Went out to the opening events of the Montreal Jazz Festival last night after bringing Zach to a sample sale at Fly and eating onion rings at Moe’s. Good times. Zach had to leave us to visit his therapist - so Eric and i walked all the way to St. Laurent from Atwater to meet Isabelle before heading over to the guitar “tent.” When they said tent - they weren’t kidding. There was no room, so we relocated.

At another stage the Budos Brothers were playing. Watching them sway in synch and pretending to be the “stick-hitter” was a lot of fun. I could barely hear the guy on the bongos, but overall, they were quite enjoyable. I love the sound of a baritone saxophone. It’s just sexy.

We moved to the Blues stage - which was sadly generic - and spent more time watching drunken white-trash dance in front of the stage than anything else. We also met up with another LAC alumnus, Chris Neale, and had a bit of a chat. It was a very pleasant evening.

I’ve got a lot of “drafts” for posts on the go, but since i am SUPPOSED to be working on the final draft of my thesis, i am finding it difficult to sit down and work on them. The good news is that i absolutely must have it ready to hand in for next Tuesday - and then hopefully i’ll get my ass in gear for more serious blogging. There really are four ‘quality’ posts in the works. You’ll just have to hold your breathe until then avid readers.

What have i been up to? I’m reading a book on Himmler for a Book Review to be published by the Institute. I’m also trying to organize the immense pile of papers i accumulated over the last two semesters. I bought a bike last week-end - it needs some work and that’s a week-end plan. I have also watched all of Heroes - Season 1. The constant “last time on Heroes” was irritating and i think the season could have been cut down to 20 episodes, but it was a good experience. Nice summer watching. I won’t be adding it to my fall line-up however.

and the rest of us are just supposed to drop dead…

I wrote a letter to the editor about this. I’ll share it if it gets published (otherwise i’ll write something longer).

Source:Jeff Gray, “Escalator wisdom turned upside down,” Globe & Mail (Toronto: June 22, 2007).

Safety concerns spur TTC officials to scrap signs reading ‘Stand right, walk left’

TORONTO — The unspoken rule that governs behaviour on an escalator - stand on the right, walk on the left - is considered by many a measure of urban civilization.

Officially, though, it is a safety hazard.

It may come as a surprise that this long-standing accommodation between the hurried and the not-so-hurried in malls and subway stations runs counter to the advice of safety officials and the escalator industry.

No one, they say, should ever try to walk on an escalator.

In fact, the Toronto Transit Commission - the country’s single largest escalator owner, with 294 - has removed all of the signs from its escalators that used to read: “Stand right, walk left.”

Dexter Collins, the TTC’s acting superintendent of elevating devices, said the decals were originally installed years ago at the busiest subway stations, Yonge-Bloor and St. George, where herds of rush-hour passengers change trains, taking escalators from platform to platform. Over the decades, the stickers migrated to all escalators across the system.

Then some employees of the provincial Technical Standards & Safety Authority, the agency that regulates and inspects escalators, noticed the decals at Islington Station - near the TSSA’s headquarters - and brought them up in one of their regular meetings with the transit agency.

The TSSA, Mr. Collins said, recommended the signs’ removal because they appeared to condone people walking on the escalators.

“I said, ‘No problem,’ I’ve never been big on that idea anyway,” Mr. Collins said. “The intent is for the escalator to carry the people up the escalator. If they are capable of walking, they should be utilizing the stairs.”

One province appears to be standing behind the escalator tradition, however. Kari-Ann Kuperis, a spokeswoman for Alberta’s Ministry of Municipal Affairs and Housing, which oversees the provincial agency that regulates escalators, said “Stand right, walk left” decals are common in Alberta, and there are no plans to stop the practice.

Officials in Toronto acknowledge that walking on the left has become part of the culture and that they are powerless to control those who tempt fate and insist on walking up escalators. No one will be arrested in mid-stride. But both agencies say at the very least, the TTC should not appear to be condoning it.

Mr. Collins said 138 people were injured on TTC escalators last year, most often because of a fall. The majority, he says, are elderly people - a growing group on the system - who get knocked over by an impatient escalator-walker.

“We have some young whippersnapper whizzing by, nudging them because he’s got some place to go or something to do,” Mr. Collins said. “It seems to be the elderly who are paying for it.”

TSSA spokeswoman Bernadette Celis said there was no “formal safety requirement or regulation” banning the “Stand right, walk left” decals, and that her agency’s principal mandate is the proper maintenance and mechanical safety features on escalators.

“But from our perspective, we always promote that any kind of movement on an escalator is discouraged,” she said.

The industry-funded Elevator Escalator Safety Foundation of Canada, a wing of the U.S. group based in Mobile, Ala., distributes safety materials, mostly aimed at children. They also agree that walking up an escalator is a bad idea, and say escalator-education campaigns are being updated to emphasize it.

“Any time you start moving, it adds potential for an accident,” spokeswoman Leslie Schraeder said. “It’s definitely the foundation’s advice with escalators to step on carefully, hold the handrail, ride all the way to the top, and then step off.”

She added that you shouldn’t even walk on a deactivated escalator, as the stairs are taller than standard stair height, putting you at risk of tripping. As for “Stand right, walk left,” it is the official safe advice for that horizontal cousin of the escalator, the moving walkway, she said.

Last November - after the TTC had already agreed to remove its decals - an accident on a GO Transit escalator at Union Station sent six people to hospital, one with very serious injuries. Witnesses said the device appeared to suddenly go into overdrive, speeding up and piling people on top of one another. The TSSA says it is still investigating the incident.

Every few years, news reports surface of catastrophic-sounding escalator accidents. Last year, after a handful of escalator incidents involving plastic clogs similar to those marketed by Crocs Inc., the company issued a statement insisting its footwear was safe. In 2004, 16 Montreal high-school students were sent to hospital after an escalator stopped suddenly.

*****

By the numbers

138:Number of TTC riders injured on escalators last year

50:Number needing a trip to hospital

191:Number injured on stairs

245 million:Estimated number of escalator riders daily in North America

476:Number of escalator accidents in Ontario in 2005

8:Number of injuries considered serious

Fun escalator facts

World’s first escalator: Coney Island, N.Y., 1894

Canada’s first escalator: Eaton’s department store, Toronto, 1904

Canada’s longest escalator: York Mills subway station, 148 steps

Sources: Technical Standards and Safety Authority, The Globe and Mail

Monday evening i was confronted with a sight that it has taken me another three days to come to terms with. As i stepped out of the shower at the gym, lo and behold, a young, very slim (and obviously toned) Asian girl was busy saran-wrapping her entire body. She began with her stomach, then wrapped the calves of each leg, and then her thighs. She applied water first in order to make it adhere. All of this was over her lingerie and i left the room to catch my train home before i had an opportunity to see whether she changed into sweats or street clothes.

Was this girl incredibly vain, looking for a cheap alternative to Oprah’s Spanx? Or was this the CRAZIEST weight loss strategy i had ever seen?

I have been searching online and apparently the saran-wrap technique (which is solely about forcing water out of your system, not fat) is common among people who suffer from eating disorders. Professional body-builders apply hydrocortisone and saran-wrap to the their bodies for a couple of hours before a competition in order to maximize definition - but not to work out.

Now, i have done a LOT of crazy things to lose weight. I am a chronic dieter because i set a limit and starve myself if i go over. I love desserts too much to do be able to do away with them on a daily basis, but i do have enough willpower to suffer the deprivation for 5-10 lbs three or four times a year. Yes, i should work out more. I try. It’s expensive and time-consuming (and when faced with a choice between 5 hours of sleep and working out or 6.5 hours of sleep, i choose sleep. It’s an equally healthy choice).

My heart goes out to this young woman who feels the need to dehydrate herself in order to lose a couple of inches. It isn’t healthy. It isn’t permanent. It isn’t worth it.

I put on a considerable amount of weight over the vacation. Clothes are not fitting comfortably before anyone chooses to tell me that it’s the inside that counts or some other mumbo-jumbo. I am attempting to go to the gym to use the cross-trainer three times a week for half-an-hour and am doing my best not to eat desserts and fatty foods. We’ll see how long this lasts as i have only be successful once. I have to keep in mind there is such a thing as TOO much of a good thing - even determination.

I’ve been racking my brain for something insightful to share after my tour of non-Latin based language areas. Firstly, English is definitely the universal language in contemporary Europe. Only in St. Petersburg was it ever a question of whether, if need be, we would be able to communicate with the local inhabitants - and even there our one attempt was incredibly successful owing to our earnestness to be understood and our waiter’s smattering of English (proof that coffee is also universal - or, to make Veronica cringe, ubiquitous).

Oddly enough, most of the French speakers on the ship were not from France or Belgium, but from Quebec. Hearing their accents made me feel oddly at home after a week in France and the Netherlands. Now, a question you might be asking is: how useful is French as a second-language in the twenty-first century? It is only important for those of us in a bilingual province of Canada? Is Spanish of more social worth? I’ve been giving this a bit of thought.

French is a language of academic study in a way that Spanish is not. This is unfortunate - i am fully aware of the wonderful texts written in Spanish from Cervantes to Neruda and Garcia Marquez, but French literature has seriously trumped Spanish literature up to now for coverage in the English-speaking world. Perhaps this will change in the future, but for the moment, i find being able to read in French (and Italian) a skill i frequently draw on (and am asked to draw on by non-readers).

A second-language, any language, is of course essentially to learning all others. i am a very firm advocate of language instruction at the primary level (and think that the lack of English grammar in the school curriculum is deplorable - English is NOT simple; most people write poorly (myself included); and without a grasp of your own syntax you don’t have a hope in hell of understanding another). Why is French perhaps better than another Latin-based language as a second-language? Well, i point you to the Petit Prince and other treasure troves of literature which can easily encourage a child to love the new language (this ties in with my earlier point of course). Furthermore, English is more closely allied to French than any of the other Latin-based languages, so the vocabularly is a little easier to pick up (if anyone needs a brief history of the English language, look it up on wikipedia). Of course, the same could be said of German, but i don’t read German.

Now, i genuinely hope to acquire a high level of proficiency in at least one other European language before completing school and some understanding in another…so i can continue this line of thought in the future, but for now i deem myself lucky to have been born in one of the few places in the world where learning both English and French comes naturally and is common. When i think of the tears over French homework (particularly the imparfait vs. the passe compose - side rant: you STUPID teachers! It isn’t “intuitive” - there’s a rule!!! Grrr…), i wish i could have known just how blessed i would feel today.

Now, what sponsored this discussion? An article on the Francophonie and how it has little to do with actual French-speaking (sadly) that i was archiving yesterday. It is reproduced below should you be interested.

Lysiane Gagnon, “That ridiculous Francophonie,” The Globe and Mail (Toronto, Oct 9, 2006).

True, French has long ceased to be “the” international language. Still, it is a major language — the only one, apart from English, that is spoken as a second or third language on all continents.

This beautiful language deserves better than the absurd organization that pretends to represent French-speaking countries — the Organisation internationale de la Francophonie , which met last month for yet another “summit,” this time in Bucharest.

When it was set up in 1986, la Francophonie was supposed to be the French equivalent of the Commonwealth. It was a very good idea that quickly turned sour. While the Commonwealth groups countries that have a great deal in common (namely, the use of English and political institutions inherited from their past as colonies of Britain), la Francophonie is a mixed bag of countries, some of which are totalitarian regimes and most of which are not even really French-speaking.

Among the 68 members and observers are former French colonies such as Vietnam, where French is spoken only by elderly professionals, or countries such as Poland and Romania, where French ceased to be the lingua franca well before the First World War. Even in Romania, which has a Latin-based language, reporters covering the francophone summit heard much more English than French on the streets of Bucharest.

In the past few years, la Francophonie has taken an even weirder turn. The newest members include countries where French is a totally foreign language: Greece, Albania and Macedonia. Ghana, a former British colony, is an “associate” member, and Mozambique, a former Portuguese colony, is an observer.

The candidacy of Thailand would have been accepted this year if it hadn’t been for the recent military coup. Sudan, another former British colony, whose official language is Arabic, would have been admitted if the massacres in Darfur hadn’t been going on.

There are many more incongruities. Why isn’t Algeria, where French remains widely used, a member of la Francophonie? Why are Egypt and Austria members? Why is Israel, a country where a quarter of the population are native French speakers (most come from France, Belgium and Morocco) excluded? The answers are easy to grasp. It’s politics, stupid. Algeria still nurtures a bone of contention with its former colonial master. And Israel’s entry is blocked by the Arab and Muslim countries, which form a large part of the group’s membership.

Over the years, Canada has earnestly tried to prevent la Francophonie from evolving into a club that has nothing to do with language. But France has the upper hand, since it is by far the major financial contributor to the organization (Canada is a distant second).

For the French, the ever-expanding Francophonie is an imitation of its lost empire. It has become a lucrative business instead of a cultural association: Third World countries knock on its door in hopes of benefiting from foreign aid, and rich countries benefit from privileged access to huge consumer markets and natural resources.

As a North-South forum, though, la Francophonie has its positive sides. The developed countries try to push for democratic reforms and human rights in the member states. It also can be argued that belonging to the club might encourage a non-francophone country to introduce French as a second or third language in the school curriculum.

In a difficult diplomatic context, Prime Minister Stephen Harper gave a remarkable performance in Bucharest. Speaking in French practically all the time, he was an active player at the summit, and almost single-handedly, with the help of the Swiss, blocked a resolution that recognized only Lebanese suffering in the conflict between Israel and Hezbollah. His sensible and fair stand led to a last-minute compromise that recognized the suffering of “all civilian populations.”

But back to la Francophonie’s agenda: In a welcome change, the group’s next meeting, scheduled for 2008 in Quebec City, will be held in a French-speaking city.

© Copyright 2006 Bell Globemedia Publishing Inc. All Rights Reserved.

Coelho, Paulo. The Alchemist, A fable about following your dream (1987).

The first time I saw a copy of the alchemist I was sitting on the bus on my way into school. During my two-hour commute out of French-dominated “upper-rubberboot,” it was rare to encounter an unfamiliar face reading a work in English. I was fascinated by the cover of The Alchemist (hereby condemning myself) and the enraptured stare of the young, male reader further supported this interest. This was in 2003.

This past Christmas I gave a copy of Coelho’s novel to my Nana in the hopes that she would lend it to me when she was done (ok, so I’m a selfish gift-giver – shoot me). I was correct that she would be willing to pass the book on and I finally got a chance to sit down and enjoy a novel I had been pining over for four years during my recent time spent on a cruise ship in the North Sea.

The Alchemist is apparently a re-working of Jorge Luis Borges’ earlier short story “Tale of Two Dreamers” which is itself based on a tale from the Thousand and One Nights. I knew none of this before embarking on my adventure of a dreamer whom fate chooses to test before rewarding with true love, wealth and a fantastical story. The Alchemist is definitely a “feel-good” novel encouraging an appreciation of the small things that make life worth living without giving up on larger aspirations. The moral of Paulo Coelho’s 1987 novel can be summed up in one imperative phrase: Don’t settle.

Though other reviews that I have encountered usually compare The Alchemist to Jonathan Livingstone Seagull, a book I thoroughly enjoyed at the age of twelve, I found myself drawing parallels to Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha instead. Such a comparison is fair game as both authors were influenced by the same Islamic legend (found below), but it does not favour Coelho’s treatment of the subject. Though The Alchemist was a page-turner that I finished reading in just under three hours, it did not affect my personality or outlook on the world for the next couple of days after reading it. Perhaps I am just more jaded since my reading of Siddhartha three years ago, but at the time my closest friends and family members actually noticed a brief “mellowing” in my character. This kind of impact is, for me, the mark of a GREAT novel. Only authors like Montaigne, Dostoevsky, Nabokov and Proust rank with Hesse in their ability to change, if only for a little while, the way I perceive the world.

Perhaps if I had encountered The Alchemist first, and not the Thousand and One Nights and Siddhartha beforehand, I would be writing a radically different evaluation of Paulo Coelho’s work. His ability to write a tight, elegant plot encourages me to read other novels by this prolific author, however, like most “covers,” The Alchemist’s revisitation of a time-honoured theme lacks much of the punch of its forefathers. Stick to the originals.

Often-cited “spiritual” quotations from The Alchemist:

“When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.”

“There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.”

Excerpt from A Thousand and One Nights (shamelessly stolen from the internet because I can’t find it in my copy and am too lazy to reread the entire thing):

There lived once in Baghdad a very wealthy man, who lost all his substance and became so poor, that he could only earn his living by excessive labour. One night, he lay down to sleep, dejected and sick at heart, and saw in a dream one who said to him, ‘Thy fortune is at Cairo; go thither and seek it.’ So he set out for Cairo; but, when he arrived there, night overtook him and he lay down to sleep in a mosque. Presently, as fate would have it, a company of thieves entered the mosque and made their way from thence into an adjoining house; but the people of the house, being aroused by the noise, awoke and cried out; whereupon the chief of the police came to their aid with his officers. The robbers made off; but the police entered the mosque and finding the man from Baghdad asleep there, laid hold of him and beat him with palm rods, till he was well-nigh dead. Then they cast him into prison, where he abode three days, after which the chief of the police sent for him and said to him, ‘From whence art thou?’ ‘From Baghdad,’ answered he. ‘And what brought thee to Cairo?’ asked the magistrate. Quoth the Baghdadi, ‘I saw in a dream one who said to me, “Thy fortune is at Cairo; go thither to it.” But when I came hither, the fortune that he promised me proved to be the beating I had of thee.’

The chief of the police laughed, till he showed his jaw-teeth, and said, ‘O man of little wit, thrice have I seen in a dream one who said to me, “There is in Baghdad a house of such a fashion and situate so-and-so, in the garden whereof is a fountain and thereunder a great sum of money buried. Go thither and take it.” Yet I went not; but thou, of thy little wit, hast journeyed from place to place, on the faith of a dream, which was but an illusion of sleep.’ Then he gave him money, saying, ‘This is to help thee back to thy native land.’ Now the house he had described was the man’s own house in Baghdad; so the latter returned thither, and digging underneath the fountain in his garden, discovered a great treasure; and thus God gave him abundant fortune.

Day 2: St. Petersburg, Russia (cont.)

Today began with our first shore excursion - we wanted to give Oleg and Ilya an opportunity to sleep in or do whatever they might wish before meeting us. As i had predicted, the quality of the shore excursion was sub-standard. Our guide provided almost no information on a very brief canal tour and we were taken to a Kazan cathedral (free admittance) during a service instead of Peter and Paul Fortress (which was closed because of the economic summit) and never refunded the admittance charge for the latter. We have since filed a complaint with the appropriate department which essentially responded in writing that they didn’t give a damn, but the letter was address to “Mr. & Mrs. Weeks” - firstly, my aunt wrote the letter, secondly, my uncle and my aunt are not married so they don’t share a last name, thirdly the other guest in the room is me - not only am i female, but my last name is not Weeks - grrr…

While waiting for our favourite Muscovites, we went into a cafe and ordered tea and coffee ourselves - IN RUSSIAN!!! I know you’re impressed. We even paid in rubles, which we had managed to exchange from our tour guide. Oleg and Ilya salvaged our perception of the waterways by taking us on a better canal tour and provided a running translation of the Russian guides much more interesting commentary. I saw buildings in which Dostoevsky composed Crime and Punishment, the home of Pushkin’s mistress, Gogol’s residence and many other interesting literary landmarks. We then went to the Michailovsky gardens to walk around a bit, then to the civil war memorial as we headed to the summer gardens where, apparently, Peter the Great would throw parties that you could only leave if you were good and inebriated. Unfortunately, people would sober up while waiting for their carriage-sharers and apparently some people would be stuck there for days on end! We spent a lot of time recounting the mythological tales that went with the various statues throughout the park and then went for a lunch in order to celebrate Ilya’s birthday! HAPPY TWENTY-SIXTH BIRTHDAY TO ILYA!

We took a cab back to the port and went to the martini bar exhausted. I want to spend at least a month in St. Petersburg at some point in the future. It’s a beautiful city. My only complaint would be that i really don’t enjoy being able to tell not only the cut but also the colour of every woman’s undergarments. Eew.

Day 3: Taillin, Estonia

My guidebook described Taillin as like a theme-park…i would have to agree. The towers, streets and buildings are medieval- and feel distinctly like San Gimigniano in Tuscany, but the “historical” garb and plethora of restaurants and souvenir shops was a little much. We visited St. Nicholas Church, Alexander Nevski Cathedral, and St. Mary’s, wandered around and paid a bloody fortune for a spoon and keychain. It was another glorious day, but with only a couple of hours in port (we left at 2pm), i was unable to get a lot of what i would like to get done accomplished.

For example, Estonia was the only country declared Judenfried by Hitler. In the past month, the first synagogue in over fifty years was opened - i didn’t have a chance to go check it out.

I needed to recover from the grueling pace of these past couple of days and decided to take a 4 hour nap before heading out for martini and dinner.

Day 4: Klaipeda, Lithuania

Not all shore excursions are necessarily bad - i think i good sign that you will enoy yourself is likely that the meeting time is not the ungodly hour of 7::10am as it was in St. Peterburg, but rather 10:40am. We took a bus to the Spit (a UNESCO world heritage site) and were given a guided tour of witches’ hill. Now, the spit is quite an interesting phenomenon that inspires hope in the current tree planting initiatives in the Great Canadian North. Once sand dunes that separated mainland Klaipeda from the Baltic Sea, in the wake of the destruction of four fishing villages, the Klaipedans planted a vast forest in the sandy soil. Today the spit is a lush wildlife preserve - that’s man-made though not man-maintained. The tour of witches’ hill was definitely a tourist trap - the wooden sculptures depicted the traditional Lithuanian legends and folktales dated all the way back to…1979! However, wandering around in the woods was a very pleasant change from our usual urban setting and our guide was passionate about her work and the stories were delightful. What was not delightful was the crowd of old people complaining about the terrain and the amount of walking (0.75 miles in the WOODS as described in the blurb - would you expect there to be small hills and even, oh my god, roots on the path? funny, i did).

We stopped at the Lagoon and while the rest of our tour bus was busy buying yet more amber, Aunt Lorraine and i decided to wash the dust from the forest off our feet by soaking them in the salty water. Before heading back to the ship, we stopped at a bird observation point. We got an opportunity to see Cormorant’s (look it up) nesting in the forest. Apparently they destroy the terrain around them with the acidity of their droppings, but ornologists have convinced the Lithuanian authorities to let them be in the hopes their population will plateau on its own. The destruction made me think of beavers.

Lithuania was the only country during the actual cruise in which i did not procure either a spoon OR send postcards.

June 13-14: At Sea

Sleeping, working out, taking pictures of our favourite crew members and the ubiquetious eating are the main preoccupation of these last sea days. The women are winning the Battle of the Sexes trivia (which i choose not to attend) and i have discovered a new favourite drink - the Bellini (a peach champagne cocktail - yum). We direly need this vacation from our fast-paced vacation. None of the ports we enjoyed were really given their due by these short visits, but hopefully the future will bring more European traveling and another edition of the Great Auntie Adventures series.

Day 4: At Sea

I spent the majority of this day chatting up the crew members, particularly our favourite bartenders Leo and Edi, as well as our waiter and assistant-waiter: Adrian and Freddy. I love the staff on the Celebrity Cruise ships. They are interesting, kind and when treated like human beings rather than part of the ship, usually incredibly funny.

I went out with Rosario for a second date and the boy is smitten. Frankly, it’s sad. He suffers from a good case of boring (likely caused by his having nothing else in his life than his job because cruise ships are very demanding of your time and energy) and i am managing to avoid him as much as possible over the next couple of days in the hopes that he will realize how unrealistic the appraisal of the situation is. Firstly, he is going to get himself fired. Secondly, he hardly knows me well enough to be inviting me to visit him for a month in India next time he’s on vacation…

The meal this evening was completed with the most wonderful hot chocolate i have ever had. Freddy returned to our table and proved himself the king of pampering Heather by making me an orange hot chocolate. The smell drew the attention of everyone else at the table. Yum.

Day 5: Stockholm

Stockholm is just teeming with activity and culture. There are no skyscrapers, so the view is fantastic. The architectural styles change between one floor and another - this is called the “national romantic” movement. The best example was City Hall, best known for being where the annual Nobel Prize banquet is held. The famous “blue room” is not blue at all! It is, however, very reminiscient of an Italian palazzo and the natural light streaming in from the windows in the roof.

We wandered to the Winter palace, took a picture, and then went to Riddelholm - the oldest building in Stockholm (13th century). A Franciscan church on its own island, Riddelholm is also where the Swedish monarchs were buried for over 600 years. We were lucky enough to get a private guided tour from one of the most knowledgeable tour guides i have ever met. I knew a little about Swedish history from my Imperial Russia class last fall, but it was greatly added to in the hour this beautiful, blonde young woman spent walking around with us explaining the order of the Seraphim, the royal houses and how Swedish aristocracy works.

While waiting for the shuttle bus to take us back to the ship, we were lucky enough to watch two swans preening in the harbour.

Day 6: Helsinki

My guidebook described Helsinki as a meld of ultra-contemporary and neo-classical style architecture. We spent the entire day in churches and the three we visited (as well as a department store which we went into to finally buy me some socks - there was a lingerie sale! whoot! and they have lots of different products we don’t get in North America) supported this description.

Our first stop was the post office where i got stamps, a couple of postcards and a spoon. This the first, but not the last, pay toilet we would encounter. We then meandered through a residential district to Temmpeliaukio Kirkko - a church hewn out of solid rock with copper wiring for a ceiling. Fortuitously, there was a piano concert being held and the light shining into the large, circular room accompanied by classical music was just so peaceful. We stayed in our sights listening for about an hour until the pianist took a break.

We headed over to the Udenski Orthodox cathedral, a massive brick structure on top of a hill with a detour through “Senate square.” We stopped for an apple in front of a huge white building which we discovered to be a church when a bride and groom came down the front steps. Up we went. The inside was “simple, but not plain” to use Aunt Lorraine’s description. It reminded me of Brunneleschi’s Santo Spirito - which is saying something because that’s my favourite church. We were grateful not to have missed the stately, muted magnificence of Tuomikirrko (Dome Church).

Udenski cathedral was very much the opposite. Ornate (with only four patches of undecorated wall in the entire structure) we were overwhelmed by the colour and detail. The interior was being restored and we got to watch some interesting maneuvering of heavy machinery and a worker attempted to pack up for the day without driving his equipment directly on the marble floor. It looked like it was going to be a long, tedious process.

We stopped for a beer on the second harbour while i wrote postcards. We then walked through two more markets (and found a mailbox) before heading back to the shuttle by walking through the lovely Esplanade park where Aunt Lorraine deprived me of the joy of napping under a lilac tree under the grass.

Baltic (Saturday June 9-Tuesday June 12)

Day 1: St. Petersburg

This day began poorly. At 1 in the morning we rec’d a call from Canada that apparently everyone was worried about us and had not heard from us in over a week. I had blogged two days prior, but i guess that didn’t count.

The port exit was forty-five minutes (walking) from our dock. There were no taxis.

It was a long, scary walk though we knew we were not lost. Being in a country and having no idea how to communicate with the population is not pleasant. I have never been so happy to see someone as when i could finally make Ilya out in the distance waving to us as we dragged our sorry butts towards the second passport inspection. For the record, we had absolutely NO problems with immigration. When they saw we had visas and were Canadians, we got waved through. Once they did not even check to make sure the passports were OURS! If only crossing the border into the U.S. was so simple.

Ilya once told me that the person he admired most in the world is his father. At the time, i thought this was sort of an odd statement to make (though by comparison to Ilya’s other comments sometimes, it isn’t), but after meeting his father i understand what Ilya meant. Mr. Popov is a gentleman in the true sense of the word. Providing a hand as you decide out of the bus, polite compliments, a jolly sense of humour, and a wealth of knowledge on many subjects - he and Ilya were the best tour guides two Canadians could ask for.

We took the bus into the city, walked down Nevsky Prospect (the main throughfare) stopping at Kazan cathedral and the monuments to the generals of war against Napoleon: Kutuzov and Barclay. We then went to the WInter Palace (aka the Hermitage), walked down the side of the Neva to the park in front of St. Isaac’s, climbed up to the top of the coppola of St. Isaac’s for a stunning view, went for an authentic Russian lunch (salad [potato, tomato, onion], Siberian dumplings in sour cream and German beer [Kronenburg]), the old harbour, the admiralty buildiing, a sailing boat race and Peter and Paul fortress/cathedral. By this time i was exhausted. I fell asleep sitting on the stairs waiting for the rest of our small group to walk through an exhibit.

We decided to really live like St. Petersburgites and take the metro back to the ship. The metro in St. Petersburg runs under the rivers and canals - this means it has a very steep pitch and the escalators continue for over five minutes. I could never have navigated it on my own. We took a taxi from the port authority back onto the ship, took direly needed showers (it was a beautiful, hot and sunny day) and went to pick up drinkies before going to dinner. We collapsed on our respective beds upon getting back to our rooms. For the third night in a row i had problems falling asleep.

Amsterdam (Thursday May 31- Saturday June 2nd) aka Girls on Vacation

Day 1:

Distances in Europe are so much shorter than those we are used to. The idea of even getting on a plane for an hour is contrary to a most sensibility, but we did it nonetheless. The Air France bus that we had intended to have convey us to the airport was running late and, fearful of missing our flight, we took a cab with an elderly British lady living in Paris who was off to a birthday party in Pisa for the week-end. It was a pleasant drive through town and on the Parisian autoroute - the peripherique.

Upon arrival in Amsterdam we decided that an Argentinian steakhouse would be a good idea for dinner. We stayed at the airport Sheraton and had to take a train into Amsterdam proper. We then walked down the central street to a central square (the Dam) and had one of the best meals i have had, ever. The ribs were delicious and garlicy - as i ordered them. We wandered back to the train station trying to find two of the landmarks in my guidebook: the Neumarket and Oude Kerk. On the former deigned to reveal itself. One of the few old gates still existent in the city, to get inside we would have had to dine in the swanky restaurant, but we could still ogle from afar and take pictures.

Day 2:

We began museum touring on Friday. It was a glorious day, but i must preface it with a lack of pictures as my camera was pickpocketed sometime throughout the course of our explorations.

We headed over to Barney’s for breakfast and i purchased a space cake. We then got on the tram and headed over to the Rijksmuseum, first stopping in Amsterdam’s famous flower market. The array of tulips, glads and other bulbs was mind-boggling and made me wish i could purchase one of everything for our home garden. Though under extensive renovation, the Rijksmuseum still exhibits the most extensive Rembrandt and Vermeer collection, so the eye candy continued. I was not blown away by the Rembrandts as i was the Vermeers. Unfortunately, my favourite work, the Cat’s Breakfast, and many of my other favourites, like Aert van der Neer’s nightscapes (particularly “River by Moonlight”) and Gerard Dou’s “the nightschool” were not available as reproductions. ah well.

We stopped for a snack (and space cake, of which my aunt partook also) in the gardens outside the Rijksmuseum before heading back to an antique jewelery shop where some garnet earrings had been spied. There was also a detour into a delft store. I love delft.

The effects of the space cake had taken effect by the Van Gogh museum, where i kept getting lost in his “spacey” portrayals of flowers - particularly the almond tree in blossom and landscape at twilight. The Van Gogh museum has an interior that feels much like the Guggenheim in NYC.

We took the tram back to Dam Square and wandered around looking for a gin joint suggest by the guidebook. Down a small alley that also serves as a hotel lobby sits Wynard Fockink, one of the oldest gin distilleries in the world where one can purchase shots of gin for 2 euros through a small window if you are willing to sip the gin off the brim BEFORE picking it up with your hands. My aunt fell in love with their superior (unflavoured) and we had to buy it. Sitting on the window sills outside watching the crowd stop by for a quick drink before heading home was a very pleasant way of experiencing life in this city. If you are ever in Amsterdam, i strongly urge you to find this gem of a spot (on Peljsink, just off Dam Square). We then procured some danish baked goods for dessert with our pate and cheese left over from France and made a meal with cheap bubbly in the hotel room.

Day 3:

The effects of cheap champagne had us off to a slow start. We only left the hotel around 11am. We began the day by finally finding the elusive Oude Kerk, and awesome church now exhibit hall, which changes architectural style as you walk around it. We then strolled through the red light district - Saturday morning workers are not the best looking that’s for sure - and ended up in Cafe Latei where we were served DIVINE open-faced cheese sandwiches and a hearty and tasty spinach, split pea and lemon soup. The best part of this meal was not only how healthy it was, but also the seeds in the organic, freshly made bread. Yum.

We then headed to Rembrandt House where i encountered the master’s etchings for the first time - and was floored, blown away, astounded, and fell in love. The depictions of mythological and religious scenes were especially compelling and i broke down and bought a book on the collection. We strolled over to the market, bought some socks and i had some pistachio gelato, killing time before a second trip to Wynard Fockink. This time there was a large group of men visiting from the suburbs who decided it would be fun to chat with the Canadians and, for the first time in my life, i was asked if it would be okay to kiss me. The answer was no, but i will have fond memories of dear Bart and Aaron for the rest of my life. LOL.

Unfortunately, upon arriving at the hotel it became clear that i had not “forgotten” my camera in the room. The rest of the evening was spent moping.

Scandinavia (Sunday June 3-Friday June 8):

Day 1-2 (At sea):

Packing, filling out a police report on the theft, and purchasing a new photographic device took up the better part of our morning before we called a cab (a MERCEDES arrived to pick us up. There are no cheap cabs in the Netherlands apparently).

The days on the cruise ship have been spent mostly reading (i have finished volume 2 of In Search of Lost Time and the Alchemist), flirting with crew members (went out for a drink with an officer last night - hehe), and drinking at the martini bar. There are many British and Irish guests, including a Voltaire scholar who gave me some tips about British PhD programs.

Day 3: Copenhagen

Breakfasted we disembarked down the gangway into the port of Copenhagen. A thirty minute walk, longer than we expected, led us to the Kastelet, one of the world’s oldest maintained forts where Danes walk their dogs and go for runs. June 5th is Constitution Day in Denmark, so though the stores were closed, the inhabitants were all enjoying a glorious day of heat and sun out in the open. We headed over to the Little Mermaid statue in the harbour and continued to be amazed throughout the day by the number of statues throughout the city. I particularly enjoyed the Valkyrie in Churchill park and the Viking legend fountain with bulls snorting a mist of water out their nostrils.

We managed to catch the changing of the guard, visiting Amaglienbord palace, and reached the Tivoli gardens around 2pm. I have never seen such a pretty amusement park. Every opportunity was made to cover the ground in lush, flowering plants and beautiful light fixtures. It was not kitch. Unfortunately, our ship was scheduled to leave port by 5pm, so it was impossible to see it lit up at night.

We came back to the ship by taxi without getting a hold of either Christiania vodka or Quintessential gin. Neither was i able to buy stamps in convenience stores - hopefully they will be easy to get a hold of in Stockholm.

Dinner was scrumptious as usual - my shank of lamb with couscous and veggies was NOT as good as that served at Last Supper however, and ended in a competition by our various waiters to make the best hot chocolate for fickle old me. i enjoyed the attention very much.

At 11pm i met Rosario, from Guest Relations, for drinks and we toured the various guest-access bars on the ship. I had been looking forward to seeing the “longest land-bridge in Europe” all day, but crossing under it around midnight was very anti-climatic. It’s a bridge. It links Sweden and Denmark. It is not as long as Confederation Bridge. Whoopdeedoo. Ah well.