Tag: Adventure

These sounds of summer

Friends!

I have but one summer wish for you all. It is for every single one of you to be given the chance to enjoy the hilarity and joy that is The Merry Wives of Windsor at Bard on the Beach.

Talk about an inspired performance. I was actually clutching my sides with laughter during some of the scenes.

I believe the correct words are: gut and busting.

If you can, go, go, GO! (In the parlance of Joseph and the yadayadayada, if you will.)

It will not disappoint.

I have been spending as much time outside as possible, in an aim to soak up all the golden goodness that the weather gods have finally unleashed on our fair land (after much coaxing from us mere mortals let me assure you!)

This weekend M and I are off to the cabin for one last solo hurrah before all the friends and family you can possibly imagine descend upon our humble abode until, well, basically the end of August.

We shall be whooping it on the hiking trails, running the hilly roads, and swimming like wee fishes in the cool and briny deep of the ever mysterious Pacific Ocean.

Actually, one of my most favourite things do to in the whole wide world whilst up on the Sunshine Coast, is to go for a run in the early morning and upon my return, fly down to the dock, strip down to my unmentionables, and plunge straight into the bay.

There is nothing quite like hitting that water, the sweat and salt sliding off of your skin, wriggling, diving, turning – legs a cool grey-green just below the surface, refracted by the suns bright rays.

This, this I promise you.

Plus the folks in the neighbouring houses who watch think me to be abso-bloody-bonkers.

Which, of course, I love.

Speaking of which, here are some photos from this weekend past:

Amazing noms.

Meat platter for M. Feta, black pepper, and parsley fries for me.
It’s always a good time for gelato.
Homemade greek salad. Pellegrino. Book. YES.

Shake(speare) your groove thang.

The entrance to Bard.

Sweatin’ to the oldies.

Though I love the heat, it makes me perspire like a mad-woman when I run.

Views for the ages.

English bay.
Duck armada.
Sunset from our balcony.

Et tu, Brute?

The classic Canadian Caeser + NYT Crossword? Oh yeah baby.

Tonight M and I are off to a local pub for trivia with some sweet, sweet friends.

I hope they will still be sweet, sweet friends by the end of the night, goodness knows how competitive I get when it comes to games (and in particular those that revolve around the answering of general knowledge questions.)

It should be a grand time.

What did you fancy cats get up to over the weekend?

I want to hear all about it.

Once more unto the beach, dear friends

Hi loves.

Yesterday I returned from our road trip down the Oregon Coast and Ashland Shakespeare extravaganza.

We left late Thursday afternoon and chronicled much of our journey our brand-spanking new “adventure log” about which we were most excited.

Check it!

Day 1

“His name was Visser. He is an Animorph killer.” This was Marc’s conclusion as we pulled away from our unblinking boarder guard and entered the United States.

Even with the gods spitting on our windshield, our spirits soared, along to the sweet, sweet tunes of Spoon (and other musical greats), recently turned into a travelling CD.

With one hundred miles to Seattle we would be comfortably ensconced in the Sheraton by 6:30. Then whiskey and bitters (definitely), would be enjoyed, but first, and most imminent: McDonalds.

Upon our arrival, Marc got us upgraded to a superior room, however we will have to re-mortgage our home to pay off the blasted valet parking.

For forty-four dollars I half expected them to wash and detail the car, or at the very least gift us with a free bottle of eight dollar gummi bears.

After settling in, it was time to don our fancy duds and head to the hills for dinner.

Mental note: bringing up rum running with a rather clueless concierge will not make your question regarding speakeasys come across any clearer. However, we are now equipped with the knowledge that it is illegal in the state of Washington to operate an establishment that serves only alcohol in the absence of food stuffs.

The more you know kids.

In the end delicious food and drink were enjoyed at the Zig Zag Cafe and Sushi Cucina.

To protect ourselves from the fat raindrops littering the downtown core we purchased a small umbrella before traipsing about like two love sick teenagers in our spit-shined finery, stopping at every street light to clasp hands and kiss.

Day 2

The day broke as so many previous – Marc up ages before myself, passing the time lost in the familiar and comforting pages of a book on magic (or is it of magic?). Let’s say both.

Once my lazy bones jones arose from my bed of rest, we ventured out in search of sustenance and a map of Oregon.

We found both.

After a brief tour of a number of different Seattle neighbourhoods, we reconnected with the I-5 and learned the increasingly obvious lesson that in this part of the world it doesn’t matter where you are headed, or what time of day it is, you will probably encounter massive highway congestion.

Do not try to fight this, or understand why it happens – just embrace it as a fact of life and move on.

To pass the time we tried to name as many states as possible. We got to 47.

At the I-5 exit to get to highway 30 (our route to meet up with the Oregon coast), it started to become clear that I had not really thought through just how far the two of us would be driving to get to our intended destination – South Beach Provincial Park.

Marc, frustrated by the slow pace of his fellow drivers, super speedwayed his way to a one hundred and sixty dollar fine.

It was all going so well until the state trooper (who may just be the nicest law enforcement official to exist ever) saw my bruised body and immediately began to ask questions.

I quickly assured that I was one tough mudder (copyright) and that we were actually celebrating our four year wedding anniversary (in hopes that she might write off the ticket).

She didn’t.

And then it started to rain. A LOT.

By the time we arrived at our campground, the mosquitoes were out in force, sucking the life force right out of us (and through two layers of pants at that!) However, it was nothing that some five dollar wine and marshmallows couldn’t fix.

The ocean there was beautiful and brilliant in its majesty, but also frightening in its ferocity.

We respect but fear the waves.

And that night you could hear Poseidon’s song.

Day 3

This day must be changed in the way that it is described from ordinary language into one of superlatives. It was epic on many extraordinary levels.

First, followed by swarms of Jurassic-sized mosquitoes, we managed to break camp in the most expedited of fashions and be on our merry.

However, this meant we skipped the usual “morning prepper” for Sergeant Ethel, namely a cup of joe, so we then had to attempt to locate an “Espresso Shack” that accepted plastic or non-specific currency; this all happened on our way to the aptly named and hugely disappointing Little Switzerland – big on pastoral beauty, low on amenities.

Anyway, following a quick pit stop just off of Seal Rock, the Sargeant settled down to do some hardcore driving (approximately 500 clicks – metric wise) whilst we jabbered about politics, upbringings, and the identity of our missing states – Missouri, New Hampshire and Colorado, natch.

Much, much later we managed to out-drive the monsoon conditions and found ourselves at the hospitable Emigrant Lake, where we victualed and had a bathe in preparation for our evening out with the Bard.

Day 4

An azure blue has replaced the downtrodden grey that marked the worst of yesterday’s weather.

We woke to dry skies – I made tea and Marc quickly set about drying our thoroughly soaked camping chairs.

More java was procured in town (and with a smoothie – Marc’s summer drink of choice) and we joined up with an actor’s Q & A session, where he spoke about his time with the festival and answered our question’s on a myriad of topics.

I wanted to know more about the tricky balance of delivering a show that pleases the audience, but also breathes new life into much love, and much interpreted productions.

(What I really wanted to ask was why, in Henry V, was the French envoy dresses as an extra in a Paula Abdul music video.)

After our walk about town, we returned to the campsite and swan, sunned, and shimmied to our heart’s content.

Day 5

I can pick apart the rotten red rock with my fingertips; if I sat here long enough maybe I could erode it down to the level of the sand.

Looking Northwest, I see that the peninsula is falling back into the sea in such a way that a humped needle eye of this same rock is looking back at me.

As soon as I  characterize or anthropomorphize the earth in this way I can’t help thinking how there have always been people here, probably longer than the needle’s eye.

I wonder, how many of them, sitting here facing the endless gray lullabye that kills and feeds, washes and deforms, endures – how many thought simply – “okay” – and didn’t build higher or travel further, or settle deeper.

They just crumbled the rock and imagined a face in the sea.

Day 6

Laughs. Love. Happiness.

Home.

Sweet mudder of pearl

Guess whose back? Back again?

Ethel’s back! Tell a friend!

WHAT. A. RACE.

Could somebody pass me a washcloth?

The great thing about all of this mud is that it covers the myriad of cuts and bruises that now decorate the length of my body.

It may or may not look like I went ten rounds with a baseball bat.

Actually, what I really want to do is get a t-shirt that says, “Yeah, but you should see the other guy!”

Also, those running shoes did not return with me on the ride home. The mud was so thick in parts of the race that people were actually losing their shoes.

Talk about trauma-rama – at mile three we passed some poor girl desperately searching through the muck to find her long gone runner – arms and legs completely lost in the mire, trying to feel about for her sinking Nike.

(This was also in a section of the course called “Bush Whacking” which had seen us literally carve our own paths down the side of a forested mountain.)

Her incredibly supportive teammate (and by supportive, I mean exasperated as hell) threw her hands up in the air and exclaimed, “Fuck the shoe!”

Fuck the shoe you say?

Oh no no no no no no no….

There is no way in heck that the unfortunate mudder would be able to continue on to finish her race without something resembling a shoe strapped onto her foot.

And by resembling I mean an exact replica.

Shoes – they matter.

Because dudes, THIS was one hell of a course.

Over 12 miles long (of which probably a good two miles were in the snow!), we went through it all: crawling in the mud under barbed wire, crawling in the mud under ever lower barbed wire, scaling ten and twelve foot walls, running up half-pipes (this nearly broke my breasts – small though they are, no word of a lie that hurt like heck), traversing monkey bars over freezing water, ACTUALLY jumping into freezing water, electrified slip and slides, electrified finish lines, WALKING UP THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN THAT HOUSES A BLOODY SKY JUMP (at mile ten mind you), more mud (think the consistency of newly mixed cement), more mud, running up hill, running down hill – did I mention the mud?

My number, M’s and my headbands.

And seriously, it was glorious.

Brilliant.

A day of supreme bad-assery, if you will.

M and I worked together like a team on fire. It’s so amazing to see what we are capable of doing as a unit when put into these kind of situations. Neither of us complained, or whined; we continually checked in with one another, encouraged each other, let each other know what hurt, what needed to be stretched out, where we would next take water, whether one of us needed to use the loo.

Actually, funny story there.

After the Arctic Enema – even less sexy than it sounds, let me assure you – I realize that I need to quickly use the john. Well, what with my shorts and my underwear now super glued to my body, it was a hell of a time trying to get those bad boys down, let alone back up again (think removing the wettest, coldest bathing suit (re: speedo), and then trying to put it back on as fast as you possible can.)

It’s practically impossible, right?

Especially when you are trying to move it, move it.

My extremely competitive nature made me briefly consider leaving with just my shorts back in place and my underwear still straddling my upper thighs, but luckily I though better of it and made sure everything was good to go before getting back to business.

Oh, I also did the really classy thing of peeing into the urinal (this being an outhouse it was the easiest thing to access) instead of the actual toilet, because some schmuck had actually closed the lid – and there was no way I was making the effort to lift it back up. Plus, THAT’S GROSS.

Priorities!

Anywho, to get back to the race. What a day – beautiful weather, not too cold, not too hot, sun in the alpine, cooler in some parts but not freezing (that was what we had the water for.) M and I ran pretty much the entire course save the brutal, brutal track up the sky jump hill – the incline was just too much, and at way too far into the race. We jogged probably the first 50 meters before settling into as fast of a hike as possible.

It was pretty cool as we neared the finish line – you could hear the music and everybody cheering – what a way to pump you up to finish the race.

As soon as you crossed that line (after running through a massive obstacle filled with wires, some charged at 10,000 volts) M and I just collapsed into a huge hug, and just held each other for a second to drink it all in.

I cannot say all too much else except that I am so very proud of us. We achieved something pretty amazing the two of us together – 12 miles, 23 obstacles, 2 hours, twenty minutes of madness and glory.

Post-race however, as my brilliant friend K texted me later that day – “That awkward moment when you are scrubbing and scrubbing and you realize that it’s not mud, but a bruise.”

Yeaaaahhhhh:

Pre-shower legs.

Eeeerrrr:

Pre-shower arms, plus my number still written on my forehead.

Ooof:

Next day legs.

Eeep:

Next day arms.

…

Phew, so there you have it.

Also, the next race is in Seattle on September 29.

I may or may not be able to wait to get out there again.

How about I get the team t-shirts? And will that be a small, medium, or large?

Stock Footage

Hey you beauty cats –

I hope your Saturday and Sunday were lemon scented, and awash in sunshine.

Here are a few snaps from the boogie-fest that has been underway in our neck of the woods:

Dinner.

Spinach salad with fresh chèvre, blackberries, red onion, satsuma, and chopped walnuts. Vinaigrette.

Hail storm.

Hail the size of pennies. Thunder and lightening just off of our porch.

Cat.

Staring contest + pine mustache.

Super moon.

Normally in our household, “super moon” means something else.

Dog friends.

Rosie and Frank.

Adventure:

Stepping into the unknown. Or my courtyard. (One and the same.)

Cat, redux.

Dragon cat.

Weekends just seem to fly by! But seeing as though I seemed to have blinked somewhere in mid-February and here we are the start of May, this doesn’t seem to be an isolated phenomenon.

The next month is going to be absolute madness in terms of work and other commitments, but as soon as we get into the meat of June, Mr. M and I can look forward to some adventuring of our own.

We have some pretty nifty ideas for both July and August – it’s just a matter of finding the time to sit down and plan things out.

I am so, so excited.

What did you all get up to this weekend? Any travel plans on the table?

I want to hear about all about them.

Postcards from St. Petersburg

Spotlight: Russia

I left for St. Petersburg in June 2007, having won a scholarship to attend a two-week long literary conference. 

With my fledgling Russian backed by a 100-level textbook and a second hand travel guide, I landed in city that has the capacity to enrapture you, shock you – change you – if you give it the chance.

Myself and the great Alexandr Sergeyevich Puskin.

This is a snapshot – one day of my travels:

Nevesky Prospekt is the largest street I have ever seen.

Kazan Cathedral, on Nevesky Prospekt.

It is a six lane free for all, with luxury cars, fold-up minivans, off duty cabs, soviet era trolley cars and the odd, slightly-crazed biker all jockeying for position on the road.

The street is flanked by pink and green palaces, whose thinning paint and rust-stained statues compete for your attention with multi-coloured, cavernous cathedrals, renovated, glistening pharmacies (whose windows advertise the sale of anti-cellulite cream) and extravagantly priced furriers that require a password upon entrance.

On the sidewalks sit the legless ex-soldiers, wearing their cigarette stained army uniforms, silently staring at their skateboards and starving dogs.  I like to walk the two blocks to the bookstore on the corner of Gribeodov Canal, just to stare at the Church of Spilled Blood.  It is a kaleidoscope of grotesque baroque and neoclassical absurdity.

One block of Nevesky Prospekt.

As I make my way to the university, I smile at the dedushka who parks himself outside the twenty-four hour “Kafe haus.”  I have never seen someone play a saw with a violin bow before.  His thick glasses reflect the glare of a neon sign blinking “cigarettes!” from across the street.

I think about buying apple blini from the vendor across the road.

…

Russia makes me both homesick and brave.  The first time I rode the metro, I was by myself.

This was no mean feat.

Over two million people take this form of transit every day.  At some stations, you can’t see where the trains are coming from, because station doors (which control the the train doors) do not open until the cars come to a complete stop, in order to prevent people from killing themselves on the platforms.

Also, because Peter the Great had his city built smack dab in the middle of a soggy bog land, the station is almost one hundred meters below ground, and when I took a photo at the top of the escalator, I couldn’t see the bottom.

The view from the top of the escalator.

In order to purchase my zheton (fare token) I cue up with what approximately two hundred others.  Our bodies are packed together, and I’m not sure what line I’m standing in.  We are a sea cacophony.

I clutch my rubles so tight that I can’t get the smell of the copper coins out of my skin for almost two days.   Voices buzz and squawk out of every possible channel.  It discombobulates.  Overhead speakers crackle, cell phones yammer, children cry, students gossip.

My roommate Laura told me that she is afraid to descend this far underground, for fear of an earthquake.  She doesn’t want to meet any of the 40,000 Swedish POW’s whose bones act as cement for the St. Petersburg metro, its cars and their tracks.

When I finally make it to the front of the line, the woman behind the (what I think has to be) bullet proof glass looks as though she has been living in her cubicle for the past three days.  Boredom is etched in her face: thin lines crisscross the width of her forehead and a sheer glaze coats the contours of her eyeballs.  Stands of hair spill from her sloppy bun, and her blouse is done up Samedi-Dimanche with the top buttons askew.

Her slightly-parted mouth looks to be stuck permanently in mid-yawn.

“Odna zheton,” I tell her, slipping the money through the tray.  She doesn’t even look at me, as she passes me back one tiny metal token.  I immediately slip it into the slot of the turnstile to my right.  Amazingly I am granted the right to pass.

Next time I’m taking this bus. (Straight to outer space of course)

Visions of large, moustachioed men looming out of invisible corners, interrogation chambers and confessions slips slink back into my subconscious.

It is only now that I realize how hard my heart had been beating; with each breath I take, I can feel it punching again and again against the fabric of my t-shirt.

When the train comes I walk into the car and sit down.  As it begins to move, the sensation of the ride feels the same as back home.  Indeed, everyone around me looks the same as back home.  Everybody is minding their own business and pretending that they cannot see the other passengers, just the same as back home.

However, I count the number of stops until I have to get off because unlike back at home, I cannot understand the station announcer.

She speaks too fast.