Travel – Page 7 – Rant and Roll

And all through the house

Happy Christmas eve beauty cats!

After a good twenty-eight hours of traveling, M and I finally made it to Halifax safe and sound.

We had a long wait at SeaTac, so we enjoyed some wine and dessert at one of the airport’s lounges.

2012-12-22 18.25.58 — Wines from Spain, Argentina and Chile. We liked the Chilean the best.

It’s a hard life, but you know, we’re happy to take one for the team.

(It’s pretty nuts knowing that it’s cheaper for us to drive to a DIFFERENT COUNTRY and then fly back to Canada, than to just purchase tickets out of YVR, BUT! That is a post for another day – I am too relaxed, and the house smells too good, and I am wearing too sparkly of a skirt, and I have a too sleepy cat in my lap to care all that much.)

I am warm, and happy, and snuggly, and fab.

The city here is cold, but beautiful, and our house twinkles in the glow of tea lights and fire light, and the snow flurries wink as they dance past the windowpanes.

ALSO. We have big, BIG news!

My sister and her long-time partner Mel just got engaged!

This fills me with so much happiness it’s practically impossible to communicate just how truly chuffed I really am. They are a brilliant couple and I cannot wait to see them declare their love for one another in front of family and friends next summer in New York.

We’ve only been here but a day and things are rolling like rolling things.

Here are some snaps for the past twenty-four hours:

2012-12-24 12.23.23 — Fireplace mantel decked to the nines.

2012-12-24 12.25.32 — Snoopy skating about the place. An all-time favourite ornament for all three sisters.

Basement cat Simon. Getting pats from Mr. M.

Monsieur Rufus doing his own thing, despite our pleas for him to get off the table.

photo(86) — Cousins are doing it for themselves. In flannel.

Wishing you all the merriest of merries, and a Christmas filled with laughter and love, friends and family, peace and joy.

I toast to each and every one of you! xx

Dressed in holiday style

Hi Chickadees,

T’is the last week before the lovely Mr. M and I begin our Christmas hols in earnest. I am so very ready to hang up my hat and to celebrate the end of 2012 in style.

My husband has been sleeping on average three hours a night, and working eighteen hours a day, so I can only imagine how ready he is for a vacation.

I am also trying to figure out how much I can possibly stuff in my carry-on suitcase, because the last thing that I want to do when flying clear across this massive country is check my luggage, as there are just too many ways for it to be lost betwixt here and YHZ.

Canada is great for many things (ex. maple syrup, universal healthcare, Rick Mercer), however there are times when I think living someplace – Switzerland, say – would be so much easier, particularly whilst making travel plans.

See also: cheese and chocolate selection, tennis players, and bank accounts.

This weekend was a mixed bag of Bollywood comedies, cookie making madness, freezing runs, brief snowfalls, open mics, and new episodes of The Hour on Netflix.

Seriously dudes, if you’re not watching this show START NOW.

It’s some of the best television I’ve seen in quite some time.

In the interim, here are some snaps from life here in the madhouse:

Cookie monsters.

IMG_2693 - Copy — Getting ready to rumble.

And then I was all - — And then I was all –

IMG_2706 - Copy — Pretty much all of these have been eaten.

Early morning beauty.

Bookshelf love.

IMG_2711 - Copy — This is what happiness reads like.

Fire cat.

IMG_2709 - Copy — Wrapping is hard work.

Tonight we are off to deck the halls (with boughs of holly) at M’s parents house, and trim their tree with happiness and care.

(Although when I asked him what he was most excited to put on the tree, the madman just kept repeating “turkey.” We shall see how well that turns out. Also, re-read the sentence about him being massively sleep deprived.)

Happy Monday you beauty cats!

May it be oh so merry and bright.

I’m really Russian through this book

So I wrote last week about how I’ve jumped back on the Russian literature train (the darkest, gloomiest, most morbidly hilarious train there is) and I cannot believe how much I have missed the ride.

(Alas, Wolf Hall has been relegated to the far corner of my bedside table, YET AGAIN. One day Ms. Mantell! One day I will finish your oeuvre.)

But back to the goods.

The Brothers Karamazov is a bloody long novel – my translation is 985 pages long (I’m a sucker for Penguin Classics and will go to my death promoting their superior products), but reading it doesn’t feel like a slog.

It feels like I am blazing through the work – paragraphs and pages flying by in the blink of an eye.

I need to emphasize that this isn’t a bad thing.

In fact, when I say that reading this work reminds me of travelling by train, that wasn’t just my attempt at a heavy handed simile.

As I sit and read, I watch as fantastical landscapes whiz past – bright colours, flashes of light, villages, country sides, peasants, gentry – all stream together, and I have make sure that I don’t get dizzy and lose my place.

Because the book is delirious; it makes me feel delirious.

It’s maddening.

And passionate, and hilarious, and brilliant.

Also, another thing that I seem to have forgotten is just how much Russian people (in particular, Russian men) love, LOVE to soliloquise.

(That is, of course, if I’m to take Dostoevsky’s prose as a truthful representation of 19^th century Russian conversations.)

Because goodness gracious do his characters ever enjoy a monologue and a half.

And if they’re not monologuing, they’re falling prey to crazed, impassioned fits.

Sometimes they’re doing both at the same time.

Not that I have any right to call out anyone for their liberal use of hysterics when waxing eloquent on a matter at hand (pot being black et. al.)

HOWEVER, it never fails to leave me breathless and a little exasperated every time Dmitry starts beating his chest, or when old papa Fyodor starts acting like a classless arsehole (or buffoon by his definition.)

But mostly I am just bowled over by the writing. The attention to detail, the tangents, the word play, the physical descriptions of characters, ranging from the lowliest urchin to the highest ranking official – they all enthrall me.

They ravage, they provoke, they inspire.

I’m about a fourth of the way through, and I find myself fidgeting throughout the day, wishing that I could crack open this tome and once again lose myself in the provincial world of Alyosha and his brothers. To relish in their dialogues, their anguishes, their fears.

It also makes me reminisce about my trip to the motherland.

Two weeks gallivanting about St. Petersburg, presenting my writing around town, exploring museums and art galleries, dancing until the wee hours of the morning, eating dinner at midnight, and drinking coffee so strong it would tickle your fingertips.

What about you friends? What are you reading these days? I want to know.

Spokoynoy nochi, malyshi!

Take a deep breath, and jump right in

Home again home again, jiggity jog.

Our short sojourn up the BC mainland has come to an end – much too quickly (as always), but we have many hilarious and brilliant memories to keep us content and warm until our next hop to paradise.

The mercury has dipped like a salsa chip here on the west coast – if I had to wager a guess, I would say that it dropped at least ten degrees Celsius over the past few days, from sitting comfortably in the low-teens on Thursday, to flirting with just above zero this morning.

Something shifts when the weather changes.

Just this morning, out on my run, my interactions with nature seemed both comforting and slightly stilted.

Like my environs were a dense wool sweater – protection against the frost – that I hadn’t yet grown into.

I swear I could hear ever rustle of every leaf, every gust of wind winding its way through every branch of every tree. The piercing call of a steller’s jay, the haunting call of a loon, the unsure bark of a dog – everything somehow magnified and yet muffled, overwhelming but also out of reach.

The rhythm of my breathing, a friendly, reassuring constant, despite the slight discomfort in my little lungs, adjusting to those first big gulps of frigid air.

My favourite route – high hills, blind curves, douglas firs. The sea salt air tickling my (red, running) nose.

Sometimes I run so fast I cry; tears streaming down my face, propelled by the wind, the cold, my speed.

Sometimes I don’t want to blink.

Because if I blink, it will be gone.

Magic:

Ferry.

Morning sunshine.

Afternoon fade.

Work.

Into the woods.

Games.

Dinners.

Music.

Fires.

Fog.

…

So there you have it beauty cats.

Memories, for another day.

We are now back at home, hunkered down. The fire roars and the fat rain drops coat the world a cool, slick, black.

What did you all get up to for the weekend?

Hang up those wet coats, and rest awhile.

Call me home and I will build you a throne

Hi kidlets.

Today my love and I are up on the Sunshine Coast, drinking dark, sugary coffee, sitting in front of the fire.

The bay sits cool, and calm, just outside our window; every so often a duck armada will sail past, marking a course for the next dock or rush.

They call out to one another, “Over here!”

Oh boy, do I really love ducks.

M and I are up here for an extra long weekend, relishing the opportunity to just sit back and breathe, and actually spend some time together.

We’ve both been running about with our hair set on fire, and looking forward, well, the next few months aren’t exactly going to be relaxation central.

So we’re going to revel in this beauty and eat, drink, run, read, laugh, and love.

In the meantime, Fry-up time!

This doesn’t actual seem “cosmopolitan”.

While standing in line at Safeway the other night, waiting to pay for my raspberries, eggs, mint chocolate ice cream bars, granny smith apples, and unsalted butter (aka THE STAPLES), I came across this:

Oh Cosmo.

Champion that it is of the high-brow (not to mention safe haven for intellectually rigorous prose), it never, ever fails to surprise me with the depths of depravity (and inanity) in which it is willing to sink.

And don’t even get me started on the people who buy this shite, because if I do I will spend the next half hour alternating between banging my head against the wall and falling to my knees shouting WHHHHHYYYYY?

Instead, let’s have some fun shall we?

For instance, what are some alternate answers to the question:

“So you ate a cupcake?”

Are you allergic to cupcakes?! If yes, you should probably go to the hospital!

Was it chocolate or vanilla? WAS IT MARBLED? Never trust a marbled cupcake.

Did it fall on the floor first? Remember the five second rule. Longer than five seconds and I’ll have to eat it.

How do you feel about being a cupcake murderer?

Is it weird that one of the first things that pops into my head when I hear cupcake is Katy Perry’s boobs?

I hate Katy Perry.

Cupcake in French is petit gâteaux, which in terms of a french word is lame as heck.

Would you like another one before we start the self-flagellation? Self-flagellation starts in five.

And finally: Who bloody very well cares? YEESH.

EAT ALL THE CUPCAKES.

GO FOR ALL THE RUNS.

But seriously, don’t beat yourself up over one stupid pastry.

It totally defeats the purpose, because after all, cupcakes are made from happiness.

They should make you happy.

p.s. My tips for hot late night sex? Sleep all day first.

Stripes and waves.

I bought a few pretty pretties this week:

The skirt is from H&M and the sweater is from Joe Fresh.

I am massively in love with the skirt because it looks like it is made up of little white-capped waves. I wore it to work yesterday with a black turtle next, grey tights and little black boots.

Basically, I was a superhero.

Also, I probably should have just bought one of these sweaters in each available colour because goodness knows I had a hard time deciding which one to purchase.

Stripes are always the best.

What can I saw, I love me some old-timey jail bird chic.

East meets west.

Seeing as though we’re away for a couple of days I thought it best to bring a back-up book just in case I finish the one I am currently working on.

I started Wolf Hall a lifetime ago, and although I really liked it, somehow it fell by the wayside and I didn’t make it past the half-way point.

Now I’m back, knee deep in Tudor gossip and intrigue.

If I do in fact finish this tome, I have brought some Dostoevsky to satisfy my literary urges.

I had my first real Russian love affair with Mr. Fyodor when I was in first-year of uni. Somehow I’ve managed to read most of his bibliography, save for this work, so I look forward to finally cracking it open.

There is something about his mastery of the macabre that just delights me to no end.

This could of course say more about my deranged psyche than his fantastical wordplay, but I’m one to stay positive.

(Unlike, of course, Mr. D.)

…

So there you have it folks.

I wish you a weekend filled with good books, delicious food, crackling fires, wind-swept walks, and all the laughs your abdominal muscles can take.

And have a cupcake or two – on me.