Toronto vs. Montreal

So, I was in Toronto, crashing at an old friend's place behind Chinatown.

Toronto never disappoints me.

I go to the Beaches during the day and I feel like I'm in Venice, CA:
the boardwalk, the skatepark, the colorful parasols, the tramp stamps, haha.

At night, I'm heading out to 751. This grungy little place where the owner recognized my friends, but looked at me and said: "You're new, what can I get you hunny-bun?"

I don't remember the last time I was called hunny-bun, but I rolled with it.

Basked of Wings for $4. Sweeeet.

Skip to another night. We were at Sneaky Dee's and I was doing a fair bit of people-watching while my friend went nuts on her blackberry.

Time for Toronto hipsters vs. Montreal hipsters:

It's like if you took a Montreal hipster, ripped up his/her Urban Outfitters clothes a bit, made him/her a bit more punk, get'em tatted up (sleeves please) , don't let them shower for a few days - and there you have it: A hipster a la Toronto.

And of course, my last day in Toronto, we somehow end up at Dance Cave.
This place smells like sweat, cheap beer, puke, and dirty toilets. Ha. Except the music is soooo good. And you dance the night away or until some man in his middle life crisis approaches you wearing a ridiculous newsboy cap and a desperately button-down tropical t-shirt.

Wow. I'm really not making this sound like a place you want to end up.

But it IS just one of those places, you just find yourself singing to your own anthem song at last call.

But the nights didn't end when the bars and clubs close. Nope, not for us.
For two nights in a row, we hopped a fence (a frickin' tall one mind you) to get into an outdoor swimming pool. Stripped to underwear (some braver ones wore even less).
Finally beating the summer heat.

I had an amazing time. I got to live a little/dance a little.

But now I'm all partied out. I kinda just want to crawl back onto my couch in Montreal and watch Season 3 LOST.

Stay Close Chuck

The Book of Silly Lists

Or, How I Spent My Summer Vacation by Katherine Hannemann

If you think my summer reading list consists of canonical pieces of English literature, you’ve got it all wrong. Rummaging through an oversized plastic bin of my favorite written works circa 1995-1998, I came across an essential book for readers of all ages: The Book of Silly Lists. This work contains over 100 lists of vital information, such as America’s shortest presidents and the top ten most popular flavors of ice cream. In the spirit of this newly rediscovered book I thought I would share a short list of objects that summarize a bit of my summer up to this point.

My most essential objects of summer 2009

1. OVERSIZED BICYCLE HELMET. In the words of Marleen P., only the “weird Germans” wear bicycle helmets. Needless to say I was never offered a helmet while biking in the Netherlands. I can say I proudly inherit this aspect of my heritage as I have been bicycling around St. Paul and Minneapolis—only with the safety feature of oversized headgear. I admittedly could not figure out why this helmet was so large until today when I realized I had been taking my father’s helmet this whole time. At least I didn’t accidentally take his reflective vest, which he wears biking home from work at 11 p.m.
2. 24-HOUR DIGITAL CLOCK. Even several months of working at the McGill Executive Institute didn’t train me to memorize the 24-hour clock, essential to the German timetable. If Volkstanzabend starts at 18:30, it starts at 6:30 pm, not 7:30. If you guys ever want to be on time to folk dancing lessons in Germany, you better learn this quick.
3. OREO CAKESTERS. Whereas Julian’s oral surgery induced selfless reflection (see below post), my wisdom teeth removal in mid-July simply provoked a series of ornery internal rants following a one-day vomiting stint caused by “motion sickness” from the anesthesia (you better look out, Ran). Luckily I recovered from that nausea soon enough and the tender sweetness of Oreo cakesters became my source of nutrition during the week I couldn’t chew.
4. GERMAN-ENGLISH DICTIONARY – the paper kind. You’ve got to have it always with you, because if you’re trying to say “self conscious” but you end up saying “self confident,” you’re going to sound like a damn fool. I found myself in a conversation with my 68-year-old host father, who simply would not rest until I came up with the exact translation of Stachelbeere (it literally translates as “thornberry,” but actually means “gooseberry”—what the fuck?), and it would have gone a lot quicker if I actually had the dictionary at that moment.
5. THE BOOK OF SILLY LISTS. Because how else would I know that James Madison was the shortest US president?

Finallyyy.

It's quite a bit different from the original drawing.

Fuck the rooster.

I've been on the road again, but done a few sketches.

I will post them when I get home.

Food is Delicious and Arms are Awesome

I don't know if you appreciate it, but we are so lucky!

I remember quite a few family trips where my mom would turn around to look at Dustin, Mira and I, and reflect, "We are so lucky!" To be healthy, to be able to go skiing, to have enough food, to be together, to be in the mountains, blah blah blah. We would sensitively reply, "Mo-om! We're trying to watch Scrubs, can you be quiet?"

I think of this now because I am recovering from jaw surgery which has left my jaw wired shut. Everything I eat is liquid. I don't even get milkshakes from a blender because fruits in the blender come out too pulpy and thick to make it through my teeth. Fruits and veggies must be juiced. Everything must be strained. I'm not allowed to suck, so I inject food into my mouth with a syringe.

Basically, all pleasurable things about food have disappeared and it's made me realize just how lucky I (normally) am! These six weeks are such a short period over the course of my life and it'll be over very soon and I'll be able to eat whatever I want - not only physically eat and enjoy whatever I want, but "rich" enough to eat almost anything I want and go to bed full every night.

I won't even go into how lucky this experience has made me feel to be healthy and active. The night of the surgery I needed a doctor and a nurse to wheelchair-me to the bathroom--and I still nearly fainted. I'm thankful that I am independent, that I enjoy the use of all my limbs, that I have a healthy mind.

I'm planning the most amazing binge sesh EVER the week they unwire me. I'm going to savour tearing into a chewy baguette. I'm going to relish the way sushi has so many different tastes and textures at once. And I'm going to think, with every bite, about just how lucky I am!

Julian

The other night at Reservoir was Lawrence's goodbye. Which was bittersweet. Bitter because Lawrence is now gone (not bitter in that we hold a grudge, just that it's sad). But sweet because:

Ran turned around to talk to Felix, and simultaneously reached across the table to take my hand in hers. She held it for about a minute as Adrian, who was sitting beside me, and whose hand Ran believed she was holding, cracked up.

We both have soft hands, apparently.

There I was.

There I was.
Ankle-deep in burning-hot black sand and a toad crawling out from beneath my toes.
I jumped at the same time the toad did and he had the better idea of jumping onto my boob, while I almost stumbled into a patch of poison ivy.
This would have been about the time I recovered my balance, except the toad had now caught its little leg in my knitted sweater and it was frantically attempting to jump off my chest, so my distress continued as I tried to pull him off.

To the red and freckled family of four standing in front of me, I must have appeared quite insane.
Toad on my left boob, huge knitted sweater in 27C (70F???) weather, red bumps on my legs from my newly-discovered mosquito allergy, and black hands and feet from struggling up sand dunes on my hands and feet. Plus, I was doing what looked like a tribal dance trying to shake the little critter off me.

I ended up in this mess because I was bored in Provincetown while Anna was working.
I decided to drive up to Racepoint and find a picturesque little beach and lighthouse where I could be alone, listen to the waves, and do a bit of reading.

The park ranger gave me directions to a dirt parking lot and a 3 mile trail leading to Racepoint lighthouse. He told me it would be a long walk in the sand and on top of that, it had started raining. He said it was the only way to get to Racepoint lighthouse because all the roads only led to the major and more popular beaches.
3 miles didn't seem so bad.

When I got to the tiny dirt parking lot, there were no other cars there. I put on my sweater and raincoat and began the journey down the dirt path.
It was hard to walk in the heavy wet sand, so I had to take off my sandals.
After 20 minutes of trudging in the sand, I reached a marsh.
The path cut across the marsh and I thought: I've already walked this far, I should just keep going.

20 more minutes, I was jogging and at the same time, swatting away airborne blood-suckers.
My legs had already started to swell, yellow bumps surrounded by patches of red skin.

Finally, I got out of the marsh and the rain had stopped. Thank god.
The next challenge was sand dunes.
The sun was coming out, so I thought that I had gotten through the worst.
Still barefoot, I felt the sand getting hotter under my feet and the sweater I was wearing wasn't helping. I was already carrying the raincoat and climbing up the sand dunes, so I didn't take off the sweater.
I'm sure the scenery was beautiful around me, but it was hard to focus on anything but my burning feet.

After nearly an hour, I saw the lighthouse. And this was where I got into the black sand (don't ask me where this black sand came from) and confronted the family of four, who were staying at the guesthouse beside the lighthouse.

The family was nice enough to give me some bugspray after my fiasco. I didn't care that a hairy, fat, red and sunburned man wearing a thick gold chain around his neck felt sorry for me, I was just thankful for the bugspray. If there hadn't been any bugspray, I swear I would have just stayed on the beach until help came in the form of an enclosed vehicle where no toads, mosquitos, or hot black sand could get in.

I arrived at the beach and walked straight into the ocean to cool off my feet. Ah, finally. the journey had paid off. There was no one to be seen. Just me. I closed my eyes to listen to the waves and to feel the cool, ocean breeze. I felt a cloud pass over the sun and I was sooo thankful.

"Watchhhh outtt!"
Too late, the football had hit me in the head already.
The shadow was not a cloud, but some frat boy running towards me because his buddy had told him to 'go deep'.
The boy wearing the backwards cap and flaming orange shorts helped me get up, apologizing as he did. He checked to make sure I was okay and told me I should put on some sunscreen because my legs looked really red.

I decided not to explain.

In my confused and frustrated state, he led me around the beach bend and what I saw next made me feel just st-oo- pid.
A crowd of scantily-clad college kids were putting up tents and RVs with more students in them were pulling up from behind. Of course, they brought tiki torches.
I thanked the boy for helping me, but I had to go back to my hotel.
He said: "Do you need a ride? I'm driving back to Provincetown."

So here's what I've learned:
a) The park ranger is either a liar or he doesn't patrol the roads very well.
b) I'm allergic to mosquito saliva and I will now and forever carry a large bottle of OFF! in my purse.
c) Weather.com can't even get the same day's hourly forecast right.