Monday February 3, 2014

I awoke to a light snowfall. The flakes were almost as small as rain drops and gently covered the streets, the cars, the limbs of the trees with a soft coverlet. The snow continued through the morning transforming the grey roads and the skeletal trees into a dazzling white world. Although the streets were reduced to tracks of clumped dirty slush by the traffic of the city, the snow continued burying the parked cars and dressing the branches with a thick winter coat. Despite my dislike of winter weather, I joined Dov, Marissa and Kaya for a walk in the park.

                                                        
By the time we got outside, a growing lake of slush gathered at the curbs. Crossing the street was akin to an Olympic long jump trying to avoid the continuously expanding water or an obstacle course looking for the safe drier path between the furrows ploughed by the cars and the hills forming between them as the sidewalks were shoveled and cleared. Many pedestrians were attempting to stay dry by clutching umbrellas over their heads. The streets were greying again with the traffic of people and vehicles. Cars passing by quickly sprayed the slush back onto the sidewalk and passersby.

Although the neighbourhood was an ordeal to navigate, Prospect Park remained pristine. Walkers had compacted the snow into distinct paths without slush or puddles. The evergreen bushes were shrouded and bent, green needles poking their way out and branches bowing down to the earth. The mundane mesh like snow fences wore lacy white shawls. Every surface of each tree was iced with layers of snow that fell in clumps on the unsuspecting when the outstretched branches could bear no more snow.

Marissa treated herself to the refreshing snow from the limbs that leaned to the ground. Kaya became animated, springing from one mound to another, scooting to the wooded areas through holes in the fences and burying her snout in the snow. Tiny snowballs compacted on her undercoat through her exploration of the ever deepening snow. When we reached an open field, Dov made snowballs from the heavy snow and threw them for Kaya to retrieve. When she reached the area where the ball had landed, she began digging deeper and deeper into the snow looking for it. Dov fell to the ground to make a snow angel. Kaya leapt on him covering his face with kisses. The vast expanse of virgin snow was hard to resist. First Marissa and then I both added angels to the choir and even Kaya, with some help stretched her legs back and forth in the snow to make wings. The snow was irresistible and soon we indulged in a snowball fight, me missing my target far more often than I was hit.

In the distance, I could see woman, walking alone and sheltering herself with a clear umbrella. After a few steps, she would stop and raise her umbrella higher. She looked like Mary Poppins waiting for the perfect gust of wind to fly her off. As she neared, the reality was not as playful. Every time she raised her umbrella, her other hand maneuvered a camera hanging from her neck and snapped photos of the transformed landscape. The digital beep of each picture echoed across the field.  At that moment, I regretted leaving my camera behind, but realized that I would not have frolicked with an electronic gadget in hand. For the child still inside me, lack of camera was fortuitous. 

We wound our way back to the entrance of the park, Kaya greeting every other dog enthusiastically. Walkers were bundled in scarves and hats, a tobogganer was building a mogul at the foot of his hill and a skier silently cut his way through the fields only leaving his tracks behind. After complaining about winter at every turn, grudgingly I had to admit how much fun I had had.

Unfortunately, the walk back to the apartment was an antidote to the fun. Huge ploughs traveled up and down the streets shoving the furrows left behind by the cars to the curb, transforming the lakes at each crossing into seas. My wonderful boots that have kept my toes cozy failed and once back home, I had to wring out my socks and set my boots on the rad in an attempt to dry them. My long black coat is wonderful for keeping me warm, but the hem had become both snow encrusted and wet as it dragged across and through the slush and snow banks.

Marissa headed downtown for her job and later in the afternoon for her French class. Dov began surfing the net, reading a script and relaxing. We had the Sleep No More event scheduled for eight and originally planned to head out to Chelsea early, do some shopping and meet Marissa for dinner. My boots were still wet and we would have to drag anything purchased along with us so we decided to forgo shopping. Perhaps we can find time for it tomorrow.

We ate at a Japanese restaurant just across from the Empire Diner, a place Dov and I frequented when he had the part of Nick Burns in the play A Thousand Clowns and lived around the corner. The food at the restaurant was tasty but sparse. The first few offers had three of each item, but there were only two cubes of agadachi tofu and after waiting a considerable length of time, a minuscule mound of garlic spinach appeared. Although we had ordered seven dishes, all three of us walked away hungry. Dov suggested trying some large portioned American food after the show.

                                                                 

My boots were only damp when we set out but now my feet were drowning again as it was impossible to cross any street without traversing a body of water. Later in the evening, a snow plough passed by us at a clip clearing the roads but spraying us with debris, ice and slush. We hurried towards 
the store fronts of the wide street to avoid the shower but with the size of the plough and the quantity of muck on the road, it was hard to avoid. This happened after the production and we already so giddy from what we had experienced, that this brought on howls of laughter.

To the production . . .The front of the MacKitterick Hotel is art deco in style. Two security people check ID before you enter. The first venue of the visit is in the bar and they are making sure everyone is of age. As soon as you enter, the music begins, something composed by either the Addams family or the Munsters. The walls are all black but there is enough light here to see where you are going. Coats and bags must be checked. Nothing can be held in your hands but you are encouraged to slip some money or a credit card into a pocket in case you want to imbibe at the bar. Earlier today, I had forgotten my camera. This evening I was better prepared. I had slipped an extra pair of socks and my shoes into my bag so I was able to check my boots and walk around with dry feet. 

At reception, your reservations are checked and you get a 'card' key for the door of your hotel room. And here it begins. This place is creepalicious. There are some low lights in the stairwell but then it goes dark. The first thing I realize is that my night vision is very poor. I began to stumble into walls and blind corners. Marissa actually has to guide me through the passageway to the bar, a room from the thirties, surrounded by red velvet drapery and hosted by attractive young men in tuxedoes. The band is dressed likewise, the vocalist in a period gown and the music is from that era. After a short wait (long enough for a cocktail or beer) the band leader invites the visitors with certain room numbers to enter the main portion of the hotel. As you slip behind the curtains, you are handed a white Carnival mask and are sternly told that no sounds are permitted. A couple beside me is gruffly admonished for whispering to one another.

We enter an elevator and are let out to wander on that first level. The eerie music continues but it is now interspersed with songs from the thirties. The corridors are covered with sepia photographs and murky mirrors. The doors to all the rooms are open and I wander into each one, opening drawers, looking through children's clothing hung by a bed, reading the open book left on the bed. I find a lipstick, a  key, sayings etched into the inside of drawers, a sewing box. It is crowded and dark. I continue to bump into people, furniture and walls. A woman in an old fashioned, blood stained uniform pushes by me. Do I follow? The floors are uneven and covered in a variety of bumpy materials in recognizable in the dark. I' m not sure where to go or what to expect, but as I enter a drawing room, there are crowds around the settee. A young pregnant woman is throwing herself from one sofa to another. She slips to the floor. Zombie like, she makes her way around the room opening a chest of doors. She takes something out and slips behind all the people and scurries out the door. Many follow her. I continue through the maze of rooms.

People in black, wearing black masks silently, with a shake of the head or pointing of arms direct you which way to go. There is no set route and within several minutes there are streams of white masks moving in all directions, some stumbling, some running after a silent character.

Each floor has a different theme. This one is a hotel with guest rooms, all dimly lit, all filled with trinkets, toiletries books suitcases some open some closed. In a hallway I spot the nurse again she is climbing the walls and leaping also in a zombie like state in a macabre dance. Through a wall behind he, I notice crowds again. There are a man and an almost bald woman interacting in a dance like manner with one another, sometimes appearing to make love, sometimes fighting, doing gymnastics over a bathtub. They separate, the woman disrobes and slips on another dress and the gyrations continue until they rush off again followed by the crowds. After winding through the halls you reach a set of stairs and climb to investigate the secrets and surprises on another floor.

On the next floor is a series of offices with desks. I examine the strewn papers. I open drawers. I find a hammer in one, pliers in another. Again characters appear and disappear. The nurse writes a message in chalk up, down and across a corrugated wall. A chemist pours elixirs and serves a customer who dashes off. The chemist reaches over and takes the hand of a guest, unlocks a door and directs her behind it. The stewards motion everyone else to move on. There are rooms with stuffed animals heads, pelts hung on the wall, a desk sporting a preserved fox uncannily resembling Kaya. I find a candy store with open glass canisters of peppermint, gumdrops, fruit drops, licorice. I help myself and go behind the counter to taste other varieties of sweets. There is a small room with a an empty crib, above it fly stuffed, headless mannequins. Other rooms have cases of bones, skulls. Elsewhere there are crates for shipping.

More stairs, a hospital ward. The nurse's desk has some patient charts. Antique surgical instruments are displayed on the walls. This is a psychiatric ward. One patient is an arsonist, another violently abusive. Each bed has anther chart, a bedpan under the bed, taut sheets, books on night tables or left open on the beds. Beside is a room full of tubs for the cold water treatment as seen in the film One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. In another room is a tub on a pedestal, a woman washing blood from her hands. 

I spot the pregnant girl again in another dress packing a suitcase. She grabs it and moves on to a room with drawers. She takes a blanket out, pretending to swaddle an infant. She drops it and without looking puts baby clothes into a drawer behind her. Like a sleep walker she moves on, dancing with and then resisting a man in a tuxedo. This looks like a lobby with a bank of pay phones. I wander off and find a dining room, the tables all formally set with monogrammed linens and cutlery. The pregnant woman enters, sits and spreads jam on a piece of toast. As she is about to eat, the woman with the bloody hands traipses in with a period jar of milk. She pours the milk for the pregnant woman and forces her to drink. A balletic chase takes place from one table to another, the characters sometimes climbing on the walls. The expectant mother escapes. A man joins the other woman at the table, pouring milk for one another and eating toast with jam.

On another floor there is a deserted nightclub complete with tables and chairs. An elegant woman in a lace trimmed red dress with a train swoops in. She opens a tray on a table to reveal raw meat. She sits, carves it and bites the morsels off the knife. Suddenly she retches and spits out the partially chewed meat to find a ring in her mouth. She takes the hand of a guest, fondles it, puts the ring on her finger and floats to the stage to lip synch the song Is that all there is. I try to leave the nightclub and bump into furniture and walls looking for the curtain slit that is the exit.

Another floor has a padlocked graveyard and further on, the ruins of houses on a street. By now I am totally disoriented. I have no idea of the time or the floor. We seem to be herded into a ballroom. All the characters are seated at a banquet table on a dais. They are toasting each other, miming eating and conversing in slow motion. A man walks over to the side and slowly releases a noose that hangs in front of the man seatedat the middle of the table. He jumps onto the table, fixes the noose around his neck and sits on a chair placed beneath him. All but one of the others run off the dais and disappear behind the crowd. The chair is pulled out from under the man. The lights go out momentarily and when they come on again, the man is swinging limply from the rope. 

The stewards motion everyone to the stairs. At the top is another red curtain with a host welcoming us back. Everyone takes off their masks, buys drinks and enjoys the thirties jazz band once again. I am disoriented but laughing giddily about my journey. The phone rings. Dov and Marissa are waiting for me at the coat check. As you leave, another hosts invites you into yet another room to extend the evening with a bite to eat or dessert. We pass. Outside, dangling our souvenir masks, we cannot stop laughing. All of us loved it. One at a time we describe our experience, each so different that it is hard to believe we were at the same event. We all agree that the missing storyline connecting the venue and the characters is one of the flaws of the production. I found that I started creating my own narrative as I re encountered characters. However, the lighting, the furniture, the artifacts, the background music as well as the period music, the re creation of the thirties made this an extraordinary New York moment. This is supposed to be based on the play Macbeth. I would never have associated what I saw with that play. I would love to have someone to explain it to me.

Our appetizer sized dinner and the two hours trekking from room to room and floor to floor had made us hungry and we set off to find an American style eatery. First choice was the Empire Diner, but it had been transformed from a down at the heels joint to a chic bar. We moved on. Our American food was found at The Chelsea Diner owned and hosted by Greeks. This time we did eat heartily. By now it was close to midnight and none of us looked forward to an hour and a half on the subway and a shlep in wet boots back to the apartment, so we treated ourselves to a taxi cab ride back to Brooklyn. What a day!!!!

Sunday, February 2, 2014

We got a late start this morning and it was more important to stick to a schedule since we had matinee tickets for the play Saint Joan. Dov was still ill, but he was so impressed with the company Bedlam, that he pulled himself together enough to go. 


We made it to the theatre just as the play was about to begin. The stage, if you can call it that, was sparse, a platform, a set of stairs and two doors. At one side, hanging from the ceiling was a period painting that was cleverly used during the first act of the performance. The entire space was used in the production, including the aisles between the rows of seats, the back of the room and even the sides. The picture was raised as a window to call out to the characters in the courtyard. When the scene changed and the window was no longer needed, a character unhooked it from the wires and walked away with it. The ingenuity in the use of space, not furniture or backgrounds created a believable fluid set.

Although there are many characters in the play, the entire script was handled by four very versatile actors. All, but the one playing Joan, undertook multiple roles, sometimes switching before our eyes by putting on a pair of glasses, changing posture and using not only a different accent, but also changing tone, register and demeanor as necessary. Most of the time, imagination was not required to envision the new character. Each of the actors brought his character alive and recognizable even when he showed up later in the production. The actor in the role of Saint Joan was outstanding. She was still young but far removed from being a teenager and yet her energy, her enthusiasm and motions were those of a seventeen year old.

This play was in three acts. During each intermission, the audience was asked to leave the theatre and the space was reorganized with the use of dropsheets and once, a single prop. Because the actors used the entire theatre, you felt like you were part of the action, at times finding an actor sitting beside you while playing his part. You could see objects that were not there because the actor saw that object and it's dimensions informed where and how he moved. This type of performance must be the goal of every serious thespian. Natasha, Pierre and the 1812 Comet was enjoyable entertainment. Saint Joan was impressive theatre.

After the play, we dropped into the co-op to replenish the pantry and purchase the rest of the ingredients today's dinner. It is a store packed with anything organic you can imagine at prices less than Loblaws (except for the eggs) for far inferior quality. The care Dov takes in the food he buys and eats and his daily exercise a lot of it walking Kaya, is impressive. He has bought a machine that distills the tap water and a professional style juicer for making incredible juice blends. Today was a combination of beets, garlic, carrots, spinach, lemons, oranges, grapefruit, apple, ginger root and turmeric root. It may not sound very appetizing, bur although i did so with trepidation, I agreed to taste it and then even asked for more. My children seem to be better in the kitchen than I am and certainly are following a far healthier diet than my own. We are into role reversal; they are setting the example for me to follow.

After the shopping, Dov led the way to the B&H Deli. It is a small place with a few very small tray sized  tables beside the wall and a countertop and swivel stools in front of the grill. This very much reminded me of what United Dairy Bakers used to be before it went upscale to  Lawrence Plaza although downscale in the quality of the food I remember at least thirty years ago. The kids both had a bowl of soup. I ordered the mushroom barley soup flavored with dill. Even better than my own! Dov encouraged me to order the smoked whitefish sandwich. The sandwich, on fresh challah was at least four inches thick. The filling was a blend of whitefish with chives and celery. It was fantastic but too big and I brought half of it home for later on.

I'm glad I don't have to think about navigating. I just follow Dov and Marissa like a mindless sheep. To me it looks like we are traveling in circles, but we get to our destinations both quickly and efficiently, unlike my navigation in Europe. Even when he was a child, Dov excelled at navigation. It's a good skill to have in a city the size of New York.

Before heading out for the theatre, I had shown Marissa how to make roasted vegetable stock for her navy bean soup. She had put the soaked beans and the stock into the crockpot to cook until we returned later in the day. Once home, we sautéed the ingredients we bought in the co-op and added them to the soup. What an appetizing aroma filled the apartment! A fashionably late dinner, vegetable navy bean soup with homemade challah rounded out another day in New York.

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Today was a low key day. I was able to totally relax and finally focus on the book I am reading. My plans with Marissa to prepare an oven roasted vegetable stock went down the tubes, but we'll try to fit it in tomorrow. 

We had no plans for the evening as yet and Dov, so concerned that I enjoy my visit, wanted to finalize which play we would try to get rush tickets for. I know he wants to see the Glass Menagerie but had mentioned Natasha, Pierre and the 1812 Comet a number of times. He has a friend in the production who could put tickets away for us. A musical based on War and Peace, it had received good reviews and was more definite than hoping for rush seats elsewhere. So we now had plans.

I have never spent any notable time in Brooklyn, so when it was time for Kaya's walk, I joined Dov and Marissa for a mini tour of the neighbourhood. We headed for Prospect Park a few blocks away. Years ago, I remember walking with my mother or with Lonia and having to keep slowing down so that neither one would be left behind. These days, the shoe is on the other foot. Even at my brisk pace, it was impossible to keep up with the youngsters and they were continually stopping to wait for me. After a while, Marissa walked with me, I think so that I would stop apologizing for my snail's pace. Marissa is a delight. She has a genuine interest in getting to know me and throughout the afternoon encouraged me to tell her stories about my past. I think back to myself at that age and in the same situation. I know I would have exuded an air of resentment, both for having to slow down and for feeling that it was my responsibility to entertain my mother in law for even the shortest length of time. I felt we had little in common and I was always on guard for either her criticism or her domination. Marissa seems to be very open and accepting and I feel comfortable in her company. I am beginning to better understand why Dov loves this girl.

Prospect Park is a sprawling well groomed recreational area. There is water in the form of a lake or river throughout the park. Near the entrance are two busy outdoor skating rinks, one for just skating and another one with a roof for hockey. Bird life abounds. In one area the trees are full of  cardinals. Scattered through the park are gazebos and benches inviting longer pauses. We walk under bridges of all types, the most beautiful being one made of stone. One area of the path is beside the river. It is shaded with a vine covered roof.  I can imagine its beauty in the spring and summer when the boughs are green rather than bare. Situated in the park is a large stately white mansion. It is the Audubon House. Set farther back from most of the walking paths, i would guess that it must be a venue for meetings or parties. Further along was a lovely octagonal wooden deck with benches overlooking the river. Its backdrop was a gurgling waterfall. 

                        
We walked for more than two hours. From time to time you could recognize an urban feature much removed from the park and there were roads patrolled by police cars, but for most of the time you could forget that you were in a big city. We took another route home and I saw many streets lined with more brownstones and even individual houses with yards, driveways and garages. I imagine that one hundred years ago, this was a high class, posh neighbourhood. Today there is much evidence of urban renewal, but the hip hop music and rap blaring from the cars driving by and the people of the street dispel any image of elegance. This is a very different picture of New York for me. I have always imagined it to be an concrete jungle with the exception of Central Park, with the boroughs home to the crowded projects of minorities. Dov has found a wonderful neighbourhood to live in.

                                                     

The long walk exhausted everyone but Kaya. Dov, stuffed up with a nasty cold, lay down for an hour's nap. The plan was to head out to Broadway around five, have dinner and see the play. As the time ticked away, it became obvious that Dov was ill probably too illnfor a night out. I was fine staying in an perhaps ordering in a pizza when Dov woke up. I actually dozed off for a while as well, but roused myself when Marissa suggested that we watch Blue Jasmine together. Cate Blanchet does a remarkable turn as a very disturbed yet believable woman. 

Dov woke up after six, but he really wasn't in any condition to go out, nor had we had any dinner. However he was quite insistent that we go to the theatre nonetheless. He did not know if his friend had already paid for the tickets, he thought it was rude to not use the tickets when they had been set aside for us and was determined to show me a good time.

Until we reached Times Square, I had totally forgotten that it was the Superbowl Weekend. OMG!!! Times Square is always, busy, crowded and noisy but when it is beset by thousands of raucous, belligerent football fans, it becomes a war zone for anyone not into the big game. Police were everywhere, blocking roads, cordoning off crowds to permit a trickle of traffic through, just patrolling the streets to have a presence. The crowds were boisterous and insistent that you knew they were Seahawks fans. If someone shouted out "Sea", "Hawks" thundered from the crowds and like a wave reverberated down the street. Seattle fans were so predominate that there was no evidence of the second team in the game. We ploughed through the crowds, hanging on to a sleeve or a coattail to try to stay together. Away from Broadway and a little further north the crowds were closer to what you would expect on a Saturday night in New York.

The play was not at all what I expected. Probably production would be a better description. The space was set up like a Russian cafe. Everyone was at tables and the stage, if you could call it that, surrounded the tables. Red velour curtains enclosed the entire space and as we waited for the beginning, actors from the production, in character, wandered through the room interacting with the guests. Particularly striking was a somewhat heavyset black drag queen. The makeup was perfect, the costuming was outrageous, fur hat, white furry boots, a leopard print shawl or scarf around the waist as a skirt and a short red military tunic to top it all off. When she/he approached our table, she exclaimed to Marissa. "You are so beautiful. Really beautiful. Except for you, this is an ugly house." I couldn't have agreed more. Marissa has a quiet charm an engaging smile and expressive eyes that enhance her physical presence.

This play followed the storyline and the characters of War and Peace, but there was little of Russia in the musical style and costuming of the ensemble. The main characters looked like they stepped from the pages of Napoleonic Europe, but the ensemble looked like harlequins and whores of a more modern era. The action took place all around us and on the floor of the 'cafe' with gratuitous interaction with the audience. The show was very polished. The voices were excellent, but the lyrics much of the time were chanted dialogue. It was hard to discern any Russian character in the music as it was closer to techno pop than show songs. Despite the flaws, for me, it was enjoyable entertainment. It was neither Dov's nor Marissa's cup of tea and I regretted for them that we had not seen the Glass Menagerie directly across the street.

I made a selfish suggestion to eat out after the play. We had not yet had dinner and I was hungry. Marissa suggested going directly home especially since Dov was ill, but I think in his effort to make sure I was enjoying myself, he took us to a cafe called Uncle Vanya. I was hoping that we could get something quick to eat so we could head back sooner than later, but Russians seem to enjoy long leisurely meals and this was as well. We shared hot cabbage beet borscht, carrot salad, kale caesar salad, all of it delicious. Dov and Marissa enjoyed a vegetarian stuffed pepper and I indulged in a serving of sprats, pickles and slabs of Russian black bread. Unfortunately, by this time, Dov was on his last legs. I think the train back to Brooklyn was the slowest one I have ever been on. It kept stopping because an prerecorded voice informed us of train traffic ahead even though at this hour, any train was at least half an hour away. It forever to get back to Brooklyn. Dov dozed most of the way back.

It was almost two before I collapsed in bed. I had some concerns about this visit, but I think both Dov and I want this to be a memorable visit for the right reasons. He is determined that I have a good time and I am determined to let anything that may escalate into any kind of disagreement go. Marissa is the bonus to all of this. As I have said she has been warm and welcoming and this evening, as we waited in line, rubbed my back, brought my head down on her shoulder in the subway and offered foot rubs for my tired feet. It is wonderful seeing Dov so settled and happy and wonderful to get to know Marissa better.

Brooklyn, January 31, 2014

Brooklyn, January 31, 2014

I will never complain about getting up in time for an eight o'clock aquafit class. Don't let anyone tell you that 4:30 is early morning. It feels like the middle of the night as does the traffic on the highway to the airport. Dark and early is much more appropriate than bright and early.

Despite the clear roads, the airport is amazingly crowded, but with web check in and the machines to print baggage tags, it takes no time to enter the scary world of US Customs. The worst part of any trip has got to be the airport but traveling to the States is doubly so. First there is one room through which a large crowd, toting bags snakes its way around. Slowly . . .very slowly. Suddenly an attendant announces that anyone on a seven o'clock flight needs to by- pass the line to the next room. What is in the next room? Another snaking line! This one ends in a bank of kiosks, where you scan your passport, verify your personal information and destination and are told to look at the camera for a grainy black and white photo.  You now have the official mugshot. Move along to yet  more lines, ending with an interview as to why you seek entry to the Land of the Free.  Permission granted, You now can drop off your luggage. But there is more! Take off your jacket, your belt, your boots, empty your pockets, take out your computer, surrender your carry ons to X-ray examination and walk through the metal detector. The departure gates are finally in sight, but the machinery objects loudly and you have to submit to a further indignity. Spread your arms and legs and wait while a wand announces the studs on your jeans, the fasteners to your bra, your necklace and your knee replacement. You turn to your examiner, smile and say "Thank you for making me feel like a criminal."  Did you know that in order to work for US customs you have to have your funny bone surgically removed? The guard turns to me with a withering glare. I collect my belongings before she changes her mind about letting me through and find a chair to sit  on while I put my boots back on. I arrived at the airport at five. It is now six twenty, only ten minutes to boarding. My journey through the verification that I am no threat to the other passengers or American on the other side of the border has taken longer than the 58 minute flight!

The flight is short and uneventful. I text Dov that I have landed. No reply. I trot to  the luggage carousel where my bag is already waiting for me and head out to find a cab. Again there is no delay. The cab driver stows my bag in the trunk and asks me for a Manhatten destination. I tell him I'm heading for Brooklyn and provide the address. Once on the expressway, the cabbie asks if I have an iPhone. Why? He seldom travels to Brooklyn and isn't sure of the location of Bedford Ave. No, he doesn't have a GPS. My phone now objects and refuses to find the appropriate map. 

I call Dov. No answer. The cabbie hails some pedestrians for directions but he is ignored. The cab passes through graffiti filled walls and abandoned buildings while the cabbie assures me he is headed in the right direction. He just isn't sure about the exact location of the address I have given him. Dov calls back. He is incredulous that the cabbie doesn't know how to get to Bedford Ave. I tell him our location, he finds the map on his computer and directs the cabbie. The neighbourhood changes to a street lined with graceful brownstones. The cabbie comments that this is a Jewish neighbourhood and is very safe. According to him, Jews always live in better areas of the city. I see no synagogues, no kosher butcher shops, only streets inhabited by Hispanics and Blacks walking dogs, waiting for buses, washing their cars to the beat of blaring hip hop music. We finally arrive. This has been one of the stranger cab rides I have ever had.

Marissa is walking the dog and sees me arrive. I get warm hugs and an escort up to the the third floor apartment. There are no elevators in brownstones. Dov greets me fondly at the door and invites me in. It is a beautiful apartment. There is a narrow entranceway that opens into an impressive main room with dark stained burled oak floors laid diagonally, an inlaid perimeter border, oak trim and a beamed ceiling. One end of the room is dominated by a large bay window and a rad cover that provides a ledge to sit on, both in oak. The other end of the room is has oak pocket doors that open to a bedroom with lots of natural light. The rest of the apartment consists of a second bedroom, a small kitchen and bathroom, in all, a very inviting home with lovely wool rugs, lots of photographs and art work everywhere. I am impressed.

                                 




The first thing out of my bag is the quilt. It looks beautiful on the bed and the colours are perfectly coordinated with everything else in the room. I am pleased that Marissa and Dov are pleased with the gift. We engage in some chit chat and tell them how happy I am seeing them together in this warm home. Marissa says she is glad and invites me to visit again in June. With pleasure, any time.

                               

                                  


The love and affection in this room are obvious. Dov is calmer, happier, more settled than I have ever seen him. Marissa is warm and centred and so devoted to Dov. There appears to be mutual respect and consideration between the two of them. 

Later in the day, Marissa and  I had some time to spend together while Dov went to a class. This is the first time I have had an opportunity to get to know her. She seemed to be totally open to me and while making the challah, talking about anything and everything. She exudes a delight in everything she does and there is an openness and an innocence that is totally engaging. She is excited about going through my old stained Second Helpings Cookbook, she is curious about my life and my feelings. It is the perfect way to spend my first evening in New York. I have always been concerned about Dov making his way in the world, but after seeing him together with Marissa I feel that he has matured and has become a responsible adult moving forward with more confidence and purpose than I have seen before.

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.