I've decided it's time this blog got a makeover. I was beginning to be annoyed that the column for blog posts was too narrow for most widescreen computer monitors, so I tinkered with the template a bit this evening. The photos on previous posts now look out of proportion (too small). I think I'll start posting bigger pics from now on.
No special trip for me this weekend, so I will post more Jasper photos from some weeks ago to test this out:
Today was just one of those days, when laziness settled over everyone like a fog, and the hours stretched out. It was one of those days when we all found ourselves glancing at the clock too often, counting the minutes until the school bell would ring to signal the end of the day. About half of the high school was missing, off to Valleyview for a track-meet. The half that remained either stayed in bed, knowing full-well the futility of trying to do schoolwork, or else showed up at school with droopy eyes, with heavy feet that dragged along the empty hallways.
I ended up sitting in my classes and chatting with the few students who had come. In between our disjointed conversations, I managed to read a novel from cover to cover. It had been recommended to me by my Grade 10 English student, a boy who did not like reading much. When I see him next week, after he's back from his track-meet, I'll discuss Tex with him, and tell him what my favourite parts of the book are. And, perhaps, I'll recommend a book for him to read.
I'll leave you with some photos of two weekends ago, of beautiful, glorious Jasper. As we drove down the Icefield Parkway, I could feel a sense of wonderment welling up from inside of me. I'd love to live with those snowy mountains surrounding me, enveloping me with their majestic peaks.
I should be typing up my "Statement of Interests" for my grad school applications, but instead, I'd like to recap my lovely winter vacation.
We landed in Puerto Plata about nine hours after taking off from Edmonton. We had to deplane in Punta Cana, and were herded through security before we were allowed to continue to our destination. It seemed like a rather pointless exercise, since most of us set off the metal detector, but were neither scanned with a wand nor patted down, and were allowed to just walk on ahead.
Our resort was about ten minutes away from the airport in Puerto Plata, in the town of Sosua. It was nighttime when we landed, and the bus wound through the narrow streets lined with bars and souvenir shops. The resort, although facing a busy main street, was remarkably quiet and serene. There had been a storm brewing for most of the day, and the waves were thunderous and enormous, crashing against the coral rock cliffs and sending white sprays skyward.
On the Saturday after we arrived, we took a day-trip to Paradise Island. First, we had to take a tour bus to the boat-dock. Halfway there, the paved highways turned into narrower gravel roads, and at one point, downed trees blocked our passage. Hennie, the tour-guide, nonchalantly remarked that we were nearing the Dominican/Haitian border, and that we did not have to worry unless there were fires set along and in the middle of the road. My travel companions eyed each other, did not say a word, each of us thinking that it was probably not what we had thought when we signed up for this trip.
We made it to the boat-dock without further incident, and were ushered into a small open speedboat. The ride was choppy, and those of us seated near the front were tossed up and down, smacking our butts against the hard wooden seats with each jolt. My white-knuckled hands gripped the side of the boat as I seemed to be flung about like a ragdoll and I was afraid of being tossed overboard. After what seemed like an eternity, Hennie gestured to our right, and the boat slowed down. "You may take your cameras out for some pictures," he said.
Looking over to the right, I saw what appeared to be a pile of sand in the middle of the ocean, with seven little shacks built on it. I took a few photos, and thought that the boat would speed up again to bring us to Paradise Island. Little did I know that that was Paradise Island! I had envisioned an expansive white beach, with palm trees and lush greenery further inland. As we got out of of the boat and surveyed our surroundings, I was a bit crushed that I had paid over a hundred dollars to stand on a few square-feet of imported sand. (I have no proof that the fine sugary sand was indeed imported, but the entire island screamed cheesy tourist trap to me.)
We were treated to a meal of Spam sandwiches (It was either that or neon-orange cheese sandwiches.), and had a couple of hours to snorkel and wade around in the water. There were schools of silvery blue fish that swam right to the shore, as well as several yellow and black ones. All in all, after I looked beyond my first impressions, I had a wonderful time.
On Boxing Day, two of my friends and I went into Puerto Plata. After the twenty-minute cab ride, we found ourselves standing in the town square. Not a second after we set foot outside the taxi, a young man appeared out of nowhere, flashing his wares of pirated CD's. My friend ended up buying three CD's, after Antonio grabbed my friend T to show her how to merengue and do the bachata. Meanwhile, I hid behind my friend P to avoid the dance lesson. Antonio then showed us the inside of the church, which had been restored after being destroyed by an earthquake some years back. After that, we decided to venture on our own. The town of Puerto Plata has a population of about 300,000, and was colourful and vibrant. However, because it was obvious that we were foreigners, we could not really wander on our own without being pressured to either buy something or to have an impromptu local guide wanting to show us around.
The taxi ride back to the resort was what clinched the experience as something unforgettable. Pablo, the man who designated himself as our guide when he found us perusing a vendor's watercolours, hailed us a cab. T, P, and I were jammed into a taxi that already had a mother and two children in the back, and the driver and another man in the front. P was squeezed in the front between the driver and the other man, while I sat on T's lap in the back, next to the woman and her two children. The kids were eating popcorn, and one would occasionally tinker with an electronic toy that made screeching noises reminiscent of a car alarm. The man in the front next to P had a gun sticking out of his pocket, and was dozing for the twenty-minute ride back to Sosua.
The rest of the vacation was spent on the beach, swimming in the wide open Atlantic or reading in a lounge-chair. There were also countless rounds of dominoes, along with what seemed like endless indulgence in food and drinks. In other words, it was the perfect vacation.
And now, the photos:
Here are some photos of my recent trip to California. I'm completely swamped with piles of schoolwork, and I can't believe the roadtrip ended only a week and a half ago. That was the end of my carefree, golden, suntanning summer. And now, it's fall. It's back-to-the-grind, reading, thinking time. It's leaves whirling, waiting for first frost, cozy dusky time. These photos seem worlds away and ages ago.
Church by Washington Square in San Francisco. I remember the truly divine breakfast we had at a little roadside cafe in the vicinity.
The "crookedest street" as seen from above
View from the Hoover Tower at Stanford
How I wish I could study here, if only I had that kind of money!
Carmel Mission
At Pebble Beach
By the highway in Big Sur
Pfeiffer Beach, a secluded, windy, gorgeous piece of heaven on earth
View from Nepenthe, where we saw pods of whales migrating
The boardwalk by Moonstone Beach
The Neptune Pool at Heart Castle
Cayucos, with its pelicans galore
A beautiful Arabian, two-time national champion She Be Jammin
A fairy-tale stallion
The Old Mission in Santa Barbara
County courthouse
Young surfers
The pier on Manhattan Beach
It would appear that I have disappeared since returning to Vancouver. But, the fact of the matter is, I picked up and left for sunny California in search of a last carefree summer. I should have been working on my correspondance courses which started in July; I should have been preparing for the on-campus courses that are to start tomorrow (What!?); I should have stayed and reconnected with old friends and old haunts.... But, I was on a quest. I needed to quiet the mind and open the heart, to feel the pulse of life around me and inside of me, to be excited and silenced by the everyday.
I think I found that, to a certain extent, in California. When facing the wide open ocean off the beaten path in Guadeloupe, I felt as though I was the only person in the wide, wild world. I felt free, unburdened by anything, yet not lonely. I was simply alive.
The journey from San Francisco to Los Angeles, through coastal villages and mountain passes, was exhilarating, overwhelming, soothing. The little moments of connecting with others and with nature are ones that I'll never forget. I'll remember the little girl who skipped over to me, proudly displaying a tiny baby crab cradled in her tiny palm. I'll remember the two boys chasing after seagulls and brown pelicans in that small brown patch of sand overlooking the ocean. I'll remember the older boy, all but three years old perhaps, running alongside the younger one, pointing to him and delightedly proclaiming, "Baby!!!" Oh, my dear boy-child, if I could bottle up that innocence, that sparkle in your eyes, the big scary grown-up world would just recede and give way to a magic land. I'll remember the father walking along the pier with his young daughter, holding hands, her sundress iridescent in the sunlight, flowing in the seabreeze. I'll remember the old man sitting at a roadside cafe, who greeted me as though we were friends from long ago, who, with his booming voice and bright smile, instantaneously made my task of dragging my suitcase ten blocks not so daunting. I'll remember the sad sealion hiding in the rocks in the restless sea, alone and mournful, weathered by time and living.
And now, I'm gearing up for the next phase in my life. Part of me feels as though I'm regressing by being a student again. Shouldn't I have figured out what I want to do with my life by now? But, I've realized that figuring out what to do is an ongoing goal, a plan that I'll undertake for as long as I live. And the important thing is that I journey on, plan for what I can, and accept the unknown with a quiet mind and an open heart.
* As usual, I promise to post pictures in a later post... and I might actually follow through this time!
It's been two weeks since I've come back from my vacation in Cabo. There are so many things I want to write about, but the words just aren't flowing. So, instead of continuing my tedious attempts to describe the whole experience, I've pared my imperfect sentences down into a haiku -- because sometimes, sparsity is best. It leaves ample space for emotions.
A couple of days from now, I'll be lounging on the beach of Cabo San Lucas. This might be the last big vacation I could afford before taking on the life as a poor student again, or that of an unemployed bum. How liberating! Please allow me this brief moment to be overly optimistic, delusional even. Reality will set in soon enough after I return from a week of brilliant sun.
Happy spring to everyone! It's -35 degrees Celsius (which is -31 Fahrenheit) outside as I type this. Spring won't arrive in the arctic for a few months yet, but I've decided that spring is a mindset, and, in this moment, I'm in possession of it.
I’m currently sitting in the Whitehorse airport, waiting for my connecting flight to Vancouver. I’m writing this post on my laptop, and will post it sometime over the next day or so, once I get to my parents’ and have internet access once more. It’s grey and dreary and rainy here in Whitehorse today. During the last leg of the flight, my stomach felt queasy, and I kept telling myself not to vomit, which was odd because I never vomit, and probably couldn’t even if I tried. Maybe my body was telling me that I was not ready to leave Inuvik, that this grey weather was an omen.
There are three more hours to go until my next flight, and I’m feeling restless. I was fortunate to have been allowed to check in my suitcase four hours early, so that I didn’t have to drag it all over the airport with me. (Okay, so not all over, since it’s a tiny airport, but I always feel better after having checked in.) I’ve consumed a bag of ketchup chips from the vending machine, and am finishing up a bottle of grapefruit juice before going through security.
I’m already making a mental list of items to shop for over the next couple of days, before taking off for Ontario. I might cave and finally purchase an MP3 player for that plane-ride and accompanying three-hour wait at the Toronto airport. I need to buy a new pair of shoes for the wedding I’m going to. I want a hat and a new pair of shorts. But, I’m loathing the idea of walking through a mall, with the crowds that I’m no longer used to. I always feel like a frump whenever I’m in the “big city” again, when my hairstyle seems “boondoggish” and my clothes even more so. I think I might need to rally the help of one of my best friends. She’s the shopper-extraordinaire, and hits all of the stylish shops. When I stroll in beside her, I feel less likely to be gawked or wondered at.
The one thing I miss about shopping at a mall is the bookstore. I can’t wait to stroll into Chapters. My anti-corporate monopoly thoughts have long flown far from my mind since moving up north. Online shopping for books is just not the same. I want to be able to flip through the pages, feel the weight of the books in my hands, smell the ink and paper, and run my fingers all over the dust covers. Some books jump out at me from the shelves for unbeknownst reasons. Others, I would stumble upon at unexpected moments, when I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for, but certain that my search would not be in vain. I’m going to go and find that perfect book to bring with me to Thunder Bay.
Okay, now that I’ve killed fifteen minutes, the next two hours and forty-five minutes will fly by. (A girl could always wish….)
It’s down to the wire! In twelve hours, I’ll be on the Air North plane, on my way to Whitehorse via Dawson and Old Crow. Then, I’ll spend a few hours in Whitehorse before connecting to Vancouver. I’ll be exhausted by the time I reach my parents’.
I don’t know how to say farewell to my northern summer. I spent the day doing laundry and playing with my cat. In the evening, I brought her over to my friend’s house. I already miss her. It’s strange not to see her little curious face poke around the corner, to feel her circling around my legs.
In the morning, before I leave, I’ll have to vacuum the house. My friend might be coming up from Yellowknife for a few weeks, and I’ve offered my place up. It’s too bad we’ll miss each other though.
Tomorrow night, I’ll experience darkness once more. Maybe the stars would be able to compensate for losing the midnight sun.
On Thursday, I’ll make my way to Thunder Bay on a red-eye flight. I’ll get there on Friday morning to meet my sweetie. Perhaps there’ll be fireflies there. Maybe a few days by a lake is exactly what I need.
Springtime has hit Inuvik as well. Since coming back from my Easter break, the snow has begun to melt, and I no longer don my winter boots, down parka, and long johns when I venture out of doors. The first spring barbecue can’t be far off now, and, by next week, Inuvik will have over seventeen hours of daylight every day. Runs to the convenience stores for late-night slushies will start soon!
I had a fantastic Easter. My friend in Yellowknife and I drove to Fort Resolution to visit another friend. We feasted like we had never feasted before. (Come to think of it, we had a barbecue there – so that was my first springtime barbecue of the year!) We had an Easter egg hunt in the living room. Due to my non-competitiveness, I lost, but still came away with tons of goodies. The seven-hour drive from Yellowknife to Fort Resolution was largely monotonous, save for the stretch of ice-road by Fort Providence. That stretch was terrifying. Because of the mild weather, the ice had begun to give way to slush, and there were huge puddles everywhere. We were quite apprehensive about traveling on that road, but all was well. It was on the way back that we had our mishap: We cautiously made our way behind a semi across the ice, and plowed through what seemed like a foot of water at some spots. At the place where ice met solid land, we jolted along with a brief but violent lurch. Then came the sigh of relief. The worst was over. Not so…. About an hour away from arriving back into Yellowknife, on a nice paved stretch of the highway, a rock the size of a dollar coin smashed through the front windshield. I had been dozing in the passenger seat when I heard the thud. I opened my eyes and immediately saw the cracked glass. It was a minute later that we noticed the shards of glass in our laps and all over the dashboard that made us realize that the rock had come through. Had we been lower down on the road, in a small car instead of an SUV, the rock would have hit us smack in the face. We are so lucky that all we have is a broken windshield, a bit of fright, and a good story to tell.
Below is a picture of what we had thought would be the most perilous stretch of the road between Yellowknife and Fort Resolution: the ice road. This was taken on the way to Fort Resolution. If I had taken a picture on the way back, you would see the huge puddles. The road closed for the season a couple of days after our return.
Jibacoa, the place nestled between the mountains and the sea, is halfway between Varadero and Havana. It's the site of great snorkelling and scuba-diving, with a living coral reef just metres away from shore. We arrived at the resort in the evening of Christmas Day. That was the night I fell in love with congris, a Creole dish of rice and black beans, a staple for the next seven days. Several people I met complained about the blandness of the food, but it all suited me perfectly, as I hated anything too salty or spicy.
Highlights of my trip: 1) Havana, with its beautiful buildings, the noon-hour parades on the streets, the vibrancy that brought out the sun within even through the drizzle of rain. 2) The minutes of sun on the white sand beach of Cayo Blanco, when I told myself to just breathe and take in the infinity where the ocean met the sky. 3) Dying of embarrassment when pulled onto the stage during an evening show at the resort. Don't ask what I had to do on stage because it's a secret I'm taking to my grave. 4) The ride out in a pedal-boat, with schools of silvery and yellow fish surrounding our boat. 5) The most extravagant feast on New Year's Eve, beginning with champagne, with roast pork, beef, fish, lobster, lasagna, and ending with the most scrumptious chocolate cake.
After my vacation two years ago at an all-inclusive resort in Puerto Vallarta, I had vowed to never go on an all-inclusive vacation ever again. I had felt over-privileged, and didn't feel as though I had experienced the real Mexico. Alas, when I planned for another tropical vacation this time around, I caved and did it the easy way yet again. However, I found this experience completely different from the one I had in Mexico. I felt that I had experienced the spirit of Cuba, finding it in the people whom I had met.
The average Cuban makes about $15 a month. Most can never afford to buy a car, and have to rely on cramped public transportation (often with 300 people on a 29-seat bus), or on hitch-hiking. Apparently, government vehicles are obligated to stop and pick up passengers. Money, clothes, shampoos, soaps, and candy from the tourists are always greatly appreciated. I started getting choked up during my day-trip to Havana, when I saw a little girl with a dejected look leaning against a brick wall. Other tourists walked up to her and gave her pencils and candy, and her eyes just lit up. I would see the same scene repeated with different little boys and girls over the following days. By the end of the trip, my friend and I had parted with the beach towels we had brought, shampoos and soaps, Snickers bars, and I had even given away the tube of toothpaste I had been using. And, did it make me feel good? Not really. What good did the small amounts of pesos and tidbits do in the long run?
The entertainers at the resort were full of untiring energy. I was saddened by the thought that they would never be able to leave Cuba and visit the places from which the tourists they entertained had come. Perhaps I was imposing my own values onto them. I admired them for their clear love for life, for their sincerity and kindness. The locals I had met in Cuba were some of the most open and dignified people I had ever encountered. I only wish to laugh as heartily as they do at the simple things in life. I have so much to laugh about, to smile at, to be satisfied with, and yet, I feel mostly restless and discontent.
My trip to Cuba already feels like eons ago. The one thing I want to keep with me forever, more than the sun and the sand, is the spirit of the people, their eyes full of life, laughter, and love.
* Pictures are forthcoming
It's officially the end of summer. I'll start work again in two days. My parents have left after visiting me up here for a week. The weather is definitely autumnal. It's time – By special request, I'm finishing off my series of posts on my road-trip. It's been a month, so it's now or never. I choose “now,” I guess. Here it is, the final post, on Yorkton to Regina, July 30th:
Woke up from a fitfully cold night of sleep (thanks to the ceiling fan that had been kept on all night). I was ready to hit the road in my usual twenty minutes. Snapped some shots of downtown Yorkton before turning onto the highway. The open road somehow seemed sadder that day. That part of the prairies was hillier than the stretch from Edmonton to Yorkton, and views of the various small valleys were spectacular.
Drove into the outskirts of Regina after about two and a half hours. We had Sunday brunch at a busy restaurant. The meal included a mix of cuisines, from the ordinary “brunch offerings” of omelets, sausages, hash-browns, and fresh fruit, to spring rolls, perogies, fried chicken, and ribs.
It was another fifteen minutes or so to the airport. The tree-lined streets and boulevards reminded me very much of some of the streets in Vancouver, more specifically 12th Avenue, with its older heritage-style homes. Once we arrived at the airport, we found out that it was too early for me to check in, and had to sit in the lounge for a large part of a hour before I could go to the counter and get my suitcase off my hands. And so, we waited.
Checked in, and had two hours to kill before I needed to go through security, so we decided to go to the park by the legislature and walk around the lake. The wooded grove was beautiful. It was the beginning of my “summer of trees.” We walked the entire Blue Trail, and had an ice-cream before heading back to the airport.
S. dropped me off without a goodbye. I had said that I wouldn't say goodbye, and I didn't. I had decided that I was sick of goodbyes. I used to be quite good at them, at making spiels, at sounding like a cliché. Ultimately, I realized that I didn't want to remember goodbyes. I just wanted to remember the moments that mattered most, and goodbyes were never those to me.
There – the end of my posts on the road-trip. I finished something after all this summer.
I've been putting off writing about the final days of my road-trip. I feel as though I would never be able to do the experience justice. How could any of it be captured by these scrawls, these imperfect words? I guess all I could do is try, so here's the fourth post, about the fourth day – July 29th:
Despite griping about the density of the hotel pillows, I had the best night's sleep while in Saskatoon. Of course, it could also be the knowledge that the following day's drive would be short, and hence I could sleep in (if you could call waking up at 7:30 “sleeping in”). I felt well-rested and ready to take on the day, although I was anxious to see Yorkton at last. I had been saying all along that I had the feeling that S would like the town, hoping that perhaps if I said it enough, it would turn out to be true. In every town that we had pulled into the past couple of days (Fort Nelson, Fort Saint John, Dawson Creek), we had stated that we thought Yorkton would be comparable. (Would Yorkton feel as industrial as Fort Saint John? Would it have all the conveniences? Would there be a laser car-wash?)
We took Circle Drive out of Saskatoon, and got to see the outskirts of the city that way before hitting the highway again. The road-sign indicated that it was 320 km from Saskatoon to Yorkton. The yellow fields of canola flashed past on either side, as did those mysterious bluish fields (what were they?). S and I marvelled at the stretches where the two-lane highway indeed seemed to stretch straight into the horizon, and we could see for what seemed like infinity on all sides. Stopped in at a Subway to buy chocolate milk, and past the small towns (which we never really saw, since we would have had to turn off the highway). Farm equipment, granaries, and the odd CP Rail car provided our entertainment for the drive. Then, there was the community of Foam Lake, touted as the “Best Place in the World to Live” (by whom?). Unlike during our brief stop at Muncho Lake, S and I spent no time whatsoever arguing whether Foam Lake was indeed the best place on earth. We stopped only for a quick photo before moving onward, the anticipation mounting as we drove closer to Yorkton. Signs along the highway indicated places to golf and fish – something S would have to take up for sure (although he has already fished before). There were a few small churches in the middle of the fields. Although I'm not religious whatsoever, I thought it was fitting to have those small graceful structures in the middle of such openness, beneath that infinite sky. What better place to rejoice in the miracles that abound? The churches also announced to us that not only was this the land of living skies, but it was also the land of cultural richness, heralding the Eastern Orthodoxy that has been part and parcel of the history (and the present) of the region.
We pulled into Yorkton at around noon, after driving a total of 2828 km from Whitehorse. S had wanted to get my honest first impressions of the town, and I was glad that I found it charming. It had absolutely all the conveniences one could ever want (at least for someone who had spent time in Inuvik), but without compromising any of its rusticity. As we pulled into the street where S would live, I expounded praises on the tree-lined streets and the cute, well-kept houses. S's house is across the street from an elementary school, and the little girl riding her bike in circles around the block when we arrived only added to the appeal. In the end, Yorkton reminded me not of Fort Nelson, Fort Saint John, or Dawson Creek, but of Whitehorse, which I absolutely love.
Unloading the car included driving it directly up onto the lawn (with the approval of the landlord!), and dragging suitcases and various knick-knacks (and our tired asses) up the stairs. The rooftop carrier got a hose-down. After handling the drive so well, Baby (the car) received a much-deserved second shower. Yorkton had a laser car-wash after all.
Exploration of the town consisted mostly of ducking in and out of stores the rest of the afternoon, and making repeated exclamations of “Wow! They have this in Yorkton too!” The highlight was no doubt hauling S's new television up the stairs. I know he will laugh at me forever for thinking I could lift it.
I realize that I really haven't described Yorkton much, but I really can't. What sticks in my mind is the hope that it will be a good fit for S, and that my first impressions will prove to be right.
