A Transatlantic Voyage

This is not a letter from the Annex. Rather, we are out in the Atlantic, just coming into Porto Delgado, a town on one of the several islands of the Azores. Each has been formed by volcanic action. The island we are visiting today has more than one volcano. About ten years ago a site on the western side of the island became active and spewed ash for about 13 months, burying all of the habitation in that sector. The islands have quite diverse and interesting topographical features as we have seen simply from the slides and audio info given in advance of our landing here – all on our in-cabin TV set. Mark and I will go ashore a bit later this morning and walk about the town of Delgado. These islands are Portuguese, though for us tourists it makes scarcely any difference: the euro is the medium of exchange, and, language is not a difficulty in ports where much of the economy is focussed upon the arrival of folks (as the Americans say) like us.

For those of you to whom I have not given the full lowdown about this trip, I will spell out the amazing package that we bought into several months ago after seeing it offered in the Saturday Star travel section. Because transatlantic journeys are repositioning ventures for all of the cruise ship companies – to the Mediterranean in the spring and back to the Caribbean for the winter – deals abound to tempt customers to take the long sea trip with them. Thus they are always less expensive than a cruise of comparable length for any other itinerary. So our package: we were flown to Barcelona (actually to New York and then to Barcelona on American Air – not my favourite); were given two nights in a very good hotel adjacent to the old part of the city, and so wonderfully located for walking about; then, a fifteen night cruise in a balcony suite, visiting Valencia – easily the loveliest of the places visited, Cartagena – with a massive inner city of marble-laid pedestrian streets for walking and shopping at high-end places (we went to a grocery store for some staple items), Malaga – from which we boarded an inter-city bus to Granada on spec to visit the Alhambra (all sold out so we just walked the town, had lunch, and returned – lovely ride across the countryside), and, Gibraltar, the big rock with one very long shopping street dedicated for the most part to British goods.

Since leaving Gibraltar we have had two days at sea and have crossed three time zones. Each of the past three days has been 25 hours in length. We are now only three hours ahead of Toronto time and are gradually making our way back. Today, as I mentioned above, we will stop at Porto Delgado from 8 AM to 5 PM. Overnight we sail on to Horta, another town on these islands. Then we will have a further six days at sea before reaching Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Our package will send us back to Toronto via New York again, flying with, I believe West Jet. All of the above, including taxes, was purchased for the remarkable price of $2700 each. I tell you all of this as a recommendation to consider this type of travel if time and pocket allow.

It’s been an interesting trip throughout. I wasn’t entirely well while we were in Barcelona. I may have picked up a bug of some kind en route but it passed within a few days. I was able to get about nonetheless and found another area of interest to the east and south of the old town – also an older area full of meandering alley-like streets, old churches and squares, but in some way less tourist-ridden and more in use by locals. Each of the four days of our quick visits to the cities on the journey down the coast of Spain has had its own moments of interest and of frustration. The latter relates to some minor snafus not worth mentioning as well as to the differences in ways that Mark and I do things. We have found that our initial forays into a town work well. We decide upon the places to visit and the means of arriving there. We walk about and take in the local flavour. After an hour or two, however, our companionable air breaks down as the differences in our interests and tolerances become apparent. We have learned that at this point the best plan is to go our separate ways. And so we do.

At sea finding rhythms that suit us is easier. We have basically spent the past two mornings very much as we would have done on a weekend in Toronto: breakfasting when nature urges; Mark to the gym for a work-out and me for a walk on the promenade deck (about ½ mile per circuit); reading and writing (Mark working on drawings); basically giving one another lots of space and quiet. I managed another episode to post on my other current blog, the one about the Holocaust. I brought a few of my books on the subject along on our journey, knowing that I would have time to do more reading. I don’t seem constitutionally able to have a prolonged period in which I am not doing some species of study. I become restless and dissatisfied with everything if I attempt to put that part of my brain to one side. So I persist. With this particular focus I am teaching myself more about a piece of the history of humankind that has interested me for decades. Writing about it is my way of pulling the pieces together in my own mind. I post it as a way of putting it forth for anyone who might also be interested. I recognize that it not easy stuff to contemplate and that many will decline my offer. But that is alright. If you, dear friend, happen to be one of those who would rather not be a recipient of those posts, please feel free to tell me so, and, if you could and would like to tell me what your thoughts are about this focus, I would delighted to receive them.

My interest in history began when as a young teen I discovered, and subsequently devoured the historical novels of Thomas B Costain, a Canadian author who lived in Brantford, ON. These books opened universes for me that spread out from my suburban existence in the western section of Ottawa. They opened up not just geographical spaces but ones of cultures and eras. I entered into each in the way that my grandchildren now embrace the fantasy literature that is so prevalent for their generation. My bedroom was for a couple of years in the basement of our house; this seclusion allowed me to read well into the night, fantasizing the world into which Costain took me. I imagined actually being there, in fact, longed for the possibility to travel back (as shown in later movies) into each of these eras to experience for myself how other people lived and thought. As an adult I have focussed particularly my reading and thinking on totalitarianism as experienced in Germany, Russia, Japan, and China. Power is an issue that always interests me: who gets to do and to say what to whom, and, how did that particular instance come about.

Well, enough about that. We will return to Toronto on November 3. Other than our yearly visit to the Michigan Halls for American Thanksgiving late in that month, we will be in TO until November 29 when we decamp for the winter in Puerto Vallarta. Come south everyone. You will love it. All the best.

Writing Group, Baby Shower, Birthday Party, Steven McQueen, Book Club, and, Vancouver

In the spirit of my last post, I will give an account of the activities of yet another week or so in the Annex and beyond. Last Tuesday I attended the monthly gathering of a women’s writing group begun six or seven years ago by my good friend, Maureen. In her earlier incarnation as a psychotherapist, co-terminus with her developing success as a writer, Maureen had facilitated several writing groups, aimed at encouraging people who wished to write either in a serious manner, or, simply as a method for self-expression and –knowledge. The groups followed a particular format: each person would write for about 20 minutes on a chosen topic; these pieces would be read aloud; another period of writing would follow on the same topic or on some theme that emerged from the first set; again, these would be shared. Over time many who feared the process of putting their thoughts to paper and/or sharing these, found the supportive air of the group encouraging in ways that extended to other aspects of their lives.

As Maureen’s focus turned more definitively toward her own writing, she recognized a desire to have a group of this kind for herself, situated within the bosom (if I may make bold to place it there) of her own circle of women friends. Happily, I was one of the six invitees. The group has remained remarkably stable since its inception, meeting in the early years twice a month, more recently, once. Each meeting has its own dynamic as we approach issues that resonate for us as individuals or as a group. We share a common long-term experience – that of our involvement in the psychotherapeutic community called Therafields from roughly the mid-1960s until sometime in the 1980s. This in itself offers realms of material for contemplation and discussion. Also we all stand within the general demographic of “seniors,” ranging in age from about 69-80. From this vantage point we can reflect upon aspects of our long lives, where we find ourselves now, and our visions, hopes, and yes, fears related to the future.

Despite our clear commonalities there are many ways in which we are a disparate grouping in terms of early backgrounds, interests, and abilities. We do not necessarily agree on a wide variety of subjects and the airing of these differences has periodically led to tension. The sheer fact of hanging in with one another over the years and the basic honesty and even courage displayed in facing disagreements, has allowed the group to deepen in its tenor as well as its written expressions. Where there is safety, there is greater and freer revelation of oneself. I have come to value the group more and more over time, conscious of how much I have gained from it, and grateful to my ever-so-generous friend, Maureen for its instigation and for keeping it going despite the on-going complexity of all of our lives.

On Friday night Mark and I attended a double bill of films at the Bloor Hot Docs Theatre: a documentary about Steve McQueen, followed by one of his biggest hits – Bullet. It’s always interesting to get under even a bit of the surface of celebrities that have been a part of the world that we have grown up in. Most of McQueen’s roles were of the pattern played in the early films of Clint Eastwood – the handsome, rugged man of few words. He died at a fairly young age, just in his early 50s though, and didn’t reach what might have been his full potential as an actor.

On Saturday Maureen and I drove to Martha and Ken’s place in the Mulmer hills for a baby shower for their daughter, Christina Clare Pagel Noon and her husband, Tim. Catherine, who had been Christina’s earliest buddy, came as well, but on her motorcycle. Christina looked beautiful and happy among her friends and relatives. After lunch Catherine and I went for a walk in the back section of the Pagel’s 60 acres, much of which is forested, all the while chatting away about the intensity of having teenaged children. We were so engrossed as we made our way along that we got entirely lost. After several false starts we did find our way back to the roadway and then to the house. But it was a beautiful day and we enjoyed the company.

On Sunday we made a similar trip to the one described in my previous blog: taking Emily, Theo, and Gregory to Newmarket to meet Catherine for a birthday supper. This time it was for Theo’s 16^th. So astonishing to see how the years have rushed by and these kids have been leaping up from stage to stage before us! Being sixteen is all about learning to drive. Theo has started a bank account dedicated to saving for a car. He will be getting his temporary licence this week so will be able to drive with an adult in the car. He absolutely pulsates with excitement when speaking of these possibilities. We had lots of fun at the dinner, held this time at a local Boston Pizza. Theo is in grade 11 now, looking onward to grade twelve and life after that. He is setting his sights on mechanics, a trade in the repair of implements yet to be determined. He has shown a talent and interest in this work, dealing with his own bikes and in a part time job he has had this summer with a local employer/mentor. He’s a terrific boy and we love him greatly.

Tuesday night we had a meeting of our book club at Major St. We started this club about twenty years ago while we were living on Walmer Rd. The composition of the group has changed somewhat but has been quite stable for a long time. I think I may have spoken of our book club in an earlier post. It is a really pleasant gathering, every bit a friendly, social event. We meet; we drink and snack; we chat or talk more deeply depending on current circumstances; we talk for awhile about the chosen book; we choose another date and agree upon another book, often basing our choice on the practical issue of how large the text is relative to the number of weeks in which to read it. Our book for this last meeting was by Bill Bryson, called something like: 1927, An American Summer. Lots of great stories involving people like Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Charles Lindberg, as well as info about the power of intolerance and the mainstream nature of the KluKluxKlan in the period, and, the startling (for me) recognition that much of the “eugenic” research and ideology picked up in Germany had its origins in the USA and was funded by organizations like the Carnegie and Rockefeller Foundations. For the next club meeting: Zealot – about the historical Jesus. Bring it on!

Right now Mark and I are in Vancouver for five days, visiting Elizabeth and Billie. We arrived Thursday morning around 10 Vancouver time after an uneventful, quite pleasant journey on a new Air Canada 777. It was enormous, with room enough for at least 500 people. Elizabeth had finished a twelve-hour overnight shift at 6, so we arranged to take the Skytrain from the airport to the waterfront, the Seabus to North Vancouver, and a taxi the rest of the way. The half of the duplex that she and Billie inhabit is set in what appears to be a forest with a bubbling stream running alongside the house, a lovely, restful setting. Billie’s school is just a block away. When the morning bell rings, she can hear it, and, if she scoots, she can still make it in time for class. It’s great to see these two gals and spend time with them.

Elizabeth took me for a walk yesterday morning into a REAL forest, at Lynn Canyon Park, about a mile from her place. Truly spectacular: a steel suspension bridge over a chasm that shelters a waterfall, a 30’ pond into which the intrepid plunge from an overhanging cliff, and a fast-flowing stream that tends down toward the ocean. That is just the beginning. The park houses those enormous old-growth trees that we view in tourist brochures touting British Columbia. A well-worn path meanders throughout the park, over rocks and exposed roots, to stairs that lead up to the overhead cliffs. I was gob-smacked!

Last night we took Elizabeth downtown in time for her 6 PM-6 AM shift at one of the old hotels which has been converted in room-only housing for addicted street people in Vancouver’s east side. On a shift of this kind she has a co-worker with whom she shares the vast array of responsibilities and situations that arise with the residents. It’s demanding work with unpredictable experiences and she loves it. After leaving her we went with Billie to walk about Grenville Island, get some supper and some gelato, and, a specialty brewery beer for Mark that had been made with added chocolate!? Mole beer? I picked Elizabeth up at 6 this morning and we made our way back through the east side, passing several large groups of street people camped along its main streets. The relatively clement weather here on the coast attracts homeless people from all over our country. The umbrella group with which Elizabeth is now working has implemented many initiatives for their benefit but there is much to be done for this most disadvantaged population, many if not most of whom suffer from mental illnesses.

We will be here for a couple days more, enjoying the Vancouver scene and the laid-back way that Elizabeth, Billie and we are able to co-inhabit their small but beautifully located duplex.