Change in Plans

As mentioned in passing a couple of posts ago, I have a new job. I was a manager within the Air Policy and Climate Change Branch. But there was a change in my former boss' plans, and  I am now the branch director.

And what difference does that make?

Well, I'm still sorting that out. One of the things I was going to do as a freshly minted director was travel to farthest Iqaluit in August to attend a meeting of ministers of the environment.

But, there was a cabinet shuffle and what with the remote location and busy schedules, many ministers would not be able to attend. So now none of us are going.

Before that change in plans, I told this story to colleagues when they asked if I was excited to go.

I have been across the Arctic Circle once before in my life. It was the summer I turned 19 - so that would have been 1976 or so - and dad asked me if I'd like to go with him on a Box top Mission in a Canadian Forces CC-130 Hercules.

I don't know why my father asked me to go - other than he knew these trips to resupply the old DEW line outpost of Alert were fun and interesting - but I said "sure."

It really was a trip of a lifetime, featuring a midnight flight - in daylight - in a single engine Cessna over the (long since gone) Greenland glacier and a fly-by in the Hercules of a World War II B-29 bomber (also long since gone) abandoned on an ice field.

I was "crew" on the flight and travelled in the cockpit. Because I was a young girl, some fun was required of me. So the co-pilot vacated his seat and invited me to sit down. As I settled in, and they put the communications headset on me, the pilot explained that the plane was currently on autopilot but if I wanted to turn the plane, I could do so by turning a large dial located between the pilot and co-pilot's seat. So I put my hand on the dial and turned it. Sure enough, the plane turned, too, and then gently reset its course when I took my hand away from the dial.

The pilot then said that the plane would also respond to voice commands. He said, "you can tell the plane to change direction. Just tell it to turn where you want it to go."

Skeptical, but aware that my father's reputation was on some line or other, I spoke into the head set microphone, "Turn right." 

Nothing happened.

The pilot explained that it perhaps was not working because the voice command technology was calibrated to a man's voice. My voice was pitched too high to activate the command.

Oh, right.

So I know I'm being kidded now, and I know there's a whole bunch of people around me praying for a great story to tell in the mess hall, and I have my dad standing right behind me. Completely aware of what was at stake, I lowered my voice and spoke into the microphone.

After everyone had had their laugh and I'd given the co-pilot back his seat, I turned and looked at my dad.

"I knew they were kidding me, you know," I said.

Dad said, "I knew you knew. You're my kid."

**************************************************

The agave at Allan Gardens is almost in full bloom and famous.

Thanks for reading! Have a great week!

Karen

Summer Distractions

Books

I'm on a non-fiction bender these days. Aside from the occasional foray into fiction about the end of the world as we know it (see below), I've spent most of my time reading stuff like The Signal and the Noise by Nate Silver and Quiet by Susan Cain. The first book makes a good case for why no one should ever pay attention to anything a TV pundit says; the second book helps explain why TV pundits don't care that what they say is wrong as many times as it is right: extroverts just need to talk; it doesn't matter if it's nonsense.

Fixation With The Undead

We saw the movie and then read the book World War Z. But I lost my interest in fantasies about life-threatening dead people about half-way through the Zombie Survival Guide.

I don't think I need to steep myself any more in the lore of the living dead and expressed some puzzlement about the phenomenon when chatting with some folks at work.

"Vampires," I said, "and zombies. What is with the cultural obsession with the undead?"

"Immortality," responded the person I most frequently anonymously quote, and I think they're right.

Tree Predictions

The Signal and the Noise helped me appreciate that, when I predicted the demise of the trees in front of our condo whose roots had been so severely hacked by the workmen installing the new bike lanes on Sherbourne, I should have said there was a 40% chance they would be dead by spring.

They are doing very nicely in fact, proving me about as right as your average TV pundit.

As for the sudden collapse of 20% of the 120-year-old silver maple tree in the Allan Gardens with the burl at its base that looks like an owl's head - I sure didn't see that coming.

Question for the Ages Overheard at the Corner of College and Yonge

"Who made it the law that you're not allowed to masturbate just because you have a girlfriend?"

Finally, Good Advice on a Hand-Written Sign

This sign went up two Fridays ago.

Good advice, but it sadly came too late: 

This lock went on this morning.

Thanks for reading! Have a great week!

Karen

Getting Wet

I hung up the phone at about five minutes after five on Monday, July 8. I'd been talking to a colleague who works for the federal government. I'd told him I had accepted the offer to "act" in the Director's job for the Air Policy and Climate Change Branch, which position had recently and suddenly been vacated by my former boss.  

I'd said that there would be, in terms of the work my federal colleague and I did together, "very little change: Adam just did what I told him to do anyway," but I also admitted that there were many parts of the job I didn't know anything about and I felt what I called "healthy trepidation."

Then I turned around, looked out the window and saw that the skies had opened. I wanted to go to yoga, and I wondered if the heavy rain would subside in time for me to make the 5:45 class. So I waited. And waited.

The messages and lessons we get when we're kids stay with us our whole lives. "Don't get wet," was always a big one (which was odd given the other prevailing parental preoccupation with bathing). And, as I watched the rain pound down and the arms on the clock advance, I realized no matter what my destination - yoga class or home - I was going to get wet.

Very wet.

Giant agave at the Allan Gardens - must be from the rain

So I changed into my yoga duds, left my pricey work clothes hanging on the coat rack in my office and headed home. I walked the twenty yards from Ferguson Block to the corner of Wellesley and Bay and was wet to the skin.

My normal walk home from the office takes about fifteen to twenty minutes, depending on my luck with the traffic lights. I cross Bay, Yonge, Church and Jarvis Streets, cut across the Allan Gardens and then down Sherbourne Street.

July 8 was different. Bay, Yonge, Church and Jarvis streets were more rivers than roads. I was highly aware of how anxious and upset were the drivers of all those cars struggling to get home through the storm. I tried to keep my rain-filled eyes on as many of them as possible as I waded across the streets.

My shoes - nice, expensive ECCO sandals - were saturated in seconds and made comically loud squishing noises as I walked along the water-covered sidewalks.There was no point in avoiding puddles, so I didn't bother.

Normally, I shop for supper on my way home. I did this time, too. I suppose under different circumstances it would be embarrassing to enter an establishment with my hair plastered flat against my head, my shoes squishing loudly, my sight obscured by raindrop fogged glasses. But, what the hell. My money wasn't dry, but they took it anyway. I did ask for a plastic bag though.

I decided to not take my normal short cut to get to the corner of Jarvis and Carlton, and just headed east on Maitland to go straight down Jarvis Street, the five-lane highway that feeds cars from the tony northern suburbs into the downtown core. Jarvis has a gentle slope down to the lake - a path of least resistance if you like - and the amount of water flowing down it was mind-boggling. Water rushed past cars waiting at the light at Maitland Place at the level of their headlights.

I walked around rather than through the Allan Gardens with its lovely tall trees. There was still some lightning, and, while I felt luckier than the people in their cars, I didn't feel quite that lucky.

Somehow - I guess because of the care I was taking in crossing streets and the longer route - it took me almost an hour to walk the five blocks home. Bruce got me a towel when I stepped inside the door. 

We had no flooding (though the water in our back "yard" rose to within two feet of our door); we never lost power; we don't have a car so we didn't have to worry about how to get it home through flooded underpasses.

The July 8 storm dropped more water on Toronto in 3 hours than Hurricane Hazel dropped in 24 hours. Imagine that. After Hazel hurtled through town, killed eighty people, and washed away whole neighbourhoods in the Humber River valley, the provincial government of the day enacted reforms in planning law (no more building on floodplains), watershed management (it created the network of conservation authorities to manage and protect waterways in order to control flooding) and other useful things. These sensible reforms may have contributed to the fact that no one died because of the storm on July 8, 2013. 

I wonder what sensible reforms will arise this time. 

Maybe bigger boats for the Toronto Police marine unit.

Thanks for reading! Have a great week!

Karen

Gus Awmighty

In May 2011, I first wrote (when I was sending out e-mails instead of blogging) about "Gus", the xylaria polymorpha fungus growing in our backyard around the stump of a sad little tree that failed to thrive. I didn't take a picture of him when he was in his prime that year, but I thought then that because he seemed impervious to the backyard marauders (the cats, the 'coons, the squirrels) he might make a good pet once Molly was gone.

Later that summer, I did record proof that Gus had no particular resistance to something that found him very tasty indeed.

Gus came back in 2012. We covered him with a glass bowl and, so long as he had that protection, he grew big and strong.

I think Stephen King stole this idea.

Pinky and the Brain included to show scale.

The powdery spores on the outside apparently serve no reproductive purpose. Fungus fashion.

The day we took the glass bowl away, Gus was devoured.

This year, Gus's sprouting season (a three-week process that starts in May) was disrupted by Bruce's big backyard project of systematically washing the crumbled red brick that lines our patio. Something gnawed Gus' early growth so the ring of fingers isn't quite uniform. 

This summer's copious rains have, however, helped Gus really bulk up the fingers he's still got.

Except for the occasional photo shoot, Gus' glass dome will stay put this year.

Thanks for reading! Have a great week!

Karen

"Can You Smell My Tree?" And Other New York Sensory Experiences

What you see in New York accounts for just one of the senses. Here are a few notes on sound, smell and touch.

Quiet Shoes

New Yorkers may talk loud and wear their perfume at full volume but they walk around on cat's feet.

New York Public Library: a marble oasis.

In the New York Public Library and in Grand Central Terminal, where you'd think you'd hear footfalls in the thousands, everyone was in soft-soled shoes. There was no din of marching feet anywhere.

Eddie, Kate and Bruce look up in Grand Central Terminal.

Smelly Trees and Bleach

It was late Saturday afternoon in Manhattan and we were on our way to Terminal 5 to see Dawes, walking along a typical residential street with brownstones rising on our left and, at regular intervals, trees growing out of four-by-six foot rectangles of earth along the curb to our right. A middle-aged man was standing in front of what I assumed was his home. We were just in front of him when he asked, "Can you smell my tree?" Surprised, we slowed our step and turned back to look at him. He explained that people were always asking him about it. I sniffed, and, sure enough, above the ambient New York summertime aroma of garbage, hot asphalt and construction dust, there was a tree-ish tang, not unlike the whiff that comes off of Bradford Pear trees (very common in New York) or Tree of Heaven (very common in Toronto). I'm not sure why he engaged us on the topic, or why he seemed to want to keep talking about it, but Eddie played along, even as we walked away. Eddie closed the conversation with "I thought it was your cologne." 

A sign at the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. According to the Internet, Stinking Hellebore doesn't.

Terminal 5 was the first big music venue I think I've ever been in. I thought it was well-designed. Lots of room to stand, lots of washrooms and a bar on every one of its three levels. My biggest impression: the strong smell of bleach as I entered after a nice twenty-something tried to card me (I didn't have any photo ID on me, but, c'mon).

The day before we'd stopped for lunch at a place called Figaro on West 44th street between 6th and 5th avenues and the first thing that struck me about that place was the pungent presence of bleach. Not very appetizing, but we ate there anyway.

When Kate and I stopped in for a first-thing-in-the-morning mani-pedi at a little nail shop in Brooklyn, you guessed it, the air inside was heavy with the smell of bleach.

And the one day that we returned to the place we were staying and met the nice lady who cleaned for our host, I noted that bleach played a major role in her approach to keeping the place spic and span for visitors.

Along the paths we walked in Brooklyn, I saw giant displays of bleach in front of convenience stores. 

It seems so old-fashioned.

Touched By An Angel

The angels in the photo above - taken on our last day as we waited for the cab to take us to the airport -  adorned the steps of the house next door to the one we stayed in. Kate and I were curious about them, especially about what they were made of. So one morning before we walked over to the little bagel place where we always had our breakfast, we touched them, briefly, lightly and then we went on our way. If I was going to guess, I'd say they were made of some kind of resin and were probably not all that well suited to being out of doors.

Fast forward to a day or two later, and I was talking with our host as I prepared to step out for the day's adventure. He seemed a little on edge about something. Then he explained that there had been some drama between him and his neighbours. Watchful eyes had seen Kate and I touch the angel. And then the same angel, so said my host, turned up broken. I'm listening to all this very carefully, trying to assess, exactly, what the point was. The angels, at the time of my conversation with my host, were in exactly the same shape as when Kate and I had examined them, and, even granting that some misfortune may have befallen them in the interim, we were not the cause. 

Our host then got to the point: to make peace with his neighbour for the alleged damage to her angels, he had paid her a sum of money. How much money, I asked. A hundred dollars he said. 

That's a lot of cash for no damage to a pair of Carlton Card shop resin angels. I wondered if his neighbour shook him down every time he had a guest in his house. I wondered if any of his guests had ever paid him all or a portion of the shakedown.

By this time, Kate and Ed and Bruce were all joined in the conversation. We reasserted our innocence, expressed regret that we had caused this kerfuffle (there was no denying that we had in fact touched the angels), and went on our way. We didn't hear another word about it and thereafter kept a safe distance between us and the angels.

Rules and Regulations 

We've heard that New Yorkers and New York have a different air about them since the 9/11 attacks. People are friendlier, more inclined to be helpful. That may be the case. Everyone we interacted with seemed nice and ready to help - with the exception of the guy in Brooklyn who just stared at Eddie when he asked him for directions. What I've noticed more than once is how rule-conscious New Yorkers seem to be now. 

I found these rules for Zuccotti Park, famous as the temporary home of the Occupy Wall Street phenomenon. 

The Brooklyn Museum similarly imposed an impressive set of rules that appeared, while we were there, to be 100% followed.

If it weren't for that cute little kid playing in the fountain (see last post), I'd think that New York, and not Toronto, is New York run by the Swiss.

Thanks for reading! Have a great week!

Karen

Playing Injured

Bruce and I are just back from five days in New York, and here's a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge to prove it.

Last time we were in NYC was November 2010, and, really, the place has changed a lot.

First of all, the new World Trade Tower has broken ground and then some. A friend observed to me recently that the new tower looks ever so much like an extended middle finger. 

At 7 World Trade Centre, a fountain featuring a monumental Jeff Koons balloon sculpture has been installed, a tribute to those who survived the 9/11 attacks. Signs explain to visitors that this is private property and many activities are not permitted including playing in the fountain. Cue photo of cute little kid playing in the fountain.

We saw too many things and had too much fun during our visit to share in a single short blog post. 

I propose to add bits to future posts. For today, I'll review the highlights.



Best thing we should have done long ago: New York Public Library. We went inside the New York Public Library after many previous visits where we gawked only at the outside. It is splendid indoors. A show featuring children's books transported me to my happy childhood when I spent hours dug deep in Charlotte's Web, Pippi Longstocking and stories about Winnie-the-Pooh. 

The actual toys Sheperd based his drawings on.

Best new find: The Rubin Museum. Founded in 1999, this small, modern museum houses an amazing collection of art from the Himalayas. The pieces are spectacular, the curation scholarly and, what we enjoyed the most about the space, the crowds of fellow-museum-goers very, very small. Nowadays people treat visits to the Met and the MOMA like trips to Coney Island. Giant, raucous groups of families and friends rove the museums, posing with artworks like they were cardboard facsimiles of movie stars, making a huge racket. Need a new, quiet, beautiful place to go? Try the Rubin.

Best food: Bruce and I usually have bad luck trying to find good places to eat anywhere, not just NYC. This time, we ate well no matter where we went. And the very best place was our second choice after we found out the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal wasn't open on Sunday. A quick search on Yelp took us to Nirvana, a new Indian food place. We had our misgivings about the menu, but ordered some likely-sounding dishes and oh, man, were they good. The waiter came by to clear the table of the 100% clean dishes and smiled as he asked the unnecessary question of whether we had enjoyed our meal.

Best new New York neighbourhood: Brooklyn. We have always stayed in Manhattan before this, but got some really cheap digs (basically renting someone's bedroom through airBnB) in the Fort Greene neighbourhood in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is historic, green, diverse and full of young people. It has its own major green space Prospect Park, a major art museum and a big botanical garden that, due to a navigation error, we spent more time walking around than walking in, but what we saw when we got there was pretty cool.

Brightly-coloured water lilies.

125-year-old Japanese White Pine bonsai

Those are the highlights. The only thing I have left to do is explain the title to this post: "Playing Injured."

We went to NYC this time in the enjoyable company of our dear friends Kate and Ed. Here's Kate posing with a sewer alligator sculpture in Brooklyn.

This bronze cast is part of a multi-piece work - Life Underground by Tom Otterness - installed
around the subway station close to where this photo was taken.

Here are Kate and Ed with Super Mario in Times Square.

Last time we vacationed with K&E, we were in St. Augustine, Florida and I was hobbling around with an injured left foot. I learned after returning to Canada that I'd walked the length and breadth of the US's oldest city with a hairline fracture in my third metatarsal. 

I cannot holiday with these friends without a broken bone somewhere, apparently. A couple of weeks before our departure to NYC, I cracked a rib in yoga class (go figure). 

Other than using this injury as an excuse to not participate in the world's largest open air yoga class on June 21st in Times Square, it didn't bother me.

"Mind Over Madness" - as mad a public display of yoga as I have ever seen. This is a small part of the crowd, and shows only one class, many more of which were held over the day. An estimated 15,000 people participated. 

Thanks for reading! Have a great week!

Karen

That Was Fun

On Thursday, the people I spend most of my day with and I spent most of the day sitting or standing around at the Winter Garden Theatre in downtown Toronto. This was the location for the Amethyst Awards, the Ontario Public Service's ceremony for recognizing outstanding service to the people of Ontario.

This is me, all dolled up for the Amethyst Awards, in front of the Winter Garden Theatre,
which was also all dolled up for the Amethyst Awards.

The day was everything: thrilling, boring, engaging, dull, entertaining, hot and rainy - it just depended on when you were looking. 

This is show biz, so they needed to herd us all in like cattle several hours before the show so we could sit around and worry about creasing our fancy clothes and the men could get uncomfortably hot in their suit jackets. They also made us wait until 2:00 before we could eat anything, so we were, circa 1:45 p.m. collectively hot, bored, hungry, crabby, dehydrated outstanding public servants.

All part of the magic.

As for me, my goal for the day was not to fall out of my shoes. And I'm proud to say I reached my goal.

Solid in my shoes.

In retrospect, the tedium of the dress rehearsal and the long wait served to make the event that much more spectacular. And it really was a spectacle. The Premier - Kathleen Wynne - arrived in person and spoke to the assembled crowd. She was warm, funny and appreciative of the public servants she was addressing. Were I not doing it already, after that speech, I'd have quit my job to go work for her. 

The entertainment for the day included two amazing performances of an Indian dance company, songs by a  beautiful young man billed as "the talented tenor" and three rock covers performed so fabulously by a band comprised entirely of public servants that we all wondered what the hell they were doing working for government. 

Another great thing about the day was how many people's families got into the act. Just about everybody had their mom, dad, partner, sister, kids, friend or somebody in the audience to cheer loudly when they came on stage. 

The truth for me was that I had both looked forward to and dreaded the day. I'm part of the 10% of the population that suffers genuine discomfort at the thought of that much attention. But, the time on stage was brief, as noted I managed to keep my shoes on my feet and, when a three-second clip of my red carpet interview played for the assembled crowd at the start of the ceremony, I was proud and grateful for the fact - because my face was eighteen feet high and filled the stage - that Jane Saracino had done my hair and make up.

Have a great week!

Karen