BLOGG # 40 "AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR"

It is a well known fact that -another of my "questionable well known facts" dear readers-believe it if you wish- the way your new year unfolds depends on how well you have celebrated the New-Year Eve. If that would be the case, my life the past seventy odd years should have been passed in Hell. I don't know about you, but I have never been successful with my New Year Eve's choices. My childhood and early teens were spent-having no choice - with my religious family in the only proper way- on my knees in church listening to the twelve strokes of midnight and then listening to the minister praying to absolve us of our sins-in German.- not much fun and looking back on those years, especially my teen years, the fact is indeed proven. In my student years I fared not much better. With my usual luck I was often assigned to work the New Year Eve. In fact that is how I lost my then boyfriend, for what boy would tempt fate by not having a date on that most important night thus insuring a sexless year! My early twenties are not remarkable for outstanding New Year Eve bashes. I was married in Greece and every one knows the Greeks start a card playing frenzy the beginning of December which ends in the biggest longest card playing night on New Year's Eve. And you better believe the Greeks definitely hold with the well known fact as the financial success for the whole year depends on the success of that night. Once the children arrived, New Year's Eve became a blur of playing monopoly or something in a desperate attempt to help the kids stay awake until about 10.15 on their hopeful quest to see the New Year in. It was in the heyday of my Divorce Years that I thought my luck would change. Believe me -NOT- my wisest choice then was to elect to work the Eve thus, at double time and a half, I could at least insure an easier financial year. When I did choose to test the New Year Eve waters they were disasters. One was while in Toronto, when five of us decided to go to the trendy opening of a "Harbour Front Bash." By a quarter to midnight we had managed to get through the crush and get three glasses of warm champagne served in plastic glasses. We all left before midnight and spent the crucial midnight hour in a Tram. The worst one was in Vancouver when three of us were invited to a house party in trendy Kitsilano. We arrived at eleven pm-the earliest time possible fashionably. The house was suitably dark with subdued music and packed with aging forty-something people trying to look cool. By 11.30 someone came around with a handful of pills. I recognized the powerful sodium amytal sleeping pill and my friend the pharmacist recognized them all except one which he took home to analyze. At ten minutes to twelve the whole house was quiet with somnolent half heartedly amorous pairs coupled- not a pretty sight. We left before midnight- again! The next morning my friend called me at an early hour and said "get up! I refuse to have my Year destroyed because of that lousy New Year’s Eve. We are going out to celebrate with brunch to change the luck." So we did and drank much Champagne and orange juice. Did it make the new year better? I don't remember. So take my advice and choose wisely this New Year's Eve—and a HAPPY NEW YEAR -your faithful blogger

BLOGG# 39 WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS

"We wish you a Merry Xmas” versus "Silent Night , Holy Night" As you know, I am in the Christmas mood as all right living people should be. This means,of course, blatant commercial activities with no guilt attached So here I am tripping gaily off to the malls with unfortunately not a full pocket but with a generous spirit. So far I have been malling- love that word- in Victoria’s two major malls and have even visited the two major ones in the great metropolis of Vancouver—the sophisticated Downtown exclusive Eaton’s mall and the super crass Burnaby one for an orgy of vicarious living in the fast lane. During all these indulgent hours I have been serenaded by the latest “Christmas music” piped in via loudspeakers at the highest volume which blasts my “Hearing–aided” ears excruciatingly. Now I happen to love Christmas Carols –the true ones- and don’t really mind the shrill newer ones either, but it is a pity that I can not remember when I last heard “Silent Night “ in a Canadian mall. I suppose since it became politically incorrect I have not heard it and miss hearing it. The pros and cons of political correctness is not what this is about -not at all- it is about the “topsdurvyness of the cultural customs of our present planet. Years ago when I lived in Greece the Christmas festivities were strictly religious and subdued. The New Year was celebrated with gifts and the western Christmas with great spending was unknown. Two years ago I was in Athens, Greece for Christmas and we did a lot of “Malling.” There are many new huge malls since entering the E.U. and Christmas really underlines this new way of living. The malls in Athens and suburbs were an hyperbole of over the top commercialization—the Santas are bigger, the reindeer cuter, the tinsel more vulgar than any I had seen ever, and all the time –interlaced with the excited shouting of eager Greek consumers, the sounds of the original sacred Christmas music of old, so banned in North America at the malls. Here at last I got my fill of my favourite Christmas music - nary a sound of “We wish you a merry Christmas” or “I am dreaming of a White Christmas” or “Deck the Halls” Why was it that here in Greece I could hear all my old favourites? Of course, the Greek people, happily shopping, had no concept of the significance of these sacred pieces, nor did they listen to the words. No, they happily shopped to their hearts content imbued with the materialistic Western Christmas spirit inspired by these “foreign” and beautiful songs unaware of political correctness or sacrilege. When I left Greece I was satisfied and satiated because I finally had had my fill of favourite Christmas Music. I love our present cultural “topsydurvyness” in our great planet and advise you ,dear readers, to embrace it also and have a wonderful Xmas.

BLOGG# 38 CHRISTMAS IS COMING----

“Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat, please put a penny in the old man’s hat --  the time has come for me to get into the Christmas whirl.  So far I am quite pleased.  Haven’t I already held my obligatory pre -pre Christmas dinner party?   Listen to me, my dear readers, it is important to get this under way as soon as possible after the 2^nd of December  because, and listen carefully, it is important to get the right and best people to this important event , and believe me, anyone worth inviting is booked solidly from the tenth at the very latest right to Christmas.  If they are not, it means they are not desirable and shouldn’t be in your Christmas whirl list.  That done and my dinner party was a great success naturally, I can go on to other Christmas acts.  First off is Christmas shopping.  Now I know there are people and I can’t say I admire them, who have done their Christmas shopping before the end of October, and I have a sneaking suspicion they did it on the previous boxing day sale, but I am too well mannered to say so.   The only way to do Christmas shopping is to go out every busy weekend and, along with the huge throngs, push your way through shops looking for inspirations.   I have spent many a happy hour over the years doing this.   Any other method or approach to Christmas shopping -for example “on line “shopping, is a sham and an insult to the Christmas spirit.  Unfortunately my family has grown up and all my grandchildren want is money and all their parents want is spirits of their choice to get through the festivities.  This is hardly a challenge to this veteran Christmas shopper.  However I refuse to put money in an envelope under the tree. No. This year both my grandsons will be getting a big package -and that is a basic criteria - a present should be packaged beautifully and be big.  They are both getting 100% cotton sheet sets.   It is time they learn one of the more important  lessons on becoming adults- that most important one of ” a well made comfortable seductively sheeted  bed”   They will thank me for that knowledge one day.   Needless to say the sheets will have subdued colours suitable for males- no flowers- and definitely not satin!   I take my grandmother role seriously.   So I seem to be really caught up with my Christmas whirl.   Of course in this wonderful time of my life I am excused from any form of Christmas baking and no one expects me to contribute to the obscene Christmas dinner.   All that is left for me to do is plunk my ready decorated tree by the window, stock up on my favourite drinks, turn on the T.V  and find my favourite black and white Christmas movies- The Christmas Carol, The bishop’s wife, Miracle on 34^th street and of course White Christmas- while sipping my favourite red wine.   The culmination of this whole Christmas orgy for me is on Christmas Eve, at dusk, when invariably I get an urge to shop for that last present- because there is no Christmas spirit as authentic as that felt at the last- minute shopping spree.  Struggling down the sparkling streets being jostled by merry or not crowds,  steam puffing out of your mouth into the crisp indigo night, or if you live on the west coast like I do, being entranced by the lights shimmering through the pelting rain and umbrellas is ,for me, the highest delight and I never miss it.  So dear readers join me on Christmas Eve on Main Street and really truly understand the true meaning of Christmas.  I remain  your wise Blogger 

BLOGG# 37 PEARLS OF WISDOM

 Pearls of wisdom                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

After a long hiatus dear readers, I have come  back- like a genie who reappears after some obliging person rubs his brass lamp and comes to dispense precious jewels- in my case precious pearls of wisdom.  Dropping from my wise lips, pouring out through my fingers into my trusty typewriter, spreading through the nether world of the internet blogg space, to be snatched up by my eager readers, I am busily spreading my words of wisdom.  So why “Pearls of Wisdom?’ and why suddenly am I the dispenser of such wisdom?--. Ah dear readers, I have just had my Tarot cards read and I am in the present a “seer” and seers are known to be wise.  To be told you are a “seer” is heady business and my head has definitely been turned.  I walk around with a wise expression waiting for any chance to express this wisdom hoping my friends will tap into it –so far not a bite---so far no one has come to me for advice and if I give any unasked it is not appreciated.  I am not sure why this is and I am reminded of another saying-“cast not thy pearls before swine”   This comforts me but not much.  Why, by the way, do we call wisdom “pearls”? Pearls seam a bit bland- they live in clams and clams we all know are dumb! So why do we have this saying?   Anyway the pearl is created from a grain of sand- nothing more unassuming than a grain of sand-and on top of it all, its existence depends on the pain it creates in the poor clam.  We know also the bigger the pearl the bigger the pain to the clam.  Where is the wisdom in that?   Oh I  know !   Pain begets wisdom.  It seems reasonable therefore to say “Clams of Wisdom” instead. This does not have the same ring to it somehow.

    The only purpose of pearls is adornment and every woman knows to have pearls next to her skin is vastly flattering and desirable- that is not wisdom but covetousness and vanity.   So., to sum up this rambling essay, pearls create  pain- not wisdom – they are a great pain.  I must remember this carefully as I give out my unasked “Pearls of Wisdom” and also perhaps remember that I am not a seer but, like the pearl, a “pain in the ass.

BLOGG #36 YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE

 .Well dear readers, I am back. I flew home from Greece the eighteenth of July and have spent the past two months battling jet lag, a terrible cold and the deep culture shock I always feel when I return to Canada after a long absence. Now though I am back and I think my feet are almost on the ground and my Canadian self is slowly coming to fore as my conversation gets peppered with more “EH’S” and “SO SORRY’S ”and I am more and more wrapped up in my “Canadian Modesty flag” I am getting ready to blog again. Before I continue, some of you lovely readers admitted to being confused because the blogs are not in chronological order. The explanation is  though I wrote the blogs at the right time I was not able to post them in the right order, for various reasons. Several of my blogs were also written in Greece not on my computer but my son’s computer and it was quite a challenge for this “learning how to type” typist especially as the directions were in Greek  especially the spell check. Hence  the many errors.   

       This is the first blog I wrote on the second day in Barcelona, but I found it too close to the bone and too painful to post. I post it now at home.

                                       You are not welcome here in Barceloneta

We were walking down Sant Miquel in Barceloneta where we were renting our apartment when we noticed a big sign on a balcony which said gently “you are not welcome here, you are changing the  cultural nature of the area and are making it too expensive for us to live here”.  It was a lovely Sunday morning, sunny and crisp, we were exhilarated because we were going to the Picasso museum and this little message, which we felt was aimed at us, dampened our spirits. Our reactions were as different as we each are.  One of us found it interesting in a historical sense but did not feel it personally.  One of us took it personally and wanted to “do something” such as writing an apologia and attaching it to the sign and asking for dialogue.  I, on the other hand, took it very personally.neurotic that I am. I knew of course as soon as we arrived in this area that we were part of the “gentrifying” movement in this very historic poor vital politically active area but did not dwell on it.  However, seeing it in writing drove it home with a vengeance. I went into a whirl of depression and unworthiness in a spiraling downward path. This whirl was quite submerged into my subconscious as I immersed myself in Picasso’s amazing early years, and while wandering through the fascinating Gothic district, but it stayed deeply submerged to burst forth in the middle of the night into full blown depression.  I felt acutely part of a problem- the problem of being part of the changing of the natural characteristic of this area.  Indeed we heard that there is an organized group working on the government to stop this pattern of “gentrifying the area- a hundred and fifty year old working class community.  Being part of the problem was only part of it for I felt very comfortable and felt “at home” here and I longed to be belong here.  I spent the next two days dwelling on this issue and the feeling of dislocation because of this, but as I continued going on my rounds-shopping for food, eating tapas, exploring the city, I became aware of the friendly expressions and patience of these people whose city we have invaded and felt their warmth and the sting went out of those words “you are not welcome here” and I came to the conclusion that these persons who wrote this were lucky to be able to write  that sign because they knew  who they were and that they belonged  and were even able to confidently say “you are not welcome here”.

                                   

BLOGG# 35 MELANCHOLIC CAPPUCHINO

Well dear readers, it is the last day I am here in Barcelona. It seems impossible that the time has come to leave this wonderful city and country  We are all quiet as I pack. Is there anything more melancholic than packing one"s bag to leave? I don't think so. For one thing, the bag has shrunk! It always does!  When we pack at home we leave thinking we have room to spare and our bag is too big, but when we leave , the things won't fit in,even if your two friends sit on it. At last this unhappy deed was done and I took a deep breath, it was time to say goodbye- first of all a long walk on the prominade passing my pharmacy where the chemist saved my life by supplying me with three months worth of blood pressure pills which I had forgotten at home, and taught me how to say "Gracias" the Catalonian way, then passing the little dress shop where I bought the best belt ever- I lost weight and my jeans were falling off,and my Barcelona umbrella ,also the market and the myriad little bars crowded with bright young things at tapa hour, and then to my favourite bar the"Absinthe" where I first went for cappuchino on that rainy day. Since then it had become my favourite morning coffee bar and of course tapa bar. I ordered the coffee and told her I was at last leaving and we commiserated together and the invariable "you must come again" was said  I agreed but was it possible? I can't see it but I refuse to look in that direction. Better to think "all things are possible and you never know"  To think I will never sit in the Absinthe drinking coffee and thinking about the meaning of life as I had been doing the past months, or laughing and drinking red wine and eating tapas with my friends seems impossible to bear. So I sit, listening to the music- Absinthe specialises in scratchy early American blues- and the melancholic tunes underlined my own melancholic mood. The melancholic cappuchino was drunk, I paid my last bill, and dragged my reluctant feet back to the apartment,-- Goodbe Absinthe and Goodbye Barcellona.

BLOGG#33 A SPANISH "LEONARD COHEN"

This is my last "musical moment" blogg. The event I want to talk about happened in Bilboa.  We had spent an intense few hours at the Contemporary museum- with some wonderful exhibitions and great contemporary artists such as Anselm Keifer, and after resting in the museum garden for a few hours, we decided to head to our hotel. On the way we saw a group of people milling around a theatre which,according to the billboard, was presenting a poetry reading and Flaminco singing for ten Euros.  We decided to go in even though we do not understand Spanish because Poetry is understood universally. Certainly I was moved. The poet was elderly, lean, with shoulder length white hair and a gentle face. With him was a lovely elegant female singer and a romantic guitarist. The poet read his poems, the singer sang stirring spanish songs after each poem and the guitarist accompanied her.  The audince was delighted and clapped furiously as did we.  It was wonderful. At the end of the program the clapping continued demanding an encore. The singer and guitarist finally returned, she took off her shoes,and started to dance the flaminco. All of a sudden this elegant singer turned into a sultry Spanish dancer. She was fantastic as she whirled and clapped to the beat of the guitar.  The audience was frantic and kept demanding more.  Finally the curtain moved and out came the poet with a beat up old guitar. He sat down on one of the chairs and quietly strummed the guitar and sang a beautiful song of his own. The audience was hushed-you could hear a pin drop. He finished, bowed and walked off the stage.  It was a mesmerizing performance and,I thought, a "Leonard Cohen" one. This night was one of the highest spots of our time in Spain.