Grandmothers Partnering with Africa

Grandmothers Partnering with Africa Concert January 16, 2013

Gila informed me that I had to write a blog about our evening so that she could remember the names of the musicians who performed. It was an amazing evening that I wanted to record even without her request.

The evening was a benefit for the Stephen Lewis Foundation sponsored by Darchai Noam. As it was a fundraiser, there was also a silent auction. Before we found our table, we both took a look at the items offered. There were gift baskets of South African treats, wines packages, vouchers for Cineplex, yoga, golf, haircuts, manicures and facials, tickets to a Blue Jay game and some art. But the most impressive items were trips, one to New Orleans and one to South Africa for a Safari.

Going anywhere with Gila is never boring. Gila was riveted by the description of the South African Safari. The starting bid was $4500 for two, excluding air fare, a lot of money, but still quite a discount for that particular trip. She called me over a number of times to show me what she was interested in and to ask what I thought of the price. It was definitely too rich for my bank account, but Gila was fascinated by the prospect of visiting Africa. She had just spent some time with a friend who had been on a Safari at exactly the same animal reserve that was offered in the auction. The trip spoke to her. Would I be interested in that kind of trip? It sounded like the experience of a lifetime for a very urban senior, but in my mind beyond my means. While I browsed and bid on a Cineplex package, Gila signed her name on the bidding sheet.

The walls of the club are filled with paintings of jazz musicians and the stage is on a lower level than many of the tables so viewing the performance in not encumbered. Hugh’s Room is a wonderful venue for music, but the noise during the meal was almost as deafening as the Sound of Music dining room on our cruise. Gila introduced me to the people at our table. I chatted a little with several of the women but the rectangular table and the decibel level were not conducive to any sustained conversation. The evening began with dinner. The food was tasty although by the time it was served it was less than piping hot. The Caesar salad was a small head of romaine sprinkled with bacon, croutons and dressing. My fettuccini entrée had a sundried tomato pesto sauce, wilted spinach and shrimp. Crème brulee for dessert and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon ordered for our table rounded out the meal.

Before the concert started, Gila went to check the status of her bid. She was still the only signature for the trip. I was not surprised. I don’t know many people who come to a silent auction and spontaneously buy an expensive trip. Gila had already started planning. When traveling that far, it hardly seemed worthwhile to spend only one week in Africa. Now, it was going to be a month away from home, visiting acquaintances, sights, private tours, volunteering at some village school. (In truth the idea of volunteering in Africa intrigued me even more than the Safari.) I felt like the trip, already far from simple, was spiralling out of control. I envisioned money disappearing on wings into the ether, I envisioned debtors’ prison and a scurvy ravaged trip in steerage to Australia. Another questionable voyage! Fortunately, I was able to return to reality with the realization that sending debtors to a far off primitive land was the practice of another century and another culture.

The music carried me off with no further Walter Mittyesque scenarios. Bruce Cassidy was the leader of the band. He was a talented musician who had played with Lighthouse, Bachman Turner Overdrive and Burton Cummings. He had gone to South Africa for a year to write music and ended up living there for twenty-three years, collaborating with such brilliant artists as Hugh Masekella and Miriam Makeba. In fact, the trumpet he was playing had belonged to Hugh. His comparison of the attitude of white musicians to black ones was funny but apt. Black musicians were spontaneous, easy going, loose. White musicians were uptight, formal and rigid. Black men had invented jazz. White men had invented the march. It was the main sentiment in one of the songs Bruce wrote and sang, ‘I’m so White, but I’m so Funky’. The band consisted of a keyboard/piano player, a guitarist, a bassist and a drummer, with each one having the spotlight at some time during the set.

Bruce played the trumpet and another instrument called the EVU, the electronic valve unit. It is a wi fi contraption that can imitate almost any sound and has the full range of a piano. He also sang, but then was joined by a young South African woman Sophia Perlman who happened to be the pianist’s wife. Her grandmother had been an activist in Africa long before she was a grandmother. Sophie had a rich throaty voice and sang songs in Zulu, Swahili and several other African languages. The animated set had the vibe and sound of the townships, wonderful and difficult to sit through without tapping toes, clapping and swaying to the beat.

During the intermission, people were invited to make their last bids. Gila wandered off. I stayed at the table chatting with the others, talking about our trip to Eastern Europe, adult literacy and the Azreli Foundation project of publishing survivors’ memoirs. Just as the second set began, Gila returned to the table with the news that we were going to South Africa. At that point it was difficult to return to the music, it was difficult to imagine a trip to Africa and it was difficult thinking about the preparation that would be necessary. I didn’t know if I was excited or terrified at the prospect of this new adventure. Usually when planning a trip I research the itinerary, look at dates, compare prices and gradually become conditioned and ready to get going. I have never been told that I am off to an exotic destination without any forethought at all.

The second set featured Jackie Richardson. The power of her voice and the emotion she conveyed drew me back to the concert. She sang/talked her introduction to the song Fragile and then proceeded to the  plaintive song. The rendition was very different from Sting’s interpretation that I first heard after 9/11 but not in any way less poignant. Among the other songs presented was Oscar Peterson’s Hymn to Freedom. I remember working on this song with the choir at Ashton Meadows P.S. Later when I had a chance to chat with Jackie, she told me that Hymn to Freedom had been specifically composed for children’s voices.

For the finale, Sophie returned to the stage and the three vocalists presented an extended rendition of Free Nelson Mandela. The harmonization on each chorus was heavenly. The concert was over way too soon. Everyone began to disperse, some to get their coats, some to chat with the musicians and others to pay for and collect their purchases. The organizers were very busy using iPads and iPhones to electronically register the payments. Gila was among the last to make her payment and it was no surprise to me that the purchase did not go through. I know I could never put that amount on my Visa without having to write a cheque or at the very least, make arrangements beforehand with the bank. Gila is always calm and logical whever any problem arises. She called the bank, talked for a while and then was authorized to use the card. Easy when she does it. I would have been a wreck in a mini panic.

I’m still astounded about the entire evening. The music was unbelievably engaging. The cause was awe inspiring, but most of all Gila caught me totally off guard again. I cannot imagine making such an expensive commitment on the spot. Actually, what is more amazing is that I am really considering taking this trip! Am I crazy? Or do I recognize a unique opportunity to have an adventure I have never even dreamt about? Do I have to spend the months leading up to the trip rationalizing this decision? Or can I just accept the fact that this something I want to do and there is nothing wrong in indulging myself?  

OMG I’m going on Safari!!!

New Year in Montreal

Montreal December 28, 2013 to Thursday January 2, 2014

I'm not sure if spontaneity is a trait that I can claim to have. Before I do anything, I feel that I worry it to death, weighing pros and cons, determining the consequences and finding justification. Weeks ago, Gila invited me to come with her to Montreal. I kept putting off the decision. Maybe was the best I could do. I had some appointments, My cleaning lady was coming for the last time, Could I afford another trip? But Gila was now having second thoughts about leaving the house while there was still the possibility of power outages due to the ice storm that felled so many of the city's trees, bringing power lines down. I tried to point out that most the power had been restored and looking up and down her street, there really weren't any trees of consequence left to bring down wires. She was missing her own bed after camping out at my place, what were the highways like, what weather was predicted for the next few days. Then spontaneously, her decision was made. She was driving to Montreal, not Sunday morning as originally planned, but Saturday afternoon. Without much more thought, I asked her what time she was going to pick me up. Everyone was already engaged for New Year's Eve. Spending time with Gila in Montreal was a much better alternative than being alone. Yes, I have a quilt to work on. Yes, I have a Holocaust memoir write, but neither of those activities were likely to leave me laughing, like Gila does.

Early Saturday morning, as Gila enumerated the gifts she was bringing Carole and Marlene, the friends who ran a B &  B and with whom we were staying, I realized that I had nothing to offer. I couldn't arrive empty handed when these people were putting me, a stranger, up. Despite the fact that I hadn't tidied the house, hadn't done laundry, hadn't packed, I started baking. Cookies were good because we could munch them on the road, but what if only a paltry few were left in the box after five hours in the car? That would be too embarrassing so, first on the agenda was baking a cake. While that was in the oven, I decided on what to throw into my suitcase, ran to the drug store for my meds and searched for reading materials. Once the cake was out of the oven and cooling, I threw together the ingredients for sugar cookie dough. I should have taken the time to check the recipe. I couldn't shape a single cookie without cracking at the corners. Too late, I looked up the recipe. Three eggs, not two! No wonder the cookies were crumbling! Thank goodness the cake was a success. Gila and I could suffer our way through too dry cookies, but they weren't good enough to present to people i was meeting for the first time. That left about half an hour to clean up the kitchen, pack up the perishables for the trip, put together my toiletries, put away the still not completed quilt spread out on the floor and tie up seventy-nine other loose ends. By two o'clock, our departure time, all I wanted was a nap.

Leaving the house, I found a letter in my mail slot ... On Saturday? It was the envelop with Dov's credit card and the cheques from the movie he shot in Toronto as well as a letter from Marissa. (Don't ask why it was at my house when she lives in the same apartment with him.)  That envelop had been mailed to Brooklyn at least three weeks ago! Thank goodness for cell phones. While Gila tried to figure out a route to the highway, I called Dov. Why is it that even good news sometimes isn't?  The piece of mail was not lost, the cheques were still valid, but Dov still didn't have a credit card. 

Then I had to let all my other loved ones know I was leaving town. With my family convinced that my advanced age has had a dilatory effect on my cognitive abilities, we finally got on the highway, speeding towards Montreal. Rather than listen to me blather on for hours, Gila brought some talking books. We listened to one humourous one until the sameness of each part became annoying and then switched to another that was far more interesting, Simon Winchester reading his novel about the Oxford English Dictionary. The ride was, thank goodness, uneventful. With time shared at the wheel and after several bathroom breaks and another to clean the windows, we arrived at our destination just after eight.

Montreal was much colder and had far more accumulated snow than Toronto. After some difficulty parking, we finally made it inside. Both Carole and Marlene were very welcoming as was Ari, the Pekinese. There is a cat too, but I didn't see him until we were shown to our room. Pasha, annoyed at being disturbed, bounced off a bed in our room and disappeared, not to be seen for most of the rest of the visit. The B & B Is called Carole's Purrfect B & B. I had just found out why.

The house is very big and decorated in the most elegant yet comfortable way imaginable. Carole has a love of the oriental (as well as of cats) and every surface of the walls and furniture is covered with artifacts from her travels to seventy-six different countries. Even most of the furniture is a collection artful antiques. Many of the finishing touches have been custom made by Marlene. The two women have developed an amazing partnership. Carole has the gift of bringing together the colours and eclectic items that anywhere else would be considered gaudy and over the top. Yet here it is not. The arrangement of the furniture is conducive to socializing and conversing. The colours of the walls are intense, but the perfect backdrop to highlight the art on almost every inch of the walls. Each area exudes harmony as the shapes and the placement of artifacts, as well as the colours, invite the eye to linger rather than look. Marlene is an extraordinary crafts person. She has created all of the unique elements that add even more charm to an already warm home.

To keep the animals out of the way of guests, each room open to guests has an amazing wrought iron gate. The one to the dining room resembles arches filled with delicate filigree. The one to the living room is a shorter version so that none of the beauty of the room is hidden. None of the gates were bought as they stand. The wrought iron was all reclaimed from churches and antique shops and customized for its location in the house. The gates in front of the guest bedrooms have been fashioned from the iron sides of an old Singer sewing machine. Marlene's work is perfectly finished and looks like it was always there because of how perfectly it blends with the style of the house.

It is very difficult to try to describe the house as there is so much in every corner. The foyer is very small but instead of a closet there are large ornate brass hooks festooned with brass coat hangers. A door with a beautiful stained glass window welcomes you inside. On one wall there is a hexagonal case of an Asian style that is filled with painted eggs, mostly ceramic. Beyond the gated entrance of the dining room are a large lacquer table and narrow high backed chairs. Along two walls are three antique, painted Chinese cabinets. The windows are covered with vertical blinds whose lines are repeated in the customized rad coverings below the windows. Another case with horizontal shelves holds a display of crystal eggs. Below it is an air conditioner set into the wall. Its grill mirrors the lines of the shelves. In one corner Indonesian shadow puppets seem to introduce a monotone print. In another corner, a large print of primitive dancers wearing triangular loincloths is flanked by a sculpture whose arm position repeats the loincloth triangles of the print. There is a small rectangular mirror with a wide brass Chinese themed frame above one cabinet. The third wall has an open lacquered etagere filled with crystal penguins and primitive sculptures, helmets and wood carvings.The walls are a warm wheat colour, the table cloth burgundy and the dishes a collection of burgundy, yellow and striped stone wear. Even the Kleenex box is covered with a golden satin sleeve transforming the mundane into what appears to be a plump Chinese pillow.

Carole wanted  a copper and black kitchen and that is what she got. The walls, the little not hidden by kitchen accoutrements is black. The ceiling is a pressed sheet of embossed copper. The faucets are copper as is the small reading lamp embedded in the island. Resting on top of the cupboards  is a collection of copper pots, bowls and containers. The cupboard doors are white with copper handles. Dark granite  covers the counters and matching tiles form the floor. A stairway with pantries that follow the descent of the stairs to the basement suite. It sounds dark and overwhelming. It is actually very dramatic.  Off the kitchen is a screened porch, now storing summer wicker, that overlooks the garden.

The living room is painted burgundy. A light colored sectional sofa creates an open square around the walls. The walls are home to a large Thai marionette, prints and wallhangings. In a corner stands a Chinese folding screen and across from it an antique tall cabinet. The den is cosy. The theme is Central America. The love seat and plushy arm chair with ottoman face a flat screen television that is on one side of the fireplace with another antique cabinet/ etagere on the other side. Little rugs and an image of natives silk screened onto fabric cover the walls. The colour continues in the hallway and stairwell. The  wooden hall floor is covered with a strip of burgundy oriental carpet that continues all the way up the spiral stair case. Lightboxes with draped oriental fabric and leaded glass windows illuminate the landing, also home to an open mouthed papier mache hippo. A huge satin quilt of three apples dominates the rest of the stairway. The upper hallway is covered in African masks.

There are two guest bedrooms, a guest washroom and Carole's bedroom with an adjoining dressing/washroom on this level. Carole's bedroom is black. The washroom is black and white. Every free space is filled with artwork. Our bedroom is the cat room. It is painted in a light grey, but the bedding is all burgundy. The desk and night table are antique, of course. The walls are covered with prints, drawings and posters of cats. Another mirror with oriental frame completes the room. The guest bathroom continues the yellow and burgundy scheme. The towels are a sunny yellow. The floor tiles are dark, but the wall tiles in the room and shower stall are a little paler shade of burgundy.  the prints seem to be drawings done by students.

Even though this seems to be a lengthy description, it barely does the place justice. Every single detail imaginable complies with the themes and colour schemes. All the door hardware and hooks are antique brass. Every light switch is theme related. Even the napkins are coordinated in colour with the china or picture cats. And despite all this, the home is warm and inviting. There is no sense of do not touch anywhere in the house. Martha Stewart, eat your heart out.

I after some tea and talk, Gila and I settled in for the night. 

In the morning I had a glorious tour of the house. The B & B is closing and the house is for sale. It will be difficult for Carole and Marlene leave a house that they have built and decorated and reflects who they are as people. Gila had to hail a U-Haul truck to help push our spinning wheels off the icy driveway and then we were off to visit Gila's ninety-four year old Uncle Leon. What a delight he was! He is virtually blind due to macular deterioration, but  he is lively, interested and interesting. There is absolutely nothing wrong with his cognition and Gila was able to catch up on family and events with him.

We were now off to Gila's 'used to be' Montreal otherwise known as Mordechai Richler's Montreal.  First the  Snowdon Deli for a smoked Montreal meat sandwich. You can breathe is the wonderful aroma from a block away. Then it was over the mountain, with all its recreational sites, the Oratorium and the views, through the neighbourhoods where Gila used to live and used to go to school with all the accompanying reminisces. A ride through  Westmount, a view of her parents' factory, the Talmud Torah, the Main, St. Urbain, a lesson in how not to use French pronunciation when saying local Street names was pointed out before we headed back to the B & B to take Carole and Marlene out to dinner.

Gila had wanted to have at least a twenty minute rest to recharge, but Marlene was eager to get going and only gave her five minutes. Bad move! Without the down time she had needed, Gila was not a happy camper. it was a wonderful meal for most of the group.

There had been a discussion at breakfast about where to dine. Apparently the tradition is dinner at Maison India, everyone's favourite fine dining. However, I am the fly in the ointment. Gila let everyone know I didn't like Indian food because of the curry. Carole began a recitation of how many people who THOUGHT they didn't like Indian LOVED the food when she made carefully selections from the menu. I was skeptical, but not wanting to be a pain, I agreed. 

The restaurant was a little upscale, dark, candle lit, waiters dressed alike in dark shirts and vests and very attentive. They knew Carole well, but I would guess that they were just as helpful to anyone else. Carole ordered samosas, buttered chicken, a shrimp dish in what I think may have been coconut based, a beef dish, a mixed vegetable dish and chana, some sort of chickpea concoction. I've had samosas before. They are 'fine', my non committal response to everything, but I wouldn't have ordered one for me. However, I was determined to try everything. I ate a little of each dish and took seconds of the ones that were more palatable to my taste buds. My favourite was the na'an and the shrimp. The buttered chicken was fine, as were the mixed vegetables. The beef in our order was very tender, but the spices were more of what I remember not liking in my previous Indian experience. After a little taste I opted to pass on the chana. Because Carole had referred so many clients, we got a complimentary dessert. Other than the mango ice cream, all the delicacies on the plate were far too sweet. Carole kept asking me what I thought of the food, but I did not want to sound negative. I did eat my share. I didn't  leave hungry, but for what dinner cost us (Gila and I were treating) I would have preferred European, Mediterranean, Japanese or Thai cuisine. Would I eat Indian again? Probably if I had no other choice. I don't imagine it will ever be my first choice. But the point of the meal was to express our appreciation for the hospitality that had been extended to us. I concluded that Indian was an acquired taste, that I had not yet acquired. Everyone else was more than satisfied with the meal. I wasn't going to contradict them. I enjoyed the company, the wine and the attentive service.

Our room was very comfortable and Gila had to recuperate from feeling so drained that she slept late. Today was going to be our shopping day. I have learned not to use the word hate for anything I don't like, but I am sorry that I can't say that about shopping. I HATE SHOPPING. I had to make that clear. Carole has an incredible flair in choosing clothes that enhance one's looks and minimize the 'problem' areas that seem to multiply as we age. She took us to a number of shops where the clothing was reasonable when sale priced and in styles that had more pizazz and originality than is normally seen in Toronto. Unfortunately, the garments that appealed to me did not give my body any appeal, although I did find one tunic like blue top that suited me. One store in particular had very classy and expensive clothing. I saw the raincoat that Gila bought at the craft show, a sure indication that the clothing there was more exclusive. Gila bought an unbelievably lush sleeveless Simon Chang reversible cape. She looked a little like Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard primping and posing in front of the mirror. In that cape, she was the celebrity, while I looked totally out of place in that particular shop. Over the last two days, Gila managed to put a sizable increase in what she owes the bank, but gained a very beautiful eye catching new wardrobe of vests, tops and leggings. 

It was after four. I think we were all hungry but opted to forget about lunch at that hour and get Marlene for an early dinner. Everyone seemed too comfortable to bundle up look for somewhere to eat, so we ordered in Greek. While waiting for our food, Gila tried on all her new outfits and provided Marlene with a little fashion show. The food arrived (luke warm, not hot) we dug in and again, no one went hungry. After dinner, Gila and I relaxed with sudoku, while Carole and Marlene called it a day.

Day four started much earlier than the previous day. Marlene had gone to work, but this time Carole slept in. Gila had a stab at making coffee, warming up the croissants in thebtoaster and setting out the cheese, but she was unaccustomed to the kitchen. Once Carole got up, there was better coffee and a better presentation of the breakfast offerings. Gila had not seen her Uncle Leon the previous day, so she headed off for a visit while I stayed at the house. After a quick bite of party sandwiches and a long time to get organized, we headed out to buy wine for the party and visit the Musee de Beaux Arts to see the Splendor of Venice, a display of Venetian painters from the sixteenth century onwards, paintings of concerts and instruments of the same era as well as the music written during those years. It turned out that the Museum was closing early due to New Years Eve and we only had an hour. In truth, that was more than enough time for that exhibit. The AGO has come a long way in bringing more daring, less conventional shows to Toronto, the Cardiff Miller exhibit and the David Bowie show, just to name two.

Most of our time here in Montreal, I have been more than thankful that Gila is driving. She knows the city well and therefore, once we get going, we reach our destinations quickly. However, sometimes the decisions she makes behind the wheel are questionable. After spinning her wheels on the ice in the driveway, Gila opted to park on the street. Because it was so cold, Gila wanted to find a spot as close as possible to the house. Unfortunately, there were none. Carole's house is one way, right at the exit of the Decarie Expressway. Instead of coming around the block, instead of just backing up, Gila made a u-turn just as I could see a car exiting the highway. For a moment, I was glad that Josh knew where my will was! Marlene arrived at the same time and aghast, watched the maneuver. 

Back at the house we had some time just to ourselves before the other guests arrived. Marlene, however, made a point of commenting, not very gently, on Gila's driving. After that tirade, we did unwind, primped a little for the party, and waited for the others in the living room. It was a quiet and relaxed evening. The other guests were Joan and Ellen  who were friends and Seti, a lovely girl who was Carole's foster daughter. She was originally from Iran and is in Montreal to work on her Masters in English.  The conversation was wide ranging, from politics to sexual habits and preferences. Pizza, salad, wine, cheesecake all helped to create a satisfied atmosphere. Marlene went to bed early, Joan, Ellen and Seti left just after ten. Gila and I retired to read. Gila was out like a light in no time and I was the only one still awake to welcome in 2014. That's what happens when you hang out with old folks.

New Years Day was low key for everyone. Before leaving our room, Gila and I shared our hopes for the New Year. Gila was very positive about the coming year and confided that she had learned what a real honest relationship was through her friendship with me. Flattering, but she has forgotten that I am the one with the history ruining relationships. My plan is to continue trying to improve relationships, beginning with the relationship with myself. That will be the foundation upon which new and more satisfying relationships can be established. I'm pretty certain that this is a life long project rather one that I can hope to accomplish in a year.

Breakfast was late. Marlene's brother dropped by and began to chat. One by one, everyone else found something to do and I was left to listen to Bob ramble on about movies he liked, complete with a summary of each plot. At first I was confused. I thought that he was discussing real events until a story about the Crusades, Saladin and  the Knights Templar entered the dissertation. That was the point at which it dawned on me that  Bob was relating fictional stories rather than true events. With no one else in the room, I felt it was rude to leave. It was an hour before anyone else sat down at the table so that I could go. Apparently, Bob's assessment of me was that I was a good listener.

I called each of the children with my best wishes for the upcoming year and answered some e-mails. Bob still hadn't left and I returned to the dining room for a beverage and a snack, a strategic error. I should have stayed in the den. Bob picked up the conversation as if I had  never been gone. In the meantime, Marlene had left to visit a friend, Gila also went to our room to contact family and friends leaving me to listen to rather than chatting about Bob's philosophies, love of motorcycles and his relationships. He said he was waiting for Marlene. When Marlene returned, Gila and Bob ate (again) and finally said his good byes, having spent the bulk of the day with us. He commented that I was an interesting person who was easy to talk to. He never gave me a chance to show him how garrulous I could be. Later Marlene told me that Bob usually dropped in for very short visits and then left. He was generally a closed person and she was surprised at how he had opened up to me. I guess no one else is usually  willing to sit with him for very long. I felt like a captive audience.

It was afternoon nap time. Not wanting to interfere with sleeping at night, I headed for the den to read. I got through three pages when Marlene came in to join me. We chatted for a while about politics and her total dissatisfaction with the corruption in every level of government and a little about her children. To pick up my book would have been rude and after all I was in her house, so I became a captive listener once more. However the difference was that I was far more interested in her choice of topics and had more of an opportunity to participate. Several hours passed amicably. I could easily develop a friendship with her. When Marlene realized that it was approaching seven, she called Carole to get dinner going. Fortunately there was no real preparation. We had the left over pizza and the Greek salad that was not touched from our take out dinner. Marlene treated us with chocolate yogurt sundaes and the conversation flowed again. Gila had suggested a movie in front of the fire but when Marlene and Carole retired at ten, the movie idea was not mentioned again.

Gila's original plan had been to check if Schwartz's was open, (you can't visit Montreal without bring home smoked meat)' visit Uncle Leon again and head home a day early. She even mentioned it to Carole, but I have no idea what happened to those intentions. We didn't go anywhere and I did very little for a task/project oriented person, but I'm either getting old or therapy is working, because in the end, it was a relaxing day.

I awoke very early Thursday morning, readied my belongings and headed downstairs. I had another chat with Carole and waited for Gila to get going. I knew there were plans before getting Toronto bound. After breakfast, we were invited to shop downstairs. Carole and Marlene had identified things that were destined for a garage sale before moving from the house. We had first shot. I bought a lamp for my desk, a toaster oven and some cat tchachkes for Christine. Gila got some gifts for Heaven. There was a lot more to put in the car for the ride home!

I thanked Carole and Marlene for their hospitality. I was very touched by Marlene's open invitation to visit again, either at the house or to wherever they move. I hope that this will happen. I enjoyed my talks with Marlene and gave her a huge hug before getting into the car. We weren't homeward bound yet. It was a frigid day. The temperature in the car was -25 degrees. Thank VW for the seat warmers. They emanated some warmth well before the heater.

Our first stop was Real Bagel for eight dozen Montreal bagels and party sandwiches for the road. Next another quick visit to Uncle Leon and a stop at Cavendish Mall across the street to buy a sweater for Heaven. I ended buying one too. Our last destination was Schwartz's Deli. Gila wanted to stay for lunch as well as buy smoked meat to take home. Not only was it Arctic cold, but there was a biting wind that cut right through you. Unbelievably, there was a line up that stretched outdoors. I know the food is world renowned, but not worth freezing for. There was a quick change of plans. We ordered take out sandwiches as well as the meat to take back home. We were ready to eat in the car, but discovered that there was a small counter and stools at the back take out could be taken in. Much better and more comfortable. 

By now it was past three and time finally to head west and home. The GPS is normally a very useful device, in Ontario. In Quebec, it needs to have pronunciation lessons. I couldn't understand any of the street names pronounced neither in French or recognizable English, although I did know where we were. At one point I thought the GPS was breaking into prayer when I heard avinu ma-keykern. I thought for sure that it was moving on to its unique version of avinu malkaynu. The other problem was that I was in the car helping (?) with directions. Turn here I said looking at a sign that said 20 ouest, Toronto. The GPS replied recalculating as Gila momentarily forgetting about my navigation skills or rather lack thereof in Budapest and turned.  It took forty-five minutes to get to the highway and we passed through Montreal proper, Ville de Mont Royal, Saint Laurent and Dorval. The good part was that I for a look at many more parts of the city even though they were not scenic.  I really need to learn when not to be helpful.

During what remained of daylight, driving was fairly easy. Unfortunately, at this time of winter, there was precious little daylight left. Too soon, it was dark and although it was not snowing, the wind whipped swirls of snow across and around the roadway. Each time we passed a truck, the snow on the roof and the fumes from the smokestacks surrounded the car momentarily. Once we got to Ontario, there were periodic electronic signs at the side of the road reading Drive with caution. Slippery roads are possible. Fortunately, despite the wispy snow snaking along the road, the highways were dry. Even so, we passed two accidents, one eastbound that had traffic backed up quite a distance and another in the westbound lane to which an ambulance was rushing. Both of us agreed that driving safely and a littler slower made far more sense than trying to make it back to Toronto a half hour earlier and we also made three stops.

Along the way we listened to Calico Joe, a novel by John Grisham. It took place in the world of minor and major baseball written in the first person, by the son of a mediocre pitcher who disgraced himself both on the field and at home with his family. The story was well written and we were both totally engrossed. When we arrived at my house at 10:30, we sat in the car waiting to hear what we thought was the end of the story. Unfortunately, after a pause, the reader announced Chapter 22. We had reached our limit, turned off the car the car off and began unloading the car. It was a wonderful, accident free trip, but to make it even more memorable, I managed to slip
on the snowy porch, banging up my ribs and left knee. I'm sure if I don't over react, the pain when I breathe and walk will disappear much more quickly. It's a good thing that I didn't decide to be less klutzy in 2014. It would have been a resolution that lasted less than a day. Hopefully, the rest of the year will be injury free.