot and protest.

Twice we walked through the most famous room of all – the Hall of Mirrors. This is where the Treaty of Versailles was signed and I think prior to that the nation of Germany was created there. Windows run along one wall and mirrors the other. Huge chandeliers hang from the ceiling and marble pillars and sculptures are everywhere else. It is a very imposing room. It’s too bad we didn’t get to see it. Most of it was covered up for restoration. The open part of the room was stripped bare of its adornments. Apparently it really needed the repair, but unfortunately, it had to be now.

I was quite surprised at the amount of disrepair I saw in the palace. I know it’s old and France has about a million or two old castles to take care of, but I still expect them to take better care of Versailles. The admission is more expensive than any other castle in France and tons of people go through there every year. I saw lots of peeling paint. I enjoyed Versailles, but it wasn’t as impressive as I expected. I think if it was the first big palace I’d seen, I’d have been impressed, but by this point of the trip I was used to seeing old style luxury.

We got back to Paris in time for me to go to a final art museum. Meridith had some final shopping to do so we went our separate ways. After going through the Louvre and Musee D’Orsay, I had seen a lot of the history of art so I opted to make my art experience complete by going to the Centre Pompidou, one of the modern art museums. The building was the first “inside out” building in Paris with its brightly colored ductwork all on the outside. Being under 26 has a lot of financial benefits in France. You can get the equivalent of a “student price”. So I bought my reduced ticket and spent an hour or so looking at works by Warhol, Ernst, Pollock, Magritte, and Matisse. Some of it I didn’t appreciate, but I guess that’s what I expected of modern art. One of my favourite works was a smashed up piano glued to a board. I also appreciated a stool made from the metal seat of a piece of old farm equipment. We have a slightly nicer version in our parents’ basement. My brother Gregg and I painted it with cans of Tremclad. I had a few minutes to spare before I had to go to meet Meridith so I visited one of the exhibitions. It was a wall-less labyrinth. I wore a headset which vibrated whenever I was off the mark. I was enjoying it and lost track of time and therefore had to run to the subway station.
I ran around a while before I found Mer on the steps of the American church. I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch and wasn’t thinking clearly and made a lot more exercise for myself. Well, once we were together again, we crossed the Alma Bridge and joined the next Seine river cruise in celebration of our final night in Paris, the city I loved as much as I thought I would. I had done a night cruise around Hong Kong harbour and enjoyed the quiet as I gazed at the lights of the city.

This cruise was a little different. I think they had borrowed the tape from one of the city tour buses. In rapid succession with no pauses, an explanation of the sights being seen was given in multiple languages. It was so hectic that it was hard to understand. Since the river is lower than the city, it was hard to see the sights anyways – especially when the Asian tourists take flash photographs of themselves on the boat. My dilated pupils struggled to focus on anything. To avoid the busy photographers who kept standing up and blocking our view, we went to the back deck where a different type of Asian tour group was. A school group of Japanese teenagers played around and laughed and took pictures and shouted and seemed to ignore everything. I didn’t enjoy it, but it drove Meridith crazy. It was cold too. Eventually we went back to the front deck which had thinned out because of the weather and had a more enjoyable time for the last twenty minutes. I got to see the mini Statue of Liberty. But I was definitely ready for the boat ride to be over. A crepe and then one more sleep in the city.

Thursday, November 10 found us in Chartres, most famous for its cathedral with its mismatched towers. One tower is Romanesque and the other is Gothic. Most of the old Romanesque church was destroyed and the newer Gothic church was built up around the fragments. Inside, the sun shines through ancient stain glass windows, including one of the Blue Virgin, supposedly the source of some people’s visions. Around the back of the nave is a piece of cloth believed to be Mary’s veil. But more impressive to me were the carvings. Around the choir was a series of 3-D carvings of the life of Christ. They aren’t relief pictures. They are mini-statues. We were able to go up the Gothic tower and look out at the city with its plenitude of red roofs.

We ran into one problem when we got to Chartres. There were no left luggage lockers at the train station and we had all our luggage with us. We inquired at the tourist office and found out that since 9-11, left luggage places must be equipped with x-ray machines to screen out bombs, etc. The machines are expensive so most places just do away with left luggage. So that left us with no place to put our bags. We set everything down by a bench in front of the cathedral and took turns going inside. I read Meridith’s copy of Little Women while listening to a couple of old drunks speaking in slurred French. It wasn’t ideal, but it worked.

That day was my parents’ 26 anniversary so I called home and was much surprised to actually get an answer. I was expecting to leave a message on the machine. Mom didn’t recognize my voice and I didn’t recognize hers. It was also Mer’s brother’s birthday so she called him too. Then we had kebabs and bought éclairs and then waited in the bus station. The bus station was decorated in yellow and green with little sheaves of wheat, just like the Saskatchewan flag. It didn’t make me homesick, but it did make me smile.

Our next stop was Blois, in the Loire Valley where once upon a time, all the rich kings and nobility would build fancy chateaux. Our hotel was right across the street from the train station and therefore easy to find. We had a nice sleep in a room with fresh towels and French television. The next day, we saw a couple of chateaux. But I think this entry is long enough for now. More to come . . .

Stayin' Alive

2005-11-15T19:00:00.000-06:00

Once we left the city of Paris, internet became less accessible and exceedingly expensive. Therefore I have not updated the blog. Sorry to the faithful readers. And I survived the riots in Paris quite easily.

I'm currently in England . . . and in a few days I'll be back in Canada. I'll update the blog then. Expect a rather long entry . . . I mean, even longer than normal.

Bread for Breakfast, Bread for Lunch, Bread for Supper

2005-11-08T12:41:00.000-06:00

Yes, it's true. The French eat a lot of bread. I am growing weary of so much carbohydrate.

In the back of my mind, I remembered my Aunt Sharon telling me about a church she liked to attend when in Paris. So on Sunday, we got up and decided to walk to the American Church in Paris, the first American church established on non-US soil. You can get American or French tax receipts. It was a longer walk than we'd anticipated so we ended up being late for the early service, but early for adult Sunday School. So we just went to the adult class. We were the first ones there for the class led by a Filippino man. A young guy soon came. People slowly filtered in through the next hour. It was a strange time. There seemed to be a lot of miscommunication and little discussion. Mainly, the leader read from the study guide and the man beside me kept bringing up Bible passages that didn't have anything to do with what we were talking about. The whole time, we didn't know what to think and I had to speak up and correct some opinions a guy gave about Jews and faith in the Old Testament. We didn't know what to expect the eleven o'clock service to be like.

But we loved it. The church was packed. The service and its liturgy were well explained. The children's lesson was meaningful. I felt quite at home there. If I were to live in Paris, this church would be my church home.

Mer took off to watch tennis. I don't know enough about tennis to want to sit and watch it all afternoon plus being in Paris, I wanted to see Paris. (Mer had a good, yet interesting time. If interested, read Meridith's Murmurings from the link on my blog.) So I found lunch and walked to the Eiffel Tower. It's not as large or imposing as you're led to believe as a child. I've heard some people say it's an ugly piece of metal. But I quite liked it. I like the shape and the scroll patterns and the color even. I took a picture of myself in front of it and continued on roaming the city.

Since it was the first Sunday of the month, most of the museums were free. My first stop was the Rodin museum. To get to it, I had to walk past Invalides, with its golden dome. Some of Napoleon Bonaparte is buried there. The Rodin museum is a sunny house full of sculptures surrounded by gardens full of sculptures. The main attraction is in the garden - the Thinker, a sculpture I think you all should know. It is amazing how well Rodin knew the human body. His sculpted hands are so life like.

Next, a young boy hiding behind a map tried to pickpocket my backpack at a metro station. Luckily, I noticed his presence before he could get to my camera.

I had time for one more museum so I checked out the Picasso museum. An interesting biracial English family argued about religion and economy behind me as we all waited in the overly long line. They helped me pass the time. I didn't enjoy the Picasso museum as much as the Van Gogh, but it was still fascinating to see the diversity of Pablo's talent. He is best known for his cubist work, but he could do so many different styles of art, using all kinds of mediums. My favorite exhibit was five pictures of Francoise (one of his mistresses?) all done in different styles. Then I walked past where the Bastille used to be and headed back to the hostel to meet Meridith for supper.

Yeah, she wasn't there. But thankfully she called to say she wasn't going to make it. Unfortunately, I didn't get the message until I had already decided to give up on her. So I took my ghetto-tripod and my camera and went to see Paris at night.

The best part of the night was walking from Concorde to the Arc de Triomphe. Concorde has a giant pillar that was once in an Egyptian temple. Hieroglyphics dance all over it. It's in the middle of a traffic circle and nearby a plaque marks the spot where Marie Antoinette and Louis lost their heads.

Going northwest from this spot, you are on the Champs Elysees. For the first while, I felt a little alone in the dark park, but soon, I was in the blazing light of the commercial district. I smiled at the muted colors of the McDonalds there. Most of the time, my attention was at the far end where the arc stands in a gigantic traffic circle where twelve avenues converge with no lane distinction to prevent anarchy. I would cross the street and purposely get stuck in the middle in order to take a picture. When I reached the end, I walked through a dingy underpass and came up under the Arc in its night lit glory.

Man, it is grandiose. It's huge and ornate and wow. It's such a famous landmark, but you don't understand it until you see it. That Napoleon was quite a guy.

When I got back, Mer was sleeping. Not too surprising :)

Monday morning it was raining. We've been pretty blessed with weather so we couldn't complain. Metro back to the Arc so we could ascend to the top. It was neat seeing Paris, even though the hazy clouds made picture taking less fun.

Almost as soon as we were down, the clouds dissipated and the sun came out.

The only shopping we did on the Champs Elysees was pay way too much to get our camera memory cards burned onto disk. It cost fifteen bucks a CD. So that's my Champs Elysees souvenir. We wandered to the overly ornate Alexander III bridge, saw the tunnel where Diana's car crashed and people leave graffiti to her, once again to Concorde. In the Tulieres gardens, beggar woman approach you by asking, "Do you speak English?" Then they pull out a card in English detailing a story of woe. After approaching us, one lady immediately went to the pay per use toilet. I thought that was interesting.

In the later afternoon, we took the metro up to the Montmartre area. We climbed the stairs to the white dome church of Sacre Couer. It was a beautiful view of the city and the inside of the church is beautiful too. Even though France is technically Catholic, there is little spiritual life here. But it was cool to be in this church and still feel a sense of holiness.

Then we made our way to the artist square of Montmartre and watched the painters at work and got approached by portrait artists. Everything was out of my price range, but I loved the ambience and just watching the painters at work. I totally understood why my mom loved it up there. I wish I had more time in Paris just to wander those streets. We had supper since it was already dark. We didn't get to go to the cemetary where Jim Morrison is buried.

At night, the Eiffel tower is lit up brightly. Right now, every hour on the hour, lights flash all over like a Christmas tree does with blinking lights, only brighter. It's really kind of beautiful. Since I may only be in Paris once, I had to do the tourist thing and go up to the top. The elevator was in three stages, but we had to change elevators for the final stage. It was so cool to look out over Paris at night while standing at the top of such a landmark. I was quite excited and a smile is on my face just remembering it now.

Today was the planned day to go to the Musee D'Orsay, the impressionist museum. This is the period of art I know and love best. I love light and how it changes and I think that's why I like the impressionist so much. So before Mer was ready to go, I in my excitement was literally bursting to be there already so she let me go on my own.

Monet, Manet, Degas, Renoir, Millet, Cesanne, Pissaro, Van Gogh, Seurat, Sisley . . . All those impressionists and post-impressionists and pre-impressionists for me to see. It was like heaven. I would turn a corner and suddenly see a picture that I had been seeing all my life. Only now it was real, not a copy or a little photo. It was real. I guess that is what heaven will truly be. Right now, everything we have is a copy or a disintegration. In heaven it will be real. We will see God for real, not just the glimpses that we can handle here on earth.

I think I could spend weeks in that converted train station. To say I loved it is putting it mildly. But it almost felt natural. Like I was supposed to be there all along. Sadly, a few of the most famous works were on loan to Vienna, but I knew enough of the other ones to be more than pleased. And I got to finally see Degas' ballet dancers. Now, he was interesting fellow . . .

The day was quickly filled. We went to the Opera house, best know by North Americans as the place where Phantom of the Opera is set. It is an ornate, opulent, fantastic place full of marble and chandeliers and gold. Quite interesting . . .

And speaking of opulence, tomorrow we go to Versailles.

Life on the Streets, in the Mountains, and the City

2005-11-05T12:31:00.000-06:00

While Meridith enjoyed a few leisurely days in the Black Forest, I experienced life in the busy city of Zurich, Switzerland. My friend Cady, also a native of Frontier - we used to ride the same bus to school - is a couple months into her new life as an OM missionary. In total, she will be there two years. She picked me up at the Zurich Main Station. My Canadian flag made me easy for her to spot. Then she graciously let me tag along with her for the next couple of days.

First of all, we went through some of the old town and then sat by the Zurichsee where the swans are grimy because of the water. They swim around, begging for food, and stealing it from smaller birds. I think one wanted to bite me or something. Then Cady took me to the part of town where they do a lot of their ministry. We stopped by Chrichtehusli (not sure on spelling, it means Christ's house) where people come off the street for a good meal and fellowship and just to be warm. I had the privilege of meeting Pingu, a half American man who believes himself to be an angel. He was entertaining to say the least. We wandered down Langstrasse where I learned the locations of many drug dealers and the favorite corners of the prostitutes. It's definitely different from home, and by God's help, Cady has done an awesome job adjusting and handling any challenges that come her way.

Then her roommate prepared raclette for supper. I've seriously eaten so well for so many days.

The next day was fairly busy. I got to listen to a German devotion, graciously translated for our English ears. Later, we helped at a spaghetti meal for some boys. They are all from immigrant families, middle eastern, full of life. There were only three boys there, but were still rambunctious and well, they're boys. It was fun. Cady was doing research on drugs so we went back to Christ's House where some addicts told her about the depth of their addictions, the different substances, and the cost. It is hard to see people like that. They are so lovable and genuine, and yet so full of vice. I thank God for places like that where God's love can be given out in such tangible ways.

That night after the much anticipated meal of squash soup - which Cady is going to learn to make and then teach me - we went to a prayer meeting at a German church that is actually in Cady's building. We split into two groups. One stayed in the church to pray and the other split off in pairs and targetted prayer in specific areas and places. We chose Open Heart, a ministry of the Salvation Army which OM helps with on Saturdays. So we walked down Langstrasse, under the bridge to a humble looking building which emanates God's love. It was great to pray with Cady and get her newfound insight in what to pray for those ministries. We had to back at the church at 8:40 so started walking back.

We were at the drug dealer corner when we ran into Brother Leonard with his few days of facial hair growth. Dressed in his long brown robe with a knit sweater overtop for warmth and a wooden rosary on his face, he ministers to the people on the street. He sometimes works at Christ's House, where we'd met him previously that day. He introduced us to Johannes, a young man who wants to be rehabilitated and kick his habit. Johannes' mom is a believer and is praying for him. But he needs more support. So if you're reading this, pray for a Swiss man named Johannes.

Since we were already running late, we headed right for the church. But then we looked across the street. A man was reclining on the sidewalk, in the middle of everyone's way. His hand was on his head and when he took it away, we could see blood drip off his hand and pour out from his head. People kept walking around him, not giving him a second look. Cady immediately remembered the McGee and Me cartoon about the Good Samaritan, for it truly was like that story. The man needed help and no one wanted to bother. By the time we crossed the street, a nice lady - presumably a prostitute - was there to help him as well. The three of us hoisted him to his drunken feet and eventually got him to sit down. His glasses were broken and one lens completely missing. He was dressed rather nicely and stylishly - for Europe. No cab driver would take him because of the blood. We were careful to not touch the blood either, due to the risk of AIDS and other diseases. We grabbed tissue and water to clean him up. The woman took the tissue and blotted his head gently. She didn't speak English and Cady's German is still in its baby stage. But then we realized he could speak English. He couldn't tell us where he lived and yet seemed convinced that we should go home with him. He couldn't remember what had happened and denied drinking, even though he reaked of it. The woman gave him twenty francs for a cab and left. We didn't know what to do.

Cady went back to see if Brother Leonard was still around. Instead, she found Johannes and a friend of his. The friend called the police and they disappeared, not wanting to make contact with the cops themselves. A couple of Cady's team members came by on bikes, frantically looking for us, afraid that something had happened. Soon the police came and we had to leave.

When Cady was off looking for Leonard, the man kept saying we were fantastic, asking why Cady was so fantastic. I told him it's because she loves Jesus. We talked a little about God. I just hope that somehow in his drunken stupor, he will remember something. So this nameless man could use your prayers too.

Friday, I wanted Cady to be free to get some research done and I wanted to see a little more of Switzerland's beautiful mountains so I hopped a train to Lucerne, also spelled Luzerne. I think Mark Twain took a vacation there once or twice. He got mentioned a few times in their brochures. I enjoyed a fifty minute boat ride on Lake Luzerne, with the mountains all around and the pretty houses on the hills, in the midst of autumn's trees. In spite of the clouds, I could see in the distance, the snow capped peaks and my heart longed to be up in them myself. The next time I am in Switzerland, it will be all about the mountains, I tell you. Strangely enough, the lake reminded me of Taiwan, of Sun Moon Lake where swimming is only permitted once a year. Someone once told me that lake looked a little like Switzerland, and he was right, only Taiwan could never be as magnificent as Switzerland.

Then I took a cogwheel train up to the top of Mt. Rigi where I beheld the mountains to the south of me. The green valley to the north was nice, but it could not compare to the rugged beauty to the other side. I could have stayed there forever, had it not been cold or raining, but it was both so I made my way back down via the train and then a cable car and then back on the boat.

Luzerne itself is a nice city with pretty painted buildings, a couple old covered bridges, a lion carved out of rock. It feels like a very Swiss place. The prices, indeed, are very Swiss.

I spent a final evening with Cady. We had kebabs, and then after running to Johannes and his friend Freddy, we went to Open Heart, the Salvation Army ministry. We left before the devotional. There was no one there to translate. I felt so blessed for the opportunity to see Cady and her ministry. All of you who support her financially and in prayer should be encouraged by her. Cady, thanks so much. I'm so excited for what God has done already in you and through you and I know there is so much more to come. You really encouraged me in our time together.

Then I went on a train. A night train for Paris. More than anywhere else in the world, I have always longed to go to Paris. As a kid, my mom filled my head with stories from her high school trip and I've never forgotten. The Arc D'Triumphe, the Champs Elysees, the Louvre . . . these things have had almost mythical status in my head. It seemed so surreal to actually know I would wake up the next morning in Paris.

Actually I woke up before Paris thanks to three loud African women who burst into my compartment at 4:30 and made themselves comfortable by making me move over. Then they left and came back and talked some more. I prayed really hard for them to be quiet because I am not gracious when I awake and wanted to bite off their heads. Finally, they shut up.

I jumped on the metro and my heart kept leaping as I saw the stops for places I have always loved and never seen. There had been some mess up with our hostel and Mer ended up staying somewhere else and sent me a confusing email about it. So I went to our original hostel, not knowing where she was staying. It was not yet open and I sat on the curb with all my stuff. I sat on the side that didn't have water flowing down the gutter. Then it was open and the guy wasn't too helpful so I sat there reading Mer's Little Women until she came.

We walked down the street, looking for a place for Mer to buy tennis tickets, when I got my first glimpse of Notre Dame. I left her and went by myself to the Ille de Cite, fighting back tears at the realization that I AM IN PARIS! There stood the church with all its gargoyles, just like in the cartoon but no Quasimodo. The inside wasn't as interesting as I had hoped, but it was still great and felt like a church, not a circus.

And then we did the best thing ever for my first day here. We went to the Louvre. I was so happy to see the cheesy glass pyramid entry. I couldn't contain my joy. Soon after, I saw her, the Mona Lisa. I saw works by Botticelli, Raphael, Rembrandt, Rubens, Da Vinci, Delacroix, Michelangelo . .. . I was so overwhelmed. And even though the Louvre lets the Musee D'Orsay house all the impressionists and the post-impressionists, a few were there and I spent time gazing at the work of Degas, Renoir, Cezanne, Monet, Sisley . . . I had my picture taken with the Code of Hammurabi. I was so tired at the end of the day and there were still more things I could have liked to have seen.

And Mom, I tried to call you to share my joy with you. But for some reason, the Sprint card doesn't work over here. . .

So life is so good. We have a place to stay and so much to look forward to. Mer goes to see some big tennis matches tomorrow. It would have been cool to go with her to something she enjoys so much. But I am in Paris and I don't think I could sit still that long when there is so much I want to see. Maybe tomorrow I will spend time with Picasso and then Rodin. Unfortunately tomorrow is free day at Musee D'Orsay so it will be a madhouse. The impressionists will have to wait.

Switzerland, Germany, Switzerland

2005-11-03T01:04:00.000-06:00

We spent an evening and a morning in Lindau, one of the cities on the Bodensee, also known as Lake Konstanz. Lindau is on the outer edge of Bavaria and the only Bavarian City on the lake. The old city is on a little island while the newer city is spreading out on the shore. When we arrived with our big packs, kind people made sure we got off at the right stop on the bus and pointed the way to the hostel for us.

When my friend Nickie backpacked Europe a few years ago, she had purchased a youth hostelling card - which she ended up not using at all, not even once. I am happy to report that my purchase of the card was not a total waste. To stay at the hostels in Fussen and Lindau, membership was mandatory and the hostel was our only accomodation option.

As per our usual luck, we hit holiday weekend in Bavaria so everything was conveniently closed except for a few restaurants with worse than normal service. We climbed up a lighthouse and listened to a man play a long Bavarian horn. We wandered through leaf strewn paths and watched swans swim by. It was all quite nice. It would have been nicer if it had been clearer so we could have seen the beginings of the Alps on the other side of the lake. But because of the clouds we had to use our imagination.

The next stop on Saturday was Basel, Switzerland. At one point, our train stopped and everyone loaded onto a bus which took us across the border. As we stood at the tram station trying to figure out the system, a nice guy noticed our Canadian flags and offered to help us. Turns out, he is an Albertan who has lived in Europe for years, currently working as a curling coach and ice caretaker. Even with his help, we ended up on a wrong tram. It went the right way, just didn't stop where we needed it. Eventually we made it to our destination: the little old hilltop church of St. Chrischona.

A church of some kind has been standing on this hill overlooking France, Germany and Switzerland for close to a thousand years. The current building dates from the sixteenth century. The church was being used primarily as a barn in the nineteenth century. But in the attic, a theological seminary began, as did a group of evangelical churches. We came as guests of people we had yet to meet, but they made up comfortable as soon as we met them. They told us they lived next to the church, and they really weren't lying. Their house is immediately beside the church and the sound of the bells reverberated in our room. Philipp and Elizabeth are friends of one of Mer's relatives, but it felt like we were all friends by the time we left. I felt immediately comfortable when supper was a Malaysian curry. I could hardly contain my excitement. Apparently I am supposed to learn German and come back to take classes.

We attended an international church in Basel where we met an interesting opera singer whose accent is decidely southern. Then Mer turned down the possibility of watching tennis in favor of enjoying the unseasonable weather and exploring Basel. We have been told that this is the nicest autumn in a hundred years. I am really glad otherwise I would freeze. (Another reason Mer didn't go see tennis is because Basel's own Roger Federer is injured and obviously not playing. He's her favorite player so I have learned a lot about him this trip. Maybe she'll get to see him play in Paris.) We walked past the Munster, an old big church, where a carnival was occuring in the square. But most of the time, we sat by the Rhine and soaked up the sun with a throng of other sun-starved people.

That night, back at Chrischona, we were introduced to Rauclette, a very Swiss meal, where you eat melted stinky cheese on potatos. I was quite stuffed when the meal was done. Then we went with Deborah, one of the daughters, to a student led praise and prayer meeting in the old church. Most of the songs were in German, but we still felt God's spirit.

The next morning, chapel was at 7:30. Since the bells started ringing at 6, we were awake in plenty of time. Elizabeth translated the message and as she was telling me the final phrases, it was announced that Amazing Grace would be sung in English. Unfortunately, we didn't hear which verses and as the song progressed, very confidently sang the wrong verse. Oops . . .

Some friends of Meridith's from home, Paul and Mary, came for lunch and to take us back to Germany with them. (I know them from my time in Caronport.) Within ten minutes, it was established that they had some relatives in common by marriage with Elizabeth. This trip has definitely taught me even more about how all Mennonites all over the world are related. At one point in the conversation, a retired missionary who lives at Briercrest came up. I actually knew who he was and finally felt a part of the conversation.

Paul and Mary took us to Kandern, in the Schwarzwald (aka the Black Forest) where the missionary school Black Forest Academy is located. All the forested hills are full of the glorious colors of autumn. I met a bazillion people from Niverville, MB. I think everyone at BFA is from Niverville or has a cousin there or went to church there. We dropped our stuff off and returned to Basel, joining the high school at the big carnival. The kids had quite the time on the bumper cars and a group of them made some money busking in an alley. The four of us wandered around the different squares where the rides were. Due to the overly expensive nature of all things Swiss and all things related to carnival, we didn't go on any rides. We had supper at a "VIP" restaurant that didn't live up to its name.

On Tuesday morning, we slept in quite late. Germans have rolly-shutter things on their windows that really black out the room. The nice weather continued into November so Paul and Mary took us hiking. We followed a path thick with leaves to a rambling old castle. At the top, we could clearly made out the Chrischona hill and the church. It was quite beautiful. We hiked in the afternoon as well. Then they showed us a typical BFA dorm where the dorm parents convinced them to take stuff back to Canada for them. I think everyone they meet wants something taken back to someone. Then we had supper with an awesome family. The dad kindly took me to the train station in Basel the next morning, leaving Meridith in Germany.

Now I am in Zurich at an apartment of OM girls where my friend Cady is making her home for the next two years as a missionary. It's been really cool to see what her new life is like. More on that next time.

A Mystery to Myself and Others

2005-10-31T04:38:00.000-06:00

So from the little town of Fussen at the foot of the Bavarian Alps, we took a bus to Neuschwanstein - which I am probably spelling incorrectly. Out in the countryside, overlooking a village on the plain and the mountains and a river with a waterfall is a castle, a fairy tale castle. I am told that the Disney´s sleeping beauty castle was modeled after this castle, Neuschwanstein.

Once upon a time, well in the 1800s, there was a Bavarian prince named Ludwig. Even as a child, he loved to build things. As he grew, his love of building did as well. He also grew in his appreciation of the arts, particularly the operas of Richard Wagner. If you are unfamiliar with Wagner, there is one thing to know. With his operas, the bigger and the grandioser the better. Ludwig was Wagner´s principal patron. Plans had been made for a larger than life opera house. Ludwig built a lot of castles, hardly living in any of them. One of the most visited is Neuschwanstein, which was designed by a set designer, not an architect. It has white towers that rise into the blue sky. The castle was only a third finished at the time of Ludwig´s death.

Ludwig has a couple of adjectives commonly affixed to his name - usually Mad or Crazy, which indeed he was. He had no sense of finance and kept dreaming up ridiculous ideas. A Ludwig quotation often quoted at the castle is, "I want to eternally remain a mystery to myself and others." I think his wish has been granted. He was declared insane and a few days later was found dead under mysterious circumstances. Along with his pyschiatrist, he drowned in a lake.

On the bus up the hill, we found ourselves in the midst of a throng of real Southern rednecks. I think it was their first time ever out of Tennessee. They were quite excited to find out I am from Saskatchewan because apparently someone from Saskatchewan has caught a record size buck. They were surprised at the notion of people backpacking Europe for months at a time and were disdainful at the amount of walking they had to do in Germany.

The bus dropped us off near a bridge offering a good view of the castle. A kind man in a Bavarian outfit - complete with Lederhosern - was taking pictures and posing for them. We befriended an American named Travis and a Canadian named Quang, whose English accent is affected by his Vietnamese heritage. We hiked further up the ridge for a few more pictures. I went further than Mer, but she did well considering her ankle. We all had our picture taken with the Bavarian before heading to the castle.

The inside of the castle was, well, crazy. The throne room had tons of exquisite murals, marble stairs, an intricate mosaic floor . . . all in the style of a Byzantine church. His bedroom was full of Gothic wood carvings. The top of his bed looked like a bizarre cathedral roof. It took 14 artisans 4 and a half years to complete the carvings in his bedroom. Ludwig also had a room designed to be an artificial cave. One moment you are in his sitting room with his plethora of swan motifs (he really loved that bird) and murals of Wagner operas. Then open the door and you are walking through a cave. It was so surreal. The castle had some modern conveniences including running water, a sewage system, and central heating. Once he was dead, the family stopped the building of all his castles because it was just too expensive . . . and ridiculous.

The four of us had lunch, bussed back to town and then hopped on the next train. We semi-befriended a kid travelling alone with a lot of hockey equipment. For some reason, he had his helmet and pants separate and then the rest of his stuff in a few different bags. It looked awkward. Mer helped him when we had to change trains. He looked almost exactly like Cam Carruthers, my cousin´s good friend. Everyone on the train was very helpful.

Our next train was late and we sat for a while, trying to ignore the advice of the tipsy yet elegant lady with the beer bottle in her purse. Soon we were on our train for Lindau and the Bodensee. But it is now lunchtime and I will have to write another day.

The song in my head . . .

2005-10-29T12:33:00.000-06:00

"Yellow Submarine" by the Beatles seems to be the soundtrack of my travels. I rarely hear it played, but it keeps popping into my head. It makes me miss the Taiwan crew and fun times at KTV. If any of you go to KTV, sing it once for me.

Back in Germany

2005-10-27T11:25:00.000-06:00

I just remembered a funny thing from Poland. We had climbed down some stairs into a cavernous jazz club where a trio was making music on piano, double bass, and drums. The place was totally full, but a group of people (age 60+) made room for us at their table. We chatted a little with one gentleman and found out they were from Holland. When they found out we were Canadian, a white haired man who had had a drink or two too many rose up a little and declared, "I was liberated by the Canadians in 1945!" We had been told the older Dutch love our country and it was neat to experience a little of that love.

Yesterday was our final day in Karlovy Vary and actually our final day in the Czech Republic. Even after spending so much time there, we kept comparing the country to Poland. Czech is only 40% Roman Catholic, and 40% atheist. Most of the Catholics are nominal at best. The spiritual climate of the nation is totally different. Many times we found ourselves missing the flowing robes of the monks and nuns.

The Czech Republic is famous for its glass and crystal. One of the big names is Moser, and we had the privilege of touring their factory in Karlovy Vary. It was a short tour and didn't include the engraving and etching aspects. But we did spend a half an hour in the workshop where the glass is blown. I had seen glass blowing before in Quebec at a touristy and somewhat dramatic shop. This was different. Here, trios of men labored for 7 or 8 hours a day in the heat with molten glass, which has the consistency of honey, I am told. Their uniforms varied from pants to capris to shorts and they often wore sandals or other shoes that really wouldn't protect the feet. The shop was small and fancy and we did not buy anything. Even though I don't often like the busy patterns on crystal, I now have a greater appreciation for their craftsmanship.

We had gone swimming in the morning and I amazed Meridith at my total lack of proper form. Yes, I definitely need to take adult swimming lessons! Oh well, I have fun and am getting more exercise than if I was making the right strokes. Mer had a massage while I went to "Bath 5", one of the old fancy spas. I had lost a contact during the morning swim session so had donned my spectacles for the rest of the day. I am cheap so opted to just make use of the pool and steam room and sauna. I miss the South East Asian warmth and just wanted to be hot. I have to shiver all night because Mer likes to keep the window open. I was scared off by the no swimsuit sign on the sauna door so made myself at home in the steam room with a couple of naked women. Then I tried out the pool, but I really couldn't see anything. I am kind of glad I couldn't because there were a lot of unattractive hairy men in speedos. When a bunch of them came into the whirlpool - which was definitely not a hot tub- I just had to go elsewhere. After another steaming, I decided to peek into the sauna and found it inhabited by girls my age, who thankfully were not naked. So I kept my swimsuit on and relaxed.

We hopped on and off of five trains today to make it from Karlovy Vary to the town of Fussen. We are going to see a crazy castle made by Crazy Ludwig tomorrow. In Mer's guidebook, it said our hostel was sometimes noisy with groups. We found out that meant school groups. A bunch of elementary school children were running around. Thankfully, they have a bed time. But unfortunately, the showers close at 10. I guess it won't be a late night tonight.

Oh, the internet cafe just played the song, "Ghostbusters".

Adventures in MIddle-Aged Tourism

2005-10-25T12:49:00.000-06:00

If you are a regular reader of this blog, I just want to point out that this is actually my second blog of the day. I had problems posting before and couldn´t publish the previous post until now. So Mom, you can be sure to print the one before this, please.

We arrived into our hostel room on Sunday night to a new roommate, replacing Carlos, the Brazilian. We opened the door and there was an old man, meaning elderly, sleeping in his tighty whities, with his balding head face first in his pillow. It was a bit of shock for us. It´s still weird to sleep in a room that may include guys at all so having grandpa in their was awkward. He didn´t realize it was a mixed dorm until he woke up the next morning, rather sheepish. He wore sweatpants the next night.

Kutna Hora is a town about an hour away from Prague. I picked Mer up at Municipal House where she was having her necessary breakfast and we hopped on a bus at Florenc station, which we knew well from the day we tried to get a bus to Cesky Krumlov. The route was a little windy and at times, made me reminisce about the awkward long and precarious bus rides Gregg and I enjoyed in Laos. We had to switch buses midway and this time had a bus driver who liked to chat as he drove, complete with expressive hand gestures and even turning around to make eye contact with other people. But still I felt safe, even when we met oncoming traffic and I could still see the whites of his eyes.

Kutna Hora was built up because of its treasure of silver. But alas, Monday is the one day the mine is closed and we could not get a tour. So we sat in a park and ate sandwiches made with cheese buns and drank in the vivid autumn view. We wandered up to a cathedral on hill overlooking the forest, but alas, it being Monday, St. Barbara´s was closed too. So we took a bus to another part of town and the real, yet strange, reason why we ventured to this town at all.

The first Cistercian monastery in Bohemia was located in Kutna Hora. This fact may only seem interesting to me because I have been reading the autobiography of a Cistercian monk, a Trappist. The monastery closed a long time ago, but a cemetary remains with a little chapel in the middle. Outside, the cobblestone sidewalk has a skull and crossbones motif. It´s all too fitting because this chapel is completely decorated with bones, the human remains of about 40 000 people, the majority victims of the plague. It is supposed to make one think about mortality and the need to be right before God. But it is just chilling and strange and the cold dank feel doesn´t help. There was a chandelier which contains every single bone of the human body. Pyramids of unbound bones rest in the corners as a surreal form of art. There is a coat of arms of an ancient family, pillars, garlands, and even a couple of crucifixes. Despite the gruesome nature of the display, the English write-up gives hope and tries to point people to God in a right way to respond to the spectacle.

We returned to Prague again for one more wander through Wenceslas Square, which is really a boulevard. We were delighted to see that the scaffolding had been taken off a statue. We were beginning to feel that everything in Prague had a scaffold or two on it, in higher proportion to the rest of Europe. We went our separate ways for the evening. Mer went to the puppet opera, Don Giovanni, but I didn´t feel the urge. I saw one puppet show this year. I didn´t want to get puppeted out. So I wandered the rainy streets by myself, and watched the shops close one by one. I found a quiet place by the river to sit and think and pray and even sing when I knew that no one was walking by. I didn´t want to be mistaken for a busker. And I felt refreshed. Nothing refreshes me like quiet time by the water´s edge.

Today, we said farewell to the city of middle aged tourists and travelled to another town where all the tourists are middle aged. And I mean all. I think we are the only people under 40. We are in Karlovy Vary, also known as Carlsbad, the old spa town where Marx and Freud and some composers and other rich or famous people used to come for vacation. Baroque hotels and mansions rest on the hills around the river where sulfurous hot springs gush from the earth. The leaves have changed to their brightest shades and produce a stunning panorama from the tops of the hills.

Our books had both recommended a hostel named Buena Vista, good view. In fact, it is the only hostel in this place. However, at the information counter at the bus depot, we found out that they had changed their perfectly good name to the horrid Titty Twister. In spite of the atrocious name, it is a great place. Instead of just being in a six bed dorm, we are in a six bed apartment complete with a sitting room and kitchen. The facilities are gorgeous. They seem to have embraced the new name and I would like to talk to someone about their choice. Do they know what it means?

The thing to do here is wander along the river with your spa cup and sample the healthy waters of the different springs. Mer and I each purchased a cup with a spout that you drink out of. Most of the cups look like something that the woman from Keeping Up Appearances would desire as something nice. There were a lot of floral patterns with gold edging. Everyone walks around with these ridiculous mugs in hand. The hottest and highest spring shoots into the air and crackles and pops like fireworks. We sat there for a while before we noticed the fountain to taste the water. Mmm mmm - sulfur and minerals! We ventured further to a classical colonnade with more springs and made ourselves comfortable in the midst of the elderly throngs. We kept getting smiles because we clearly don´t belong here. I feel like I have doubled in age overnight! Another fountain was shaped like a snake with water issuing from its mouth. The imagery was effective. The water was truly venomous. Mer could drink it, but I spewed it out as fast as I could.

A nice girl stayed after hours to put our pictures on CD. We had supper and arrived at a swimming pool in time to find out it was closed. So that gives us something else to do tomorrow.

Beer, Castles, and the Good Old Hockey Game

2005-10-25T12:38:00.001-06:00

I'm actually writing this as an email to myselfbecause for the first time in my blogging history, Iabsolutely cannot get my blog to work. So I'll be publishing this at a later date.

From the postcard worthy town of Cesky Krumlov, wetook at bus to Ceske Budejovice, which I can pretend to pronounce if I say it quickly. I imagine most of you have never heard of it, but you may know the German name, Budweis, and its namesake beer, Budweiser. But before you start thinking about American Anheuser-Busch, I must tell you that this is the real Budweiser, the one that the Americans stole the name from. This brewery has been functioning since 1895. The American company took the name in 1911. Because of wars and beginnings of nationhood, Czech Budweiser couldn't fight for their rightful name until recently and I have little hope of the lawsuit being too useful for them. Right now they have to market their product as Czechvar in the States and Canada. So if you have a Czechvar, you're having a true Budweiser.

So Meridith and I, one good little Mennonite and one good little Lutheran girl, went for a tour of a brewery and quite enjoyed it. We were joined by two men with two little kids and a group of Hungarian men whose interpreter did not have the greatest grasp of the English language. We wandered past the artesianwells that pump up iron free water from an undergroundlake. We smelled the pungent aroma of hops and barley at high temperature. We learned about lengths of fermentation and maturing. The beer bound forRussian has to sit for about 250 fifty days! Then we got to have a fresh unpasteurized beer which Meridith was unable to finish. The bottling part was fascinating, but because it was Friday and mandatory clean up day because of the EU, not much was in operation. I still liked watching the bottles get put in cartons and carried on the conveyor belt.

Once back in Prague, we had the blessing of finding out that our hostel had not registered our reservation and did not seem to concerned to help us since they were now fully booked. Because of Mer's bum ankle, we did get them to call another hostel and thank the Lord, the Tyn hostel did have room for us, at the end of the hall at the top of the stairs. We live with two nice Australian girls and a friendly Brazilian guy. They're nice, but we still miss the Australian Jewish trio from our Berlin hostel.

Our initial feelings about Prague weren't the best. Perhaps they were tainted by Mer's ankle and our lack of hostel. We followed our guidebooks advice for a place to eat and found not one, but two closed down and apparently abandoned restaurants. I felt a little overrun by middle-aged tourists trying to plow me over to keep up with their umbrella-toting tour guides. The problem I had is the girth of western tourists. It's easier to get around Asians. They're smaller.

However, our feelings towards this ancient city have warmed up a lot over the last couple of days. We toured around Prague castle yesterday. It looms on a hill overlooking the river. We had cheesy pictures taken with the guards, who didn't move or show expression, but the eyes in their young faces danced as they observed the crowds of dumb people rushing at them with cameras. We got to watch the changing of the guard a couple of times and even followed the marching soldiers in their entourage. The castle is huge. My favorite was St. Vitus church, and in particular, its art noveau stain glass window byMucha. I think it's absolutely breathtaking. We climbed up a tower with 287 steps with about a million people coming up or going down in a space not intended for that many. We saw the old royal palace where tournaments were once held. We wandered down a lane of tiny houses converted into tiny tourist shops where tourists shove each other to look at trinkets. Kafka used to live in one of the tiny houses. I loved St.George church with its gentle strength. I missed out on the Barbie exhibition at the toy museum, but I think I'll survive. It was an interesting castle.

Asthe sun set, we switchbacked on a steep path in a garden until the guards came with dogs to rush us out. We watched the city become bright with its nightlights as we sat on a bench on a hill. At the top of the hill is a ridiculous looking mini-Eiffel tower. I didn't go up to it. I'll wait and see the real one.

After a breakfast at Municipal House, where Mer's dad Gary recommended we go to eat, we explored Jewish Prague. It was strange spending Sunday morning in old synagogues instead of a church. One synagogue had the names of holocaust victims written on its walls. The tiny writing everywhere was overwhelming. Another room held art made by children in the Jewish ghetto during world war II. It's really telling what children draw about. It made me so sad to see the pictures of long dead children depicting things they had seen with their eyes, things that seem like a vague nightmare to me, certainly not a reality. We also went through a cemetary that is over 700 years old where the people may be buried 12 deep. The high walls keep the huge mound up. It was interesting and I tried not to get too annoyed at the little boy who seemed to always hit me as he played and his parents ignored him. We saw a few other synagogues, including a Moorish Spanish one. The Jews couldn't be like the Christians, so their synagogue looks like a mosque.

We picnicked in another castle garden and then explored the landmark St. Nicholas church. Marble columns and art noveau designs. We didn't stay long, but hurried back over the Charles Bridge (KarlovyMost) to make it to a tram stop so we could go to a hockey game! As a child in small town Saskatchewan, you have to spend a lot of your life at the hockey rink. My brothers and cousins played. The NHL doesn't seem like an inaccessible dream to the kids because of the local heros who have made it. I used to ref hockey in high school. But for the last two years of my life, I have lived in Asia where no one knows how to skate and therefore this was my first hockey game since the last time I saw Gregg play with the Assiniboia SouthernRebels with their coach who looks suspiciously like their logo. Prague has two teams and we saw HC Sparta play in theT-Mobile Arena. It was interesting watching European hockey with its hooking and grabbing and lack of body contact. A guy would be open for a big hit and then barely get bumped, if at all. It was disappointing. But overall, it was great to see a game. Sparta won 2-1 over some team that started with a V. I have no idea what their name really was. One of the highlights of the game was when they played some good old Stompin Tom.

Hopefully this will publish the next time I'm online.

Passage into the Czech Republic

2005-10-20T10:04:00.000-06:00

It feels strange to have left Poland behind with its multitude of spires and steeples reminding me that God is near. I miss the gentle young priests in their flowing black robes and giggling young nuns wearing their prim and proper habits. It was strange and exciting to see the youth of their clergy. I had grown so accustomed to all priests and nuns being aged. The strength of the church in Poland impacts the feeling of the country. It is so reassuring to walk down the street and when seeing a group of dark colored characters, not being nervous because it is just a group of monks.

Our final night in Krakow happened to be on October 16, the first John Paul II day. Every church we passed had white and yellow flags flapping in the breeze in honor of the great Polish Pope. The Archdiocese even had a gigantic picture of the Pontiff on the wall. Beside the archdiocese, the people held a kind of vigil or celebration service. A choir on stage sang various songs, some traditional, some contemporary. Recorded messages in Polish were broadcast to the throng standing in the courtyard, spilling out into the park. TV cameras recorded every moment. A young priest led the people in some Hail Marys. Children and youth and adults held candles. A sweet peaceful spirit settled over the entire place. Meridith and I smiled to see the young priests with their trendy jackets and their toques. Our favorite was the skater monk, who wore skater shoes and walked with a strut. It was a come and go event. It was special for us to be there and remember the man who not only changed history, but was used to change hearts.

Apparently, the new pope, Benedict, is schedule to visit Poland in the near future. As part of his preparation, he is learning some Polish. The newspapers often report his progress in his studies.

Monday morning, we collected our not yet dry laundry from the top floor of Nathans Villa and hopped a bus for Czescin - not sure of spelling - the Polish border town paired with the Czech town of Cesky Tesin. We joined some Australian guys who were also seeking to cross the border and meandered through town, guided by a good Samaritan. Unfortunately as the Aussies raced ahead of us, Mer tripped and rolled her ankle. Definitely not good timing considering the volume of stuff we seem to have acquired. She limped her way to the border crossing. Chivalry must be dead with these Aussies because they kind of shrugged and did not offer to help. I thought of my brother Gregg and his constant readiness to help people when we were travelling southeast Asia. Gregg, you are a good guy. I am not even sure if you are reading this though.

At the border crossing, they penned us in like cattle as they frowned and flipped through our passports, mine in particular. Perhaps they were troubled by my random stamps and visas. We finally were allowed to go, walked past the border supermarket and into the Czech Republic. I am clearly now winning the race between Gregg and I over who has been to the most countries. We boarded a train to get to the station where we could catch the train to Prague. God provided an extra seat in our compartment so Mer could elevate her quite swollen ankle. I happily read and ate my snacks. Surprisingly, I did not even fall asleep on the long train ride. Usually when I am in a moving vehicle, I am fast asleep.

Our home in Prague for our first two nights was Unitas, which we found after some nice girls prevented us from walking further in the wrong direction. This hotel has perhaps the most interesting history of any place I have ever stayed. It used to be a convent a long time ago, but then when the communists came, they turned it into the office of the Czech secret police and in the basement established a prison. During the Cold War, a man was held there who went on to become President in recent years. We stayed in the basement, and they really have not renovated it much since its prison days. They have painted it with bright colors and murals of flowers and stars, but it is still very prisonish. The cell doors remain. Ours was painted bright blue. The beds were prisonish too - creaky metal bunkbeds which shook with every little movement. Mer is a rather light sleeper and I am a rather active sleeper so together, it is a bad combination for her. I sleep through everything, even her insomnia because of my excessive rolling over. One time she rolled over and I woke up, convinced that I was experiencing a European earthquake.

The first morning in Prague was not too fun. Everything seemed to be covered in scaffolding, including the famous astronomical clock. There was definitely an overabundance of tourists. The streets must be horrific during high season. We were at odds with what to do. After a day of travelling, I was itching to move around. Because of a bum ankle, Mer could not. Eventually we resolved it. She took in a bus tour while I went to, not surprisingly, an art museum. I think every time we split up, I go to an art museum.

This time I learned about Alphonse Mucha, the great Czech painter who some say is the father of Art Noveau. His posters for the actress Sarah Berhardt created a stir overnight in Paris and catapulted him into the spotlight. Besides poster work, he was an accomplished painter, devoting a lot of time to a series of large paintings called the Slav Epic, which were not in this museum. I had a lovely time there.

Meanwhile, Mer was having a different adventure. After being forced to join the tour at a different location, she got lost. When she did get on the bus, the tour was so confusing she did not know what she was looking at. She already knew everything from reading Lonely Planet. She did however learn that Arsenol, the football team from the UK, was in town to play Sparta and wanted to go.

But she could not because we had already bought opera tickets for Rigoletto by Verdi. It is the tragic tale of a court jester whose beautiful daughter dies in the end. The production was far superior to the Krakow one, but then again, they were two different kinds of operas, one French, this one Italian. The woman who played the daughter had an angelic voice. She definitely got the most applause at the end.

The internet cafes were all closed, so we relied on the bus schedule at the hostel. So the next morning, we headed to a bus station to catch the 10 30 bus to Ceske Budejovice, home of a brewery whose significance I will describe later. Well, 10 30 came and went and we learned that our bus only runs on Saturdays. So we loaded up our stuff and hopped on the metro to the main bus station in hopes of catching a bus there. The next bus wasnt until 1 45, and it was at yet another bus station. We figured we would get lunch at the other station and once again hopped on the metro where a cute guy stared at me - I think because of my abundance of luggage plus Mers pizźa box - I dont know how to get an apostrophe on this keyboard. Sorry.

So at bus station number three, there was no place to eat. In fact, there was pretty much nothing, other than a T-Mobile building and Obi, which I found out is like Home Depot when I went there in search of a calling card. So we sat for two hours on a bench, staring at the T-Mobile building in all its glory while a man ate the remains of Mers pizza which he fished out of the garbage while smoking and talking to himself. I sang along with a singing delivery boy who crossed the street and jabbered to us in Czech.

By this time, we knew that we would not make a tour at the brewery and decided to continue on to our final destination of Cesky Krumlov. The bus driver took us to the main station with him where an angry bus driver nearly took out poor crippled Meridith and stalled us enough that we missed the next bus. So we sat at the nice bus station for half an hour. By this time, we were well practiced at the waiting at a bus station thing.

On our next bus, Mer and I got separated. After talking to another backpacker, Mer felt the erroneous urge to follow her off the bus at her stop, taking me by surprise. I wrenched my baggage out of the space between the seats and tried to follow her. The bus pulled away as I realized that Mer had forgot our art collection on the bus. I tore after it, as fast as my pudgy legs can carry me. I actually caught it, but jerky bus driver man ignored my flailing arms and suicidal dive onto a busy roadway. In futility, I followed him and watched him disappear around a bend, over a bridge. We assembled our stuff and started to walk the direction the bus went, in hopes of catching it at the station. Then the bus met us and once again, I chased after it, catching it at another stop. He gruffly told me to go to the bus station and I saw the empty place where our pictures once lay.

At the bus station, the other bus drivers ignored my English questions and none of the counters were open. I looked all around, even in the dumpsters. The long and problem filled day seemed to reach its climax. We sadly gave up the search, and I recalled my Vietnamese hat which was my faithful companion all over Asia until I left it in the car at the airport when I left for home. I wanted Mer to not feel bad - especially since I had done it before. Then to make matters worse, the hostel we wanted was full and we had to retrace our steps to go to another hostel. Thankfully the hostel was a nice place and we got a room to ourselves.

This was the 19th. The 19th of October is my moms birthday. Due to the periodic problems we have been having in making international calls, I wanted to be sure to email her. The cafe was only open for a few minutes so I emailed Mom before we finally found something to eat. At supper, Mer prayed that we would get our pictures back. We had bought some special ones in Krakow that we knew we could never replace.

Then I tried to call Mom. I tried my calling card. I tried calling direct and using all my coins. Finally, I gave up and returned to the hostel. I barely sat down in the room when I heard a knock on the door. Since Meridith wouldnt knock to come in, I was curious who it could be. Lo and behold, it was the American couple from our last bus, smiling at me with beaming faces, declaring, "We have your pictures. They are at our hostel." I walked with them as they told me about how they had been to the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam and how good it is that we are backpacking. I think I said God Bless You a hundred times. I was so thankful and surprised. I guess I shouldnt be too surprised. God likes to remind me of his presence often.

Today was a wonderful day. We meandered around the castle on the hill and sat in a park and had some sturdy Czech lunch. Cesky Krumlow is beautiful. It is touristy, but not in a smothering way. Little cobblestone windy streets are filled with cute shops. Look up and the castle overlooks the city. Behind that are mountains covered with trees in their autumn dress. It is picturesque. Definitely postcard worthy and worthy of a visit if you are ever in the Czech Republic.

We split up again so Mer could indulge in a much-needed massage and so I, surprise surprise, could go to an art museum. This one was devoted to the Austrian Egon Schiele, who spent some of his brief tragic life here in his mothers hometown. He was actually ran out of town for painting pictures of nude pubescent girls. I wasnt too impressed with his work, but they did have an exhibition on Estonian Expressionism that I quite enjoyed. It was several times larger than the Schiele exhibit and took me through various levels of the building with stone walls and wooden ceelings.

So now we are both quite content and relaxed. I think that Cesky Krumlov has worked its charms on us.

Beauty and Horror

2005-10-16T09:41:00.000-06:00

It's one of those rainy gray days here in Krakow. My pants are soaked from walking through the puddles. It goes nicely with the sore throat and cough I have acquired.

Zakopane is nestled in the mountains in the southern part of Poland. Really, the best way to describe it is "Polish Banff." It's definitely not as suffocating as Banff town and the Tatra mountains are smaller, but Zakopane is the mecca for Polish skiing. Pretty much everyone in town rents out the extra rooms in their house. People stand on the street corners with signs advertising rooms. As soon as we stepped off the bus, a grandmotherly lady in a green jacket made our acquaintance and after telling us the cost per night by writing in my hand with her finger, we followed her to our home for the next couple of days. We had our own little room complete with a bathroom and a television set. Oh, the wonders of Polish television. We saw Third Watch dubbed into Polish with a male monotone voice doing all the dialogue. We also had the privilege of watching a Spanish soap opera that centered around a cowboy bar. One night, Mer stayed up to watch football (soccer to you North Americans) while I slept.

I already felt the sore throat invading my neck, but still we hiked up a little mountain on the edge of town. Most people take the little tram to the top, but we hiked instead. It was Mer's first mountain, and even though it was really only a foothill, it was pretty cool. The leaves are turning so in the midst of the conifers, you can see red and yellow. The houses and cabins are scattered throughout the valley with their colorful roofs. Then you look up and see beautiful mountains. It was a very nice view. On the way back down as we braced ourselves from the cold, we wandered past little cottages with children riding bicycles and grandmas walking. It felt so good to be out of the city.

On Thursday the 13th, we rode a cable car to the top of Kasprowy Wierch, the mountain from which several hikes are possible. The ride had two legs so midway we changed cars. Once at the top, we started hiking the red trail. We noticed a regular series of markers with a red top and the letter P on the north side. An "S" was on the south. They were the border markers between Poland and Slovakia. The border guards don't patrol the mountain path which zigzags between the two nations. We paused for quick pictures on the border, and then continued east, sometimes gazing at the Slovakian mountains and other times at the Polish ones. The trail was a little steep at times, but all the fellow hikers were friendly. Too bad we don't speak Polish.

When we were about a third done the loop of our intended hike, we arrived at Mt. Swinica. Ominous clouds were rolling in from the north and soon snowflakes were falling on our faces. Some kind good Samaritans shared the weather report with us and encouraged us to return back to the tram station. I was pretty disappointed to be unable to complete the hike, but considering our lack of gear and general health, it was a good thing to turn back. We had overpriced tea in the chalet and headed down the mountain in a water-spotted cable car.

Snow. I hadn't been snowed on in a couple of years. In Taiwan, snow is rare, almost a fairy tale. Sometimes it snows in the highest mountains so families race in their cars to see and touch snow for a fleeting moment before it melts. Having seen snow is a source of pride for children. As a few meagre flakes collected on my fleece, I felt the rapture of a Taiwanese child at his first snow. Each individual flake is a little different. It's white and beautiful. I love snow.

But I hate cold now. Unfortunately, the two go together.

Friday, we shopped in the local market and headed back to Krakow. There is a section of town here called Nowa Huta, literally New Steelworks. It is one of two existing socialist designed neighborhoods. Focussed new a once gigantic steel factory, wide tree lined avenues line carefully planned buildings and areas. Things were designed to be safe for children and convenient. It's a good idea, except it is so depressing with its concrete block buildings that vary a little, but mainly all look the same. Years of pollution have taken their toll, making everything look dark and gross. We visited this area for about three quarters of an hour, and then we had enough. Interestingly, this socialist-planned area was a stronghold of the solidarity movement. One of Pope John Paul II's contributions to the community was his lobbying for a church to be erected in their neighborhood. Eventually the communists allowed it.

Before I forget, some things I forgot:
1. In Berlin beside the Brandenburg Gate, we saw an interesting musical ensemble - American Indians playing Abba on panflutes.
2. In Krakow, the street cleaners seem to want to kill us. A tractor pulling a high pressure washer will speed down pedestrian walkways with no warnings. And there is really no place to hide. We had to run away twice in one night. Now whenever I walk, I keep looking behind me to make sure the street cleaner isn't stalking me again.
3. Polish people really love weiner dogs.

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This is what the LORD says:
"A voice is heard in Ramah,
mourning and great weeping,
Rachel weeping for her children
and refusing to be comforted,
because her children are no more." Jeremiah 31:15

This verse kept echoing through my ears yesterday because yesterday we went to the town of Oswiecim. You know it better by its German name - Auschwitz.

At least one and a half million people - mostly Jews - died in this Nazi death factory. People were gassed. People were shot. People were treated as less than animals. Children and men and women were used as guinea pigs in sadistic science experiments. I start to feel sick every time I think about it. All day yesterday I walked around with a pit in my stomach. It was the same pit I had when I learned of the magnitude of last years tsunami in the Indian Ocean.

Auschwitz I was put near the town of Oswiecim because of its location on transport routes and because of the old Polish military barracks that were vacant. It is haunting because when looking at the buildings, it doesn't seem like a very bad place. A collection of red brick buildings stand in rows, in almost a collegiate feel. But then, you go inside the buildings and you see the displays chronicling the horrors and then Auschwitz seems real. We saw two tonnes of human hair that were intended to be used in the textile industry. We saw the labelled suitcases of people who believed the Nazis were giving them a new place to live. We saw the empty cans that once held Xylcon B, the ammunition of the atrocious gas chambers. We saw pictures of emaciated bodies. Along the walls in the hallways, pictures of the victims hang on the wall. It makes one's blood run cold to realize that all of them are dead. We saw the rooms where they were crammed in like animals, lying on a mixture of straw and excrement. A thousand people were stuffed into a single barrack.

We stood at the wall once used by the firing squad. We walked through the basement of Block 11 where the Nazis first tried out the gas chamber idea, but had the formula too weak and the people died slow agonizing deaths worse than those who died in the normal gas chambers. There was cell 18 where Father Kolbe voluntarily starved to save the life of a family man. In one of the cells, a prisoner had carved pictures on the wall with his fingernails. The crucifix and the Madonna are still there and lend hope to the bleak history of the place.

Electrified barbed-wire fences line the perimeter. One of the Nazis had said the only way to leave was through the chimney. Our guide actually took us into the first gas chamber. A cold concrete room which the people were led to believe was a communal shower. I saw the claw marks on the walls of dying men, women, and children. Thousands of people died in that room. Thousands left through the chimney. Why am I so luck to just walk away and get on a bus?

We also went to Auschwitz II - Birkenau. It is about three kilometers away, much larger and much more imposing. At its highest capacity, it held one hundred thousand people. A lot of it was destroyed by Nazis who knew they had lost the war and tried to save their skins by hiding their sins. The brick chimneys which were never used because the prisoners didn't get heat in winter are all that remain of most of the wooden barracks. We stood on the train tracks at the unloading dock where the doctor would arbitrarily look at people and send them to death in the gas chamber or to death in the work camp. Once people took their final steps there. Now tourists stroll and take pictures. We saw the ruins of the larger gas chambers.

Most of the day, I felt numb. Sometimes I would cry as the realization of so much death and destruction hit me.It doesn't seem conceivable that such atrocities are possible. Who could be so inhumane? So bloodthirsty and savage? I could write so much more about the awful things I saw and the awful things I heard about. But for my own sanity, I will end with this. I can't keep writing about it.

Oscar Luigi Scalfaro, an Italian president, made this comment in 1996 about Auschwitz: "When man forgets God so much." If he is right, I never want to forget God.

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Today is our last full day in Krakow. We split up for the morning and I headed for a market before hitting a museum. Art museums are a kind of oasis for me. Sometimes I feel as worshipful in an art museum as I do in a church or in the mountains. Today I went to the Jan Matejko house. One of Krakow's native sons, Matejko is a well known Polish painter from the 19th century. He did portraits of a lot of well-to-do Poles, but his passion seemed to be more historical paintings. It had a lot of displays about his every day life, and not a ton of paintings, but I enjoyed it and I enjoyed it all the more because it was free.

Somewhere I read that Poland is the real birthplace of the bagel. On a lot of corners in Krakow, you'll see little carts full of big 40 cent bagels. We had lunch at a bagel sandwich place before seeing the remaining sites in Wawel castle. We toured through the Cathedral. Tour groups stood around looking bored and not listening to their shouting guides. For a place of worship, it just felt like a tourist attraction, which I guess it really is now. We saw the really large Sigimund's Bell and wandered through the Royal tombs. I enjoyed reading about St. Jadwiga, a fourteenth century woman who was King of Poland. (Yes, the sign said King, not Queen.) She is credited with making a big contribution to the conversion of Poland to Christianity. Her relics are in the cathedral.

We also wandered through the rain to see the dragon's den. It's a cave on Wawel hill. The legend goes that once a dragon lived there and no one could slay him. A king offered his daughter's hand in marriage to whoever could kill the dragon. A clever man knew he couldn't slay the dragon in a conventional way. Too many people had died trying. So he killed a sheep, stuffed its body with sulfur and left it at the dragon's doorstep. The dragon took the bait, and when he felt the fire in his stomach, starting drinking water. He drank so much water that he blew up. So the man won the princess's hand.

We also went into St. Mary's Basilica with its brightly colored walls. It has a very large altar at the front, billed as the biggest altar of its kind in Europe. It is hard to describe the color scheme as anything but technicolor. I doubt that any of our churches at home would copy the design, but in this cathedral, it's quite beautiful.

This has been a very big year in my life. I have accomplished many of my childhood goals. I have seen a real Panda bear. I own a pair of Dutch wooden shoes which I can wear. And today as a belated birthday gift, Mer bought me my very first Matrushka. I am not sure on spelling, but they are those dolls where you open one and another one is inside. There are ten altogether in my set. It's really quite exciting and I'm sure I'm drive Meridith crazy with my constant playing with it.

We had pierogies for supper at our favorite place. Tomorrow, we will leave Krakow and all of Poland behind. And I'm sad to say goodbye.

Two Ninja Turtles in one day . . . and other stories

2005-10-11T12:29:00.000-06:00

Yes, I saw Leonardo and Michangelo . . . but I'll tell you about that in a minute.

At this very moment, we are typing frantically in an internet cafe in the Rynek Glowny, the town square of old Krakow and the largest Medieval square in Europe, measuring in at 200 m x 200 m. The Cloth Hall, a precursor to today's shopping malls, stands in the middle. An old clock tower keeps the time in the southwest corner. To the southeast, tiny St. Aldabert's holds down a spot once held by a pagan temple. At the northeast, you'll find the mismatched towers of St. Mary's. When this basilica was built, the town made a condition that one tower would be town property to be a watchtower. This tower is therefore taller. The legend goes that a watchman saw the mongol's advancing and started his bugle call to alert the town. He never finished the tune for an arrow shot him in the throat. Now, every hour, twenty four hours a day, the bugle call goes out with an abrupt ending from the tower. Three men take shifts to blow the horn and do so each hour, once in each direction every hour.

If you follow the street north from St. Mary's, you are on the royal walk which leads you to the gate by which all travelling royalty would enter and exit the city. It's the only remaining gate and readers of T. Davis Bunn books should know the name: Florian's Gate. When the wall stood proud around the city, different guilds each had a tower or a gate to take care of. The fireman cared for this gate and named it after their patron saint, Florian. I think the gate itself is beautiful and not tainted by the McDonalds that stands close by.

Sunday, we found an English mass to attend. The regular priest was away and left the service in the charge of a young priest, Patrick, who was not quite confident in his English. The organist may have been a rookie as well. I could hardly sing along with the rendition of "Seek Ye First." The most touching part of the service was when he led us in prayer. That day the Poles were voting in a stage of the presidential election. Even after praying about it, he closed the service with an entreaty for us to remember the Poles throughout the day. The final vote comes later. So please remember the Poles.

Mer and I took Sunday afternoon as time to ourselves and wandered our separate ways. I went to the Czartoryski Museum. The Czartoryski family must have been rich because they left a legacy of art and exquisite antiques. Most of the things on display were nice, but not too exciting - especially since I could not read the Polish descriptions. But then I got to see the real reason for my visit: Leonardo Da Vinci's Lady with an Ermine. Krakow is one of five cities in the world to possess a Da Vinci painting. For those art lovers out there, it is incredible to see Da Vinci's work. I can't express how it affected me. (So that's one Ninja Turtle. I would have seen Raphael as well in the museum, but the work was lost during WW II.)

In the other section of the Czartoryski home, on the other side of the walkway which they built across the street to join their houses, I took in a special exhibit on Michelangelo (Ninja Turtle #2). It briefly showed how some artists incorporated his ideas and images into their own work. Again, I couldn't read the Polish, but that didn't matter for the heart of the exhibit: six of Michelangelo's sketches. There were two of his architectural sketches, a few sketches of humans, and a study of an arm for the Sistine chapel. Again, it was so cool to see the work of a genius.

Mer and I met up again by Florian's gate and bought some opera tickets. That night was the first opera for both of us. We sat in red blush seats in a balcony and took in Bizet's Carmen, the tragic story of a gypsy woman. It really made me realize how much classical music I have learned from cartoons. From the opening notes, I was having Bugs Bunny flashbacks. It really was quite nice. We ended the evening with desserts at a chocolate shop before going back to the hostel where we got to stay in a brand new room at Nathan's Villa hostel. The toilet paper dispensers hadn't even been installed yet.

North of our hostel and south of the town square, Wawel Castle sits proudly on a hill. People have reportedly lived on this hill for thousands and thousands of years. About a thousand years ago, it was developed as the seat of royals. It is quite an imposing structure looming over the city with its wall and towers and spires. Monday morning, several of the exhibitions were free so we went. I always go for free stuff. We wandered through some re-created royal apartments, went across a footbridge through some old foundations, and gawked at the collection of armor and cannons. There was a more to see there, including the cathedral and a "dragon's den" and just beautiful grounds. We hope to find time to go back there.

In the afternoon, we joined a motley group for a bike tour. Our guide, a former English teacher from Florida, would over-enunciate his words when he would go into a well-rehearsed schpiel. Our fellow tourists consisted of two recent university graduates from Ontario with an over-fondness for Trailer Park Boys, an Australian girl whose cycling ability was in definite question, and a hippie masseuse from Colorado who I think was out seeing the world for the first time. It made us nostalgic for our Berlin tour group, but we still had a good time. Our path took us by the Wisla river, the park the Austrians built to eliminate the old moat that once circled the city, Oskar Schindler's house near the same park, the archdiocese where Pope John Paul II served before his election as pope, and the other sites of the old city that I previously mentioned. We stopped near Jagiellonian University, alma mater of Copernicus and the Pope. It is the second oldest university in Eastern Europe and is very large today. The Nazis shut it down during the war in an effort to keep Poles uneducated, the slave bank of the Third Riech. Pretty much all the professors were killed.

Then we went further south to Kazimierz, the former Jewish neighborhood. The Polish King Kazimierz saw the need for a Jewish population in order to further the ecomonic development of Krakow and made home for them here. The Wisla (Vistula in English) river used to fork and form an island. The Jewish neighborhood took up one end of the island while a Catholic community was on the other end. The Catholic square had a large clock which chimed on the hour. The Jews could not see the clock, but because they could hear it, the Catholics would charge them for using it! We saw the Jewish cemetary full of the headstones of Orthodox Jews and the old synagogue. But sadly, none of these are being used by a Jewish community anymore. Before the Nazi occupation, over 60 000 Jews lived in Krakow. Less than 2 % of that number lived to see the end of the war. And then none of them wanted to stay in Krakow. Today, the Jewish population here is virtually nil.

When the Nazis took over and their commander lived in Wawel castle, they made a Jewish ghetto and forced all the Jews to leave their homes in Kazimierz. They were stuck in a run down neighborhood south of the river where there was not enough housing. A wall resembling Orthodox gravestones separated them from the world. They were sorted and kept in the ghetto based on their usefulness to the Nazis. Therefore, at one time the ghetto was 80% male. At its peak, there were 25 people for every room available in the housing. It is very bleak there still, with the ghosts of the past seeming to linger as the poor and unmotivated sit idly and smoke. It's the bad part of town.

Roman Polanski (remember The Pianist? the new version of Oliver Twist?) lived in this ghetto as a child. He donated money to a little museum there commemorating a non-Jewish Pharmacy owner who was the only non-Jew in the ghetto. The pharmacy was a place of resistance and one of the few places in the ghetto that acknowledges the morbid history. Meridith said it best. She said that its like Krakow hasn't dealt with its history like Berlin and Warsaw have.

We stopped for a while in Oskar Schindler's factory. For those of you who haven't seen Spielberg's film, Schindler was a greedy German man who saw the war as his pathway to riches. He lived in a house that rightfully belonged to Jews, owned a factory that rightfully belonged to Jews, paid the SS to use Jews as his slaves, and made his fortune selling mess kits to the German army. For some reason when he realized that the Jews were condemned to die, he incredibly found a way to save 1098 of them and take them with him to Czechoslovakia. It is an amazing story. We sat in his factory, saw his office and remembered scenes of the movie that were filmed there. Sadly, after the war, his life sucked. He remained a gambling womanizing drunk. At one point, he was in Argentina working as a farmer on his great idea of making fur coats out of some kind of very large rat. He died on the operating table in Germany. Perhaps not so coincidentally, the surgeon was Schindler's girlfriend's husband.

Tuesday morning came cold and foggy. Some people we'd talked to were headed to Auschwitz, the horrific Nazi death camp. After yesterday's heavy thoughts, we opted to see something cheerier and hopped on a mini-bus for Wieliczka, about 20 minutes from Krakow. The site to see there is a 700 year old salt mine, one of the bazillion things UNESCO has on their list. (www.kopalnia.pl) The legend is that a Hungarian princess was marrying a Polish prince. She didn't want to give the Polish people jewels as gift. She wanted to give them something they didn't have. And mystically, there was the salt. We arrived just in time to take a tour from an endearing old man whose name I believe was Emile. I didn't quite understand everything he said so I may have the legend a little wrong. We descended on a wooden stair case with seen steps per flight. I am not sure how many flights it was - over 60 anyways. The interesting things is that every square inch of the staircase - and it turned out every available piece of wood in the mine - was covered in graffiti. It was usually "so-and-so was here on this date" or "so-and-so loves so-and-so." For a moment, I was tempted to add my own John Hancock, but then thought better of it.

Salt rock is not the usual white crystal we sprinkle on our food. It is dark and hard and sometimes has streaking like marble. I licked a wall that looked like marble, but yeah, it was salt. There are hundreds of kilometers of shafts in the mine, but we were taken along the one reserved for tourists while several layers below us, 300 men still labor to retrieve the salt. The caverns we were paraded through had a many statues carved out of salt. There were rooms with re-creations of what mining had been like in previous centuries. Because the miners had basically lived below the ground, there were numerous chapels complete with salt crystal chandeliers. Some of the figures had been dissolved a little by water and now look like modern art pieces. It is surprising how a salt room with salt art can be so very beautiful. One chapel had elaborate wall carvings of New Testament stories. We descended a few more times before ending at a level of about 135 meters below the ground. We had lunch at a cafeteria - which we later regretted as the potato-ish thing we ate weighed heavy in our stomachs. We joined another tour guide for a look at the museum. He seemed robotic, only speaking at certain times, herding us in the proper direction. His moments of humanity came when I would ask a question. He would always laugh before answering. He showed us crystal encrusted ladders, gigantic mining wheels, and a cute miniature of the town from a map of the 1700s. Then we piled into a tiny mining lift for the rapid ride up.

After checking out the plethora of souvenir shops where you could get any kind of figurine mounted on a salt rock, we wandered past the castle, a sad looking church and the old square before returning to Krakow. We spent the rest of the afternoon poking through a bookstore. I only bought one book, which is a hardship for a booklover like me when so many intriguing titles at good prices are available. Now you are caught up on our European tour. Tomorrow, we depart for the mountains near the border of Slovakia.

Czestochowa

2005-10-08T08:24:00.000-06:00

In the middle of the city of Czestochowa (pop 260 000), there is a hill. And towering on the top of the hill is the Jasna Gora monastery began in the late fourteenth century by Hungarian Pauline monks. Through the ages, it served as a fortress and endured seiges. But more important than the military history is the spiritual history. In the shadow of the 17th c. Baroque church is the smaller 15th c. Gothic chapel of our Lady of Czestochowa. In this chapel is the mystical Black Madonna, and the reason for the influx of pilgrims into this tiny town.

Legends abound about the origins of this painting of mother and child. The story goes that St. Luke created it on a tabletop from the home of the holy family. After being in Constantine's possession for a time, it was brought to Poland and entrusted to the Pauline monks. In one attack, it was slashed by some robbers. The face of Mary began to bleed and scared off the robbers. The monks wanted to clean her, but had no water. Miraculously a spring rushed out and provided the needed water. Despite being restored, her face still bears the scars. Various other legends exist. Art critics say it is a Byzantine icon dating from the 6th to 9th century. For more information, please check out http://www.jasnagora.pl/english/

From our safe abode in the House of Pilgrims where thousands of Poles have stayed when making their pilgrimages, we wandered into the monastery complex and found the information center in hopes of finding something in English so we could navigate our way around the complex. When we asked if anyone spoke English, a woman wandered into the back to find someone to help us. We were expecting the younger lady who we had spotted previously. Instead, out came Sr. Salvatora, a gentle older nun. She sweetly found some English stuff for us and then told us all about the bus schedule to Krakow for the next day. She told us to take the bus because it was safer and that if we needed a cab to get to the bus depot to try get number 345. She gave us a map from Catholic World Youth Day in 1991 and corrected a couple of thigns on it. We thanked her for her help. I said, "God bless you." She returned my greeting and then added as we were walking out, "And thank you for your presence here." I was overwhelmed by her beautiful spirit. Mer and I have decided that when we get to heaven, we're going to have coffee with her. Well, maybe tea. I like that better.

We were fortunate enough to not be there for a Marian feast or another religious holiday, but even still a lot of people were there. Tour buses were lined up in the parking lots. Groups of older people wandered around clutching purses and canes. Young people with backpacks meandered in packs. No one seemed unhappy to be there. They all were content. Young nuns, monks and priests joked with those around them. A girl accidentally stepped on a priest's robe and instead of a reprimand, she received a hardy laugh as the priest dusted off his robe. The atmosphere was joyous and yet reverent as if everyone heeded the signs which said, "This is a holy place. Come here as a pilgrim." A huge grass field in the front lined with statues depicting the lives of Mary and Jesus faced a podium where John Paul II, the Polish pope, had addressed gigantic crowds. People would sometimes stop us to ask us a question, and then would smile and still be friendly when they realized we had no idea what we were staying. During our whole time there, I was conscious that we were somewhere special and it was the people who made it so special.

We followed a group of pilgrims into the baroque chapel and then into a side area, and found ourselves in the chapel of the Mother of God. Behind a set of bars was the altar and hanging above the altar was the Black Madonna. The picture itself is indeed quite dark. The mother and child look out with soulful faces, the mother's face marred by those telling scars. They were decorated by gilded outfits which seem to changed periodically. The room was hushed as some pilgrims kneeled to pray and others stood in amazement. I wondered how many of them were there for the first time. I wondered if any of my ancestors had made this pilgrimage and I felt some strange kinship to great great great grandparents whose names have been lost in the ravages of time. Earnest expressions were on every face.

We filed through in a line to walk along the edges of the altar for a closer glimpse of the miraculous picture which has survived so many conflicts and assaults. I saw an older gentleman tear up. Many stopped to kneel and pray. The picture itself may not appeal to my artistic tastes, but there is something unique about it. I could not stand there and look at it and not be moved.

After gazing at the picture, we assembled back in the chapel for mass. We were a little too close for comfort with some people, but in such a friendly atmosphere, even that close contact seemed comfortable. Elderly women with canes would lower themselves to the floor to pray. Old men sang their hearts out and other people sang out of tune, but they made a joyful noise. All together, the sound was beautiful. I understood very little of what was said other than Kyrie Eleison, amen, alleluia, and the Polish word for thank you. But it was all very special. It was one of the longest masses I'd ever been to and I tried to follow the order as best as I could remember it. Near the end, the organ broke out in trumpetry for the lowering of the curtain over the Madonna. We shuffled out in the midst of the dedicated Poles and found fresh air in the courtyard.

We wandered into the park in front of the monastery near a fountain. There for the sum of three dollars, we feasted on a Polish sausage with a bun and a Coca-Cola. There are tons of little weiner dogs here. I said that I would adopt a weiner dog but Mer is not interested. She would rather get a tortoise.

The afternoon passed quickly as we explored the rest of the monastery. The bell tower in the center gave us an opportunity to look out over the city. We climbed up the stairs, and I thought how cool it would have been to be friends with Quasimodo just to help him ring the bells.

The monastery has three little museums. We first headed for the Treasury where the priceless treasures and gifts received by the monastery are housed. Instead we found ourselves in a gift shop with a gentle old priest who told us in English what would be good to buy. Back up the stairs, we were overwhelmed by the riches the monastery has been given. Military medals, jewels, reliquaries, pocket watches . . . Another museum had ancient charters and robes belonging to Poland's own Jana Pawel II aka Karol Wojota. The armory detailed the military history of the monastery with a lot of Turkish bootie from a triumphant battle in Vienna.

We wandered around the wall to see the beautiful stations of the cross and reflect on the significance of Good Friday. We had supper at the cafeteria of the House of Pilgrims and finished the day by a final walk around the grounds.

Yesterday was such a blessed day. God gave Mer and I good times of conversation. We were blessed with sweet fellowship with other Christians with whom we cannot communicate. It was so refreshing and so different from any place we've been so far.

This morning, taxi 345 - the one recommended by Sr. Salvatora - took us to the bus station and we left Czestochowa on the Polskie Express. Now we are in the beautiful city of Krakow where many more adventures await us.

The Quarter Century Mark

2005-10-05T23:57:00.000-06:00

Well folks, it's official. I'm 25 years old. Wait a minute . . . it's not yet my birthday in Canada and I don't think I was born until noon so I guess I've got at least 12 hours left of being 24. Not that it really matters. They say the older you get, the less important birthdays are and you never feel magically older like you did when you were five turning six. But for me, 25 feels like some kind of milestone. I am now well established in the mid-twenties and the big three - o is hanging over my head. I know that people older than me think that 30 is unbelievably young, but I think you can all remember at one time thinking that 30 was old. Five more years for me . . .

I'm in Poland right now, Warsaw to be specific. We arrived to a hustling bustling pace full of buses and trams making public transport so convenient. The one problem was that we didn't quite know how the system worked so we guessed and after a few errors, eventually made it to Nathan's Villa Hostel where there is no checkout time and there is free laundry - if you can find your stuff in the gigantic pile after the airdrying is finished. It's not quite the Circus, but it's not bad. Last night's situation was better because the drunken idiots didn't stay in our room. It wouldn't have bothered me, but one of my ear plugs fell out and I couldn't find it. And those of you who know me well know how grumpy I am when I wake up . . .

Our first morning wasn't too eventfull. Meridith had some flight problems to deal with - namely her flight home being cancelled. She found a way home, but needless to say, neither of us is too impressed with the airline. Finally, we headed up to the Stare Miasto, the old city. If you look at pictures of Warsaw just after the war, it's just a huge pile of rubble. But the incredible thing is that they rebuilt pretty much everything. The old city looks pretty much the same as it used to. The old wall - the Barbican - with its turrets and gates stands guard around the old buildings. Buskers and tasteful vendors try to make some money off the tourist trade. A statue of an armed mermaid stands guard over the square where cafes seat their customers in the sun and artists sketch and display pictures for sale. The Warsaw cathedral, an archdiocese cathedral, stands in this part as well. At the south end is the completely rebuilt Royal Castle which once housed the royal line. Almost completely demolished by the war, it was rebuilt in astonishing grandeur. It's weird seeing a new building in that style.

. . . Okay, now it's actually the day after my birthday. I had to put my entry on ice because of the flock of internet vultures swarming around my head. I mean, at a youth hostel, who gets up early to email except people like me? It kind of annoyed me that my birthday started off that way.

All right, back to the first full day in Warsaw. We hopped some trams and tried to go see the gigantic Jewish Cemetary. However, in our ignorance, we did not realize that it was Rosh Hashanah and therefore all Jewish things were closed. So we went back to the old city. We went up the viewing tower of St. Anne's church and took in a panorama of the city. Since we always seem to visit the centers of cities, it's cool to see the broader landscape. After I ate some pierogis and Mer had a salmon pancake, we went to the Palace of Culture, billed as a 40 storey montrosity (not sure how many storeys, I may be making that number up). It was Stalin's gift to Warsaw. They joke that the view from the top is the best in the city because it's the only place where you can't see it. Yeah, it's pretty ugly. We wandered around the base to the KinoTeka, the movie theater. We wanted to go to Roman Polanski's Oliver Twist. What could be more Polish than seeing a Polanski movie? Unfortunately, it was dubbed in Polish and we had to go see Bill Murray in Broken Flowers instead.

Wednesday morning, we headed to the Eastern side of the river to the Russian Market, advertised as Europe's largest outdoor market. It takes place every day at an old stadium on the ground leading to the stadium and on the upper ring of it as well. The lower level was all clothes - plenty of sequins. Up, we found everything from shoes to crystal to lighters to jewelry to garage sale booths. It was busy and active.

Mer's Lonely Planet recommended an eatery just north of the old city. We went there because it looked traditional and cheap - which it was. A bunch of middle aged woman serve up homemade Polish food in a hot little kitchen. We ordered soup and stuffed pancakes, which turned out to be twice as much food as we needed.

Next stop, the reconstructed Royal castle. It was simply amazing to see the ornateness of the re-creations. A lot of paintings and treasures had been hidden during the Nazi occupation. Wealthy Poles at home and abroad had contributed a lot of money and treasures. It was so much to take in. In the basement, we got to see some old artifacts from everyday life. There was also a special exhibit of mortars and pestels that a Polish man had spent his life collecting.

Since it was free on Wednesdays, we went to the Ethno Museum. It was cute, somewhat old museum. It featured a room full of the different ethnic outfits. Nana, I took a lot of pictures for you. Another room went through some of the seasonal festivals. There was a harvest display with wheat weaving and huge wheat wreaths. They also displayed Halloween type costumes which were very ornate. Then there was a collection of small Christmas houses that the people would carry with them when they went carolling. It was all very interesting and I wished I could read Polish so it would make more sense. One of my great grandfathers was of Polish descent and I kept wishing I knew more of my heritage on that side of the family so I could make sense of the things I was seeing. Many times as I traipsed around Warsaw, I thought of Grandpa Wilson and how he'd get a kick out of the fact that I'm in Poland.

We stopped in Holy Cross Church. A statue outside depicts Jesus carrying his cross. It's one of the symbols of Warsaw. It was time for evening prayers so we sat down in the back. It was special to see the church so full for a midweek thing. Old and young were on their knees, responding with memorized prayers to the prayers of the kneeling priest before the altar. We prayed that the prayers might not be empty words for them, but full of life. I looked over and saw the pillar where Chopin's heart is interned. He was buried in France, but his will left his heart to Poland.

That night, we couldn't get into the park to see the Palace on the Water because the gate was looked. But it didn't dampen our excitement at the loss of our drunken roommates. We were quite happy to see them leave.

And on my birthday, we dashed to the Jewish cemetary where 250 000 lay. Gravestones are clustered and leaning on each other because there is just no room to contain them all. Some of them were Holocaust victims and others were famous and wealthy citizens. I wished that I could read some of the ancient Hebrew headstones. It was peaceful in there. We also stopped into the adjacent Catholic cemetary where we could hear mass being sung in the nearby church. The contrast between the cemetaries was interesting right away as I saw the crosses protruding from every stone.

We went back to the little Grandma-ish eatery with its plants and lace curtains. We ordered the pierogies, not being sure what kind of pierogies we were getting. When she passed them to me, I saw a reddish color emanating from the inside and feared that my birthday lunch would be filled with beets. Thankfully not! It turned out to be STRAWBERRY, one of my favorite fruits, smothered in cream and topped off with white sugar. So good. That was a special little birthday gift to me.

We squeezed in a quick visit to the Warsaw Uprising Museum. This is a very well down museum with interesting information and a good mix of multimedia aspects. It chronicles the uprising against the Nazi occupation through the efforts of the Home Army. I loved how it told the stories of very ordinary people who stood up and did extraordinary things. Then the ones who lived returned to normal lives. There were tales of the courage of boy scouts and girl scouts risking their lives for the cause. It truly is a remarkable story which reveals the amazing character and determination of the Polish people. I need to do more reading on it. If ever you are in Warsaw, check out this museum.

We found our platform and boarded a train for Czestochowa, the spiritual heart of Poland, where the Black Madonna is housed in a hilltop monastery. A very nice large man in our train compartment hoisted our large backpacks up to the luggage racks. Four seats on each side facing each other in our compartment. We stared at each other and out the window at the landscape as it became more hilly and the bluffs of trees thicker. Eventually, we were the only ones left in our compartment and had to get our bags down ourselves. When I travel, I am always so amazed and so blessed at the acts of kindness people bestow on me. Very rarely are people mean. It's made me want to be more giving, especially to foreigners unsure of what to do.

Our home here is the House of the Pilgrims, situated behind the monastery. We have a cute little room where fold-down couches serve as beds. We have our own shower and they provide fresh towels so it's quite a treat for us. It's such a safe feeling place, with a nun at the front desk. The doors are locked at 10 PM so we weren't out late celebrating my birthday. We took our chances and ordered off a Polish menu. It was a nice way to end the busy day of travelling and running around to see last minute things. It was nice to relax and eat pizza and have a large jolly man with a moustache take my plate away. It didn't really feel like my birthday most of the day and in a fit of female emotion, I cried on a bench as Mer tried to comfort me and strangers tried not to stare too much. But those last moments of my birthday were precious as Mer and I laughed and had a good time. Thanks so much to all of you who sent me birthday greetings. Each of you are precious to me and I thank God so much for you.

I'm really enjoying Poland. The people are intriguing and friendly - even though we don't speak any Polish. I have only one phrase in my arsenal - Thank you - which I believe is one of the most important words in any language. All throughout Warsaw we saw a mixture of eldery and young, healthy and infirm. There are a lot of disabled people here. Cripples, amputees, the blind, deformed . . . it's very sobering to see. I think I've finally run out of words for this post. My next post will tell you all about the pilgrimage of a Mennonite and a Lutheran to go see a Catholic Madonna.

Do you like neo-Classical style?

2005-10-04T02:02:00.000-06:00

Everyone said we'd like Berlin and I guess everyone was right. Sitting back and thinking on my time there now, it is a city I could actually live in. I liked the vibe there, I guess.

Originally we had booked to stay at a hostel advertising really cheap rates, but they messed up our reservation and therefore we had no place to stay. This was indeed unfortunate because it was the long weekend in Germany with October 3 being the fifteenth anniversary of unification. So we called the Circus Hostel, which my friends had lauded as the best hostel they had ever stayed in. I don't know why I didn't take their advice in the first place. It was hands down the best hostel I've ever seen. Our room was an Ikea showcase and everyone had their own nightstand and bed lamp and instead of a thin blanket, a nice duvet. So if you're ever in Berlin, check out the Circus Hostel.

On Friday night after checking in, we took off walking and after a couple wrong turns, found ourselves on the famous Unter Den Linden. Not being too up on German info, I didn't know the significance of the street while Meridith was wowed at being there. She didn't appreciate my babbling about random things while she wanted to soak in the experience. Basically, it's a Linden lined boulevard built by Friedrich to connect his palace with his hunting grounds. It's gone through wars and Nazis and communists so all the trees now there are pretty young. (Interesting note: all the trees in Berlin are numbered. Well, nearly all.) It's the one nice street that was in East Berlin that they would show visitors to try to impress them. Restored buildings line the streets in an overpowering manner. Opera houses, palaces, museums, and more museums on Museum Island . . . many built in Neo-classical style. One tour guide joked that Neo-classical is the flavor of the month every month in Berlin. We saw many of the buildings of the Humboldt university - alma-mater to Einstein, Bohr, Engels, Lenin, and a total of 33 Nobel Laureates. Outside one building is the square where the infamous book burning occured. A glass window on the ground looks down into a white room of empty bookcases. A chilling quotation by Heine is nearby, the gist being, "Where men burn books, soon they will burn men." His works were burned and soon men died in that square, Bebelplatz as well.

We also saw the Hotel Adlon where Michael Jackson infamously performed his baby dangling.

We continued down the beautiful street, slightly marred by construction, but sometimes they'd put up a big sheet with a picture of what the view should be like. Eventually we reached the Brandenburg Tor, a city gate with an intriguing history. It's named after the destination the road would take you to. Huge columns with Nike on a chariot with four horses. Napoleon stole the statue but eventually the Germans brought it back. Hitler left it out during the war, but thankfully had the foresight to make a mold of it. Only a horse's head survived. The Gate, a symbol of transportation, stood in the middle of the death zone separating East and West. Both could see it. The West discovered the mold and recast the statue. Since the gate was technically on the Eastern side, they left it Trojan horse style outside the gate.

Next, we stood in line at the Reichstag, the German parliament with the huge glass dome on top. We stood in line for perhaps an hour and a half. The Reichstag was built with money the Germanic tribes had demanded from France after beating them in war. After a couple of years of occupation and uniting as a nation by signing a constitution in the hall of Mirrors in Versailles, they came home and built a lot of stuff including the Riechstag. It was here that the infamous fire occured which allowed Hitler to suspend parliament and take over the country. It happened on November 9. Pretty much everything in Germany happened on November 9. The building was unused during the Third Reich and the time of split Germany. With unification and Berlin receiving another chance at being the capital, the Reichstag was repaired and put back into service. We were herded into a holding tank and one by one taken through security before taking the elevator up. From the center of the glass dome, you can look down into the chamber where all the debate happens. We looked out at the lights of the city. However, we did not meet Schroeder.

Saturday, we headed down to Checkpoint Charlie, the crossing point between East and West Berlin. Some replica checkpoint stuff has been set up and some people dress up in soldier costumes and you can pay to have your photo with them. It's kind of hokey, but helps to envision what it was like to cross from East to West. West Berliners could get visas to visit family, but they had to exchange their money one to one, even though the rate was really ten to one. Beside the Checkpoint is a cafe that John LaCarriere wrote about in his novels. The real appeal to visit this section is the Checkpoint Charlie Museum. Rainier Hildebrand set up this museum during the Cold War. It told stories of people who had crossed the wall or died in the attempt. It also humanized the East guards so people would know that not all of them were enemies. Many were conscripted to do their tasks. The museum house also served as a link to facilitate more escapes because of its proximity to the checkpoint.

Many escape contraptions are on display. There is a homemade scuba set, homemade airplanes, submarines, hot air ballons, fake gas tanks in cars. A couple of the stories really stuck with me. A man was building a tunnel from East to West, but when approached by his elderly neighbors, he refused to include them, claiming the tunnel wasn't suitable for them to get across. So a handful of old men made their own meter and half tall tunnel. The 81 year old was the lookout, puttering in the garden, using his methods of planting as codes for what he was seeing. The other men, over 60 years of age, worked on the tunnel. Eventually along with the five women in the house, they escaped.

Another favorite story is a West German man who took the passenger seat out of his car in East Berlin, put the seat cover over his East German girlfriend, stuffed her to look like a seat and drove across the Checkpoint no problem. The ingenuity of some of the stories is amazing.

Another section of the museum is devoted to non-violent protest. Some of Gandhi's diaries are on display as well as his shoes. The history of the fall of the Iron Curtain is well-chronicled. This museum is definitely worth a visit.

After a lunch of currywurst smothered in ketchup, we went with a group from the hostel to the Olympic Stadium. This is the same stadium built by the Nazis where Hitler refused to congratulate Jesse Owens. Now there is a Jesse Owens Allee nearby. The city needed an arena, but was hesitant to use the neo-classical coliseum. After years of deliberation, the building was renovated and redeemed. The Circus Hostel owner related some of this history to us. We went to watch German premiere soccer. In the last half, the Berlin Hertha BSC gave up their lead to Bremen and never regained it. The crowd was intense.

I sat next to a guy who had taught English in a few places in Asia. He claims that China is planning to do something about renegade Taiwan in the next couple of years. While teaching at a university in China, he asked the students what their biggest dreams were. He encouraged them to think about anything at all - be an astronaut, a rock star, president. Finally after silence, he got a response out of one guy. "My biggest dream," he said, "is for Taiwan to be reunited with China." Hmm, some minor brainwashing there.

We ate with an Australian girl who had worked in Whistler. The two of us tried to enjoy Berlin's nightlife and went to a nearby club called "Delicious Donuts". We were there around midnight and I felt like I was in high school with the crowd there. A German guy with huge glasses tried to make Meridith's acquaintance. Apparently, the fun starts there at 2 am. We weren't willing to wait and went back to the hostel.

In good old room 310, we had the best hostelmates of the trip. First there was the mysterious Italian who never seemed to change clothes, was reading something by Marx and Engles, and liked to return for the night in the light of the early dawn. But more importantly, there were the three crazy Jewish Aussies. They gave us Aussie nicknames - Mezza and Microwave Jenny. Every night, we'd crack jokes and laugh a lot. In our new hostel in Warsaw, we missed them. I guess I'll have to check out their blog. They were quite entertaining.

Sunday, most things are closed in Berlin. I'm not used to that anymore - except for in Frontier of course. We joined a walking tour hosted by a 22 year old from Pittsburgh with an architecture degree. With some sarcasm and editorializing, he related so much history and architectural insight. We meandered through courtyards, and admired the graffiti that is rampant in the city. We looked at the TV tower, East Germany's attempt at appearing technologically advanced. Our guide says it was actually Swedish made and put together like an Ikea kit. It's pretty ugly. He took us past the "New" Jewish synagogue which miraculously survived the night of broken glass. The Nazis later set it on fire, but it wasn't completely destroyed like the other synagogues. Sadly, it is no longer in use. The current Jewish population is much too small to need such a large building. We saw the balcony belonging to the press secretary of East Germany who made the statement that caused the wall to fall down.

What I loved about the tour was the theme of redemption. So many sights and memorials could be tainted by the memory of Nazi Germany, but they have been restored and revived. We stood directly over Hitler's bunker where his life ended. The only sign of it is a steel trap door. A residential building stands there now and as our guide related the horrid history, a small child played with a pink truck. Where there once was death, there is now life.

The Jewish monument is a grid of large rectangular boxes on a hilly plain. The designer wanted you to experience being alone. It's very haunting. Because it'd be a great canvas for graffiti, they needed a special teflon coating to protect the monument. One company donated a product to be used in addition to giving money to help finance the entire project. This is controversial because this is the company who produced a gas used in the Nazi death chambers. I find it interesting because the company which once profitted from death is now giving of itself in order to protect.

There are so many things I could comment on from the tour . Like the letter George Washington sent to Friedrich King of Prussia wondering if his little brother Henry would be king of the States. The Hugeonot church commissioned by Lutheran Friedrich. The Lutheran cathedral built in - ironically - the counter reformation style of neo-Baroque. Soviet pre-fab buildings made out of blocks. A gigantic marble bowl that Germans once considered the 8th wonder of the world.

Supper that night, we went to a restaurant along the Spree which had a drink stock market with prices fluctuating all night. Boy, the stock market crash was exciting.

Our final morning in Berlin, we stopped by the East Side Gallery, the longest remaining section of the wall. Since 1989, sections of it have been repainted multiple times. Walking along it, I tried to imagine what life was like, being so cut off by the double wall with the death zone inbetween. We also saw the church with the broken spire next to the Zoo station. In the midst of a city so rebuilt, it is good to have a reminder of all that has happened. Berlin may be in colossal debt, but it has bravely tried to deal and live with a heavy history. It has a phenomenal history.

We arrived in Warsaw, Poland on Monday night. More on that in the next installment . . .

Lage Lippe

2005-09-29T08:37:00.000-06:00

In Monday night after a couple of connections on the train, Meridith and I arrived in the town of Lage Lippe in Germany to visit Harry and Anna and their children William and Kiara. It's been fun hanging out withd seeing the local sights. William met us at the train station wearing his Team Canada jersey. He and his sister were born in Canada and are proud of it. That night, we feasted on pizza.

The first afternoon, once the kids got home from school, we went to see the hilltop monument of Herman the German - something like Hermannsdenkmal in German. It commemorates a guy named Arminius who led the Germanic tribes in an important victory over the Romans. Arminius was the hero of a specific German guy in the 1800s who dedicated his life to making a monument. He died a pauper, but the monument was built. After looking out at the hilly countryside, we played around on a high ropes course which happened to be closed. So for free, we played on the lower levels.

Because our gracious hosts have young children, jobs, and a building project, they are a little busy. So Anna dropped us off at Westfaliches Frielichtmuseum Detmold (www.lwl.org/frielichtmuseum-detmold.de). It was an open air museum recreating life in this region of Germany a couple of hundred years ago. Farms were set up according to region and time period. Our favorite was a moated farm. The houses were often combined with the milking stalls and other pens. The rich ones had doors to separate the spaces. Poor people could sit at the kitchen table as they gazed at their cow. At least, that's what I interpreted from what I saw. We wandered through the rain, tried to get around school groups, and rode in a wagon where the driver spoke a little English. It was interesting and educational.

The next day, we visited Detmold and its castle. In the downtown is a castle where the princes of Lippe lived. A line of Lippes lasted for over 400 years before it was broken and the current line took its place. The current line is related to the Dutch royal family. Ten or twelve rooms were open to the public. They were pretty ornate for belonging to just a regional prince. There were tapestries that took years to produce and tons of portraits, some of them of really ugly people.

Our time in Lage was great. But the thing I enjoyed most was just hanging out with the family. They were a huge blessing.

I'll end this because I know it's kind of boring. We arrived in Berlin yesterday and man, did we ever see a mullet today. It was like a guy had a poodle attached to the back of his head.

A Happy Birthday to All!

2005-09-28T01:37:00.000-06:00

Since I can't access my email, I'm sending some birthday greetings here. Hopefully these people will see their names here and know I haven't forgotten them :)

So happy birthday Arleen! I hope you have a wonderful day! Too bad we can't go to the Spice Shop this year. Maybe I'll pick up some M&Ms in Poland for you . . . .

And happy birthday Shandi! I hope you have a great day! I miss you guys and will see you before you know it!

And finally, happy birthday Grant! You'll have to choose your own coffee machine. Enjoy your final year of being a teenager. Since you told me that you never read this blog, then I'll say I love you little bro. Go Hounds Go!

The City of Bikes

2005-09-27T04:54:00.000-06:00

Before I commence further, I must point out that anyone wanting more info on this trip could check out the link to Meridith's Murmuring on the right hand side of my blog. It should be the last link on my fellow bloggers list. Also, if anyone has sent me any urgent emails, I cannot seem to access Hotmail from this location in the interior of Germany. Mom, you can use my yahoo address.

When I last wrote, we were boarding a train to Amsterdam, the infamous capital city of the Netherlands. After hearing of this place where the international airport is such a busy hub, I expected a very large, raucous city. I was much surprised at what I found. The people are indeed "free thinking" with legallizes prostitution and "smart shops" selling such delicacies as cannibis lollies. But the city itself is small and old and quite picturesque. A population of only about 750 000 roam around the 100 km of canals. Or more accurately, they cycle on 600 000 bikes, traversing the u shaped canals that intersect and curl up to the harbor. There are over a 1000 bridges. They protect their bikes with gigantic locks. The red light district is indeed a sinful area, but not as obtrusive as I feared. I was deeply saddened to see scantily clad women posing in red lit windows, hoping for business.

In the midst of this crazy culture, we found a few bastions of hope. Our abode was the Shelter Jordan, a Christian youth hostel in an old beautiful neighborhood. The attitudes of the staff reflected their beliefs. It was quite refreshing. Our first night, we joined in a free dinner where we got to know a few staff members and befriended a few of the non-Christians staying there, including James the Scotsman with whom Meridith could discuss music and some technical things I don't understand. I met an Italian girl who had studied Chinese. Kind of random. Anyone interested in staying at a Shelter hostel or working at one, check out www. shelter.nl

Our first full day, we went on the characteristically tourist canal tour. We were warned that locals laugh at the people who go on the boats, but we still wanted to see the city from the 17th century canals. James joined us since his friends had not yet arrived in the city. The houses along the canal are all so narrow because the greater the river space they took, the higher the cost. Because the staircases are so narrow, all furniture must be moved through the windows. To facilitate that, a hook is located at the top of the house. To make furniture moving easier, some houses are built sloping slightly forward. Some slopes seem a bit extreme and make you want to walk in a tilted fashion. All in all, I enjoyed the tour and I recommend it to future tourists. Afterwards, we had a tapas meal and went our separate ways.

I beelined for the Van Gogh museum. I had considered going to the main art museum which houses 17 century masters and a lot of Remembrandt, but instead opted for a period I knew better. It was so cool to see the progression of Vincent's work. He didn't take up art until he was 26. At first, he tried to be traditional in form and worked from his pastor father's cottage and then Antwerp. He then moved to Paris under the patronage of his brother Theo. Here, he encountered pointillism and impressionism, which took a while to impress him. Some of his works looked like overexposed photos as he experimented with color and brightness. I was intrigued by his fascination with Japanese prints and their composition and content. On some pictures, he painted a border of random Chinese characters that he'd seen on other pictures. I enjoyed it immensely - but I didn't enjoy the company of the lesbians beside me.

I also got to see my first Monet, my first Manet, my first Cezanne . . . I actually cried.

That night, we bought last minute tickets to the symphony for 7.50 Euro. We enjoyed a selection of Mozart in a 19th century concert hall. The showcase piece was a wonderful clarinet piece. The clarinetist broke a sweat doing the piece. We kept getting the double bass player and the cellist to smile at us. The bass player even said goodbye to Mer at the end of the night.

Sunday morning, we attended Christ Church, a wonderfully active congregation of varying ethnicities. God's love was definitely there. They welcome homeless people to have coffee between services. I sat beside a bearded woman who smelled exactly like Timmy, the Dutch homeless man who frequented the store where I worked in Medicine Hat. We met a cool girl from Michigan who had just arrived to attend DTS at the local YWAM base.

Then we hopped on a train bound for Zaans Schans, an open air museum in the countryside. Amsterdam is very international so we wanted to see a place that was more Dutch. Real windmills line the banks of the river Zaans with old houses clustered all around. They've preserved what I imagine to be authentic old Dutch life. We wandered into a color mill, where they grind the coloring to make paint. It was definitely not up to North American safety code. No fences kept us from lunging under the huge mill stones. But that gave us an impressive view of the inner workings of the mill. We climbed higher and higher and saw all the gigantic wooden shafts and gears and cogs. The building creaked and shook with the turning of the blades. We also wandered into a porcelain workshop and a cheese factory, where Meridith actually found cheese she liked. We were amoungst Asian tour groups who were laughing and taking a bazillion pictures. The number of Asians increased at the wooden shoe shop. We watched a demonstration and I succumbed to my childhood wish to possess a pair that fits my feet. Now I'll have to carry them around for a couple of months.

On Monday morning, we checked out of our hotel and headed across the canal through the rain to the Anne Frank house. Both of us had grown up hearing about this little heroine who recorded her days of hiding from the Nazis in her now famous diary. Their hiding place was next to Westerkerk, a large and impressive church. Just behind the church is the Homomonument, dedicated to non-heterosexuals. It seemed to strange to be right next to a church.

The Anne Frank house has been left unfurnished, according to her father's wishes. The effect is haunting. A few carefully selected artifacts complement carefully chosen quotations from her diary. A few multimedia displays present the memories of Meip Gies, one of their caretakers during their time of hiding and the memories of one of Anne's childhood friends who has an amazing story on her own. I was overwhelmed to look out the blackened windows and wonder how many hours she spent staring out, yearning for freedom. Some tangible things are left of her existence - pencil markings where her parents recorded the growth of her and her sister, the game Peter got for his birthday . . . In the room Anne shared with Mr. Pfeffer, her pictures are still on the walls. Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret, the Dutch Royal family, Greta Garbo, Ginger Rogers . . . She was just like normal girls with a curiousity about the famous. I cried a few times as I looked at remnants of the Nazi regime - pictures of roundups, yellow stars of David. Why have I been so lucky to have such an easy life when some people live through such unwarranted horror? If you're in Amsterdam, go to the Anne Frank house. It deeply impacted me.

A side note: I saw my first real Academy award there. On the set of a movie based on Anne's diary, Shelley Winters promised Otto Frank that if she won an award, she would put it in the Anne Frank museum. And she did.

I could write so much more about the city of bikes. But now we are in Lage Lippe, Germany with friends of the Penner family.

A normal keyboard!

2005-09-23T03:32:00.000-06:00

Well, the letters are in all the right places. However, the keys are in disrepair. Some are slanted and others must be pounded with extreme force for them to work. I've got a lot to update you on. We'll see how much happens in the next half hour. An African woman is yelling on the phone and distracting me.

After the hectic pace and expense of London, I really enjoyed Brussells. It's the home of the EU and NATO headquarters. Chocolatier shops and waffle shops are scattered throughout the tourist district. We each got a waffle before stopping to admire Manneken Pis - a fountain of a little boy peeing. The residents periodically dress him up in little outfits. We just missed the Asterix and Obelisk festival. I think he dons an Obelisk costume on Saturday. Meridith toured a museum of musical instruments while I wandered and stopped to pray in a cathedral. We met by the Palais de Congres where an exhibition of strangely painted horses was being held.

Our train ticket to Amsterdam allows us to stop along the way so we stopped in Antwerp, not really knowing what to expect. My guidebook didn't say much about it. Antwerp is the heart of Flemish Belgium. To speak French here may hamper the service you receive. We stayed in a hotel in the Jewish part of town, right beside the railroad tracks. Orthodox Jews kept going by with their ringlets and long black coats blowing in the breeze. On the way to our hotel, we walked through the jeweler section of town. At one time, Antwerp was the hotspot for Benelux rich people. The money that has gone through here is evidenced by the multitude of jewelers and ornate buildings on the shopping streets. This has declined, with many jewelers shutting their doors for good.

But Antwerp is still one of the diamond capitals of the world. This is where a large percentage of the world's diamonds are cut and set. In fact, the standard cut that many jewels have is the Antwerp Cut, developed here of course. We went to a showroom and saw the craftsmen at work.

Antwerp was the hometown of the painter Rubens and is quite proud of that fact. My favorite sight in the entire city is Antwerp's Notre Dame. We arrived late for an English tour, but still caught most of it. This cathedral is about 700 years old. Originally, only the clergy had access to the altar area - it was actually cut off by a wall. In the main part, each of the guilds had their own chapels. During the French Revolution, all the paintings were sent to Paris for safe keeping and the building was used to stable French horses. The king of the Netherlands brought the paintings back on a horse cart.

Our guide took a lot of time to explain to us the significance of the art in the cathedral. Because the people were illiterate, the art had to be didactic. In the tradition of Ignatius, the art had to draw the people in to make it realistic for them. That is why the paintings have people in 17th century dress instead of biblical. It challenged the people to think where they would fit into the story. There were four Rubens in the cathedral, but we focused on two. My favorite was The Descent of the Cross. To my eyes, the panels depicted three events not normally put together - pregnant Mary visiting Elizabeth, dead Jesus being taken down for burial, and Simeon blessing Jesus in the temple. But the guide explained that the theme is carrying Jesus, being a Christ bearer. The guild of the Musketers wanted a painting of their patron saint, Christopher - the Christ bearer. Because the story of Christopher is legend and not fact, they weren't allowed to. So Rubens did a painting on the theme of the story. On the outside of the panel is a picture of Christopher and an old man with a lantern. The lantern is symbolic of Jesus, the light of the world. I felt challenged to be a better Christ bearer. How are you carrying Christ . . . .

Last night, we checked into a different hostel where the reception area gave us the creeps. We made our way over to the river Scheldt and watched the sun go down as we sat beside a Canadian war memorial. After eating some pizza, we hung out in a square before finding our way to a jazz club. While sipping on a Belgian beer, I listened to a jazz pianist collaborate with a sax. The saxophonist had bushy bushy eyebrows that added to his mystique. It was lovely.

Next stop: Amsterdam. My guidebook has some advice on purchasing weed and hash. I don't think I'll be needing it.

Belgium

2005-09-21T02:13:00.000-06:00

Some final postscripts from previous entries: My plane ride was mqde even more exciting by the sick woman seated across the aisle from me. Every few minutes, she was wretching or everything was being moved so it could be cleaned up. Then either me or the old man next to me kept pressing the call button. Then when I actually needed someone, they stopped coming. Not much sleep on the plane, but I did watch the Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants. And Nickie, I thought of you because there was an earth from the air display along the Thames.

We are sitting in a rather dodgy internet cafe. The keyboard is of a messed up European variety with keys in the wrong places. Particularly problematic are A W and M. Please forgive any mistakes. I amtyping less than half my usual speed. It is horrible.

Our journey through the chunnel brought us into France where all the villages on the horizon proudly cluster around a church spire amid the rolling green agriculture. So technically, I have now been in France.

In Brussells, we stayed the Vincent Van Gogh hostel. I highly recommend it. Good value for the money. The famous painter spent a year working in the main building. Once again, our roommates were asleep early, leaving me fumbling in the dark.

The city is a lot more relaxed than London. We spent our days wandering around the old city. A beautiful Gothic cathedral was hosting an organ recital. As an organist rehearsed, we wandered around. I lit a candle and prayed for my family back home and wondered if any of my Belgian ancestors had ever stopped to pray in this church. In the base,ent, we were able to see what remains of the Romanesqe church that once stood there. Another Belgian highlight is the Grand Place, lauded by Victor Hugo as the greatest square in the world. Buildings hundreds of years old cluster in a square.

This keyboard is driving me crazy. Hopefully I will be better at using it tomorrow. We are going to Antwerp today. I cannot use contractions because I do not know where the apostrophe is.

London Thoughts

2005-09-19T05:21:00.000-06:00

This afternoon we'll take the Chunnel train to Brussells, Belgium. I finally have a few quiet moments to reflect on my time in this ancient city. I'm sitting in a cramped internet cafe not far from Hyde Park.

London was definitely as expensive as I'd been forewarned. Usually the prices given were about what I would expect in dollars, not in pounds. I had to keep reminding myself that I'm in Europe, not Asia. I will have to spend some money on this trip.

Poor Meridith has had to listen to a lot of Asian monologues. My life was Eastern for almost two years. I keep comparing East and West. Driving around London, I think about Hong Kong. I compare architecture styles. It's hard to understand the East if you haven't been there, and if you haven't been there, you probably don't really want to hear about it. I'll try to not bore Mer too much more.

This morning we were packing up our stuff when one of tonight's guests came in with his stuff. Meridith told him that if he waited a minute, he could have her bottom bunk. I guess he really wanted it because he hovered behind her as she packed. When she stepped out to brush her teeth, he moved the rest of her stuff off the bed, made up his bunk and laid two pair of underwear out very neatly and left. Odd.

I'd never stayed in a dormitory in a hostel before and the experience was different than what I expected. Instead of loud busy partying, we encountered quiet people who often were asleep before we got in at the ungodly hour of 10:30 pm. Our first dorm mates were friendly and chatty at least. Last night's seemed to be mute. I like talking to people, but the quietness of the room was definitely something I appreciated - until the guy in the bunk below me started to snore.

I enjoyed my time in London. It is a nice place full of history and great stories. However, it failed to capture my heart. We're undecided if we'll even come back before flying out of Gatwick. Maybe we'll end the trip in Brighton instead.

HECTIC!

2005-09-18T12:08:00.000-06:00

The other day I was watching National Lampoon's European Vacation. I've been having better luck than they did, but still it's turning out to be quite the Eurotrip.

On Thursday morning, I awoke at six-thirty, drove to Calgary from the Hat, saw my cousin's new condo, and then at the airport, somehow lost my wallet. At the check-in counter, we rifled through my bag upteen times. I ran through the airport, searching. My mom checked in garbage cans. We looked through the parkade. Then a policeman found a dirty old napkin blowing through the parkade with a phone number for someone to call if they had lost a wallet. A couple had found it, and not trusting the authorities, had taken it home. Their note had blown away so I didn't see it. My cousin drove to retrieve the wallet, I held her baby, and my mom tried to find me a new way to England since I wouldn't be able to make my flight. God took good care of me. For no fee, the airline let me fly to Manchester and figure out my own way down.

Manchester - home of "football"s United and Oasis. All I saw was the airport. I hopped on a bus and a few hours later made it to my hostel near Hyde Park in London where my friend Meridith had checked in the previous day. I was a little road weary, but after a quick shower, was out and about. Meridith's Manitoban friend took us to pub where they dined on fish and chips and I tried to stay awake.

In our lovely dorm room, we made some interesting acquaintances - a Dane who stopped liking a girl because she wore a dumb hat, an Israeli who smokes in the room at the risk of being kicked out the hostel, an Irishman who lived in Kentucky . .. One of the best parts of travelling is the people you meet.

Saturday, Meridith and I walked around Buckingham Palace and caught the end of the changing of the guards. We strolled around the old streets, jaywalking and admiring the anti-Bush/Blair protesters. We went to Westminster Abbey. The Abbey has been in operation for over a thousand years and many of England's finest citizens have their mortal resting places there. We saw the tomb of Mary, Queen of Scots, Elizabeth I, William Wilberforce, Charles Darwin, Isaac Newton . . . One section is devoted to the arts. Robert Browning, Dickens, Milton . . . The Abbey seems to be more about dead people than God. But when you read the inscriptions - Latin or Olde English - you are struck by the lives the people led and how many of them did seek to serve God - with the exception of Darwin of course.

For free, we were able to go into the Hall of Lords at Parliament (first time I've ever been frisked) and were therefore able to see Big Ben really close up. It's disappointingly smaller than I expected.

We also tackled the British Museum. It would take lifetimes to see everything in that place. We did see the Rosetta Stone. Most exciting for an admirer of the Old Testament like myself was the Ancient Near Eastern Exhibits. Entire walls from Sennacherib's palace in Nineveh were on display. The Old Testament was there before my eyes. There are so many cool treasures in the British Museum that it's daunting.

We also saw the London Tower, Tower Bridge (often mistaken for the less spectacular London Bridge) London Bridge . . . I'm sure I saw more, but it's a little hazy right now.

Then we met up with some of my friends from Taiwan. Colin is a Cantonese Englishman. Esther and Andy are visiting from Taiwan. We ate Chinese food at Colin's parents' restaurant. It was a jolly good time. It was kind of trippy being with Canadian and Taiwanese friends at the same time in the UK.

Today, Esther met us to attend a service in St. Paul's Cathedral. Designed by Sir Christopher Wren, it's white dome is a definite city landmark. Meridith was almost in tears as the men's and boys' choir sang selections of Palestrina. The opening hymn was "Holy Holy Holy". It was awesome to sing that song in a building that grand. That made me tear up.

Fish and Chips . .. then we visited the monument Christopher Wren designed about the great London Fire. 311 steps (I think) to the top and we were overlooking the Thames and the Tower. It was pretty cool.

Next it was Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park where people stand on their soap boxes, orate and debate. It was interesting, but too argumentative for my liking. Lots of Anti-Bush monologues, fundamentalist Christians, cookoo religious people, and social activists.

Now we're figuring out the next leg of the trip. I have to sign off before my internet runs out!

Goodbye Summer!

2005-09-12T13:31:00.000-06:00

The golden crops are being harvested, leaving bristly stubble. I know that winter is around the corner and with it, cold and snow. I am shivering already.

The other night, I went to the opening night of youth group. Before I did the devotional, we played some ultimate frisbee. Due to the sun setting earlier in the fall, we had to attach light sticks to the frisbee so we could see it. Too bad I didn't see the large teenage boy coming at me as I dove for the disc. I got a slight headache.

This summer was a blessing - a special gift from God. Faces of loved family and friends flow through my mind, summer camps, weddings, church . . . I'm sad that the days of summer are done. Two years ago about this time, I departed for Asia to begin my life as an English teacher. In a few days, I'll depart for London and unknown adventures on that expensive continent we call Europe. I love being home, but it's time for me to leave again. I'm getting restless.

Saskatchewan

2005-08-29T17:09:00.000-06:00

I have some American friends who spent a few years of their lives going to Bible college in my home province of Saskatchewan. They love to reminisce about their time on the bald prairies where trees are precious and few. They talk about Moose Jaw and Regina.

Yet, for all their years in it, they can't say it right.. They say, "Sask - at - CHEW - an." Any local will tell you there's only three syllables, really - "Sask - at - ch'wan".

Living out of a Suitcase

2005-08-10T21:26:00.000-06:00

It really seems that I am incapable of staying in one place for an extended period of time. I just got back the other day from a couple weeks of wandering around western Canada and a couple US states. At each end of the trip was a wedding - one for a cousin, the other for a close family friend. In the middle, I found myself in the company of couples - sometimes couples with babies. I am very good at being a third wheel or even a fifth wheel. Thankfully I did some hiking in the middle as well. I went to Deception Pass, Chuckunut, and Church Mountain beside Mt. Baker - all breathtakingly beautiful.

After being stranded on the other side of the world for so long, it sure is nice to see old friends again and marvel at all the changes in their lives. In the presence of Americans, I was once again razzed about my citizenship as they tried to persuade me to move south of the border. I did like Seattle, but I don't know if I can admit that to them.

Even though I mainly renewed North American friendships, my Taiwan world met me as well. I got to spend a few days with Nickie, my accountability partner from my English teaching days. I also saw my friend Kim whose baby has turned into a boy. And very randomly, one of my former students is doing a homestay in Surrey for three months to improve his English ability. He used to be called "Eddy", but changed his name to "Iverson" after his favorite basketball player. Mom gave him our family's toll free number and I've already talked to him a few times this week.

I also had the pleasure of driving all night long through the mountains. After going to my friend Johanna's wedding in Kelowna on Sunday evening, my dad and I took shifts driving to Red Deer to get my mom to Norwegian camp on Monday morning. It feels funny saying you're taking your mom to camp. Mom and Grandma slept while I chugged Dr. Pepper to try to stay awake. No accidents despite my periodic micro sleeps. I'm quite thankful for guardian angels.

I'll be home a few more days and then I'm off again . . .

Small Town Things

2005-07-17T20:24:00.000-06:00

By Saskatchewan standards, my life hasn't been too interesting. However for all of you unfamiliar with the ways of small towns, my life has been a little strange. In the last couple weeks, I've been to two parades. The typical float in one of these parades is a pick-up truck with a banner posted on the side and the driver's children in the back hucking candy at the people on the street. Other favorites include ancient tractors of every variety, horses, and kids on bicycles with streamers on the handlebars. This year was my province's 100th birthday as well as the 75th birthday of my beloved hometown, Frontier. As part of the celebration, the Stanley Cup - the big prize of professional hockey - was on display in our local rec center.

I spent a week at Valley View Bible Camp where the muddy little Frenchman River flows and God blesses our week despite our meagre resources. I struggled a little with my advanced age when I realized that I had counselled most of the other counselors in previous years. It was hard to think of them as adults even though they're only a couple of years younger than I am. It was so good to reacquaint myself with people from home. But my favorite part of camp is what God does there. A lot of kids react emotionally to the speaker and therefore it makes no lasting impact in their lives. But there are always some who are affected. Every year, I'm one of them.

On Saturday, I had the privilege of attending a demolition derby. It cost me TEN BUCKS, but it was interesting to see the cars smash each other so much that they eventually all looked like hatch-backs. The highlight was when it started to hail on us and the soil and grass built up on our shoes.

I miss the entertainment of the city, but it is good to be home where I can go golfing with my cousin Mike and it doesn't matter that I'm double par.

Soccer Coach

2005-06-29T17:31:00.000-06:00

The Saturday before last, I chatted with my friend Emily on MSN and the next thing I knew, two days later, I was in Medicine Hat with her and Cindy and Heather and some other people running some Christian soccer camps. Two English guys were in charge and graciously showed us how to do simple things like set up the nets. I must explain that all my soccer experience comes from playing intramurals in the Frontier school gym where the only rule seemed to be don't use your hands. As I left home, my brother admonished me tongue in cheek to teach the kids to bend it like Beckham. Alas, it is a sad feeling when eight year old children can outmanuever you.

We also ran camps in Calgary. At one camp, a bunch of Vietnamese kids came and I therefore felt quite at home. One little boy looked just like one of my former students - even how he hiked his pants up a little too high. He made me nostalgic for Taiwan and my blue and white classroom. I did get to lead the game "Simon Says", which I do quite well having much practice utilizing it in the classroom. Unfortunately, Vietnam is the one southeast Asian country where I neglected to learn any of the language except for the word for ice cream which apparently I don't know how to pronounce correctly because the kids had no idea what I was saying.

Between camps, everyone else went to play soccer and handout flyers to the international student families at the University of Calgary. I opted out and got a ride to meet a boy named Sebastian Ray whom I must admit I loved at first sight. Don't worry - he's a beautiful baby, the first child of my cousin Shandi and Mike. I spent the afternoon holding him as much as I could and enjoying just being with Shandi. He was just over a week old when I was there and spent most of his time sleeping like an angel. It's funny how quickly God fills your heart with love when you hold your new little cousin for the first time. Shandi's half-sister was gracious enough to let me hog him most of the day since I told her she could hold him tomorrow. It was strange and exciting to see my cousin all maternal. Not too long ago, we were girls playing Barbies and dress up and nearly crashing three wheelers. I guess we're grown up now.

The last camp I helped with in Calgary was a multicultural affair. We had your average Caucasians of course, but they were peppered with children from a variety of different ethnicities - Kurds, Romanians, Chinese, Irani. It was beautiful to see them running around and playing together. (There were some kicking and punching at times however.) Muslim moms in their coverings stood at the sidelines. Other parents would come by on bicycles. I was in charge of a group of eight kids - which sometimes grew when little Ameer or another little Ameer would decide to leave his mother's side and play with the big kids. My team never quite got the knack of playing as a team. Good thing Hong Kong-born Eric with his purple sunglasses is a little soccer phenom. We would have had no goals otherwise.

As a part of the soccer camps, we would sit the kids down and one of the coaches from England would share a Christian message and then give the kids an opportunity to respond or to play soccer. Tons of kids would stay and want to hear more about Jesus. The Muslim parents and even the Buddhist parents stayed to listen. Some of the Muslims even pulled out video recorders and taped the whole talk. Several parents took some gospel literature home. It was pretty cool.

The camps are still going on, but I caught a ride back to the Toque - Poppa's name for Medicine Hat - to spend time with my grandparents, aunt and uncle (who works all the time so I barely see him). Nana and Poppa are my mom's parents. We've made popcorn balls, played crib, and shot the breeze. My aunt and I went shopping like we always do. It felt so good being in Medicine Hat, doing the normal things that I do while I'm there. At least something hasn't changed . . . too much.

Culture Shock

2005-06-19T09:14:00.000-06:00

Some of you faithful blog readers assured me that I would suffer from little culture shock and I really didn't for the first week I was back on the farm in Saskatchewan. That is, until I attended the Frenchman River Valley Gospel Music Jamboree.

Every year, people congregate from all over southwestern Saskatchewan and beyond in the often brown valley where a muddy stream runs. Some singing groups are brought in from as far away as the southern States and others are local acts consisting of parents and their children. I usually go in the evenings and hardly listen to the music - except when my friends and acquaintances are on stage. I go to see the people and have my annual conversations with them.

Now, I have lived in Asia for close to two years. I am used to being in crowds of people. But in Asia, the people are dark haired non-English short Asians. I am used to being in such circumstances.

This weekend I found myself in a crowd of people. English speaking people who are tall and some quite fat. The overwhelming thing was knowing most of them. I am not used to being in a crowd of people whom I actually know. I wanted to run and hide. It was so weird. I didn't know who to talk to. My senses were overloaded. From the moment I stepped out of my parents' styling mini-van and ran into a familiar face, I experienced culture shock like I never had before. It wasn't Canadian life. It was small town Saskatchewan life where everyone knows your name and who your dad is and where you've been for the last few years and which car is yours. Most of you could never understand what it's like to grow up like this so you couldn't understand how crazy it is to walk back into it after being away so long.

And then I tried to help on the farm the next day. My farming aptitude has been totally depleted. I felt like the stupid cousin from the city.

But it is good to be home. Everyday, I look at the big blue sky and fail to grasp its enormity. It's then that I know that I'm home.

How to Prolong Jet Lag as Long as Possible

2005-06-13T08:21:00.000-06:00

Coming from Taiwan, I pretty much have to switch night and day in my body clock. It's killer jet lag. I must subconciously get some kind of enjoyment out of it because I've been making it last as long as possible by getting only a few hours of sleep each night and only allowing myself to nap during such opportune times as wedding rehearsals and graduation programs. But now I'm back on the parents' farm with no immediate plans other than to play with my dog, sleep, watch movies and reacquaint myself with the countryside.

Last summer, I was able to come home for a few weeks in August. Upon arrival in Vancouver, I had tons of difficulties with Air Canada from grumpy employees who vacated their work station when I was next in line to my flight being cancelled at boarding time so I had the privilege of being put on standby to Calgary. So this time, I was excited to be staying in the Vancouver area and not having to deal with a frustrating airline. This excitement was shortlived as we made our way through customs and were forced into the dreaded "search every cranny of your bag" room. There were not too many other Caucasians in the room. The poor officer was not too excited to see our three massive hockey bags, one gigantic suitcase and four carry-ons, but proceeded to make a mess of our careful packing while repeatedly asking us if we had switchblades, drugs, or bongs. He even asked if we were tempted to buy any. Gregg got away less than an hour before his flight to Calgary. I felt bad because my friend Nickie's mom was waiting to pick me up for over an hour. But surprise, surprise, the officer found nothing incriminating in our bags.

Nickie was my accountability partner while in Taiwan and still a very good friend. I was slightly nervous about going to her wedding because she was the only person I knew. It gets lonely at a wedding if you only know the bride. But from the moment I met her mom in the airport, it felt like I was part of the family. She promptly took me to Washington where I was reunited with Nickie and went to her brand new house in Sumas. The next few days were a blur as I shadowed Nickie in her final wedding preparations, met her fiancee Phil (finally), and managed to stay up late each night. I even got my hair done with the bridesmaids and the bride, and Carissa the candlelighter who I was blessed to spend the entire day with. After two years of having to wear a helmet every day, it sure felt nice to have beautiful hair. The wedding was beautiful and suited Nickie to a tee. I was given the honor of reading a passage out of 1 Corinthians 13.

The reception was fun. We had to blow party favors to get the new couple to kiss. Mine was defective and sounded like a cow in labor. When it came time to throw the bouquet, all the single females came up - about four women my age and a dozen little kids. I felt old. Thankfully Carissa charged through the children to catch the bouquet. Since I was riding back to Canada with Nickie's family, I got to stay at the reception until the doors were locked and help clean up. I scraped candle wax off the floor with a pie server.

The next morning, after two hours of sleep, I flew from Abbottsford to Regina via Calgary on WestJet where I was thanked for choosing them instead of an airline on the verge of bankruptcy. The first leg of the flight I got to watch live satellite TV. The second leg took me over the grid of fields of Saskatchewan. I loved looking down and seeing the crops, correction lines and farms. It was so beautiful - although after life in Asia I was a little weirded out by the extreme amount of space. Mom and Gregg picked me up and after some errands, we made our way to Caronport.

Caronport is the home of Briercrest Family of Schools. I attended the college for three years and have no burning desire to live there again. But since my aunt and uncle live there, I always get to go back. The occasion this time was my baby brother Grant's graduation. After two years of being an Asian orphan, I was overwhelmed in the midst of all my relatives, especially the ones hugging me. Gregg showed off his t-bird, including his ability to burn rubber. Grant and my cousins have all acquired a lot of muscle mass. And I must brag, my cousin Michael got second in provincials in hurdles. We were late for the banquet and I had to nap before the lengthy grad-parent program, a crazy kind of talent show. Grant played some guitar. Since I didn't know many of the kids, I slept on a pew for the first hour and a half. The next day was the ceremony. Grant listened to his I-pod for the whole thing.

I felt really old there. Kids who were in grade twelve when I was an intern are getting married and some already have kids. I visited my married friends the Henkelmans and heard more news of college friends settling down. As I survey the large pile of possession on the floor of my childhood bedroom, I realize I have enough stuff to furnish a house, but I don't foresee that happening any time soon. Anyone want to go to South America?

In transit

2005-06-07T22:15:00.000-06:00

Descending into Hong Kong is one of my favorite airplane descents. Approaching from the air, the islands down below rise out of the water while boats and huge tankers chug through the ocean leaving big white frothy wakes. One minute you're over the South China Sea and the next minute you're on a runway that seems to begin at the water's edge. I have a few hours until flight CX888 leaves for Vancouver and I don't expect Gregg to be at the gate for another hour.

Yesterday was a blessed day filled with time with the people who I have come to love so much. The people I wanted to see most came to a little goodbye party at the Vietnamese restaurant where we laughed, cried and ate lychee (thanks to tennis pro Andy). The likelihood of me seeing them again is fairly high. Lots of Canadians and you all know how I love road trips. But it was the end of an era and it seemed surreal to hug them all one last time. My friend Esther drove me to the airport this morning and Leanne met us there. But alas, I forgot my Vietnamese conical hat in Esther's car. It was so nice to have them there with me as I waited for my flight. During my final hours in Taiwan, I felt so loved. Trust me the feeling is mutual. My Taiwan friends, all I can say is thank you for everything.

Hmmm, maybe I'll check out the TV lounge or just sleep for a while.

Smoggy Skies

2005-06-07T04:18:00.002-06:00

Gregg bought about 15 t-shirts on Sunday. We had to go drop some off at the hotel because his backpack was getting too heavy. We went on a minor shopping spree even though Gregg was already worried about our baggage being overweight. It's hard to know when to stop, but when you get back home, you always wish you'd bought more.

We were walking down the street when suddenly someone shouted our names. The next thing we knew, we were settled in at a table having another slow boat reunion. We were once again reunited with English Sarah and Dutch Tim. Then along came English Martin who brought news of seeing English Will. Small little tourist world. I imagine I shall run into some of them again one day.

As we tried to finish up shopping on Khao San Road, it began to rain. It wasn't the light rains or even heavy rains that the prairies get. This was a torrential downpour, a minor monsoon. It didn't let up for a long time. The gutters couldn't keep up with the water and soon the street was flooded and the water was creeping up over the curb. To cross the street, we had to wade through 18 inches of water. I was glad Gregg got to see what real rain is, but was saddened by the loss of shopping time. Everyone was packing up and plastering everything with plastic. I made a few quick purchases and then we ran through the flooded streets to the safety of the Baan Sabai. Gregg's flip flops kept falling off.

We arose at 3:30 to be at the airport by 5 for our seven o'clock flight. Our bags were pretty much exactly the allowable limit. I acheived this feat by throwing away almost all the clothes that I had began the trip with. Other than being late and the bus to Kaohsiung being slow, our travel back to Taiwan was painless.

It's interesting to compare the written scripts of the languages we encountered on our trip. Lao and Thai alphabets are full of "u"s, "n"s, and round lines and circles. The written words have a strange beauty. Chinese has its characters. What I found interesting was Vietnamese. It is tonal like Chinese, except it has 6 tones instead of four. But written Vietnamese uses a Latin alphabet.

Gregg's in Hong Kong now, seeing the sights solo. I'm in Taiwan wrapping up the loose ends of my life and saying my final goodbyes. It really hasn't hit me that I'm leaving this smoggy and surprisingly beautiful island for good. It has been my home for nearly two years.

Gregg is helping me to move home in many ways. He is transporting some of my stuff. But just being around him and talking about family and things back home has helped my heart and emotions to move back to North America. I guess I'm finally ready to go home. I'll keep you posted on how it goes. Any advice for re-culturization, Katrina?

Miss Universe is Canadian . . .

2005-06-04T09:19:00.000-06:00

or so we've been told by every single Thai person who finds out we're Canadian. I guess the Miss Universe pageant is a big thing over here. They keep talking about it . . .

It was mighty hard saying goodbye to the beach. On Thursday, Gregg didn't leave the beach all day. We even ate lunch right there. The beach bumming lifestyle is addictive. Oh, we did see Wolverine again, but couldn't go talk to him because we were getting tattoos. He went walking by with a new girl, his fanny pack secured over his sarong. What a guy!

Our final morning, we both got up early to enjoy a few more hours of sand, sun, and ocean. Gregg sat reading his book and trying to get rid of his sandal tan. I decided to enjoy the quiet and solitude of the early morning by walking down the beach. It was a great idea, but I didn't take into account the partiers who would just be making their way home. A stringy haired Thai guy in his underwear tried to pull my hand to make me go swimming. A slightly drunken "Irishman" who sounded Scottish wouldn't leave alone and tried to impress me by saying he was one of Prince Harry's keepers and that Prince Harry was staying at a nearby dumpy resort with a Thai woman. (I guess I'll have to check out the tabloids for the veracity of his story.) And then there were the gangs of beach dogs and plenty of happy fisherman. I was happy to be back with Gregg so people would leave me alone. We went for one last swim in the beautiful blue waters, packed up the massive mound of stuff we've acquired and headed for the pier and our boat back to the mainland.

Our bus was scheduled for 7:30 and that gave us three hours to kill in the city of Surat Thani, a major transport center for people headed to Samui, Krabi and Phuket. There isn't a whole lot to do in the part of town we found ourselves in. We ate, found the most spacious 7- Eleven in all of Thailand, and ate mangosteens. The bus ride was uneventful except for the movie fiasco. Gregg and I had just been talking about the movie Pearl Harbor and how we didn't like it very much or its two principal actors. And voila, that's the movie that was shown. And furthermore, it was a very poor pirated version. It would skip and stop. The start of the movie was missing. You could hear the audience's laughter. I slept through most of it.

And we awoke back in Bangkok, the crazy city. The bus stopped right by the short cut to our hotel and in the early morning hours, we got to see the topless old ladies who sit in the alley who seem to delight in making us uncomfortable. We went to the famous weekend market (aka Chatachuck or JJ) and were so overwhelmed by the crowds and confined spaces and heat that we really didn't buy much or even see anything we liked. We tried out MBK and bought some jeans. Then it was just Khao San Road and vicinty. The day stuff was closing and then it rained so most of Khao San shut down. It kind of sucked. Maybe tomorrow will be sunny.

Half Moon Party

2005-06-01T08:11:00.000-06:00

Before we left Koh Tao, we were looking in a shop. The doors were open and the lights were on so we thought it was open. The lady at the counter was kind of grumpy, but didn't say much. The next thing we knew, she was running at us with a broom, chasing us out because she was closed. She was crazy.

Koh Tao was quiet while we were there because it was only a couple days after the Full Moon Party on Koh Phangan. In high season, upwards of 20 000 people congregate on the beach for an all night party, dancing to trance music pumped out by the djs and drinking literal buckets of vodka or whiskey mixed with Red Bull. It's a pretty crazy time. Haad Rin, the host beach of the Full Moon Party, is known as the party beach with a happening night life every night of the year. After our quiet nights in Koh Tao, we were ready for a little more excitement.

Haad Rin is on a peninsula on the southeast corner of Koh Phangan. It's divided into two sections: sunrise and sunset. Sunrise is where the party is. Sunset is where cheap accomodation is. We checked into a bungalow substantially better than our last one. The lights were bright enough for us to see. In our Koh Tao bungalow, the lights were so dim, we used our headlamps to read at night. The afternoon was spent suntanning and swimming. I don't know if I could get tired of tropical beaches.

That night, God put on a fire show in the sky while restaurant employees stood on the beach putting on their own. The lightning was fantastic - bright streaks stretching across the entire sky. We ate on the beach in a quiet restaurant. In fact, every restaurant we walked by was quiet. Some had no people in them. Some were closed. It is low season here, but we expected a few more people to be out at the party beach. But no. We went to bed early.

The next day was May 30, a week after full moon and time for the twice monthly Half Moon festival. This festival takes place in the jungle with neon decorations and black lights. When we walked in with our new friends from the taxi truck, we only saw about three people there. The place is big enough for 1 999 people so there was definitely room to spare. Luckily we saw there were a lot of people on the upper level and joined them so we didn't feel so alone. As the night progressed, several hundred people showed up and after a few hours people started to dance. I think they needed to drink a few buckets first. It's awkward being with a sibling at such a party. We kept wishing we were with our friends. It was still a cool experience. We met a girl from Thompson MB who tried to drag Gregg out onto the dance floor. She was kind of mad when he didn't go.

Another day on the beach and Gregg got to experience a real Asian downpour. We saw the clouds roll in and the rain start on the hills at the end of the beach. Everyone ran for cover as the rain started to beat down.

Today, we departed from Koh Phangan on the Haad Rin Queen. The water was choppy and huge waves would dowse all of us and our stuff. I sought shelter behind the staff cabin next to a strange man singing along to what may have been Hebrew rock. Gregg stayed on the bench and felt the full force of the waves. He was dripping wet.

Koh Samui is one of the largest islands in Thailand. We are settled into a room on Chaweng beach on the east side. It's about 5 km long and has a thick concentration of shops and services and entertainment. We can see Burger King from our deck. Once again, we went to the beach. I tried to make a sandcastle and a sandturtle and neither were impressive.

The best thing about today was seeing Wolverine, our friend from the slow boat to Luang Prabang. We didn't get to talk to him. We just saw him swimming with his long hair and chops, still wearing his glasses with the idiot string. I've never met anyone else who can wear an idiot string and make it look cool. Hopefully we'll run into him tomorrow.

Look at the fish

2005-05-28T06:37:00.000-06:00

Koh Tao means "Turtle Island" because once upon a time, a lot of sea turtles inhabited the surrounding waters. The island is located in the Gulf of Thailand which is part of the Pacific Ocean. We're 70 kilometers from shore. When you look out on the horizon, all you can see is water and far in the distance, some neighboring islands.

On Thursday, I initiated Gregg into the world of snorkelling. We were picked up and rode to the pier in the back of a truck with a Swiss couple and a Belgian girl. Mr. Swiss didn't speak English so well. On his stomach, he had the Chinese characters for "woman" and "strong". I asked if he chose that because his wife is a strong woman. He thought the first character means love. Maybe it does, but it was weird.

We were disappointed because we didn't see any reef sharks, but the variety of fish observed made up for it. If you've ever seen the movie "Finding Nemo", it's like being thrust into that world with a rainbow of fish swimming right before your eyes. Sometimes, schools of fish would swim inches from our goggles. Snorkelling in Thailand is unreal.

Our last stop was at three islands just northeast of Koh Tao. It's the only place in the world where three islands are connected by a single beach at low tide. They make you pay to even get on the islands. We snorkelled some more and had naps on the coral beach.

Friday, we slept in and then rented a motorbike to explore the island. In some places, giant boulders lie haphazardly with palm trees sprouting around them. After enjoying some air conditioning in good old 7-Eleven. we motored up a hill to the Happy Daze bar, a treehouse overlooking one of the southern bays. Everyone there was definitely in some kind of happy daze. They were all chilled out. We had an interesting conversation with a couple of birds. They could say, "Hello, Darling!" "How are you?" "I can fly!" "Bye Bye". We felt moderately crazy talking to birds, but it was cool. A poor monkey on a chain kept pacing while one of his owners was cleaning a bong. We climbed up a series of ladders to the top deck where we could look out over the bay. Beautiful. The rest of the day, we bummed around, bought board shorts, and sat at the beach.

Today, we went SCUBA DIVING! It seems so surreal. I still can't fathom what an awesome experience it was. Since we are going back to Canada and are unsure of further opportunities, we opted to do the one day Discover Scuba program and hope to get certified some other vacation. A super guy named David was our personal instructor for the day. He outfitted us and told us what to do. Out on the boat, we suited up with wetsuits, fins, inflatable vests, goggles, weight belts, and an air tank - the whole nine yards. It's pretty heavy. We stepped out into the beautiful blue water and practiced some skills on shore at Mango Bay. Then we followed him deeper into the ocean. We both experienced some difficulty learning to control our buoyancy and a few times floated to the surface like a balloon in the sky. The visibility wasn't the best, but the exhilaration of being underwater and seeing a few fish was enough. We thought we'd only been under a few minutes, but suddenly the 35 minutes of our first dive was up. Afterwards, I was so happy I was grinning like an idiot. Gregg said it looked like I was posing for a school photo. He was happy too.

A little break for pineapple, coffee and cookies, and then dive number two beside the three islands to an area called the Japanese garden. Gregg lost his weight belt and couldn't descend so David had to go look for it. We followed the rope of the anchor to the bottom and wandered around the coral garden. I have a burn on my leg after a run in with our motorcycle in Ninh Binh. Shiny cleaner fish kept latching on to it. I was fish food. We saw a huge puffy starfish and other fish that we hadn't seen when snorkelling. Our greatest depth was only about six meters, but at that depth, we could already feel a little bit of the ocean's pressure. It's hard to describe scuba diving unless you're talking to someone who's done it. It's one of the coolest things we've ever done. And we definitely want to do it again.

Tomorrow, we head to Koh Phangan to check out the remnants of the last full moon party and to bum around on swimming beaches. And Grant, if you're not reading this, you're in trouble. You better post a comment.

Paradise

2005-05-26T06:05:00.000-06:00

The last days of Nam went quite smoothly. We spent the second day at the beach. A long white sand beach stretches along the ocean about five kilometers from Hoi An. We rented bicycles for the journey. The bicycles were not the greatest. One gear and one speed: excruciatingly slow. As we progressed further south in Vietnam, cars became rarer and bicycles more common. It was our first beach day of the trip and we enjoyed sitting under the umbrellas and then stretching out on the sand to work on our sunburns. It was great.

Except for the vendors. Women in jackets and hats to prevent sun exposure prowl the beach looking for customers. Pedicures, massages, fruit, postcards, frisbees and cigarettes are all available from their baskets. They each know enough English to sell their goods. Some have picked up some memorable lines along the way. "Don't worry. Be happy." "Open your heart and your wallet." "Don't be lazy - be crazy." They sometimes come with sob stories of how no one has bought anything from them today and make you feel guilty. Others just won't leave, but will sit down and look at you as they go through a list of what they have available.

We weren't safe from the vendors even as we ate dinner at a restaurant. A little boy claiming to be five came up to our table with packages of postcards and a handful of necklaces. He said it was happy hour and he'd give us good deals. We repeatedly said no, but then Gregg asked how much the necklaces were. The boy dug one out and started bargaining. Gregg said no, and the boy started to mutter under his breath. "You ask how much and you not buy?" he cried as if we had entered into some kind of contract. He dropped his price by two thirds. Gregg bought it. There was a man on a motorcycle waiting for the boy. We were afraid if we didn't buy, the boy might get whupped. I've never seen such a salesman.

Our third day in Hoi An, we took a tour of the My (pronounced mee) Son ruins and were reunited with our slow boat friend, Sarah. These ruins were built by the Cham people and are unique in Vietnam because they are Hindu. Some date back to the fifth century, but most are only a thousand years old. Red bricks are piled into towers and temples. They didn't use traditional mortar and it's still a mystery what they used to stick the bricks together. We saw a fake Cham song and dance show and then wandered around the ruins. It really was fascinating. We took a boat back to Hoi An - another boat ride with Sarah. It seemed fitting.

When we returned to town, Gregg slept and enjoyed our air conditioned room while I toured around town. Hoi An is famous for its old buildings and I saw what I could without paying for a ticket. One of the interesting sites is an old Japanese covered bridge. It's quite ornate and pink in color.

Another day at the beach and this time, it rained so we sat under our umbrellas gazing at the ominous black clouds overhead.

Tuesday, we flew from Danang to Bangkok. Danang airport was quite an experience. It's small. I think there's only one international flight a day. The immigration people had never heard of Na Meo, the border we crossed at. Since we wanted to pay the departure tax in Vietnamese currency instead of USD, they gave us a horrible exchange rate. Fighter jets were landing and taking off of the runway with colorful parachutes to slow them down. Our plane was small - like 60 passengers. To board, we took a bus across the tarmac and then climbed up some stairs. Soon, we were out of Vietnam.

And back in the land of Smiles. Bangkok didn't seem quite so hot as it did a month ago. For once, our bags were first off the carousel. To be different and cheaper, we walked to the train station and took a train into town . . . for the astronomical sum of 5 baht each. It was Gregg's first real train ride. It was hot and the wooden seats not too comfortable.

We booked tickets to Chumpon at the main train station and killed time by writing postcards and eating at Dairy Queen and KFC. It felt so good to be in a country with 7-Eleven again and familiar Western fastfood (as gross as it may be).

We slept on two upper bunks on the train. Two straps were secured to the ceiling to prevent us from rolling off. It was the most comfortable transportation that we had taken. Despite locals getting drunk and laughing, we fell asleep and I woke up at 3:30 to make sure we didn't miss our stop. The train was late so we didn't arrive until 4:30. As soon as we set foot in the station, we were directed to a table to wait for a ride from the boat people. We hopped into the back of a truck and were left at a restaurant where I slept with my head on a table for a few hours. Another bus picked us up took us to the boat to Koh Tao. I slept on the boat too.

Koh Tao is a mountainous island, only 21 km squared in area. The water is breathtakingly blue and clear. Even at the pier in the midst of the boat, you can see the bottom of the ocean and the fish that live there. Palm trees form forests on the hills. We were surprised to find it so developed with tons of restaurants and bars and convenience stores. This is the diving island where people flock to get their scuba certification, which is a very tempting idea, but in all likelihood, when could I use it again? To help Dad fix the pump on the dugout? When you're enrolled in a course, you kept cheap or free accomodation. We were shown to some bungalows by the ocean, but the trashy grounds and poor beachfront deterred us. We walked a long time and ended up renting a different trashy bungalow in a better location. The beach is just across the path and cold drinks are next door. We just chilled on the beach, which is too shallow to swim, but perfect for snorkelling with the abundant coral. The water is so warm. Sitting in the ocean is like taking a bath. So relaxing. No one tried to sell us a thing. We spent the evening wandering around. During supper, we tried to watch Ray, but the copy was messed up. There were background sounds and the soundtrack, but no dialogue. It doesn't work to read and eat. They bought another disk, but the same thing happened. We ended up watching Shark Tale. To pick a movie, they didn't bring out a catalogue, but instead a stack of little posters for us to sift through.

Today, we went snorkelling. But I'm tired of writing and I'll tell you about that later. But it was beautiful and awesome and you should all be jealous that you're not here with us.

Stalker Cyclos

2005-05-20T06:20:00.001-06:00

The disparity between our tans is lessening. Gregg's reached a fair level of brownness and is no longer glowing white. His arms and stomach are a lot darker than mine. I've never been a good tanner though. Gregg claims I'm getting whiter as the trip goes on.

A couple of interesting things I omitted from previous posts: While returning from our 14 KM trek on Cat Ba Island, a young boy and girl met us on the road with a large machete. As I passed them, the boy hit my water bottle with the large blade that was the length of his arm. All he wanted was water, and I wasn't about to refuse a small boy with a big knife.

Also, we saw some interesting things when we were cruising on our motorbike in Ninh Binh. We noticed a lot of paper blowing on the street in the midst of the traffic. It was fake US dollar bills and we realized they were coming from a van at the front of a procession. I think it may have been a funeral. On another road, we had to drive over a bunch of harvested barley laid out to dry on the road. People were raking it to speed up the process and didn't seem to mind us driving through. We also saw sidewalks and other available pieces of concrete used in similar fashion.

When we climbed onto the tourist bus bound for Hue, we discovered that it wasn't much of a tourist bus with the seats mainly occupied by Vietnamese. We woke up a couple of foreign guys and made them share their seats. Gregg's new buddy was a guy from Montreal with a broken arm while I was stuck with a tall German with limited English who intends to study human rights in Bangkok. The seats had no leg room even for my rather short legs. I tried to sleep with them slid under the seat in front of me, but the occupant of that seat would periodically stretch and push his seat further back, whacking my knee with molded plastic. Gregg had even less room than I did. We managed to sleep by twisting our bodies and slinging our legs into the aisle. It was a long thirteen hour bus trip. We did stop to go to the bathroom. Gregg made use of a garden while the girls were relegated to concrete stalls with drains on the floor and no doors.

When we woke up in Hue and unloaded the backpacks from the bus, mine was sopping wet with water running out of the side pockets and contributed to my poor mental state after the lengthy bus ride. Gregg kept his cool once again. After being swarmed by guys advertising their hotels, we were put in cyclos and taken to a brand new hotel. The promised room was not available, but we managed to get a room with AC, fridge, TV, hot water for only 7 USD. The hotel had only been open for two and a half months. It was pretty nice.

In the heart of old Hue, there is a crumbling old citadel that used to be home to the king. Inside a moat, there is a massive brick wall with an enormous flagstaff where the yellow starred red flag of Vietnam flies. Inside the brick wall is another moat and another wall. This was the imperial part of the citadel. And further inside was the Forbidden Purple city where only the royalty were allowed. Much of it was destroyed in the American war, but a few buildings still exist. Stairs and ruins remain of what used to be a spectactular sight.

Hue is a lot more laid back than Hanoi, but still the motorbike drivers are persistent. Even more persistent are the cyclo drivers who would pedal behind us in a stalkerish fashion. When Gregg wasn't with me, they'd even touch me to try get my attention, convinced that I always needed a ride. At the market, we tried to look at some shoes. I barely picked up a pair and a woman was making me try them on while another was poking my side and saying "Madame, Madame" and thrusting another pair in my face. The aisle was small and other shoppers were running into me. We left quite quickly.

May 19 is Ho Chi Minh's birthday. He would have been 115 this year and to celebrate this day, we got up insanely early for a tour of the DMZ - the demilitarized zone that once separated North and South Vietnam. Neither Gregg nor I are scholars on the war or Vietnamese history, but we're learning a little. The Geneva Agreements of 1954 divided the country in half at about the 17th parallel. For five kilometers on either side of a river, it was considered the DMZ. If part of a family was on the other side of the river when the division took effect, they did not see the rest of their family for twenty years. We stopped at this river and took some pictures. We drove for hours on a bus to a few sites important to the war. There was "Rockpile" - a mountain that the US used as a lookout and to shoot long range artillery. There was no way up there - everything was airlifted. We also saw villages belonging to the "ethnic minority". This people group lives in stilt houses and historically had no family name. Because they respected Ho Chi Minh so much, they all took on the surname "Ho". We stopped at a bridge along one of the five branches of the Ho Chi Minh trail which the North Vietnamese used to transport goods to their forces fighting in the south. The bridge was funded by the Cubans. We visited Khe Sanh base along highway nine that connects Vietnam, Laos and Thailand. The Americans had several bases along this route. On display were some helicopters and pieces of smashed up plane. Inside the museum were homemade weapons that the tribal people made to fight the Americans and pictures of female militia sharpening their weapons. Most disturbing were the pictures of the American soldiers as they tried to flee the base as the North Vietnamese "liberated" it. It seemed like it was intense battle and we intend to read up more on it. I can't imagine the hell that the soldiers on both sides went through.

The day was mainly spent driving. The roads are agonizingly slow. The speed limit on the nicest roads in the country is a mere 35 - 50 kilometers . The bus drivers have a system of signals that they wave to each other in meeting to tell if cops are on patrol or not. We had a learner driver who periodically stalled the bus and often would lurch to a stop. He took no risks as far as speed went so we watched buses and buses pass us as we lost feeling from sitting so long.

The absolute highlight of the day was visiting the Vinh Moc tunnels beside the South China Sea. An entire village of about 300 people lived underground from 1961 - 1964. It took 18 000 days of labor to chisel out the 6000 metric tonnes of rock to form the three layers of tunnels. To hide the digging, they would bury the rock under the beach. Gregg thinks the layers of tunnels were 15m, 23m, and 35m deep. Entire families lived in carved out rooms the size of closets and at least 17 children were born underground during that time. The tunnels averaged about 5 feet in height and about 3 feet wide. The entrance to the bomb shelter was a slide in order to save time. The tunnels were strategic for shipping stuff further south. Goods were smuggled out to an island 28 km away and then taken south. When outside the tunnels, the people walked in trenches to avoid being seen.

Banners were hung all over Hue to celebrate Ho Chi's birthday. The bridge was lit up with alternating colors. It was like slo-mo fire works. We ate at a family run restaurant where there was a party going on in the back. Men were singing and drinking to celebrate the occasion. We sat long after we finished eating just to enjoy the party.

Today we made yet another bus journey. Our trip is winding down and we know we don't have too many bus journeys left. Between Hue and Danang, there is a range of mountains along the sea. Our bus wound its way up steep switch backs, quickly gaining impressive elevation. At the top of the pass, we got out to admire the view. The ocean was far below us with sandy beaches stretching for miles and fading into the mist of the horizon. From both sides of the pass, we could see the coast. On a clear day, you could see a long ways.

We drove through Danang. We'll return there on Tuesday to catch a flight to Bangkok. The city itself doesn't have much to offer, but it was interesting to see city built on sand. Sand was everywhere and it looked like the houses were simply built on it.

South of Danang, we stopped at the Marble Mountains. The mountains themselves aren't overly impressive, but inside they are amazing. We wandered through a large cave with a cathedral roof. A hole in the roof let brilliant beams of light in. It looked like what I imagine Jesus' baptism did when God spoke from heaven. The impression was marred by the idol decorated with Christmas lights. We climbed up a series of steep ladders to what we thought would be a lookout over the ocean, but found only another mountain and the roofs of shantytown instead.

In the afternoon, we arrived in Hoi An, famed for its old city and overabundance of tailor shops. We decided to forego quality in favor of economy and have been fitted for some clothing. I hope it turns out. We'll have a fitting after we spend the day at the beach. Hopefully we can sleep in.

Ninh Binh

2005-05-17T03:29:00.000-06:00

We are sitting in an internet cafe in a city called Ninh Binh where there are six year old boys smoking a cigarette on a nearby computer. Along with the Canadian couple beside us, we are a little shocked. I guess we shouldn't be. Anything can happen in Asia.

Our last day in Hanoi we did very little, but anticipate leaving. The heat and the vendors had sucked all the ambition out of us. It was 32 degrees at 10 AM so it probably hit 40 that day. After the humid heat we're experiencing, the hottest Saskatchewan day will seem almost pleasant. We walked around and bought some souvenirs and ate lunch at our standard semi-Western establishment. To escape the heat and stop walking, I got the idea we should ride a bus for a while and see some more of the city. The bus we chose ended up being supremely crowded and I became quite conscious of the stench of my unwashed clothes. I feel sorry for the people who were next to me. They probably think all Westerners stink. The great idea turned into the stupidest idea ever as the route was not scenic or interesting. We disembarked and boarded a bus with the same number going in the other direction, figuring it would return us to our origin. Wrong. We ended up stopped out by a highway and had to walk back to Hoan Kiem Lake and the Old Quarter. We definitely put on enough miles without really seeing or doing anything. We did run into some more people from the slow boat trip to LP Bang.

Despite being told that the open bus system is for the "Khao Sahn Road I hate Asians crowd", we opted to take a ride on this system. It's a cheaper ticket where people can get off and on as they please - as long as they don't mind being ambushed by the cafes where they are dropped off. We chose this instead of the normal bus because it picked us up at our hotel. It was late, but we did make it to the city of Ninh Binh before it was too late. And we did stay at the hotel we were dropped off at. I feel a little like a sellout.

Ninh Binh is about 90 km south of Hanoi on the road to Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City). There are a higher percentage of Christians here and a lot more churches so some people call it Vietnam's Bible belt. In all the Asian countries, Vietnam is only second to the Philippines for number of Catholics. Ninh Binh itself is rather boring, just a small city on the road. It's the attractions nearby that generate the tourism here.

We rented a motorbike with no helmets and took off with a map provided by our hotel. To avoid traffic, the owner had pointed out a route for us to take. The map is not to scale and quite confusing so we found ourselves on a tiny trail through the Vietnamese suburbs. Eventually, we gave up on his directions and found our way using the main road full of buses, bicycles, trucks and plenty of honking horns. We found our destination: Tam Coc.

Tam Coc is best described as Halong Bay on the rice patties. Big cliffs and rocks with fields at their bases. For a fee, we were toured around the area via a rowboat on the river. At a bridge, we stopped to pick up the rower's wife and she assisted him with one paddle on the side. Some rowers were rowing with their feet. A good majority of the rowers are women with their conical hats. The water was first in a canal but then opened up onto a plain with reeds growing on either side. We were rowed through three cave/tunnels through the rock. It was very beautiful.

But then we stopped. A lady rowed up with a boat full of drinks and snacks. I was hungry so I bought some peanut rice cracker things and tried to share them with the rowers. They refused. Then the vendor lady insisted we buy drinks for the rowers - not just water, but energy drinks and pop. I offered them some of my water, but they refused. It was a little confusing, but eventually we left.

And then the rower woman pulled out her embroidery and started poking me, "Madame, Madame". I wasn't interested and tried to ignore her so I could enjoy the return trip. But then she pulled out a runner . . . embroidered in Norwegian hardanger? It was so bizarre. It looked exactly like the stitching my aunt had taught me with cut out squares and other patterns. I decided to buy two, but didn't have the correct change. She didn't have enough change. We rowed over to another boat where a woman produced some old looking bills. Red alert - if the bills look a little old, no one will take them from you. Don't accept them from someone else. I refused the bills. Eventually she accepted the change I did have, but frowned upon receiving my own old bills. The rest of the trip, she kept shouting and talking to the other boats. I think she was pretty angry. They sped up their rowing. I think they wanted to get rid of us.

After meandering through a village with small streets lined with rock walls and houses at the street's edge, we had lunch and I had a nap. Then we decided to try our luck with the map again and try to find a boat village. Stupidly, we took the advice of the hotel owner and started down a gravel road by the river. It didn't look too far on the map. Wrong again. After an hour of a bumpy and dusty cattle trail, Gregg was so sick of driving that we tried to find the road. We had ice cream and then tried again to find the village. No luck. We did see some boats and thought that was enough. We found an ancient capital and saw some old stuff, but after a while, a person tires of seeing old stuff. Old woman would come and say hello and introduce themselves in a very friendly manner. Then they would ask us to buy water. I'm definitely tired of being seen as a walking ATM.

On the way back to Ninh Binh, the redness of Gregg's sunburn became quite apparent. We stopped so he could apply sunscreen. Soon he had an audience of a dozen people. One guy told him to wear a long sleeve shirt. Good advice.

Since the train was full, we're headed on a bus to Hue tonight. Hopefully we can get some clothes washed there.

Giant Jellyfish

2005-05-15T21:23:00.000-06:00

Hanoi is not a quiet place. Motorcycles buzz by in crazier ways than in Taiwan. Many intersections are uncontrolled so the traffic weaves around in ways inconceivable to Western drivers. Motorbike drivers congregate on the street and yell "Woo hoo, motorbike!" to the passing foreigners. Some won't take no for an answer and will follow us down the street. If you so much as look at a vendor's wares, they will follow you persistently, intent on not leaving you alone until you buy something. An old man kept touching us and thrusting his goods in our faces while we sat in the shade to escape the heat. Ladies patrol the area balancing two baskets on either end of a stick propped on their shoulders. If you buy fruit from them, they will pose for pictures. They will block the sidewalk to make you buy something. Guys come running out with boxes of books - photocopied books! - and try to persuade you to buy. Some know English, but most only know enough to sell whatever they want to sell. This is definitely a crazy city. The Vietnamese people are simultaneously welcoming and offensive.

We went to the Ho Chi Minh Masoleum complex where there are museums and a Ho Chi's embalmed corpse. However, the corpse viewing is only in the morning so we started walking back towards the bus. While we sat on the curb deciding what to do next, a man stood watching us for several minutes. When we started walking, we eventually gave in to his pleading and took a ride on his cyclo. A cyclo is a kind of rickshaw with a seat in front and a bicycle in back. It was a little cozy for the two of us, but we got to see a lot of embassies and Lenin Park as we slowly made our way back to the old city. It was interesting being in the middle of some of those intersections.

Despite Gregg's lack of eagerness, we went to the water puppet show. Water puppetry is a distinctly north Vietnamese art form developed a long time ago during flood season. People stand behind a curtain in a couple feet of water and operate puppets in front of them by means of wooden sticks. There was live music featuring a zither and other Oriental instruments. It was cool and strange at the same time. An hour was enough, but it was interesting.

On Friday, we went on yet another bus to begin our tour of Halong Bay and Cat Ba Island. After an annoying stop at a tourist trap and a long wait at a restaurant we didn't eat at, we settled onto a large junk (Chinese boat) which to my disappointment lacked the characteristic sails. We quickly jumped up on top of the boat to take in the view of the bay.

More than 3000 islands jut out of the ocean in Halong Bay. Some rise like big Hershey Kisses. Some are like towers with smaller bases eroded away by water. The water is not spectacularly blue like the islands in Thailand, but they are stunning and amazing. We were taken to a huge cave with crazy rock formations. The flags outside proudly declare that it is a UNESCO World Heritage site. The cave itself is impressive, but the human additions are laughable and annoying. They have lit the cave with fluorescent lights of many colors, creating a disco ambience. They've paved a trail and created fake waterfalls and fountains. Instead of telling real history, the guide kept pointing out formations and telling some weird story about a dragon king getting married. Without our guide, we went into a second, more natural cave and enjoyed it more.

We spent the rest of the day cruising around the islands. Besides the scenery, the highlight was seeing giant jellyfish. With a diameter of at least 2 and a half, maybe three feet, they swam through the ocean like semi-translucent mushrooms. Despite their nearness, we did go swimming and play with some kayaks before supper. We tried to see the stars through the clouds as we chatted with our guide. He told us he enjoys communicating with people, but left the top deck as soon as the other passengers came. When we couldn't keep our eyes open anymore, we headed to our room on the lowest deck where we slept well until the power cut off at 5 am and our room became sweltering hot because the fan wasn't on.

On Saturday, we were sent with another guide to the national park on Cat Ba island. We had thought we would do only a short trek, but soon were told about the morning's fourteen kilometer trek up a mountain. After docking, we walked 4 km to a Viet Hai village. We could have hired motorbikes to take us for a dollar. A local guide was supposed to take us the rest of the way. We got to the trailhead and he motioned for Gregg and I to keep going. We didn't see the guide again until we reached the top. Gregg was hoping he was leading everyone up the right trail. It was a steep climb, one of the most intense hikes I've ever done. Gregg was first, a tough Swedish girl second and I took the bronze. We beat most of the group by about half an hour. The guide showed up with a determined old Australian. Everyone was absolutely drenched in sweat. But the view was worth it. First, we could see the village far below us and their fields rippling in the breeze. And around the other side, we could see the bay with the thousands of islands and Halong city in the distance. The water looked blue and inviting. I was thankful I stuck it out to the top.

On our way back to the village, we made friends with some puppies and missed our beloved dog Radar - perhaps the best dog in the entire world. After lunch, we hiked back to the boat and set sail for a beach to do kayaking and swimming. They stopped the boat a hundred meters from a beach and told us we could swim there because it was too shallow for them to go in. Not impressed, we opted to kayak over and skimmed over some jellyfish on the way, touching them with our paddles. The beach was small and dirty with gross sand so we sat in the water chatting with Europeans.

The next stop was Cat Ba town and the Sunflower Hotel. This was the nicest room we'd had yet. There were two beds, AC, tv, a fridge and a bathtub. After supper, we tried to walk around, but the hike had worn us out. We watched a weird song and dance show on the street and then bought ice cream. We were asleep by ten.

Sunday, we were reunited with our junk and took a different route through the bay. It was hot and we had trouble staying awake. We ate at a restaurant and bussed back to Hanoi. We were ready to get off the bus because of a septet of Spaniards who seemed incapable of speaking Spanish quietly, but enjoyed increasing their volume whenever we fell asleep.

One of the people on the slow boat to Luang Prabang was a Kiwi named Matt on his way to the UK. We've ran into him several times here in Hanoi. I'm sure we'll see him in Hue too. And maybe Hoi An . . . I also saw a guy I met in a village in the middle of Laos.

The currency here is the dong. One US dollar is 15, 800 dong. We recently withdrew millions of dong from our bank accounts. The 50 000 and 100 000 notes are made of plastic. It's kind of interesting.

Crossing into Vietnam

2005-05-12T04:02:00.000-06:00

On Tuesday the tenth, we got up at 5 in the morning. For an oilman like Gregg, that's not too early. But English teachers like me don't usually see the sunrise . . . unless we've been up all night long. Actually, it was hard for both of us to rise. But the bus to the border was leaving at 6:30 and we needed to be there earlier to get a seat. However, when we arrived at the bus station, we were not directed to a bus. We were directed to a truck. I can't pronounce the correct name, but it's a common form of transport here. It's a pick up with two benches in the back and a topper. The truck already looked full when we arrived and no one seemed real anxious to let us in, but we crawled in, and sat there with our back hunched over. The roof was too low for short me, let alone significantly taller Gregg. He was in agony shortly. His spot in the truck was not ideal earlier. On his right was a woman with a cold who kept blowing her nose on her dusty rose jacket. At one point, she blew a snot rocket which didn't make it outside the truck, but on the seat behind Gregg. On his other side was an ancient man smoking acrid cigarettes and periodically dredging up phlegm and spitting. As we wound through the mountains, the large water jugs in the middle started to roll around.

Eventually we stopped and were told to get out. It didn't look like a border crossing to us, but the little old ladies showed us what to do. The Lao border station is a row of wooden rooms full of uniformed men. They looked at our passports for quite some time and stamped us out of the country and pointed to the road to Nam. With all our packs on our backs, we started walking a gravel/chunky pavement road. Gregg stopped to help some old ladies with a cart of sticks while some young men sat smoking beside them. Chivalry is dead on the road between Laos and Vietnam, I guess. It was weird looking up at the mountains and the trees of Vietnam, knowing I would soon be in that country. Growing up, I never had any inclination to go to Asia and now it's where I've travelled the most. Weird.

The Vietnam border crossing was a series of bamboo huts. Despite the negative info we'd received, it turns out that the Na Meo border has been open to foreigners since April 2004 and hasn't been turning people back. We were quite glad to not redo the truck ride of the morning. We went around from hut to hut with papers and had some of our bags searched. An English speaking officer was delighted to give us some travel advice and sent us on our way.

Now the problem was getting to Hanoi. There is only one bus from the border every week. Since we didn't want to wait until Saturday for that one bus, we went into the village in search of some motorcyclists to haul us to another town - just like the nice border man counselled us. Some guys smoking a bong were excited to see us, and gave us some tea while they played with our sunglasses. The whole family came out to look at us. They overcharged us, but we couldn't argue because we had to get out of there if we wanted to make Hanoi that night. They strapped my pack to the back of an old motorcycle and precariously placed Gregg's in front of the driver of a new bike. And off we went down a windy road with no helmets. I snapped some pictures of the hills. Children on bicycles would smile and yell hello when they realized we were foreigners. Guys would holler to my driver when they saw his foreign female cargo. It was fun . . . until the bike started to stall. Gregg and his driver had disappeared and I was alone with my driver who took my water bottle, drank most of it and then poured the rest on the bike. We limped along a little further. Gregg's driver ditched Gregg and came back. It was a long stupid process. Towards the end, we switched drivers and realized that the problem was the driver, not the bike. My first driver didn't know how to downshift and drove over cautiously around the corners, honking and honking. I got upset because the border guy had told us the bus left at 1 and we were still several kilometers from Quan Son. It took us about two hours and twenty minutes to drive 53 kilometers.

But praise the Lord! The bus hadn't left yet. We offered the four dollars it should have cost, but the guy demanded twenty. We offered ten since we were desperate ( I don't think there were any guesthouses there.) The bus actually took off without us. But they stopped and let us in. I bonked my head crawling into the bus and then greedily drank the little bit of water we had left. Gregg did his best to keep me under control. All the guys sat backwards in their seats just to stare at us. I was so annoyed.

We named the greedy guy "Snake" because of his evil beady eyes. He's our first enemy of the trip and kept giving us the evil eye. During a break for coconut juice, he actually left the table when everyone else called us over and tried to make friends. We named his pal "Lizard" because he was creepy, but harmless. Lizard would crawl on top of the bus to secure luggage and they'd take off while he was still up there. He'd crawl down while the bus was moving. He's quite talented. They honk the horns all the time here to let people know they're coming. It seemed to go off every ten seconds.

When we were almost at Thanh Hoa where the land flattens out into rice fields bordered by spectacular cliffs, Snake stopped the bus and ran into a store where a policeman had parked his motorcycle. He came out with the policeman and we had to exit the bus and present our passports. Snake stood there beaming. We really think he was hoping we'd done something wrong. He was happy to scare us. The policeman was disinterested and I was quite eager for the bus ride to be over.

When we arrived in Thanh Hoa, we boarded a bus for Hanoi. It was luxuriously cool inside. There weren't many people and we each took two seats. But as we went, we picked up more and more people. We had our big packs with us and had to cram ourselves into one seat. We found out later that everyone else left their stuff in a storage compartment in the back, but no one told us about that.

It took another three and a half hours to go 130 kilometers. There is no freeway in Vietnam. Everyone has to slog away through the cities. We got dropped at a bus station and motorcycle drivers swarmed us like flies. After the morning's adventure, we had no interest in another ride. When we couldn't find a bus, we beat the drivers away and found refuge in a cab bound for the Old Quarter. We were both worn out and grumpy and not the best combination. Gregg was quick to declare, "I hate this place" as the driver dropped us off on a dirty dark street with hundreds of motorcycles swerving around us. I blew up at a girl trying to get us to stay at her guesthouse because I was sick of people in my face. Gregg was very diplomatic, and soothed over the situation. We did take a room from her, a great room and I did my best to apologize.

With the erratic schedule and the poor gourmet selection in Sam Neua, we had hardly eaten in two days. We tried to find something, but shops kept closing in our faces. We found some water and went to bed, enjoying the air conditioning and Cartoon Network and two big beds.

For Gregg's birthday, we slept in and actually ate lunch. We explored the area around Hoan Keim Lake and went into an old Catholic church and a temple. At an ATM, I took too long and it confiscated my card so I had to return a few hours later to get it. I felt a little stupid. We went shopping - there are tons and tons of shops here. Gregg talked to the parents on the phone, surprising them with the news we were in Hanoi. Then we ate at a pizza buffet and made up for the calories we'd missed in the previous days.

Today was more sightseeing and shopping. Tonight we'll go to Hanoi's famous water puppets. Gregg's not too excited about that. Tomorrow we take off for Ha Long Bay and Cat Ba Island. Right now, it sounds like paradise.

Happy Hanoi Birthday

2005-05-11T09:00:00.000-06:00

Good morning Vietnam! Now that I got that out of my system, I would like everyone to know that May 11 is Gregg's birthday. After the cool mountains of Laos, we are sweating profusely in the hot city of Hanoi. We made it here after an arduous journey and to celebrate Gregg's birthday, we got an air conditioned room with a TV, big beds and cable television. It's going to be a long post because the last few days have been quite interesting. So maybe you should put on your reading glasses.

Those of you who know both Gregg and I know that we tend to make decisions by default - we hem and haw and then have to deal with the consequences of waiting too long. Most travellers in Laos take a southern route to cross into central Vietnam because according to tourist police, foreign embassies, other travellers, and guidebooks like Lonely Planet, the only legal crossings for foreigners are in the south. We weren't too excited about that because we would have to do a lot of backtracking in order to see what we want to of Vietnam. We heard from a few sources that we could actually cross further north at Na Meo. So about half an hour before the bus left for Northern Laos, we decided to go. We threw all our belongings into our backpacks and headed for the bus station, bidding Vang Vieng's cliffs adieu.

The bus was definitely not a VIP bus. Along with two other foreigners and a plethora of Lao people, we boarded an ancient sturdy bus reminiscent of Air Streams. As usual, our stuff was thrown onto the top of the bus. I've never seen anything fall off. Gregg's seat companion, a very tired man, kept falling asleep on his shoulder. They passed out plastic bags for people to puke in because the terrain is crazy. It's all up, down, right, left. It's like a crazy roller coaster. You have to hold on for dear life. One girl in particular suffered from motion sickness.

But the scenery was gorgeous and made the carnival ride worth it. I can't describe the beauty of the green green hills and the villages nestled beside the side of the road. Laos is incredibly beautiful and I know that my words and my pictures could never convey to you the wonderful things we saw as we snaked through the countryside on that bus.

On the bus, we made friends with John, a well travelled Australian who told us travel tales of places I've never really heard of. He's a former Navy man who served off the coast in the Vietnam War - which we are learning to call the American War. We spent the next day and a half in his company. It was kind of weird - we're the same age as his children.

At one point, the bus stopped and everyone started jabbering. A lady had forgotten her cell phone at the restaurant where we'd stopped for lunch. A motorcycle went back to retrieve and the bus stayed parked partway up a hill around a bend for over half an hour. That wouldn't have happened in the western world.

After 8 hours and only about 150 kilometers, we arrived in Phonsavanh and the most heavily bombed place in the Vietnam/American War. The hills were sprayed with Agent Orange so now only grass grows on them. They've brought in eucalyptus trees because they're the only ones that will grow in the ravaged soil. Bomb craters dot the landscape and the people can't stray off established paths for fear of blowing their foot off on an old landmine. The British organization MAG is working to clear the land of UXO - unexploded ordnance - left over from the war. We went there to learn about the war and to see the mysterious Plain of the Jars.

On Sunday, Gregg, John our Aussie friend, and I went on a tour of the Jars and other sights. When the promised air con van refused to start, we were placed in an ancient Russian car that appeared to have been painted with house paint. Our guide Malan told us a little about the war - like the Americans getting the people to grow opium to fund the war - but mainly quizzed us about drinking and social life in Canada. He told us his dad had lived in a cave for five years during the war. A lot of the caves in Laos served as residences during the war.

The Plain of the Jars is really just that - a field full of huge old stone jars. They are probably about five hundred to a thousand years old and their origin and purpose are unknown. It's speculated they were funeral urns or vats for making rice whiskey. No one knows for sure. The biggest one weighs 6.6 tonnes (we think). They think that some of them may have come from as far as three hundred kilometers away - quite impressive given Laos' rugged terrain. There are several sites. We saw one. We had to keep to the paths because MAG hasn't totally finished clearing the site.

We also saw an old Russian tank, the old American airstrip, a cleared mine field full of little craters, and tons of old bombs that haven't been disarmed yet. It was a little scary at times following the guide through all the bush. He took us to a Buddha cave where a lot of Buddhas had been hidden for protection. The Americans had also used it during the war. We also saw a medicine cave full of glass medicine bottles and a coffin cave with old bones in a wooden coffin. We felt uncomfortable at all three caves and don't recommend them to anyone. We also went to a UXO village. With all the bomb casings and scrap and shells readily available, the people have gotten quite creative. They flatten barrels for roofs and use casings as fence posts. Pots and cutlery are made from metal from airplanes. We ate dinner with such spoons.

There were two highlights to the day. Gregg and I both tried some barbecued frog legs. We also stopped and played Lao football with some village kids. This game is like volleyball played with the feet, head, shoulders, legs and chest, but no arms or hands. I was no good, but luckily the driver was awesome so we beat the kids.

Monday, despite negative news from other travellers and the Canadian embassy, we continued our trek into northern Laos by boarding yet another bus bound for the town of Sam Neua. We were the only foreigners and thankfully there weren't too many Lao either so we had our own seats. They got over staring eventually. This trip was even windier than previous ones. Gregg counted the straight stretches and never made it past five Mississippis. He usually only made two or three. We couldn't sleep because we had to grip the handles on the seats.

When we stopped for lunch, a kind non-English speaking lady understood my pantomine and lead me far away through a restaurant into the back of a yard to a toilet. I ran into a foreigner in the restaurant who gave me discouraging news about the border I intended to cross, but it was too late. I was headed there. The bus driver and his domineering wife were changing the bald tire on the bus in favor of a slightly less bald spare. Gregg got in there and helped them, wielding a 5 foot snipe to tighten the bolts. The driver's skill amazed me. He drove for hours on end on a tiny road only wide enough for one vehicle, honking his horn to announce going around a corner. He could maneuver that bus anywhere.

Sam Neua is a beautiful and surprisingly large town in northern Laos. It's well off the tourist circuit so we were stared down pretty hard upon arrival. We actually saw three other foreigners in this valley settlement. We went to the riverside market. Shops and fruit vendors are scattered outside. There is a main building of the same quality as a fifty year old granary where tons of little shops are set up in a labrinth. When we first walked in, we were in the meat department. Gregg saw a leg lying on a table and wanted to throw up. We pinched our noses and ran to the other shops where you could buy almost anything needed for your typical Northern Laos lifestyle.

We were walking down one of the gravel streets and a boy came walking up to us. I saw a knife in his hand and he put it behind us as he drew near. We thought he wanted to stab Gregg, but thankfully, no.

My hands are getting sore and I'm sure you're tired of my verbosity. The story gets more interesting as we make our way from Sam Neua to Hanoi. You'll have to wait for the next installment of our travel narrative.

Do you want a happy shake?

2005-05-06T05:00:00.000-06:00

I'm not quite sure what "medicinal" ingredients there are in a happy shake, but I've been told to avoid them. Vang Vieng is known as a druggie kind of place.

Well, back to where we left off . . . we boarded a bus for Vang Vieng which turned out to be air conditioned (a la windows open) and VIP (meaning we are very important people). We arrived too early and got put on a less express bus. We were barely out of town when the bus overheated and I think we drove the rest of the way with the engine compartment open. We went through crazy terrain, and tight switch backs, sometimes inches from plummeting off the cliff into the dark abyss below. We had a break halfway through and the driver fell asleep within minutes of turning off the bus and snored for a solid half an hour. I think he was kicking back the Red Bull later. I eventually fell asleep as we drove, and Gregg acted as a pillow for the Lao woman beside him.

At 2:45 AM, we awoke to a guy shouting "VANG VIENG" and we stumbled out into the darkness. Literal darkness. We could not make out a town anywhere. We walked for 30 minutes trying to find the town. We donned our headlamps and still could not find it. We did find a guesthouse and woke up the guy at the front desk to give us a room.

The next morning, I went out to find town. I went outside the door and had my first glimpse of the beauty of Vang Vieng. Limestone cliffs form a dramatic backdrop behind the river. The mountains rise to jagged little tops with trees seemingly growing out of the rock. I was so happy to find Vang Vieng. I got Gregg and we checked into the Nana Guesthouse where Lao coffee, tea and bananas are free. We can see the cliffs from our room.

Vang Vieng has changed in the last few years as more and more tourists discover it. Several restaurants blare the tv show "Friends". I can hear about three episodes playing at once. It's a little bit of overkill. They have pillows for you to get comfortable. Some restaurants let you pick movies. Gregg and I watched "Envy". I feel sorry for all the other people at the restaurant who had to watch it with us.

One of the featured activities here is to tube down the Nam Song river into town. A few dollars and you are driven out a few kilometers with a tube and let loose on the river. It was amazing to see all the cliffs so close up. Little stands line the banks declaring "Jumping Beer". Buy beer and you can make use of their zipline, jumping platform, swing or rope swing. We didn't buy any Beer Lao, but did make use of some jumping facilities. The rope swing wasn't too nice on Gregg's shoulder. Fishermen labored with goggles and spears and nets. Children swam and sang songs. The occasional vendor would strum his guitar and make up songs about Beer Lao. It was incredibly relaxing. But eventually it got incredibly old. The water is low since it's the dry season. The rainy season is around the corner, but for now the river is slow and I kept hitting my butt on the rocks. We kept having to paddle with our arms. As town came into sight, we picked up the tubes and finished on a land route. It took us four hours. In prime season, it only takes 30 minutes to an hour.

Today, we went on a trip called the "Vang Vieng Experience" through the Wildside organization. They pioneered the eco-tourism movement in Laos and we wanted to support them in their attempts at low impact tourism. We joined an Australian guy with a huge grey mustache and a non-descript Welshman for a day of kayaking, and caving. One of our guides was on his inaugural trip. He usually works in the office. We were driven about 7-10 kilometers out of town and then began kayaking in inflatable sea kayaks. It was definitely faster than tubing. Gregg was initially irritated at my ineptitude in steering, but ate his words later when I made him do it. We soon were in stride. Our first stop was a cave. We hiked about ten minutes and then wandered through a series of caverns, encountering locals on their way through. It was pretty cool. We went in one way and out another. We then went to a waterfall that wasn't there and had to backtrack. Back at the river, we jumped off a platform. I took the baby level and Gregg went straight for the top, but we both had trouble with water in our ears the rest of the day. We chowed down and hopped back in the canoes. The next stop was an organic farm - and the entry point for the tubers. The organic farm cafe served us tea made from mulberry leaves and then we saw the women working on preparing the tea leaves. Next we stopped at Tham None - the sleeping cave - which Gregg and I had stopped at the day before, but hadn't wandered much inside. Crazy stagatites hung from the ceilings like the thing at the back of your throat. We had to wade through a cold puddle up to our knees to make it to the back caverns. In one large cavern, the guide had us turn off our lights and he told us why it's called the sleeping cave. When the country was at war, about 20-30 people slept there every night. I can't imagine living in a dark dank cave. We ate some fire fruit, took some pictures and paddled back to town.

Before coming here, I knew a little of the history of the region - basically the horrors that happened in Vietnam and Cambodia. I didn't know about Laos. In the seventies, the US carpet bombed it. About 30% of the bombs didn't explode and in some regions of the country, it's dangerous to walk off the trail. They are cleaning up the country, but it's a slow process.

Thanks to everyone for the comments. We read all of them. Someday I'll read your blogs and post comments too.

Lazy Days in Luang Prabang

2005-05-04T02:58:00.001-06:00

The guidebooks say that every day is like Sunday in Luang Prabang. After a couple lazy days here, we now understand what they mean. We woke up on Tuesday morning in a quiet town where palm trees wave in the wind and white clouds float over head while foreigners and locals alike cruise around on bicycles or sit resting in the shade. All the buildings have wooden shutters on the windows and have an Asian-European feel. It's hard to believe that we're in such a remote location.

The French considered Laos a colony during the days when every Western country wanted colonies. Our Austrian friend Weed Wacker says that France only kept Laos for the opium - which is probably true. French is the second language so all government signs are written in Lao and French. (Lucky for us English is the language of tourism.) The bakeries all sell baguettes and French bread so we've had some awesome sandwiches. We have had some more traditional Laos meals as well. They don't use chopsticks, but instead serve up sticky rice in little wicker baskets. You form a ball of rice and dip it in your food. It really is quite fun.

Yesterday afternoon, we went to the Kuangsi Waterfall with all of our new friends from the slow boat. Laura the Canadian was happy to not be the only Canadian in a group of English. We climbed into the back of a cab truck and motored down a gravel road for 29 kilometers. When we got off and walked the path, we saw the most stunning waterfall ever. It was a series of long tall cascades with three main tiers plunging through the rain forest with mountains all around. We stood open mouthed at the bottom before making our ascent up the slippery rocks to the top. The rain started to fall as we climbed, drenching us all, and making everything a little slipperier.

At the top, we could look out at the entire canyon and see orange robed monks playing in the pool near the top. Despite the rain, we joined them. Gregg enjoyed his first rock jumping experience and quickly plunged into the blue pool. It is so hard to describe. It was my most magical waterfall experience. We could lean over the edge of the pool and look way down at the cascades and pools below us. I could have stayed there forever.

We had dinner by the river and then joined the slow boat crowd at Le Tam Tam. En route, we were walking through the market when it started to rain. We knew it was raining before we felt it because all the vendors grabbed their wares off the ground and started running. Soon, we too were running in the rain. We arrived at Le Tam Tam a little wet. Tim, a Dutch guy, told Gregg stories about helping to clean up the Phi Phi islands after the Tsunami. Everyone was there - even Wolverine and the Austrians - and planned to participate in some karaoke. However, Gregg and I broke ourselves away from the group in favor of a more authentic Lao experience.

Muongswa by Night - the Laos disco. We were the only white people there. We entered through red padded doors into a dark room with disco lights and a live band that played the occasional English song like Suzie Q. Young and old danced together out on the floor with the flashing lights and blacklights. They seemed to love a dance where everyone walks in a circle rotating their wrists. I participated in Laos line dance. I got a few looks. When the band took a break, the place erupted into Laos techno dance party. The old people didn't sit down but kept grooving to the music. It was awesome and hilarious. I tried to dance with them, but I dance too fast. They operate at half the speed I do.

Today, we went to the Palace museum. A former residence of the kings from the 20th century has been made into a museum. We wandered through reception rooms and a throne room and peaked at some bedrooms. The throne room was ornate with a glass mosaic on the walls depicting Laos folk tales. The reception room housed gifts to Laos from other nations. The bedrooms were surprisingly simple with white walls and sparse furniture. After the museum, we hiked up the 329 steps to the top of Mt. Phousi in the middle of Luang Prabang. The wats aren't too interesting there, but the view of the Mekong to the west and the valley to the east was amazing. Palm trees and red roofs fill the basin up the green hills. We saw an old Russian anti-aircraft gun. Uncle Vic would have been fascinated. Afterwards, we rented bicycles and wandered around town. We've seen the sights here now so we have only one thing left to do: chill. That seems to be what most people do here.

We've been here long enough that we can now recognize when people are new off the boat. Time seems to stand still here. In a few hours, we'll board a "VIP" air con bus for Vang Vien. We'll see how "VIP" and how "Air Con" it is.

The Slow Boat to LP Bang

2005-05-02T06:59:00.000-06:00

Well, since we last wrote, we have logged a lot of hours travelling. Unfortunately, we did not leave Chiang Mai without saying goodbye to our friend at the guesthouse. At least we won't have to see him again.

Our minibus from Chiang Mai was full of English people. (A minibus is really a minivan with an extra seat.) They were all English except us. There was a guy who had found a decapitated wooden duck on Ko Toa. He stuck the head back on and carried it around with him. His buddy had a laptop and they all listened to Shakirah and Christina Aguilera and other inane music. They were nice people, but definitely had different tastes than us. Most of the people we've met are from the UK and they seem to enjoy sitting around talking about BBC television shows we've never heard of. The drive took us through a mountainous national park, past Chiang Rai and to the plains of the north where the fields are surrounded by mountains. Little old woman toiled in the sun wearing big brimmed hats.

We arrived in Chiang Khong as the sun was setting and caught our first glimpse of the sleepy Mekong river and the banks of Laos on the other side. We scored a room for 80 baht. The room felt like we were camping at a cheap cabin somewhere. There is no night life in this town except for a few bars catering to foreign tourists. In these establishments, the nightlife consists of showing pirated movies. We watched Constantine (weird, didn't like it) and Million Dollar Baby (didn't like the ending). I definitely got my fill of movies for a while. It was nice in the grass roofed bar, sitting on a bench as the rain beat down outside. We heard the loudest crack of thunder ever.

Once in Chiang Khong, we had to make an important decision: which boat to take to Luang Prabang. The fast boat is a little costlier, lasting about six hours in a kamikaze long boat with an oversized motor. Crash helmets are provided, but you need your own ear plugs for the deafening roar and a ton of sunscreen because there's no shade. Reports say it's unsafe. The other option is the slow boat, a mind numbing two day venture with an overnight in a tiny town. The seats are not too comfortable and at every village they stop to add more people, and add more plastic chairs if needed. But it is covered and fairly safe. Both sound rather hellish.

After being ferried across the river to Laos customs and immigration, we took the slow boat. Gregg and I shared a rickety wooden seat only big enough for one western bum. Throughout the first cramped and uncomfortable day, we met some interesting people.First, there was drunk lady. She had drunk a few vodka and orange juices before we took off. We watched her lapse into alcoholic coma. I'm sure the trip seemed fast for her.Then there was Wolverine. He looked like a Scandinavian X-Men character with chops, facial piercings, and long blond hair. His girlfriend looked Israeli and they were quite nice.Gregg made friends with a Swedish guy fresh out of the army. They were both tired though and didn't have too much to say. We met our first Canadian of the trip, a girl named Laura from Edmonton. And once again, there were tons of English. And an overly talkative Kiwi couple.

But of the sixty people aboard, our favorites were the Austrians. There was "Sonny" - the dreadlock guy with the Chinese girlfriend and "Weed Wacker" a guy with huge sunglasses who looked like a weed wacker styled his hair. They had Thai and Laos beer, a couple coolers of ice and packs of big cigarettes. They rolled a few joints as well. They were unaffected by the alcohol and proved to be quite entertaining through the whole ordeal.

We stayed overnight in Pakbeng, which Gregg calls "Nowhere, Laos". It's only accessible by boat and I think tourism is the main source of their income. One dollar US is 10 000 kip so we paid about 30 000 for a meal. I have a huge stack of bills and it's only worth about fifty bucks.

Today, we had a better boat. We had seats instead of benches and I didn't feel like they were going to collapse under us. When we got to our seats at 8 AM, not too many people were there yet. Heinrich was sitting there doing Calculus and writing stuff about matrices. He didn't say anything all day long.

The scenery was gorgeous. Green green hills and crazy rock formations by the muddy water. There were little villages and huts at the river's edge and children playing in the water would dance and wave at us. Cows would continue their grazing and fishermen would labor with their nets affixed to bamboo poles. The landscape got more rugged today with sheer rock cliffs and jagged peaks rising into the blue sky. This country definitely is beautiful. We saw an elephant hauling logs off of a boat by the river.

And now we are in Luang Prabang - quite thankful to be off that little boat. Laos used to be a French colony and some of the feel has survived here. I look forward to exploring it tomorrow.

Bye Bye Chiang Mai

2005-04-29T20:51:00.000-06:00

In a few hours, we will leave the city of Chiang Mai. This city is home to about a hundred huge wats (temple complexes) so almost every direction you look, you see the peak of one temple. Gregg spent the day yesterday roaming the streets of the old city, getting lost periodically and taking pictures of the old temples. The old city is confined by a canal that forms a kind of moat. An old wall runs alongside it. It made me feel like I should be living in a medieval castle and running from dragons.

While Gregg was getting asked directions to gay bars by strange Asians on the street, I was taking a Thai cooking class with Orn, a Thai lady who survived the tsunami down south. My fellow aspiring cooks were an English couple ten and half months into a year long world tour. The guy seriously looked like David Letterman's skinny British cousin. I ground curry paste by hand, made some spring rolls, coconut soup, and other delicacies. We'll see how I do when I try to make them at home. The chicken cooking technique I learned was "Thai Massage" - instead of flipping the chicken around, massage it with your spatula to keep it tender. We ate a lot, and had naps, and drank a lot of water. It was an interesting day.

When Gregg was exploring alone, he met a weird Asian man who knows Frank Callaghan of the Callaghan Inn in Medicine Hat. Gregg had trouble understanding him, but apparently Frank gets suits sent to him from here. Small world.

At the guesthouse, a pushy lady named Boo Boo runs the show. She's helped us out a lot, but somehow I feel she's ripping us off. But the main reason we are excited to get out of there is her brother, a limp looking Thai man with no muscles. He calls me "Jennifer Lopez" and then tells me I don't look beautiful. He seems to enjoy freaking Gregg out. In my absence, he asked Gregg if he loved him. Later, he called me his "sister-in-law" because Gregg was his boyfriend. Gregg would like to punch him out, but we're afraid that his family would gang beat us if anything happened. Hopefully, we won't see him today.

Last night, we walked to the Chiang Mai night bazaar and saw lots of lady-boys on the way. The bazaar sells a lot of the same tourist stuff as the rest of Thailand - knock-off Diesel, Von Dutch, beach clothes, jewelry, tribal trinkets. Since we're going to be on the road for several more weeks, we don't want to buy a bunch of stuff and then cart it around. But it's pretty tempting when you see the cheap deals in the little booths and tables that line the streets.

After breaking down and buying a few things, we started walking to the Kawila Boxing Area for a night of watching Muay Thai - Thai Kick Boxing. I stupidly made us walk too far so we were late, but it didn't matter because the evening started late. The arena was an old dingy building full of vendors. We sat on plastic chairs a couple rows from the ring in the midst of other crazy backpackers and tourists. The drums started beating and out came two tiny guys - 42 KG weight class. I think we were watching ten year olds beat each other. They climbed into the ring, did a series of bowing and stretching rituals, and then the five round fight began. The little guys were interesting, but they played pretty clean. As the night wore on, it got more interesting. Match five was my favorite - a super muscly guy against a fiesty guy. They had some good kicks and jabs going. There were two special matches - one Thai vs. French (the French guy lost fast) and one Thai vs. American (the American won easily in the first round because he was way bigger than the Thai guy.) It wasn't as gruesome as we thought it would be, but it was super cool. Of the eight fights, there were about four knockouts. By the time we left, I was tired of the drums pounding in my ears.

Today, we're taking a mini-bus to Chiang Khong and the border of Laos and Thailand. This is a couple hours away from the infamous Golden triangle where Laos, Myanmar and Thailand meet and most of the world's opium is grown. Thailand has stamped out most of the production on this side of the border. There's not much to do at the border but sleep, and in the morning, we'll cross into Laos, and get on a bus or a boat to either Luang Nam Pha or Luang Prabang. We'll update you again whenever we get where we're going.

Angry Elephants

2005-04-28T07:00:00.000-06:00

On Wednesday morning we took off on our trek with a rather random group of people. There was an Australian couple, two very white girls from England, and an older Japanese couple. For once, I was the darkest person in the group. Our guides were San and Pakwa, an actual tribesman who walks around in a Mr. Magic hat.

They herded us like cattle into the back of a pick-up lined with benches and off we went to the national park police office and a market. We drove a long time and wondered when the walking would begin on our trek. They took us to an elephant camp to ride the elephants. Gregg was quite excited about this and we hopped on the back of an old elephant because we thought the young handler looked like a cool guy. Well, I was wrong. Gregg says he wanted the dude in the Nirvana t-shirt. We went down a hill into the jungle and were having an awesome time when the elephant blew his nose on us. The other elephants put their trunks under their bodies to blow them, but not ours. I think he hated us. I had green chunks of cornstalk all over. But it got worse. He started digging in the red earth and then repeatedly blew funky mud all over us. We were ready for the ride to be over quite quickly. Then the handler took him to have more water so we got hosed again. At the end of the ride, we opted not to buy bananas to feed him.

After a lunch of fried rice, we started walking through the beautiful jungle. Bamboo, all kinds of trees, grass, rivers, and mountains. It was hard to keep our eyes on the path. Gregg and I walked close to Pakwa and he kept showing us cool things with leaves. He showed us how to blow bubbles with the leaf of a rubber tree, how to make a popping sound with another, and other cool things. After a few hours in the fierce heat, we stopped at a waterfall and played for a while. We kept a steady pace with Pakwa, while San kept up the rear with the Japanese, continually admonishing, "slowly, slowly." Then we'd take a "break break."

All the time we were walking, I kept thinking: there'll probably be a road next to the tribal village and we could have drove there just as easily. There was a road of sorts. The village itself consists of lots of huts with leaf roofs scattered throughout a hilly area. We marched past a Catholic church, and children playing to the back side of the village and the hut where we would sleep. The people are known as the white Karen because unmarried girls have to wear white dresses. We actually didn't get to interact with many of them which I suppose is just as well for them. I did make friends with one woman by helping her do some hoeing in the heavy red earth. Our guides cooked us curry, cabbage and rice with lychee for dessert. We ate by candlelight. Later, San told us some stories of the Karen people, including an unnecessary monologue on birth control. He also entertained us with stories about Thailand's infamous lady-boys, with sporadic jabs at Pakwa, telling us he's a ladyboy. Pakwa kept replying in broken English, "I'm a man!". He was pretty worried about it and kept declaring his manhood even after San had left. He showed us stick games and told us jokes that weren't very funny. We looked up at an unfamiliar night sky with our favorite constellations turned upside down and went to bed in the hut - but not before hearing the gecko say "gecko" and not before an ugly chicken pecked at Gregg's foot.

In the morning, I wanted to make friends with the kids. But then they started shooing the dogs and chickens away from the table. Soon the toddler had a big stick and was beating a dog with it. I decided I didn't want to play with him afterall.

More walking, walking . . . tons of barren rice patties because this is the dry season. The rivers are low and we could cross them all easily. We stopped at an awesome waterfall where the water shoots over an overhang. We would stand under the overhang and be amazed at God's creation. Gregg saw his first banana tree, pineapple plant, lemon tree, lychee tree, mango tree, jackfruit tree, lemon grass . . . Pakwa the liar pointed out an opium field to us. Turns out it was only lilies. (Gregg had believed him the day before when he told us he'd been to Canada.) Seriously, his uncle does have an opium farm and one time Pakwa took a bunch of opium, "mistaking" it for some kind of vegetable. Then more walking, lunch, and herded into the back of a truck to be taken rafting. At lunch, we ran into another trekking group. Gregg and I weren't totally delighted with our companions but were quite thankful for them after seeing our alternatives. The other group consisted of creepy Chinese men with hairs growing out of their moles and fat obnoxious middle-aged hippie women with their guts hanging out as they smoked and drank beer.

The bamboo rafts are made of about 8 long poles strapped together. Gregg and I were paired with our new Japanese friends - a martial arts teacher and a company president. They sat in the middle, Gregg had a pole at the back, I sat in front, and a child laborer steered the raft. The water was definitely way too low and our precious river guide - a kid no more than 13 and 100 lbs - struggled to keep us going. He'd hop off and reef on the raft just to get it over the rocks. I tried to help, but my sandal came off. Towards the end, Gregg and I swapped positions because he had a headache. We had already been passed by a couple of groups and the trip was getting a little long. We'd go through rapids okay but then WHAM! we'd get stuck on a rock. At one sudden stoppage, the seat that the Japanese were sitting on fell apart. But the scenery was gorgeous - huts along the river, elephants grazing lazily, and happy-go-lucky Thai people splashing us with water as we went past.

We were herded back into the truck one final time and taken back to Chiang Mai where we are trying to decide what to do tomorrow.

Stop hitting your head!

2005-04-26T06:55:00.000-06:00

I can't count how many times Gregg has smacked his head on the door frame to the bathroom in our room at the Libra Guesthouse in Chiang Mai. The goose egg is growing on his forehead. In spite of it, the semi-gay Thai guy at the guesthouse still seems interested in him. Gregg is quite uncomfortable about that.

Well, on Monday we did a whirlwind tour of some temples in Bangkok. A nice little tuk-tuk driving escorted us to several sights, including a few tailors in hopes that we could buy suits so the tailors would give him free gas coupons. (A tuk-tuk is a three wheeled cab whose engine sounds like its name.) We were in awe of the splendor of the Grand Palace where Emerald Buddhas are worshipped and everything is made of shiny tiny tiles. We also took in Wat Pho where the gigantic reclining Buddha with mother of pearl sleeps all day long. Last week, I had introduced Gregg to Chinese temples and it was cool to see the colorful difference between Thai and Chinese Buddhism. To get back to the Baan Sabai, we took the ferry up the river while I ate rambutons - which Gregg describes as crazy fruit that looks like hedgehogs.

Monday night, we opted to go the cheap way to Chiang Mai on an air-con "VIP" bus. I certainly didn't feel like a VIP and the air con vacillated between non-existent and mind numbing. We heard horror stories of people being drugged and theived while on these buses, but we were okay. After shifting uncomfortably for hours, we fell asleep and woke up near Chiang Mai - a mere thirteen hours later.

Upon arrival, we were ushered to a guesthouse where a pushy lady pushed us to drink "smile coffee" and tried to take advantage of our sleepy and sleep-deprived states so we would stay at her establishment, get all visas through her, and go on her treks. Rather than succumb to the pressure, we took off with our packs on our backs and walked until we found the Libra Guesthouse, highly recommended by my roommate Erin.

Today, we booked a trek for tomorrow, sent our passports away for Vietnam visas, and explored a little of the Chiang Mai area. We rented a scary little motorcycle with narrow wheels that take us precariously down the road. We rented from the "Mr. Beer" shop so the backs of our helmets are emblazoned with the word "BEER". It took Gregg a bit to adjust to driving on the left side of the road, but he did really well. We drove up a mountain, saw an old temple and looked out over the city.

But the greatest accomplishment of the day was the realization of one of my childhood dreams: I SAW A REAL LIVE PANDA. As a child, I missed seeing them in Calgary because Gregg and I were whiny little children and my parents didn't want to wait in line for hours to see the pandas. So today, we went to the zoo where a big panda lounged around in a huge misty air conditioned room. All he did was lie there, breathing heavily because of the heat, but it was so cool. We also enjoyed the giraffes, a panther, and an orangutang.

Early to bed tonight so we'll enjoy the elephants and tribal people tomorrow. First, we'll go to the night market and then buy a lot of water.

Gregg is melting . . .

2005-04-24T21:33:00.000-06:00

Somehow in the preparation for our trip, I neglected to tell Gregg that we would be in Thailand during their hottest season. I told him it was hot, and he thought he was ready for it, but apparently not. I'll keep making him drink water and he'll be okay. He just may be a lot thinner when we get home. And hopefully his legs won't be neon white anymore.

After a long bus ride to Taipei and a chilly flight to Thailand, we arrived in Bangkok's humid heat. Our cab driver into the city shared his Wriggly's Spearmint gum and entertained us by singing, "Everytime you go away . . . " while simultaneously impressing us with his "look no hands" driving technique. The Baan Sabai was right where I remembered it and we threw our packs into a fan room before I introduced to Khao Sarn Road, Bangkok's infamous backpacker street. The road was pretty much shut down for the night, but he still got to see drunk people singing and playing guitar on the curb.

We'll check out the Grand Palace and Wat Pho (the ginormous reclining Buddha) before hopping a bus for Chiang Mai tonight. We're planning to come back to Bangkok in June to do some shopping so there's no point hanging out here now.

Don't cry, teacher . . .

2005-04-22T19:33:00.000-06:00

Yesterday was my last day being an English teacher in Taiwan. In many ways the realization hasn't hit yet. There were many times yesterday when I was painfully aware of leaving. My students kept showering me with useful little gifts like bears in pig and elephant costumes, cell phone holders, and my favorite, an autographed baseball from Kevin who doesn't like the Red Sox. Their cards and letters were so sweet. When I'd tear up, the kids would stand around uncomfortably and try to soothe me, saying, "Don't cry, teacher. Don't cry." It's hard not to cry when a little nine year old boy is bawling his eyes out at his desk because his Jennifer Teacher is leaving him. I guess even if I wasn't the best teacher ever, I'm definitely loved.

My brother Gregg and I leave for Bangkok tomorrow. We'll take a bus to the international airport outside of Taipei and then Thai airways will take us away to the land of elephants, rafts, and stunning beaches. Our itinerary isn't set in stone, but will essentially be Northern Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, and then some Thai islands. We may try to squeeze Angkor Wat and Cambodia in. Six weeks is much too short a time. Hopefully I'll write again from Bangkok.

You said I should have a blog . . .

2005-04-14T12:29:00.000-06:00

Several months ago, I received an email from my friend Amy, urging me to start a blog. She said that I needed one because I'm "so fastinating". Well, I don't think I'm very fastinating, but as I anticipate my trip to Southeast Asia, I realize it's probably easier to keep you updated this way than to rely on mass updates through Hotmail. Hopefully my words will be able to capture a bit of the adventure my brother and I will have. Now if I only I can figure out how to set this blog up the way I like it.