The Spaniard and the Edwardian

how to understand your spaniard 101; or, shit my husband says

2012-01-25T14:08:00.000Z

Today's soundtrack:
"Repatriated" by Handsome Furs
"End of the Days of Coal" by Christopher Arruda
"Requin Tigre" by Galaxie
"Are You Gonna Waste My Time" by Zeus

It's rather common for people to create their own patois, a set of phrases or words that make little sense to those outside. Within couples, I think it's even more common. And within couple in which two different languages are routinely used, a mish-mashed patois becomes the lingua franca. Occasionally.. or perhaps more than just occasionally.. this patois slips out of the house, much to confusion of our friends and family. Today, after years of study, I'm ready to publish my guide to understanding my particular Spaniard (NB: this guide is not comprehensive and may not apply to your individual Spaniard).

Miguelisms:

Innocent Gun = Innis and Gunn, a popular Scottish beer. Although, you have to admit, Innocent Gun is a bit more evocative.

Flies' Water = Flyswatter, which is all fun and games until a giant moth attacks your wife and you grab the nearest spray bottle rather than the large, swatty thing hanging in the kitchen.

Warranty = Guarantee. Admittedly, the nuanced difference between these two can be tricky, which is why when the Spaniard promises to have something finished, he "warrantees it".

EXTERMINATE! = "I had one too many Goldspurs"

Esugar hunt? = "Need chocolate, stat."

Got any to add, gentle readers?

I've invited the Spaniard to retort with the various Kateisms that have developed over the past few years. My rather lazy approach to learning Spanish has given rise to phrases like "listamos" and calling Miguel "hippocratic" (as in the oath) during an argument. I also cannot keep "cruzamos" and "crucemos" straight in my head, although this is not without some irony.

Also, if anyone has any idea what "dagully" might refer to, I'd love to know.

bookcases and teacups

2012-01-23T16:30:00.001Z

Today's soundtrack:
"Northern Air" by Elliott Brood
"I Don't Know" by the Sheepdogs
"Derby Girl" by the Gertrudes
"Long Distance Call" by Tokyo Police Club
"Good Day at the Races" by Hollerado

When Miguel was offered the job in St. Andrews, my main concern wasn't getting an entrance visa or finding a place to live, but how on earth we were going to move all our books. Thankfully, a generous moving allowance was offered, so we packed up all our books in 20 or 30 bankers' boxes. We had more boxes of books than anything else, combined. Priorities, people. Books are so high on our list of things we cannot live without that our first goal after moving into our place in Cellardyke was to find bookcases. Not linens or a television. No, no. Bookcases.

And, of course, the whole bookcase organization is fraught. Fiction and non-fiction are separated, but should they be? After all, all non-fiction is written with a particular bias and slant on the truth that can be seen as fictive. Take King Leopold's Ghost by Adam Hochschild. A clear, journalistic bias is at play throughout the book, going so far as to characterize the King of Belgium as some sort of demon/devil. No nuance at play there. Undoubtably, you recognize my concern, even if Oprah, the great and powerful arbiter of literary taste, does not.

Of equal importance, but of far less discussion, are the various trinkets that litter our shelves. I've never really been one for clutter, but everything non-book on these shelves is there for a reason known, generally, just to me or Miguel.

Take, for example, this teacup.

Sure, it's just a teacup, one that I should probably use for afternoon tea, but I don't. This teacup spent the past few years in a box, not having anywhere to display it, and I was so relieved when it made the move to Scotland in one piece. It belonged to my Aunt Cora, whose collection and varieties of teacups was as eclectic as, well, my Aunt Cora, and after she passed all of us distant relatives were given a teacup. On a purely superficial level, this teacup reminds me of those big family dinners up in Qualicum and how very grown up I felt the first time I got to use a teacup, even if it was only filled with milk.

But this teacup also reminds me of Sproat Lake, where a teacup wouldn't really last all that long. In fact, I can't remember ever having tea out of a teacup up at the Lake. What I do remember is that one long summer when Laura and I would drive up to the Lake whenever we had a few days off at McDonalds. We had the Lake to ourselves, more or less, and spent untold hours deckslugging, floating around, and trying to get the McDonalds' smell off.

It's warmer than it looks.

Those who've spent anytime up at Sproat Lake know about the 4 o'clock breeze. It ruins waterskiing, chills you a little on the docks, but it does push the wasps out of the way long enough to make dinner. So when the 4 o'clock breeze would pick up (anytime between 3:30-5pm, of course. This is Island Time, after all), Laura and I would make our way up the hill to our campsite, but we'd pass by Aunt Cora's camper on the way. She already had the impossibly massive kettle boiled and the tea steeping. So we'd sit down for a cuppa with Aunt Cora in the cedar tree shade and listen to the Lake quiet down. After we'd eaten all the cookies and drank all the tea our bladders could stand, we'd finish our trek up to the campsite and make dinner.

Call me hopelessly sentimental, but this fine china teacup on my shelf is perhaps the most tangible memory of how I spent one of my last summers on the Island. Each afternoon when I sit down with my cuppa, I'm up at the Lake with my sister, drinking tea with Aunt Cora.

Cheers.

report on the leggings situation in saskatoon

2012-01-18T11:48:00.000Z

Today's soundtrack:
"Ciao Monday" by Emm Gryner
"Kiss Cam" by Arkells
"It" by Rich Aucion
"When I Write My Master's Thesis" by John K. Samson

Apologies in advance as parts of this post will only be intelligible to those few U of S alumni... and even then it's iffy.

After the New Year I flew out to Saskatoon for a few days. I'd not been on the University of Saskatchewan campus since jeggings became an acceptable substitute for proper trousers. As a result, the U of S became this oasis of pants in my mind's eye, unspoiled by the ridiculousness of campus like the University of Calgary which has mounted a thorough, although not effective, "leggings are not pants" campaign.

Still, expecting Saskatoon and the U of S to remain frozen in time is childish, so while I was working in the library (with its new Starbucks - there's coffee in the library! Grad students rejoice!) I kept an eye out for what's changed and what's remained the same.

In a lot of ways, the U of S campus hasn't changed too much at all. There are still magpies, chickadees, and that guy that works at the Copy Central as you go into the North Wing of the Murray Library. I still found my beloved focaccia sandwich, although they are no longer made at STM (pro tip - go to the Arts Buff). I think the unicyclist I spotted outside Thor is new, as is the bike maintenance station, but I suppose both were inevitable.

Because the temperature was well over 0ºC all week, U of S students were showing more skin than usual. Well, I saw well over. We reached a scalding 5ºC one day. Positively tropical, although I didn't see anyone in shorts or flip-flops, nor any frisbee in the Oval. Instead, there was a firm refusal to wear winter jackets and scarves. Throats and hands were visible!

And no leggings.

Now, maybe I was visiting on the 5 days all of Saskatoon was busy washing its leggings, but I didn't see any leggings-as-pants up on campus. And the January weather, for the first winter a while, would've allowed it. Starbucks? Leggingless. Arts Building? Leggingless. Place Riel? Leggingless. 2nd Floor of the North Wing of the Murray Library? Leggingless.

Okay, my search may have been less than comprehensive.

My point is that even though some things have changed or shifted, the U of S can safely remain my oasis of trousers for another year.

christmas knitting

2012-01-08T23:57:00.000Z

Today's soundtrack:
"La fille dans la vitrine" by Les Breastfeeders
"I'll Bring the Sun" by Jason Collett
"Lose It" by Austra
"Let's Talk" by Hannah Georgas

Now that Christmas and Reyes Magos has both passed, I can finally post all the holiday knitting I cobbled together this year. Not a particularly varied group of gifts (socks, scarves, and sweaters), but lovely nonetheless.

First up, my mother-in-law's new scarf:

The pattern is "Kernel" by Bonnie Sennott (Rav Link). I used Wollmeise 100% in some sort of rust colour that arrived in a We're Different grab-bag last year.

Mom also received a scarf this year, after years of promises (and one drunken elf mishap):

The pattern is "Claire" by Lynn Anne Banks (Rav Link). I used Fiddlesticks Knitting Zephyr Lightweight Wool-Silk in black. This scarf was originally due for her birthday a few years ago (I believe she was turning 39 again) with a more intricate lace pattern, but I developed a severe mental block about the whole project. Also, I found this yarn particularly finicky to work with. I'm happy with how the whole scarf turned out, but I'm glad to see the backside of it.

Then there are my father-in-law's socks, specially requested for their length:

The pattern is "Gentleman's Fancy Sock" from Nancy Bush's collection Knitting Vintage Socks, my favourite sock pattern book (Rav Link). The yarn is Zitron Trekking XXL in 455 (not a particularly evocative number).

Dad also got socks this year:

The pattern is "Gentlemen's Plain Winter Sock with Dutch Heel," also from Nancy Bush's Knitting Vintage Socks (Rav Link). Yarn is Zitron Trekking XXL in 326, or as I like to call it, Canucklehead. These were quickly pronounced camp-life acceptable, which is about as good as it gets.

Pablo, who is all of 2 now, has a brand new sweater to help him through a Madrid winter:

The pattern is "Fisherman's Pullover" by Veera Välimäki in Cascade Ecological Wool (colour 8049) (Rav Link). I made the age 4 version simply because it appears to fit a little small and the Eco Wool isn't a bulky yarn in the truest sense of the word. I was right to do so, as it appears the sweater will last him the winter and spring, but no longer.

Owen, who trails Pablo by a mere 6 months, has a new cardigan:

The pattern is "Wonder Year Cardigan" by Elizabeth Smith and I used Cascade 220 in white, green, yellow, red, and blue (Rav Link). I took inspiration from the HBC point blanket. In a fit of quasi-homesickness, I visited the HBC website to see just how much one of those point blankets would be. After I picked myself up from the floor, I decided that the next best thing would be to recreate the look on wee Owen's cardigan.

As for me, I've been working on the "Squirrel Sampler Mittens" by Adrian Bizilia for the past two months (Rav Link). First there was the gauge issue, in which I did not have it. Then there was the running out of yarn issue (I used Garnstudio DROPS Alpaca in 100, 403, and 7240, but I needed just slightly more than one skein of the background colour 100). Finally, there was the lack of time to knit in the evenings as writing deadlines swiftly approached. But on Christmas Eve, a few hours before Midnight Mass, I cast off the last few stitches, weaved in the ends, and gifted myself a pair of impossibly warm mittens.

This mittens also happen to look very cute on Mom and Dad's wilderness-themed Christmas Tree. Yes, you read that right - a Wilderness Tree. The tree topper is a moose. Beat that for cuteness, I dare you.

wandering about bristol

2012-01-07T23:42:00.000Z

Today's soundtrack:
"Black Day in December" by Said the Whale
"Life on Mars?" by David Bowie

At the beginning of December, Miguel and I stole down to Bristol for a few days to visit Miguel's friend, former roommate, and former Saskatoonian, Sri. Initially, I was hoping that we'd have time to visit Tintern Abbey in the nearby Wye Valley; however, my understanding of distance was deemed decidedly Canadian and so we put the visit to Tintern off until the next trip. Besides, there was plenty to do in Bristol and we only had one full day in the city!

First, Sri took us up to Clifton* for brunch where I was able to have my first bagel in 7 months. Oh sweet carbohydrates, how I'd missed you! Next, we went on a wander about the city centre. We passed by the Llandoger Trow, a 17th century pub, but as it was before noon we kept on walking.

Later on, we ended up back in Clifton and walked across the Clifton Suspension Bridge (1864).

Well, I say walked. Miguel and Sri walked. I panicked and crossed as quickly as possible while trying not to make to much movement in case the whole thing crashed down into the river far, far, far below.

The crossing was worth it, though, because we ended up in Durdham Down, a beautiful park on the edge of Bristol. There are deer, although they are kept behind a fence. I'm still not sure if that's for their safety or ours.

The park is full of cyclists, joggers, walkers, and confused motorists. It took us about an hour to leisurely walk just a small portion of Durdham Down. And after a day of walking around 15 km, we arrived back at Sri with just enough time to watch Potiche and get ready for a house party where we got to visit with Aoife, who I'd also not seen since she lived in Saskatoon.

The next morning, after nearly 48 hours since landing in Bristol, we were heading back to Scotland, the relative calm of our small fishing village, and my real coffee.

Ah yes. The coffee. You know, for a country once dominated by coffeehouses (some schools of thought suggest that the Enlightenment was mostly caffeine-fueled), I cannot believe people willingly drink freeze-dried instant coffee. Apparently, this freeze-dried instant coffee is better than the powdery version, although I cannot taste the difference. If the British had drank instant coffee rather than real coffee in the 18th century, we'd still be living like it was the 17th century. And you don't want Cromwell to come back, do you? No? I thought not. Well, drinking instant coffee is like cheering for Cromwell. Case closed.

* For those Burney scholars, Evelina, whilst recovering her health, visits Clifton with Mrs. Selwyn in Evelina.

stormy weather

2012-01-07T22:19:00.003Z

Today's soundtrack:
The dulcet tones of the Canucks defeating the Bruins (4-3) on 1040 am
"Piste 1" by Galaxie
"Lose It" by Austra
"We Used to Wait" by Arcade Fire
"Since When" by 54-40

We've been lobbying Miguel's parents for years to come and visit us. First, when we lived in Saskatoon ("you'll be amazed at how flat it is here!"), then when we lived in Calgary ("you'll be amazed with how slightly bumpy it is here!"), and now, as we live in Scotland ("you'll be amazed with how watery it is here!"). Finally, late this past November, Miguel's parents came for a week-long stay at the Ivory Tower.

Looking back, I think our first mistake was booking the flights for late November. These people are madrileños. For them, November weather is a brisk 12-15ºC. November is not hovering below 10ºC with a gale coming off of the North Sea and damp cold that comes up through your feet and doesn't leave. No matter how amazing the Firth of Forth looked with the waves kicking up over the breakwater, there was no escaping the icy wind, cold rain, and overwhelmingly dreich sky.

And the Firth of Forth did look amazing.

The Isle of May

On the afternoon we came back from St. Andrews, I noticed that the tide seemed to be pretty high. Peering into the harbour, I saw that the usually dry walkway was under a few inches of water. The Forth had surged up a few extra feet. No one thought to warn the locals of Shore Street, who had already put their laundry out for the day.

Miguel's dad made the best of his vacation. Every afternoon he walked into town, ordered a coffee at the local shop, found someone who spoke a smattering of Spanish, and preceded to spend the next hour chatting. Miguel's mom, who does not like the wind at all, spent most her time indoors with me, making croquetas and other Spanish delicacies, and catching up on her reading. And I learned a new Spanish word: Vendaval = gale. Or windstorm, for you Vancouver Islanders.

Although they had a lovely time visiting, I do wonder if we'll ever be able to persuade them to travel back up to Scotland again. Still, it could have been worse - they could have visited us in Saskatoon during the annual cold snap in February. At least there was never any risk of people going home with frostbite. A little windblown and damp, sure, but with all their fingers and toes.

a november day in edinburgh

2012-01-07T18:47:00.000Z

Today's soundtrack:
"Synesthésie" by Malajube
"Crown of Love" by Arcade Fire
"The Stand" by Mother Mother
"Drinking Games" by Library Voices
"The Choke" by Austra
"Creep On Creepin' On" by Timber Timbre
"Northern Air" by Elliott Brood

I know. I'm woefully behind. The past two months have been full of writing, visitors, and traveling. But now I have a minute to pause and go through my photos.

So, where did I leave off? Ah yes, Hallowe'en. Well, a few days after that Miguel and I took off to Edinburgh for the day with the main goal of seeing the Castle. We're doing Edinburgh piece by piece, you see. I think the next pleasant day in Edinburgh will mean a hike up Arthur's Seat and a tour through Holyrood Palace, in which Mary, Queen of Scots once lived. On this trip to Edinburgh, however, we visited her son's birthplace instead.

But before heading up to the Castle, we wandered about town a wee bit. I spotted another baked potato shop, but this one has unique claim:

I also was keen to see the Heart of Midlothian, which I'd missed during our first trip into Edinburgh. It can be a bit difficult to spot during the Festival, as there's generally a lot of people milling about, but it's just past the St. Giles Cathedral as you're heading up the Royal Mile. If you hit the monument to Walter Scott (but not that Walter Scott), you've gone to far.

We took a bit of a detour past Greyfriars' and wandered through the graveyard. Part of the Flodden Wall is still standing, checkered with gravestones. What caught my attention, however, were the grates overtop some of the graves.

These mortsafes deterred potential bodysnatchers, usually anatomy students from the local medical schools, in the 18th and 19th centuries. The Greyfriars' graveyard has some of the only remaining examples in Scotland.

The Castle was crawling with tourists, albeit significantly fewer than in the summer, which made taking people-free photos of the architecture a little difficult. This was balanced out, however, by a brilliantly sunny day and a funny guide. What I didn't realize was how the Castle is its own little town. It's not one building, but a collection of them, all built (and some destroyed) at different times and on different levels.

View from above Foog's Gate (17th century). To the left is the Governor's House (1742).

Up near the top of the Castle is St. Margaret's Chapel, which we unfortunately couldn't visit as there was a wedding. Also, could you imagine getting married in this chapel?! It's the oldest surviving building, having been spared demolition in 1314 by Randolph, Earl of Moray. It dates back to the early 12th century, having been built by St. Margaret's son, the future King David I of Scotland.

Our guide told us this venue is very popular with brides' fathers (it only sits 30 people).

We also visited various halls on the top level of the Castle, one of which includes a small closet off to the side, in which Mary, Queen of Scots, gave birth to her son, James. The room couldn't've fit more than 2 or 3 people, besides the very pregnant Queen Mary. The view of Arthur's Seat out the window, however, is quite lovely.

We also saw the Honours of Scotland, which includes the Stone of Scone (which will return to England when the next monarch is crowned, but with "a very long elastic attached", according to our guide), but for security reasons we weren't allowed to take pictures.

Edinburgh Castle, aside from housing an army regiment and, occasionally, royals, also functioned as a prison during the late 18th century. They've kept some of the art created by the prisoners, as well as the etchings they made on the wooden doors...

Can you see the masted ship complete with cannons?

... and stones.

And, of course, no trip to the Castle would be complete without visiting the Mons Meg.

I do not envy whatever poor soul had to load those cannonballs, as each one weighs around 400 lbs. And yes, those are fully-grown adults standing beside the cannon. The cannon dates from the 15th century and was only useful for battering walls from about 2 miles distant. In other words, the Mons Meg could hit the broadside of a barn, but not with any real accuracy, and could only be fired 8 or 10 times a day.

A tour of the whole Castle took us a few hours, but we do like to dawdle. And with our short winter days, there were only a few hours in which to take photos.

I still cannot believe I live in a country that has proper castles. And with cannons! We're completely ready for whatever the 15th century can throw at us.

hallowe'en

2011-11-11T14:41:00.001Z

Today's soundtrack:
"Fantasia on Christmas Carols" by Vaughan Williams

Finally, after years of living in basement apartments and dorms, Miguel and I had a proper Hallowe'en. Miguel bought candy, which I thoroughly tested for quality control. I bought pumpkins, which gave Miguel the chance to carve his first jack-o-lantern.

Miguel's Jack-o-lantern

Being more than a novice at the pumpkin carving, I opted for a more difficult pattern.

My Jack-o-lantern

Sure, we may have only had 4 kids come to the door, but those kids left pretty damned pleased with the buckets of candy we poured into their bags. And they promised to be back next year, so we'll have to buy about double the candy. For quality control and all.

acclimatization: food and drink edition

2011-10-27T21:33:00.001+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"All You Good Good People" by Embrace
"Road Rage" by Catatonia

Nothing for a month, and then two posts in a row. You lucky people.

Over the past few months, I've tried a new recipe each week in an attempt to get a sense of British cuisine. During the summer, I learned how to make a number of different curries and dahls. This autumn, I've tried a couple new soup recipes. The other week, I made my first Shepherd's Pie, but I was rather underwhelmed with the results. I was working off of a basic recipe of meat, carrots, and potatoes. Not a lot of flavour there. Having never had Shepherd's Pie before, I assumed that this famous British dish is supposed to be bland, but not this bland.

Tonight's Shepherd's Pie, however, is a complete success. I used a recipe off of the BBC's Good Food database, although I did tweak it a bit. Not having thyme sprigs on hand, I used 1 tsp of thyme instead, and put it in alongside the tomatoes rather than with the onions. I also used roughly 450g of ground beef, 500 mL of beef stock, and 250g dry green lentils.

The result is fantastic. Unlike last week's inappropriate potato to meat ration, I think this version has the perfect balance. I topped off my own portion with a bit of HP sauce.

You're drooling now, aren't you. But wait, there's more! Alongside these new British dishes, Miguel and I have been sampling different beers from the smaller breweries.

Broughton's "Black Douglas", "Greenmantle Ale", Wychwood's "Hobgoblin", "Wychcraft", Fyne Ales's "Highlander", and Shepherd Naeme's "Spooks"

Thus far, we've sampled the three beers on the right. "Wychcraft" is a blonde beer and I didn't find it particularly interesting. More interesting than a regular lager, but not exceptional. Essentially, I'm over lagers. Too boring. Now, "Highlander" and "Spooks" are stronger ales, but my favourite out of the three is "Spooks". Fantastically hoppy, "Spooks" is a more autumnal version of Inveralmond's "Ossian".

So there you have it - the perfect Shepherd's Pie and the perfect pint. This acclimatization thing is a lot more fun than I thought it'd be.

whistling a happy tune

2011-10-26T22:40:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Jarvis Cocker's Sunday Service

The last week I joined the local choir.

This does not explain my month-long silence on the blog, which is due to a dissertation, a conference, an impromptu trip, another conference, more dissertationing (it's a verb now), and various houseguests.

But as I was saying, last week I joined the Anstruther Philharmonic Society. Miguel is quite happy about this, as it gets me out of the house and socializing a bit. Getting to know people is easy when you have a workplace or get to go out on a regular basis. When you're at home writing a dissertation, excursions are limited to weekly shops up at the Co-op, during which time you natter the ear off of the poor cashier and the whole store is glad to see the back of you, so it's a little bit more difficult to get to know people.

So, I joined a choir.

I didn't really know what to expect. Philharmonic Society sounds quite impressive, but the East Neuk isn't exactly a booming metropolis. Well, cast all assumptions aside. We have quite the choir.

When I arrived at the hall, Jane MacDonald welcomed me (with this accent, I do stand out a bit), organized with the librarian for my books, introduced me to a few sopranos (of the non-New Jersey variety). "Why don't you try soprano this week, and you can always change next week," Jane suggested. Sure. After all, I sang soprano back in Children's Choir. Of course, that was before I hit puberty. Still, what could possibly go wrong?

The poor ladies I was standing beside had to suffer through my screeching in vain search of a note. I didn't remember notes being that high. By the end of practice I sounded like I had laryngitis. I was pretty singing didn't used to hurt this much.

Okay then, plan b. This week, I sat in with altos. I hid in the back, hoping that I could pick up the tune without being too noticeably off-key.

I was not the only alto with this plan.

As we reached a part of Hummel's Mass in Eb we hadn't rehearsed before, I began to cheat off of my neighbours, pitching up and down to find whatever note we were on now. I soon noticed, however, that my neighbours in the back row had the same plan.

There we were, pitching up and down, giving our best impression of a cat in heat as we strove bravely on through a sea of syncopated rhythms, randoms naturals, and endless runs. Needless to say, I dug my flute out today and began practicing in earnest.

But on the meeting people end, choir is a success. I met a woman who had not only visited my hometown, but her husband's family had spent time there in the 1880s. I met another two women who live close by and kindly shared their reasons as to why double glazing is a terrible idea. As I left the rehearsal last night, a kind gentleman held the door open and said "after you, Lady Mary" (re: Downton Abbey).

Honestly, there's no better way to spend a Tuesday night in the East Neuk.

possibly ahead of schedule

2011-09-28T13:22:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:

"Homeboy" by King Creosote

"Mis-Shapes" by Pulp

"Ugly" by Age of Electric

"Thug" by The Tragically Hip

Yes, I've been rather negligent in the blogging lately. I've had a busy few weeks of conferences and traveling. Visited Chawton and, in typical brilliant fashion, forgot to take my camera out of my backpack. I also didn't get any time to see London, save for the Underground between Euston and Waterloo. It's an excuse to take the sleeper train again, although it means that I have no new UK photos for you.

I do, however, have knitting. Go on, try to act surprised. At the moment, I've nearly finished my Christmas knitting for the nephews, as well as knitting for Carmen and Galian's wee one, but in order to keep the surprise from all the various parents, no photos here. Instead, here's the latest sock project. Technically, these socks are part of Miguel's Christmas present, but it's a little impossible to hide the project when I knit while we watch TV at night.

Striped Socks from The Lux Knitting Book (1942) using Cascade Heritage Sock in 5626 (Turquoise) and 5609 (Bark). 2.25mm needles. Ravelled here.

I found this pattern the other year in Nana's stash of knitting books and pamphlets. The book, which has seen better days but clearly has been well-used, belonged to my great-grandmother, who used the baby clothes patterns when she knitted for overseas children during WWII. I don't think she ever made these socks, however, because there are no notes on the pattern.

Anyway, when I saw the fantastic slipped-stitch striped pattern, I knew these socks must be in the same colours as the Tenth Doctor's suit. The overall effect is pretty subtle, much like Miguel's Tardis socks, rather than a ridiculously over-the-top homage to Doctor Who like, say, my Fourth Doctor Scarf.

Yeah. I might need to get out more.

scottish signage

2011-09-06T17:07:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"BCC" by Buck 65 feat. John Southworth
"The Score" by Samantha Savage Smith
"Yer Spring" by Hey Rosetta
"Niagara" by Ohbijou

It's a blustery day here in Cellardyke. The wind has been averaging around 45 km/ph for over 12 hours now. Deck chairs are rearranging themselves. I know I haven't blogged in a bit, but since I have a paper to finish for this weekend's conference, the best I can do is a short guide to Scottish signage.

Lesson 1: How to tell a good hairdresser from a bad one

I really don't know which side this place in St. Andrews falls on, but even if it's the latter, at least you get a free shot of whisky out of the deal. I feel obliged to point out that with the slight space between hair and cut, it's possible that you get a shot for every single hair cut.

Lesson 2: Scottish priorities are starch-based

Giggling about McNulty's aside (which I assume only serves bottles of Jameson's and lake trout), the top-billing of the almighty potato shouldn't really come as a surprise to me. But top-billing above coffee? Coffee?! That sweet, sweet nectar of the gods?! The only thing that can change grumpy grunty morning Kate into slightly less grumpy and grunty morning Kate?! I suspect that if the supermarket sold more whole beans and less instant coffee, this country would come around to the Pacific Northwest attitude towards coffee. Ritual sacrifice to Starbucks remaining optional, obviously.

Lesson 3: Unapologetically hilarious street signs

Pointing and giggling will mark you as a North American, just as taking a picture of the "Cosy Neuk" down the way is how we tell who's a Dutch tourist (hey, if you're looking for high-brow humour here, you may have made a larger mistake). I should point out, for extra credit in today's lessons, that "wynd" is Scots for a narrow lane or alley. The more you know.

giants, zombie vampires, and st. monans

2011-08-23T14:15:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"If It Feels Good Do It" by Sloan
"Ants" by Egger
"Suburban War" by Arcade Fire

Last Saturday, Miguel and I took advantage of the sunny weather and decided to walk a bit more of the Fife Coastal Path. We headed west, out past Pittenweem and onto St. Monans, which neither of us had visited. I'd spotted the windmill from the Pittenweem pier when Yvon and André were visiting and was itching to see it closer.

The walk out was lovely, although it's more manicured and busy than the Cellardyke-Crail path. Also, no goats. Just before we reached St. Monans, we came upon the windmill..

St. Monans Windmill

.. and these odd sort of mounds which I initially mistook for a deranged putt-and-bounce course.

Salt Pans

These are the foundations of the salt panning buildings. Salt water would be pumped up by the windmill, and then the salt would be processed out in these little factories. These salt pans date to the 1770s and were finally abandoned in the mid-19th century.

Reconstructed salt pan foundation

Abandoned or not, Miguel was still a little concerned that the windmill might a giant, and so did his best Don Quixote in order to keep the windmill in line. He also insisted on calling me Sancho.

Don Quijote y el gigante

Aside from the windmill, I really didn't know anything else about the town. I had a vague idea that the Lady Tower was somewhere nearby (it wasn't), so we decided to walk through the town and have a look about.

St. Monans

The town was empty. It was freaky. You could hear a pin drop. Miguel and I wandered down to the harbour, not daring to speak in more than a whisper. It felt like the village of the damned. Where was everyone? It is tourist season and all. Was everyone in hiding? Had the Zombie Apocalypse already come and gone here? Or were they all vampires? Zombie vampires, perhaps? Clearly that was the only logical explanation.

Soon enough, we reached the edge of town and came across the Auld Kirk, a church which dates back to the 14th century and has the honour of being the Scottish church closest to the sea. It's an oddly-shaped church, as it's missing a nave, but stunning nonetheless. The stone steeple is particularly striking.

Auld Kirk

After a wander around the graveyard, we took the low-tide path out towards Elie, having seen some ruins in the distance that I thought was the Lady Tower (it wasn't).

Auld Kirk from the low-tide path

Auld Kirk and St. Monans

The ruins were not of the Lady Tower (more on that whenever we get around to actually visiting it), but of Newark Castle, which dates from the 16th century and has a rather fascinating history.

Newark Castle

Currently, the castle is in a fairly ruined state, but there are rumours that some sort of restoration-as-stopgap (as in, to stop it from falling into the sea) could be in the works. At the moment, getting too close to the castle is dangerous (although we did it anyway), especially during a gale, as the masonry is crumbling.

Newark Castle

Nearby, as we headed back to St. Monans, we passed a doocot. Doocot is Scots for dovecote, and is a large aviary of sorts that traditionally housed pigeons and doves. This doocot currently houses rubbish.

Doocot

I'm not sure when it was built, but doocots of all sorts were built up until the 18th century, although the plainness of this particular one probably means it was built much earlier, possibly not long after the castle itself. There's a more ornate doocot on the St. Andrews Road, just outside of Anstruther, complete with stone finials.

As we wandered back into the empty village, we realized where everyone was. There was a wedding at the Auld Kirk! Guests were starting to spill out from the church, complete with old men in kilts. I'm sure this will stop being a novelty at some point. Relieved that the townsfolk were a) zombies, b) vampires, or c) zombie vampires, we continued on and came across the Harbour Howff Cafe, a community-run restaurant where we popped in for a quick lunch.

Refreshed, we decided to head back home. As we passed by the windmill again, I snapped off my favourite photo of the day.

St. Monans Windmill

This was soon followed by my second favourite photo of the day, as this field between Pittenweem and Anstruther Easter reminds me of Saskatoon.

After 6 miles of walking, we sat down on our deck to nurse our sunburns and some beer.

Cheers.

catharsis

2011-08-19T12:56:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"DaDaDa" by J.J. Ipsen
"Fragile Bird" by City and Colour
"Happy New Year" by We Are The City

In the midst of packing and preparing to move to Scotland, I started knitting Herbivore. I figured it would be a quick, mindless knit. The twisted stitch patterns should have been a clue. A few days before our flight, with emotions very high, I was 1/3 into the pattern and realized I'd missed twisting a stitch. Tinking wasn't an option (beer may have been a factor) so I frogged it and put the whole project in an extended time-out.

And that's how I flew across the Atlantic with nothing on my needles. Longest flight ever.

After arriving and settling in Cellardyke, I went through the few skeins I'd brought in my luggage (the rest of my stash didn't arrive for another 2 months) and decided that perhaps Herbivore had learned its lesson.

Incredibly, when the stress of moving, packing, and traveling to a new country is removed, the pattern was surprisingly simple and a relatively mindless knit. But even after I'd cast off, I didn't run downstairs to block it out. It wasn't because it didn't turn out lovely, because the colour was the perfect choice for the pattern and the stitch definition is gorgeous; I was hesitant because I now associated this shawl with my last days in Canada. It became something of a link to our Calgarian friends, Tim Hortons, and silverfish the size of a small country. So the shawl stayed in the "to be blocked" pile for nearly 2 months until it was impossible to ignore.

After a few days on the blocking mats (with the humidity, everything takes longer to block here than in Calgary), my Herbivore was finished. And it's beautiful.

Stephen West's "Herbivore". Used Wollmeise 100% Merino Superwash in "Fliederbusch" on US 6/4mm needles. Details on Ravelry.

Still, when I slipped the last of the lace blocking wires out, I was sad. It's a beautiful piece with a lovely drape, and I can't wait to take it out for a bike ride this afternoon, but just for those few moments after the wires came out, I was sad. Not upset or homesick. Just a little sad. All the events surrounding this shawl had been emotionally heightened (to an almost ridiculous degree) that finally finishing it presents me with a mild catharsis and a new sort of lightness*.

Yeah, I live in Scotland now.

*could be the morning's coffee.

ribbit

2011-08-18T12:32:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Fragile Bird" by City and Colour
"Barnes' Yard" by The Rural Alberta Advantage

So the other night, Miguel comes bounding in, tossed me a sweater and insisted we go up to the garden. I can't say I blamed him.

Lovely sunsets weren't something I used to associate with Scotland. Rain, thistles, Nessy, but a summer sunset? Miguel is convinced that the Isle of May (the island in the distance) moves on a semi-regular basis. It doesn't help that, from a certain angle, the Isle of May resembles a giant whale.

On the way back down to the house, we came across a new neighbour.

I'm not sure if it was a common frog or toad, but it was big. Well, bigger than the cute little frogs we used to come across as kids. Either way, I think we should give him a name. And that dove that's cooing atop the chimney right now. At least the frog/toad is quieter.

haarfest

2011-08-17T20:59:00.002+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Doctor Who Season 3

The other year, the fine folks at Fence Records organized Haarfest (in addition to Homegame and Away Game). This year, it's a four-day extravaganza. Each day begins with coffee at the Hew Scott Hall, followed by (uncooperative weather depending) touring around the East Neuk, and culminating in a 3-4 hour long concert at the Cellardyke Town Hall. We decided to hit the first night, which featured Jonnie Common, Geese, Dan Lyth, and King Creosote, so after a quick dinner and pint over at the Bank we walked over to the Cellardyke Town Hall.

The original hall was built in the 17th century, but this building only dates back to 1881 or so. Inside, there are old elementary school class photos, ship blueprints, and a replica of the German bomb that fell on Rodger Street during the war. This was a community fiercely proud of its heritage.

First up was Jonnie Common, who performed his show solo. His usual partner-in-crime was poorly in Glasgow.

Next was Geese. When they first walked up, I turned to Miguel and said "oh good! Fiddles!" and expected, well, fiddling.

This was not the case. Instead, they played and looped their runs, over and over, with the drummer going absolutely nuts at the same time. It was Alfred Hitchcock's violins meet a drumbeat.

Then, Dan Lyth and his harem of beautiful women were up. After the avant-garde Geese, this was decidedly more mellow indie-pop. Their set was fantastic, even if they are from West Fife, and I scored their new single afterwards.

Miguel was exhausted by this point and decided to head home, which is really a shame because the last act was King Creosote. African Andy (who, when he's not wailing away on the bongos, works IT up at the university) and Gummi Bako (who could not be persuaded to take off his shirt, no matter how much that one guy in the audience yelled) were playing in the band. They had the best energy of the night. No one - not even the impromptu moshers - had more fun than those guys on stage.

Now, I'm not conversant in King Creosote songs yet, but I recognized a few from the album I do have, as well as that song about clocks in 1984 that he played at the Raise the Roof benefit the other month. The highlight for me was their closing song "Little Man", a song that should only ever be heard in a small hall and with a beer in hand.

There's no way I'm missing Homegame 2012.

edinburgh

2011-08-16T11:24:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Supervillan Music" by Chilly Gonzales

The other Saturday, Miguel and I woke up at 6am to catch the early bus down to Edinburgh. The weather was lovely, the city was stunning, and I was sick. Ridiculously sick. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that early mornings + windy bus trips + porridge = roughly a litre and a half. Once we arrived in Edinburgh and I found a toothbrush, things started to look up. Also, I was now looking up rather than the ground between my knees as I sat curled over in embarrassment.

First stop was Princes Street and the Sir Walter Scott Monument. Started in 1832, immediately after his death, and finished in 1840, the monument is impressively Neo-Gothic. It revels in all 61 meters of it's Neo-Gothic design.

We then wandered over to the National Gallery where I spotted some sphinxes. Why travel all the way to sunny Egypt when you can get all the ambiance in Edinburgh?

There's also no need to visit Madrid as every Spaniard is currently walking the Royal Mile.

Miguel, having been to Edinburgh before, planned our route. I asked him why Edinburgh is one of his favourite cities. Apparently, it all comes down to a good park in the middle of the city and a castle on a hill. I suspect Lord of the Rings plays a role as well, as it's all rather epic.

From Princes Street, there's a fantastic view of the Castle.

After Princes Street we walked through the Princes Street Garden, past St. Cuthbert's and it's fantastic graveyard...

... and then onto the incredible cast-iron Ross Fountain.

Crossing over the North Bridge, after a quick visit to David Hume's understated grave, we walked up and down the Royal Mile, dodging tourists and Fringe performers. We spotted John Knox's house (Miguel is rightly concerned)

as well as Moubray House (on the right) where the Act of Union was signed in 1707..

.. and the Mercat Cross where Bonnie Prince Charlie was proclaimed King in 1745..

.. which is right beside the impressive St. Giles Cathedral. The tower is from the 15th century.

In the afternoon, the rain started (predictably) and I was still recovering from the morning's bus ride, so we slowly made our way back to the bus station, stopping to watch the Fringe Festival street performers. On our way, we passed by a bagpiper we'd seen walking up the Royal Mile early that day.

Downtown Edinburgh is filthy with bagpipers this time of year, performing various medleys of Scottish and American folk songs. This fellow, however, was incredible. There was no pandering to tourists and he was clearly one the better pipers I've ever heard. If you're heading to Edinburgh, look for the goat-footed piper of the Royal Mile.

droukit

2011-08-04T19:57:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"La fille dans la vitrine" by Les Brestfeeders

As part of my ongoing Scottish immersion program, I've been trying to learn a bit of Scots. In a larger centre, I doubt I'd bother; however, as we live in a wee town, knowing a little of the local vernacular is important. At the very least, I'll be able to understand our friendly postman.

Today's word is droukit, which means "wet-through, soaked, drenched" (BBC). For example, after cycling to the Co-op and back this afternoon, Kate was drookit.

Class dismissed.

louis the lobster

2011-08-02T12:27:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Forest, oh Forest, Protect Me" by Banded Stilts
"Supervillian Music" by Chilly Gonzales
"Barnes' Yard" by The Rural Alberta Advantage
"Pale Horse" by The Warped 45s

Once our stuff arrived from Canada, we knew a trip to Ikea wouldn't be far off. 40 bankers' boxes of books and no where to put them. Luckily, our knitterly friends Kristin and Peter needed bookcases as well, so the other week Peter and I rented a van and drove down to Edinburgh. What followed can only be described as the Great Ikea Disaster of 2011. Nothing we needed was in stock. White Billy bookcases? Nada. Bread bin? Zilch. Basic mirror? Not in the colour or size you need. Our great Ikea adventure, which was only supposed to take an hour or so, quickly rounded the corner on four. I could almost hear the evil cackle of some demented warehouse worker who has been secreting everything we'd need away for months, just like those postal workers who, after they die, are discovered to have hidden decades worth of mail in their basements.

After we got home and delivered a bookcase to our neighbours/landlords, I was about ready to collapse on the sofa for the night. Predictably, there was a knock at the door. Norman, our neighbour/landlord, holding a plastic grocery bag. He passes it to me, I look in, and there's a lobster. Moving. Fresh out of his lobster trap.

I guess the look on my face was one of shock and horror because Norman said, reassuringly, "Miguel's Spanish. He'll know what to do with it."

He didn't. Miguel took one look at the lobster and announced that he didn't want to kill it. Eat it, sure. No problem. But under no circumstances was he going to cook it. I threatened to inform the Spanish embassy of his lack of Spanishness regarding seafood, but to no avail. The only way the lobster was going to be dinner was if I cooked it.

Oh, fantastic.

So the lobster spent the night in our fridge and I spent the next afternoon figuring out how to cook this beastie. Norman claimed that if I held the lobster, who I'd named Louis at this point (probably where things began to go wrong), upside down, he'd go to sleep and he'd be easy to pop into the pot.

Alright. Loins girded, I put a pot of salted water to boil; however, after a look at Louis and the size of our Dutch oven, I began to seriously doubt that Louis was going to fit. I'd have to wait for the water to be a full boil, put Louis to sleep, and get him in to the smallish pot as quick as possible.

There was a resounding chorus of "oh God, oh God, this is so gross!" as I reached into the bag and carefully brought Louis out. No binding on Louis' pincers, so I very carefully held him upside down and counted to ten, which was how long Norman said it would take for Louis to conk out. Ten seconds later, he's still squirming about. Maybe he could see the pot of boiling water? The poor thing was moving more now than he did in the fridge, twisting about. Twenty seconds and Louis is not falling asleep. Not even drowsy.

Adrenaline going and my stomach in knots, all I want is for Louis to go to sleep so I can dump him in the pot, but he just won't stop moving. He's got to get into the pot. At a good boil, death would be pretty instant, I think. So I grabbed a wooden spoon (I wasn't sure he'd fit in the pot without encouragement) and moved Louis over the pot.

Not being the least bit sleepy, Louis had stretched himself to his full length, his pincers moving wildly. Oh my giddy aunt, there is just no way I was going to get this thing into the pot without a fight. At this point, I just want the whole thing over. I attempted to put him in headfirst (as per the instructions), but with pincers and tail thrashing about, this is not easy. I wrestle him into the pot, slam on the lid, and breathe.

Silence but for the boiling water, and then..

scratch, scratch, scratch as Louis' pincers and wee legs tap and scrape the inside of the pot.

This goes on for a minute. I'm ready to go headfirst into the toilet. Am now convinced Louis is never going to die but will instead return to the sea and recruit fellow lobster to come and attack the house. I have visions of being slowly boiled to death in a giant caldron.

And then it all stops. Miguel lifts the lid and notes with surprise that Louis' black shell has turned red (what kind of Spaniard is he, I ask you). Ten minutes later, we lift Louis out of the pot and Miguel begins tearing him apart. Claws first, then tail.

I tried a bit, but as I've never really been a big fan of seafood (aside from fish. It's a texture thing) I left the majority of Louis for Miguel, who'd gleefully announced that he'd never eaten anything so fresh. "Thirty minutes ago," he said, "and he was moving around our fridge."

And that's when I lost my appetite completely.

Conclusion: I apparently make a fantastic lobster. You'll never be able to try my lobster yourself, however, because there's no chance I'm ever doing that again.

chirp chirp

2011-07-14T12:26:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Static Electricity" by The Bon
"Bedhead" by Shotgun Jimmie

Compared to the excitement of the past few weeks, this week has been rather quiet. I say rather instead of completely because there's a rather noisy addition to our little household.

(not pictured: the epic pile of poop on the ground)

There's a swallow's nest underneath our deck and the fledglings are become more vocal. Their parents are fierce defenders of the nest. I could only snap off one photo before they came in, whizzing about. I don't want to anger them, as I have washing drying up on the deck.

At least this explains why I've been seeing the young girls from next door creeping about the carport.

more rambling about crail

2011-07-11T14:54:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Oh My Heart" by Jenn Grant

Yesterday Miguel and I walked the six miles back and forth to Crail. I've walked into Crail a few times now, but I've always managed to forget to tour around the town beyond the harbour. Of particular interest to me was Crail's mercat cross, which is a uniquely Scottish marker which denoted where trade, proclamations, and executions traditionally occurred... although ideally not at the same time.

Crail's market square was once the largest in Europe, according to Undiscovered Scotland. The main road now runs through the main square and a boulevard of trees, so it takes a bit of imagination to see the square now. And you'll need even more imagination, as I forgot to take a photo.

On the west end of the square is the Crail Tollbooth, the belfry of which was apparently brought over from the Netherlands. The Dutch influence on the East Neuk is perhaps most visible in Crail (the windmill in St. Monan's aside).

On the east end of the square is the Crail Parish Church, parts of which date back to 1160. All that would make this church more charming would be folks wandering about in Regency dress, just like in Sense and Sensibility.

I was hoping to get into the church to see the stone slab from the 900s, but it was all locked up for the day. Instead, Miguel and I walked back to The Honeypot for lunch, before heading back through the harbour and on home to Cellardyke. All in all, a lovely sunny Sunday afternoon.

road tripping

2011-07-07T20:37:00.001+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Happy New Year" by We Are The City
"Oh My Heart" by Jenn Grant

Taking advantage of Miguel's three-day weekend, we and the Dutch headed off to the Highlands for a few days. The boys were eager to climb Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in the UK. I was eager to see more of Scotland and Yvon had a list from her sister, who'd spent time up in Scotland, of what we should see. So we piled into André's two-door Ibiza and set off for Corpach, near Fort William. Although, not directly..

Day One: Anstruther to Corpach (near Fort William), via Glen Lyon.

Rather than taking a main road out of Fife, which would be boring, we opted for the secondary roads. The upside is that they are much more scenic than the main roads. The downside is that you've never driven through so many ups, downs, and random curves in your life. By the time we stopped in Aberfeldy in Perth and Kinross for lunch, I was a little green. We stopped at the Black Watch for lunch, and watched a local fellow who apparently knew everyone in town. Any car that stopped by the roundabout near the restaurant's back garden, this fellow chatted to for a few minutes. He was also careful to grill us on where we were from. Being Canadian brought no problems, although the fact that we live in Fife was hilarious, apparently.

After lunch we piled back into the car, heading for Glen Lyon, home of the Campbells (more on them later) and Pontius Pilate, among others. But it's a bit of a drive to get there, which gave Miguel enough time to develop a new car game called "Little Known Facts". The goal of this game is to elaborately construct humorous (hopefully) and completely ridiculous stories. For example, did you know that Beatrix Potter is actually Moroccan? Yup. It's a little known fact. Also, there are rare, carnivorous, tunnelling sheep in Glen Lyon. Terrifying creatures. It's a little known fact.

Eventually, however we arrived in Glen Lyon, which we then proceeded to drive through. We stopped once we reached Loch Lyon.

But taking the same road back to the beginning of the glen was deemed too boring by some, so we took what can only be described as 3/4 of a road over the hills to Kenknock, before heading into Killin. I was less than impressed, although the scenery was fantastic, as the Seat Ibiza was not really designed for 3/4 roading (or off-roading, for that matter).

Back on a real road, we headed into the Highlands. The slow climb up the mountains, which wasn't really helped by dawdling tourists, meant that we weren't keen to stop and take pictures. I can only describe the highlands around Glen Coe as something I'd never seen before. In Canada, we get a little jaded about mountains. I mean, after you've seen the Rockies, mountains are just mountains. But these highland hills and mountains, near barren of trees, were like nothing I'd ever seen.

This part of Scotland feels completely different to Fife. To begin with, nearly all the signage is in English and Scottish Gaelic. Secondly, history resonates very deeply here. Glen Coe was the site of in the infamous 1692 massacre in which some Campbells slaughtered MacDonalds that had taken them in as guests. This event, and indeed all the events surrounding the Jacobite Rebellion, still dominate in this area. Around Loch Ness, you can go on both Monster Tours and Jacobite Tours.

After a day of driving, we arrived in Corpach, which is just outside of Fort William, at the mouth of the Caledonian Canal. We stayed in the Smiddy Bunkhouse, a local hostel that we shared with two shirt-challenged 20-somethings who were in town for the mountain bike race.

Corpach itself is a wee town on the side of Loch Linnhe with perhaps the best view of Ben Nevis (the tall mountain in the foreground).

Day Two: Glen Nevis and Fort William.

We were up early, partially due to rather uncomfortable beds, but mostly due to the fact that the boys were planning to hike up Ben Nevis. With two litres of water each, a packed lunch, and their hiking shoes, they set off around 11am to climb a mountain without a stick of shade, in a rare day of a full, blazing sun.

Rather than climb a mountain, Yvon and I opted to walk out to Glen Nevis. On the short drive out to the trailhead, we passed by where they filmed parts of Braveheart and Harry Potter. The walk is significantly shorter than hiking up Ben Nevis, taking about 3 hours for our nice and leisurely scramble over rocks and the path to Steall Falls. The walk, however, has some amazingly beautiful views along the way.

This area is all owned by the John Muir Trust, which means that this is an area protected from encroaching civilization.

In fact, wandering around this meadow, I felt as though the rest of the world had disappeared.

There is a way to get closer to the Steall Falls, and that's a wire bridge. I made it out halfway before the wind caused so much sway that I doubted my ability to hold on if my feet slipped out from underneath me. The river is particularly shallow at this point, which meant that any fall would cause some serious harm and make the scramble over the rocks to get back to the car park near impossible.

After our Glen Nevis adventure, we popped into Fort William for lunch, before Yvon crashed out back at our hostel. I decided to go for a walk up the Caledonian Canal to Banavie.

At the beginning of the Canal in Corpach, there's an information post which explains that this canal and the Rideau in Ottawa are paired due to their dates of completion and similar styles (although, I think the real story is that a PMO staffer wanted a real whisky and his Scottish counterpart wanted to know what a beavertail was. It's a little known fact). But while a trip through the Caledonian Canal takes around 14 hours, a complete trip on the Rideau from Kingston to Ottawa takes 3 days. I also don't think there's ice-skating on it in the winter.

In Banavie, the canal has a steep incline known as Neptune's Staircase, which raises the boats 64 feet through a series of 9 locks.

After my walk to Banavie, the boys phoned to let us know they were 1) still alive, and 2) about 45 minutes from the end. Yvon and I grabbed the crisps and the special Ben Nevis beer we'd bought earlier, and set out to surprise them.

Sure, they look happy here, but you wouldn't've believed the stench.

Day Three: Corpach to Inverness, via Loch Ness, and home to Cellardyke.

On our last day, we were a little more rushed as Miguel and I had to make it to Inverness in time for our train back to Fife. Also, after a day of too much sun, the poor Dutch were feeling very ill. This meant that we didn't do more than stop quickly at Urquhart Castle on Loch Ness, but this gives Miguel and I an excellent reason to go back.

We also didn't manage to spot Nessy, although Miguel informed us that this could have been due to a late conference in the Northwest Passage with the Ogopogo. Apparently both the UK and US governments are lobbying these lake monsters heavily, as they'd be a great asset to the military-industrial complex. It's all part of a top-secret burgeoning monster-race that's been developing ever since Spain's monster programme was revealed by WikiLeaks last year. It's a little known fact.

Lunch in Inverness was a baked potato at the Red Pepper. No, really. A baked potato is a main course here. It's not a side dish. I offer photographic evidence.

This isn't just a cuisine local to Inverness, either. Baked potatoes as main dishes can be found all over Scotland. It's reason #58 that I love living here.

Of particular interest to members of my family, a Hootananny is not an outfit made by Nana. It is, in fact, the Best Scottish Music Venue of 2005. Little known fact.

But before we could do any real sight-seeing in Inverness, it was time to catch our train. A scant 4 hours later.

rain, rain, go away...

2011-06-29T18:13:00.001+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Lose It" by Austra
"Reunion" by Papermaps
"Everything Works" by Miracle Fortress
"Beat Drops" by Cherina and Davina

After two days of scampering across isles and Edinburgh, our Dutch guests opted for a quieter day today. We decided to go on the 3 mile walk along the Fife Coastal Path to Crail, albeit leisurely.

Out on the path today were wee piglets,

cows and calves (and sheep in the background),

and monkeys.

We also spotted a kestrel hovering near the cows, a (we think) yellowhammer along the way,

and a fulmar nestled in the cliffs by the old fort in Crail.

That ominous grey sky followed us all the way to Crail. When we were no more than 3 minutes away from the village, the skies opened up. By the time we got to Julias for lunch, we were soaked. After the rain passed and our appetites were sated, we wandered up to the old fort and down to the harbour...

before being forced to take cover from another rain shower. In the harbour, there were more neatly-piled lobster traps. These seem to be a favourite subject of mine of late...

... although this is my favourite shot of the day.

Rather than chancing getting caught in yet another shower, we jumped on the bus bound for sunny Cellardyke, where cold Coronas with lime eagerly awaited us.

Cheers.

isle of may

2011-06-28T12:04:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Happy New Year" by We Are The City
"Piste 1" by Galaxie

Yesterday, having pre-booked our seats, we boarded the May Princess (along with about 20 school kids from Kingsbarns) and set off for the Isle of May. Over the centuries, the island has been home to early Christian communities (until they were beset upon by Vikings), pilgrimages, a priory and village, lighthouses, foghorns, an army outpost, and (most recently) a research station. The island is now a National Nature Reserve and the researchers have their own blog detailing the current state of the island (busy), the water (scarce), and the birds (everywhere).

The trip to the island was calm and uneventful. I was struck by how quaint our wee village looks from the water. Clearly this was the angle designed to impress.

The skipper let us know when we were passing by jellyfish, gannets, and puffins. As we approached the island, the seals poked their heads out. After we docked at Kirkhaven and had a brief introduction from the warden, we quickly made our way out of the terns' breeding area, as they like to dive bomb intruders and I had no intention of being pecked or christened. We took a path out towards the Low Light, then circled around to the Beacon and Stevenson Lighthouse, before heading out towards the South Horn. I wasn't really prepared to see the sheer number of birds and expected that I'd only see a few puffins, shags, and guillemots.

This proved to not be the case at all. There are around 40 000 breeding pairs of puffins on the island. I think we saw all 80 000 of them. In the two hours we spent on the Isle of May we also saw a lesser black-backed gull with chicks:

Razorbills:

Kittiwakes with a chick:

Shags, which bear a resemblance to their cormorant relatives:

Guillemots (they don't have a white stripe on their beaks), in amongst razorbills (which do):

And even more puffins (the sitting one has a full mouth of sandeels for the young chicks):

Check out the Isle of May NNR blogpost about "Tossing Puffins" to gain a greater appreciation of that beak. According to David Pickett, the NNR Reserves Manager, "It has to be said that a puffin in the hand is not the quaint, comical creature that many people think they are. Basically they are very sharp at both ends and grumpy in the middle". They are a little more skittish than the razorbills, which were content to let us take hundreds of pictures, although considering that puffin beak it's probably for the best that we can't get too close.

I tried to get a picture of an oystercatcher, but I wasn't fast enough. Also, the terns proved impossible for me to capture without a better zoom. The majority of the birds perch themselves on these narrow ledges on sheer cliff faces. How they didn't all blow away during that gale is a mystery.

During the trip back to Anstruther, the sea was a little more rough (although nothing like how it looked during the gale force winds a few weeks back) and slightly more eventful. A few of the Kingsbarns school kids took turns steering the boat, which made for some interested jags and loops. I'd've taken photos of our approach into Anstruther, but I was feeling pretty green and eager to put my feet on solid ground again.

I'd love to say that this morning I had a new appreciation for the gull perched atop my roof, screeching away at 8am, but that would be a lie. Instead, I've nothing but amazement for the researchers on the Isle of May and their ability to retain their hearing after months of studying seabirds.

pittenweem

2011-06-28T10:03:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Puffins, puffins, and more puffins. Stay tuned tomorrow.

With our lovely Dutch friends visiting, we decided (after a late breakfast and even later tea with Ian from Crail) to go to the Isle of May. As we hadn't booked, however, we predictably didn't get onto the ferry. Not wanting to waste a perfectly nice day, we continued through Anstruther and took the Fife Coastal Path to Pittenweem.

The fishing industry is more active here than in either Anstruther (or Cellardyke, which mainly consists of young boys casting lures off of the pier). I was struck by how neat the harbour is keep. Even the lobster traps are carefully stacked.

We took the steep Cove Wynd up, passing by St. Fillian's Cave. Once home to one of the early father of the Christian church in Scotland, St. Fillian's cave was used more notoriously as a hiding spot for smugglers in post-Reformation Scotland.

Like the Caiplie Caves, St. Fillian's sandstone bears the hallmarks of wind and water erosion.

After an hour of walking and a steep hill, we ducked into the Cocoa Tree for a well-deserved hot chocolate and cake. Although, after spending far too long trying to figure out surprisingly simple wooden puzzles, I felt like I'd earned another hot chocolate or, at the very least, a very big piece of cake. Instead, we headed back downhill to the harbour to walk out on the pier...

... before heading back to Anstruther alongside the local golf course.

In the distance, you can see the Isle of May, which was our next destination.

of paths and sidewalks

2011-06-23T13:13:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Ties That Bind" by One Hundred Dollars
"Deeper Than Beauty" by Sloan
"I Can Feel It" by Sloan
"If It Feels Good Do It" by Sloan

The other day Miguel and I went to our first proper afternoon tea. Friends of a second cousin (twice removed) invited us over Sunday afternoon. Since it was a beautifully sunny day, Miguel and I decided to walk the Coastal Path from our place to nearby Pittenweem, and then out where Charles and Stephanie stay.

Unlike the walk out to Crail, which is filled with pigs, sheep, goats, and the occasional cow, the walk to Pittenweem is decidedly more cultivated. In fact, the majority of the walk is alongside the local golf course where the waterholes are, well, the Firth of Forth. I strongly suggest you take the stroke and move on.

Although busier than the Crail path, this portion does provide a wonderful view of the west side of Anstruther, known locally as Anster Wester, and down to the harbour. The bay in the foreground is one of the summer swimming holes, but it'll have to be near 30ºC before you get me in there.

And with no more than ten minutes on the path, we can see Pittenweem. This is where the majority of The Winter Guest was filmed (along with a bus stop in Anstruther and a coffee shop in St. Andrews, or so I'm told by tour guide extraordinare Kristin). It looks much more hospitable in the summer than it did in the bleak winter months. And yes, that's part of the golf course to the right.

I was a little worried about arriving late for tea, so we didn't stop for pictures in the harbour or St. Fillian's Cave, but as we've guests arriving this weekend, I imagine those pictures will be coming in a week or two. Any excuse to go for another hot chocolate at The Cocoa Tree and a chance encounter with another Canadian expat.

Like many of the small towns and villages on the East Neuk, we didn't have to walk long before we were back out in the country. No sidewalks or shoulders to speak of, but those would just spoil the picturesque scene.

Believe it or not, this is a two-lane road. No, really. Which is why you couldn't pay me to drive around here.

On our way out of Pittenweem, we saw farmhands harvesting broccoli (which has since appeared at the local co-op and looks fantastic), as well as grain fields that reminded us of Saskatchewan.

But my favourite picture of the day has to be these wildflowers. Makes me wish I could still paint.

Tea with Charles and Stephanie was lovely, after which they showed us around their garden and tree grove. I envy their grandchildren being able to play in a backyard that is still a little wild in spots. Stephanie told us at that at least one of her grandkids does a formidable troll impression while hiding beneath a small bridge.

Afterwards, as Charles very kindly drove us back into Cellardyke, I noticed that from Anster Wester to Pittenweem there is a sidewalk! Oh laugh, you Canadians and your overabundance of sidewalks, but sidewalks alongside main roads is nothing short of a miracle up here. It also means that I can ride my bike from Cellardyke to Pittenweem, grab a hot chocolate, and fondle some yarn (come December when The Wooly Brew opens up), all without risky angry run-ins with drivers who don't believe any space need be given to cyclists.

idle hands

2011-06-22T13:18:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"City Lights Cry" by Armistice
"Missed the Train" by Factor (SK) feat. Gregory Pepper
"Fire!" by Pat LePoidevin
"Golden Years" by The Russian Futurists
"Red Hunting Jacket" by Little Scream

I am woefully behind in my knitting updates (if you're not a knitter, feel free to skip this post. I'll have some new pictures of our walk to Pittenweem and Grangemuir up in a few days). But as I've managed to knit up everything I'd packed for my three stash-less months in Scotland, now is as good a time as any to show off (more or less) my latest projects. Everything is an amoeba state, as my blocking boards and wires won't arrive until this Saturday. It will take every once of willpower to not lay out the blocking boards in the guest room, as I assume our guests will not be overly fond of accidentally treading on pins and wet wool.

The first shawl I finished is Stephen West's Herbivore (Rav Link) in Wollmeise 100% "Fliederbusch". I had to restart this shawl when I was about 75% done because of messy dropped stitch that I could not retwist for the life of me. Into the time-out pile it went until we arrived in Scotland when, suitably chastised, it came out of the frog pond. Compared to the lace projects that followed, this was a fantastically mindless knit. Well, almost mindless. Damned twisted stitches.

Next up was Nikol Lohr's Woodland Shawl (Rav Link), which I modified into a scarf, in Wollmeise 100% "Rosenrot". I cast on (eventually, after some art math issues) 57 stitches and knit until I had only a few yards left. It'll be a delightfully long scarf once it's blocked out. The colour simply cannot be captured by my camera. I've adjusted the photo to get the colour as close as possible, but it's still a ways off. There's just nothing like Claudia's intense reds.

Lastly, I just finished Bonnie Sennott's Kernel (Rav Link) in Wollmeise 100% WD Versuchskaninchen (a sort of rust-red colour) for my mother-in-law. I was 20-some repeats of the main pattern into the scarf when I realized that the grafting of the two sides of the scarf wasn't where I thought it was. Cleverly, the grafting is hidden in a garter stitch section near the very end. Essentially, you knit the entire scarf minus 5 inches or so, which is knit separate and then grafted together. Were I to knit this again, I'd knit the upper edging (the remaining 5 inches or so) first in order to eliminate the guesswork as to how many yards I have left for the pattern. I made 35 repeats of the kernel pattern, rather than the 24 listed in the pattern, and used up almost the entire skein of Wollmeise.

Of course, not all the projects ended well. I've been working on Romi Hill's Waves of Grain (Rav Link) for nearly 2 years. I've restarted it many times. I don't know if it's me, the pattern, or the yarn (Fiddlesticks Laceweight Wool-Silk), but I just cannot get more than a row or two without some problem. It's not that I can't knit lace, because I can, but I think I have bad knitting juju with this pattern. Yesterday was the last straw. The project has been completely frogged, the yarn unraveled, and I'm now searching for a new lace scarf project for my mom (who has been patiently waiting for two years for a scarf that doesn't look like it was made by a drunk elf).

As I sat yesterday with nothing on my needles for the first time in months, Miguel informed me that he'd really like a turtleneck. "Hmm," I replied, unconvinced. In a bright colour. Yellow, or bright orange. "Hmm," even less convinced. But he is determined.. although not determined enough to learn to knit it himself. I found 500g cones of 2 ply from Jamieson and Smith that could do the trick, although I'm not sure if my art math is correct in terms of yardage. What's more, with my stash arriving on Saturday (fingers and toes crossed), I've about six pairs of socks, some more scarves and baby clothes to knit before I can get to any new sweaters.

kerplunk

2011-06-09T20:46:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Thrawn by King Creosote
"Waffle Iron" by Yukon Blonde

I will no longer brag about having a spiral staircase.

The other day I was coming downstairs, laptop in hand, when my feet came out from underneath me. Not wanting any harm to come to my laptop (and by extension, my dissertation), I flailed in all kinds of graceful ways until I hit the chesterfield*. My laptop was safe, but I was in sheer disbelief that I'd managed to fall down three or fours steps and (more importantly) that such a fall could hurt so damned much.

So there I was, whimpering on the chesterfield, with nothing broken but my love of spiral staircases. By the next night I had a rather impressive bruise on my arm, swollen ankles, and a skinned knee. In hindsight, I'm rather lucky I didn't fracture my knee, since it went full-force into the railing.

As a result, my delicate constitution and I haven't been able to wander or bike around town in the past few days. With a constant barrage of Canadian music courtesy of CBC Radio 3 and serious dissertation work, I almost forgot that I live in Scotland. In fact, the night after I fell I woke up in complete amazement, wondering when our place in Calgary had a loft put in. So tonight, when we were out at the market, I was once again taken aback by the creeping strangeness of things that are just a little bit different here than in Canada.

Tomato paste comes in tubes. Tubes, people! Like toothpaste. Delicious, tomatoey toothpaste.

Actually, that's not a bad idea.

The first and only time I'd seen tomato paste in tubes previously was with Lindsay aka BFF (also Lindsay of the Digital Alberta Student Award) at Lina's in Calgary. She was picking one up for Lawrence who, as an American, was apparently used to tomato paste coming in tubes. I remember scoffing at the very concept as typically American, although I can't tell you what about tubes signifies typically American to me. If anyone has any insights into my mental processes there, let me know. Actually, let Miguel know, too.

So while I've really gone off the whole spiral staircase business, I've managed to dull the pain (both physical and mental) with my discovery of tomato paste tubes. Well, and Innis and Gunn. That's helped a fair bit as well. It's lived up to the hype from the commenters (cheers). So what should I try next, then? What goes well with a bruised, sore body and a wounded ego?

* that's what the civilized world calls a sofa, you Yanks.

save the hall

2011-06-03T16:03:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Black Water" by Timbre Timbre
"Ride This Out" by Imaginary Cities
"Waffle Iron" by Yukon Blond
"Pick Me Up Baby" by Kyp Harness

Last night, Miguel, Kristin and I went to the Raise the Roof Benefit at the Hew Scott Hall in Anstruther. The Hall is usually a main venue during Fence Records' annual Homegame music festival, but this year the Hall was in such poor shape that it was unusable. Monies have been allotted repair the Hew Scott Hall, but not nearly enough to complete the job. If you're a local or interested, there's information and an online petition here. What's more, having missed Homegame this year (in fairness, when the tickets were on sale last year, Miguel hadn't even interviewed at St. Andrews yet), it was my first chance to see King Creosote live.

The doors opened at 8pm and the Hall was packed. Nearly everyone (except us, being foreign and not used BYOB for indoor concerts) had packed food and drinks. Having walked to see the goats past Caiplie early in the day, Kristin and I were just excited to be able to sit down on the floor for a bit, although a beer would've been perfect.

First up were Cynthia Gentle and the Truetones. Their blues covers of "I Need a Dollar" and "Way Down in the Hole" were outstanding. Miguel now feels an overwhelming desire to rewatch all five seasons of The Wire and I'm happy to indulge. The bassist, who Kristin recognized as a librarian from Special Collections up in St. Andrews, is apparently Canadian. I instantly regretted not wearing my Canucks tshirt.

Next were two local, younger acts: a singer-songwriter whose name I've forgotten and I neglected to get a photo of (apologies), and Black Power. The singer-songwriter and his accompanying drummer performed a few slower, acoustic tunes. His cover of Jack Johnson's "Waiting on You" was good, but I much preferred his own songs. Black Power, out of the Waid Academy (local high school), came out with masks of various African-American recording artists. I think it's an in-joke I don't quite understand. They worked a bit of an Arcade Fire vibe, with the guitarist clearly working a Johnny Greenwood experimental angle. The standout here was the drummer... as well as the fact that they were clearly thoroughly enjoying their time up on stage.

Then it was onto King Creosote and (I'm assuming) members of the Fence Collective. I recognized "Homeboy," but not being a local, I didn't know any of the other songs. Gummi Bako was providing supporting vocals, but his rendition of "Little Man" (the alternate title is just too long to type here) had Miguel bopping around. The love song that Gummi Bako and King Creosote sang to each other (sort of), which I don't know the name of but have spent the morning looking for, has been an earworm for around 9 hours now. I'm currently downloading every King Creosote song I can find on iTunes. My first foray into Scottish hipsterness. Hipstericity?

Lastly, Onthefly were up and were a complete departure from everything else we'd heard (blues, indie rock, and folk). Sure, there was no Moby hairlight, but it was solid electronic music. But by this point in the night (already over 3 hours of music) we'd reached our saturation point. Miguel was quick to remind us that in Madrid, 1130pm is when you get ready to go out for the night.

The last time I'd been to a show this full of community was back in the 1990s at a benefit put on by some local high school bands (Faded Muse, anyone?) at the Lantzville Town Hall for the Kosovar Refugees. No proper stadium or theatre can approximate that sense of community. We've lost so many of our halls in Canada. Shows are confined to pubs and bars, which is fine and all, but it doesn't offer the kind of mentoring opportunities for the younger, underage musicians that filled the middle of last night's concert. It also means that musicians have to move away from the smaller towns if they want to play to a crowd. Who is really left in Nanaimo trying to make music? Everyone has packed off to Vancouver where the venues are. It'd be dreadful to see that happen here as well.

...

In other Scottish Acclimatization news, I'm still looking for more beer tasting ideas. Innis and Gunn is high up on the list, but I came across this thistle beer at the Co-op yesterday and was rather curious about it. Thistle beer: yea or nae?

beer googles

2011-06-01T22:25:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Pvc" by Suuns
"Stop or Start" by Fine Mist

Perhaps the most obvious difference between Canada and Scotland (accents and spurtles aside) is the availability of alcohol in supermarkets. Initially, I was thrilled. This feeling was soon replaced with confusion as soon as I stepped into the beer aisle. There were a few brands I recognized: Grolsch, San Miguel, Hoegaarden, Carlsberg and Becks. They even stock Budweiser. But what's Tennants and how does it differ from Newcastle Brown? Guinness I recognize, but what's this Innis and Gunn?

Excitement turned to dreaded culture shock. I realized I knew nothing about Scottish beer.

Back in Canada, I got into the habit of avoiding (more or less) the bigger beer companies in favour of the smaller, independent breweries: Paddockwood's IPA 606, Great Western's Pilsner, Big Rock's Grasshopper, and (Miguel's favourite) Alley Kat's Goldspur (only available at Calgary's Hop in Brew, my hands-down favourite pub). I don't claim to be an beer expert by any means, but I knew what I liked. And what I like isn't available in Scotland.

Going out to the pubs with Kristin helped the situation, as she directed me towards St. Andrews Ale rather than Tennants, and raved about Ossian. As a result and as part of the Scottish Acclimatization Project, I've decided to learn about Scottish beers.

The first thing to get my head around is the categorization system. Beers are not colour-based (white, brown, or red), as in Canada, but rather by alcohol content and a 19th-century system of pricing beer. The higher the content, the more expensive the beer was to buy by the hogshead (54 Imperial gallon), and therefore, by the pint. A 60/ (shilling) pint is considered light at 3.5%, 70/ is a heavy pint at 3.5-4%, 80/ is export strength at 4.5-5.5%, and 90/, at over 6%, is called a wee heavy (source: Wikipedia). By this ranking, my beloved IPA 606, which sits at 5.4%, is an 80/ ale, and Miguel's 10% Goldspur is more than just a wee heavy.

Still with me? Just barely? This might be a good time to pop open a beer. Mine's a McEwan's Export. Cheers.

The second thing to do is (obviously) to try as many different Scottish beers/ales from local, independent breweries as possible. Jonathan has been raving about Innis and Gunn's use of whisky barrels to add flavour to the beer during the fermenting stage. I've only tried St. Andrews from the Belhaven Brewery, but there look to be plenty more to search out.

Are any of my local, Scottish readers ale aficionados with a particular favourite in mind that I should try next? Make your best case in the comments.

Are there beers back in Canada that I should look for on my next trip back to Vancouver Island?

What's your favourite beer, gentle reader? And why?

for want of a spurtle

2011-05-29T20:35:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Take a Minute" by K'naan
"Love Song to Canada" by Jason Collett
"Skinny Boy" by Amy Millian

Last fall when Miguel travelled to St. Andrews for his job interview, I asked him to try to find a porridge stirrer. I gave him - I thought - an excellent description based on my parents' porridge stirrer. "It's a stick for stirring porridge. A porridge stirrer," I explained simply. Too simply, as it turned out. Miguel returned home porridge stirrer-less, which was a disappointment... although he did get the job, so I suppose it all evened out in the end. There were no porridge stirrers in all of Scotland, and certainly none with a thistle on top.

In light of my past blog post and after making a larger batch of porridge, I thought I should really reignite my porridge stirrer search. Miguel remained skeptical of the whole plan, as well as more than a little confused as to what a porridge stirrer really was. So a-Googling I went and discovered, to my utter amazement, that a porridge stirrer is really called a spurtle.

I suppose that would have been good information for Miguel to have had before he went around to all the souvenir shops in St. Andrews, asking bewildered clerks if they had any porridge stirrers.

Spurtles, it appears, have been around since the 15th century and are easily found in any kitchen shop. So common and well known is the spurtle that the prize at the Annual World Porridge Making Competition in Carrbridge, Scotland is The Golden Spurtle (this year's competition is on October 9, one day before World Porridge Day. Mark your calendars).

And so, while up in St. Andrews yesterday, I ducked into Mica (a kitchen shop) and one minute later, I had my very own spurtle. It even has a thistle on top.

Mission accomplished.

psa: porridge

2011-05-24T16:30:00.002+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Má Vlast: 2. Vltava (The Moldau)" by Bedrich Smetana, performed by Wiener Philharmoniker and James Levine

Little known Kate fact: I love porridge.

"Really?" you scoff. "Who, aside from 2 year olds, eats porridge? Willingly?"

Answer: Me.

"Okay," you concede, "but it's not as though you can't eat anything else for breakfast, right?"

When I went to Florence, Italy for five weeks, I brought along Quaker Oat Bran. Really. Ask Lady J.

I still remember sitting at the kitchen table, trying to sneak in another spoonful of brown sugar before Dad noticed. And, oh, the trauma of too much milk liquifying the brown sugar chunks too quickly. However, the porridge never tasted better than when it was in Nana's fishbowls. I thought it had to do with the crockery, but I now suspect it had more to do with the Scottishness.

Naturally, my love of porridge in the morning has led to porridge-related mishaps. Although, in fairness, these mishaps had more to do with a lack of morning coffee than with me accidentally pushing the wrong buttons on the microwave, exploding the oatmeal bomb inside. Once I had to clean my own dishes, I realized what a pain dried porridge is to clean up, so the oatmeal went into the pantry for a 6 year time-out.

But no more. I live in Scotland now (did I mention?) and the only way to convince my body that it's not freezing to death is with a porridge breakfast. So the other day off I stopped by the Co-op and picked up a bag of Scottish porridge oatmeal and a big bag of brown sugar.

What follows is a photo tutorial of how to make the perfect bowl of porridge.

Step One: Move to Saskatoon, marry a Spaniard who then finds work in St. Andrews.

Step Two: Move to Scotland.

If you can't complete these first two simple, easy steps, move directly onto..

Step Three: 1/2 cup water, 1/2 cup milk, and 2/3 cup porridge oats

You can tell by the photo that it's proper porridge oats, not oat bran, that you'll need.

Step Four: Combine all three ingredients in a pot, stirring occasionally.

Bring to a boil, then immediately reduce heat to a simmer for 3 minutes. Stir constantly, or you'll end up with lumps.

Step Five: Pour into a bowl. Add all the brown sugar you can before your dad finds out (Spanish husband won't mind, as his sweet-tooth is about as bad as yours). Add a wee bit of milk.

Et voila! The perfect bowl of porridge. Now you can go and face the gale-force winds and damp cold that is a Scottish spring.

a quick and windy update

2011-05-24T15:29:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"True Patriot Love" by Joel Plaskett Emergency
"I'll Bring the Sun" by Jason Collett
"Step Off the Map & Float" by Library Voices
Glass Cage performed by Bruce Brubaker

Our once clean windows are utterly covered with dried salt spray from the sea. I didn't believe our landlord when he told us the salt will cover everything in town when there's a strong gale. Now I'm just amazed this village hasn't rusted out completely. At some points yesterday afternoon, I was half-convinced we were going to lose tiles off of the roof... so naturally I walked down the block to the harbour to snap a few pictures.

Here's just outside the Cellardyke breakwater on a calm day:

And here it was yesterday:

Out on the Firth, I think the swells must have been reaching near 5 feet. The Isle of May was behind a thick haze, completely invisible from the mainland. While walking near but not on the pier (I know better than to tempt fate, especially after the winter storm/blizzard confusion in Saskatoon), the wind nearly took my feet out from under me. Anyone who had hung up their laundry earlier that day spent the afternoon chasing their socks and underwear through farmers' fields. £10 says that there's no way you could hear bagpipes over the howls.

rambling

2011-05-20T22:10:00.002+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Arrested Development

Yesterday, during a fit of writer's block, I went for a walk out east. Miguel has been running along the Fife Coastal Path and I decided that if he could run it, I could probably walk it. Still running over a particularly tricky theoretical argument in my mind, I ended up at the Caiplie Caves before turning around and heading back home.

I woke up today determined to make the 6 mile (roundtrip) hike to Crail. The weather had other plans. After the second rainstorm, the skies seemed safe enough, I grabbed my camera (which I'd forgotten yesterday) and set out. After I passed the pig farm, the sheep (sheep!), and the few houses at Caiplie, there are empty rolling fields (well, the odd herd of goats) on one side, the North Sea on the other. It's still too early in the year for tourists, so the path was mostly empty. Well, aside from the aforementioned goats and ridiculous number of droppings (what are they feeding these beasties?).

There were rock walls with built-in steps (no unladylike straddling of fences today!)...

and wee bogs with stepping stones...

all before I even got to the Caiplie Caves.

These caves were once underwater, but were uplifted (along with the rest of Fife) after the last ice age. There are Christian carvings on the walls of the caves from when The Coves were used as a settlement of sorts for Christian missionaries, possibly around 800-1000AD, although this cannot be confirmed (Site Record for Caiplie Caves). Judging by the litter, the caves look more like a convenient place for a bush/beach party. Still, they are stunning.

After the Caiplie Caves (and the goat droppings) are the ruins of an old salt works and salmon bothy.

It was at this point that I started humming the music from Lord of the Rings in my head. I alternated between thinking I was strolling through the Shire, Rohan, or Braveheart. How can you not feel part of an epic walking through open fields, past ruins, beside the sea? Well, epic aside from orcs, hobbits, and deranged Australians. Of course, that epic feeling could have been the result of dehydration, so it was probably good that Crail was around the next bend.

I wandered into town, grabbed a bottle of water, and set back off again. I was determined to make it to Crail and back in two hours. The wind, however, was now fiercely southwest and my legs, which really didn't need the resistance training at this point, weren't at all impressed with me. I attempted to appease them by taking a few more photos on the way back, the result of which is that I think I may have captured the Scottish green (Lady J, I think this is the verdant those Romantics kept going on about):

If west of Glasgow looked like this, my ancestors never would've left Scotland.

waiting to exhale

2011-05-14T10:59:00.001+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"My Baby Loves a Bunch of Authors" by Moxy Fruvous

The other night I inhaled a spider while I was sleeping.

It was only the latest in a string of bizarre nighttime occurrences. First, there was the dream that a Canadian Superstore could be found in a little strip mall just to the east of Cellardyke. "Excellent," I said in my dream to Miguel. "I bet they have quinoa!" Also in the strip mall: a dodgy pizza place, a dry cleaner, a pharmacy, and a notary public. Dr. Jung?

Then there was the truly bizarre melding of various households to make up our home here. These houses had everything, even a can opener, but I could not find my dishes. Then I found my dishes, but was stuck back in Calgary/Saskatoon (a bizarre blend of the two, not unlike myself). It came down to a choice: dishes in Calgary, or fancy loft apartment in Cellardyke. I've no idea how it turned out.

Finally, the other night, I am half-awakened by a strange little tickling under my nose. I take an involuntary snort, the tickling stops, and I wake up completely convinced that I've just inhaled the tiny spider that lives in the skylight above our bedroom. The next morning, I jumped out of bed to check if Wee Spider was there. Gone. He's been gone for two days now.

I told Miguel, who reassuring stated that "on average, a human eats eight spiders during their lifetime."
"Yeah, eat. Not inhale," I complained. "No one said anything about inhaling."

However, this past week hasn't been all inhaling spiders. I spent Wednesday (pre-spider) up in St. Andrews with Kristin, drinking and knitting my way through town, much to the apparent disgust of one old man. He turned to Kristin and me... or possibly to the fellow studying by the bay window... and said loudly that he'd "never been so embarrassed to be a graduate of this university". Over the hours and beers that followed, we narrowed down the cause of his outburst to a few possibilities: he was offended I didn't know who Muriel Sparks was, that we were knitting, that we were discussing past teaching experiences, or that the bar service was poor (which it wasn't) and was taking it out on everyone. Or he was a crazy old man. At least I could understand what he was saying, unlike the crazy old toothless woman I met a few days earlier in the bus station. I should start another blog all about crazy old people I've met in St. Andrews.

In knitting news, I finished Herbivore (Rav Link), but as it's still in amoeba-state, photos will follow once I have the chance to block it. I've already started on my next scarf, Nikol Lohr's Woodland Shawl with Wollmeise* 100% in "Rosenrot". Up close, the yarn looks orange and purple, but from a distance, it's a lovely bright red.

The concern, however, is this only leaves me two more projects, a lace scarf I've been working on for Mom, and a lace scarf for my mother-in-law, Angeles. Judging how fast I'm going through these projects (one every three weeks), I'm beginning to doubt that I've brought enough wool with me to survive until the boxes from Canada arrive. I expect this means that tonight's dreams will feature me in a Dali-esque hellscape, searching desperately for quinoa and another skein of Wollmeise.

Of course, I've just realized that I live in Scotland now (did I mention?) and can order Wollmeise without having to stay up until 1am. Hah! This is me, gloating!

Of course, this same me inhaled a spider two nights ago...

* Dear German friends, know that every time I've written Wollmeise today, I've pronounced it in my head as "Wool-meese". Just try and stop me!

come again another day

2011-05-09T12:27:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Stamp" by The Rural Alberta Advantage
"King of Kreuzberg" by Shotgun Jimmie

It's not that I like the rain. I grew up on the West Coast. Rain is just a fact of existence, as inevitable as moss between the toes come summer. So don't take me for some kind of deranged rain-worshipping hippie (I am, at worst, a mild-climate with a seasonal drizzle-worshipping hippie). It's like Paris. If you went to Paris and it was bright and sunny, wouldn't you be disappointed? It should be overcast with a slight drizzle. London should be damp and foggy. And Scotland... well, Scotland should have ducks swimming in the streets.

Not that it hasn't been humid here. My hair alternates wildly between adorable ringlets and ridiculous frizz. But nearly everyday thus far, we've woken up to bright, blue skies. Nary a cloud. It's not that I'm disappointed with the beautiful summer weather (as in, this could be it for the summer, so enjoy the sun now), but it just doesn't fit with my stereotype of Scotland. I think even Miguel was eager for a proper rainstorm. The other day I was hanging wash up on the deck while Miguel was going round the side of the house, into the utility room. All of a sudden, Miguel excitedly shouts up "it's raining! Kate, it's raining!"
I look up and there's not even a cloud in the sky. "No, it's really not."
"Yes, it is! It's raining," he insisted, followed by a very long pause. "Oh. Nevermind."
"Sprinkler from next door?"
"Yup."

You'd think that by now I'd know to be careful what I wished for. When the weekend rolled around and Shivaali and Madeleine were due to visit, then the rain was inevitable. On Saturday, we headed up to St. Andrews for the afternoon, raingear in tow. Luckily, the rain held off until about half an hour before we left for Cellardyke, so I was able to get a good few photos of St. Andrews Cathedral (c. 1160-1409) entrance,

nave,

and east end, behind the altar

St. Rules tower (which predates the Cathedral, c. 1130 AD)

a 1750 (?) gravestone with a (possible) death's head at the bottom,

the Castle (c. 1200 AD, but many improvements until 1689 AD),

and my favourite photo of the day which is of the north side of the Castle's wall:

The tunnels under the castle, which were built during the siege of 1546, are interesting, but not very expansive. Essentially, it's one tunnel that leads into a larger chamber where the counter-mine was encountered. It's a little narrow in parts, but nothing like the Horne Lake Caves.

But after so bravely going underground, we felt a hearty lunch was due. Miguel led us to the West Port,

which is by the West Port (originally the So'gait port, c. 1589, renvonated in 1843). However, by the time we finished lunch, the skies had opened up and the rain was bucketing down.

After we returned to Cellardyke there was no more than an hour left before Shivaali and Madeleine, our very first house guests, were back on a bus for Edinburgh, in spite of all our machinations to get them to stay another night. Miguel and I settled down in front of the fire, watched Doctor Who, and listened to the wind-whipped rain on our tile roof.

two weeks

2011-05-06T13:18:00.002+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Letter from an Occupant" by The New Pornographers
"Piste 1" by Galaxie
"Black Day in December" by Said the Whale
"True Patriot Love" by Joel Plaskett Emergency

Now that we have our own internet connection and I have no qualms about using up bandwidth, I can finally offer up a summary of our past thirteen days.

April 24th - Our last day in Canada: We began, the only way we really could, with a Tim Horton's breakfast.

Clearly, Miguel was still feeling the lingering effects of becoming an artist.

Neither of us were too excited about the 23 hours of travelling that was ahead of us.

Although the heart-attack on a plate that Miguel ate in Newark seemed to brighten things up.

April 25th - Are we there yet?: Bleary-eyed and punchdrunk, we arrived in Cellardyke and discovered not only is our place amazing, but we have the sweetest landlords. Norman gave us a quick tour of our new home and Audrey brought over groceries so that, as she put it, "we'd have something to eat when we woke up at 2am".

Our house, by the way, is called "Craighouse". It also has windows and is above-ground, concepts that have us very excited, although the excitement is generally punctuated with someone shouting "Miguel! Pants!".

April 26th - We live in Scotland now: Jet-lag be damned! We want to explore! So off we trotted to the Co-op in Anstruther, taking pictures of the harbour and our neighbourhood along the way.

Our neighbourhood, by the by, comes complete with 18th-century graffiti.

April 27th - Too many people: After a quiet 1 1/2 days in Cellardyke, we travelled up to St. Andrews for the day. Compared to the 3000 souls of Anstruther/Cellardyke/Kilrenny, St. Andrews is a thriving metropolis. With an H&M! Also, ruins of a castle,

and a cathedral.

Not to mention, of course, The Beach.

You're humming the song right now, aren't you. It'll be stuck in your head all day now. You're welcome.

More importantly, we spent the afternoon with Kristin and Peter (she blogs here), who were busy preparing for their wedding on Saturday. We drove up to Dundee, which is about 30 minutes from St. Andrews, a trip I was told would take "all day". I also learned that beer doesn't come in anything smaller than a pint here.

April 29th - An eccentric neighbourhood: Our landlords threw a wee and well-watered meet-and-greet so that we could get to know our neighbours who, like us, are from everyone else. Professors, artists, professionals, and retirees. We're apparently eccentric enough to fit right in.

About 10 years ago, Cellardyke was apparently in decline, then this group of folks moved in and revitalized a fair bit of Dove Street and the surrounding neighbourhood. Unlike Elie, which is full of houses only used in the summer, Cellardyke has a year-round, rather active community.

April 30th - The Other Wedding: The aforementioned Kristen I'd met once before moving here, at CSECS in Ottawa. But as knitters are a friendly bunch, and English Lit grad students even more so, Kristen and Peter invited us to their wedding. It was a High Anglican service or, as Miguel and I began referring to it, more Catholic than Catholic service. Incense, bells, and choir singing hymns. I think by the end of it Kristen and Peter were married about 3 times over. And they looked thrilled.

At the reception, we drank champagne out of Union Flag-emblazoned dixie cups (they do it up classy here) and met even more of our neighbours. I've since discovered that everyone in Cellardyke can be considered your neighbour. That's how small it is.

May 1st - Sunny Days in Cellardyke: Taking advantage of our amazing weather, we propped our laundry up outside and kept a vigilant eye out for seagulls. Miguel, still channeling his inner artist, headed up to the back garden to read and enjoy the view.

Unable to resist the sun and view, I've spent a few hours up in our garden as well. NB: To get up to our garden, you either need a sherpa or to be half-goat.

The past few days have been more quiet as Miguel's started work up in St. Andrews and I spent my days working on my dissertation and running errands. There's also been a period of extended mourning given the results of the Canadian federal election. This afternoon, however, Shivaali and Madeleine arrive to the Ivory Tower (our alternative name for Craighouse) and the Fence Record's Home Game Festival kicks off in Anstruther this evening. This may or may not lead to photo documentation of the elusive Scottish hipster. Chances of sighting one are pretty decent, as the Co-op stocked MGD, there's a indie-folk festival this weekend, and the creatively-bearded abound.

Speaking of the Ivory Tower, we've made a Google Calendar for those of you planning on visiting us in Scotland. Just drop a line to Miguel or me, we'll send you the calendar, and you can pick your dates.

A h/t to everyone who helped us out in our final days in Calgary: John and Kristy, Cousin Mike and Amanda, Lindsay and Lawrence, Linda, and the whole iLab.

acclimatization

2011-04-30T23:31:00.001+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Barbra Streisand" by Duck Sauce
"In the End It's Your Friends" by Shout Out Out Out Out
"Piste 1" by Galaxie
"Stop or Start" by Fine Mist
"Synesthésie" by Malajube
"True Patriot Love" by Joel Plaskett

Living in Scotland is a lot like living in a parallel universe: Everything looks the same, but is just a little bit different. And I'm not referring to the driving on the other side of the street. Well, not only. I'll be going about my day when, all of a sudden, I'm forced to admit that Scotland is another country that I know very little about (Braveheart and Trainspotting aside). A smattering of observations from the past few days:

- Fresh Produce: I had no idea how much we overpay for fresh produce in Canada. Jets, schmets. We should be up in arms protesting for cheaper produce this election. A week's worth of tomatoes used to run us around $9 CAN. Today, we spent a scant £2. Even with the conversion, that's a steal at twice the price. NAFTA was supposed to makes things like veg and fruit cheaper, but really didn't. The EU actually has.

- Lingo: I know say things like "veg" instead of "vegetable". I also say "chips" rather than "fries", "crisps" rather than "chips", and "christened" instead of "ah crap, a seagull just shit on me". Also, I've learned that "frisky wee burn"* is not as dirty as I thought it was.

- TV License: In the UK, in addition to paying for cable, you must also pay for a license. Failure of payment will result in several men showing up at your door for an inspection (NB: a lack of need to pay for a license may also result in several men showing up at your door). The means that if you want to watch TV or a show live on your computer, you must pay a fee of around £150 per annum. But if you wait an hour, the show'll turn up on the iPlayer and then you can watch it for free (it's no longer "live"), without having to pay the fee. As a result, even though we don't have a TV license and I must wait an extra hour before being able to see the new Doctor Who episode, I can still watch it hours before my Canadian Whovians.

- High Anglicans are more Catholic than the Catholics: We went to a lovely wedding ceremony today which was celebrated in a High Anglican service. I've never seen so much incense flung around in my life. Am now very curious to see what passes for a Catholic mass in this country. My suspicion is that it's nothing more than a drum circle of folks singing "Kum-by-ya" by comparison.

- Crazy Old Ladies: Granted, we do have these in Canada as well, but usually I can understand what the toothless old lady is yelling about at the bus stop. Today, all I managed to glean was "miner's daughter", "Dundee", "handicap", and "my own country". I also don't think teeth would've really helped the situation.

- Beer, wine, and spirits can be bought at the supermarket. Warning: buying San Miguel may result in a particular Spaniard shouting "donde va triumfa!" at random intervals. May also result in an Edwardian polishing off a bottle of wine and then deciding this was the best time to blog about moving to Scotland.

- Sean Connery: Don't be surprised if one or more of your neighbours bears a striking resemblance.

- Birds: The variety and differences are amazing. When I was down on the seashore, I snapped a photo of a black and white duck I'd never seen before. I asked the local experts if they knew what it was. "An eider", they smartly replied. "An eider?" I asked, trying to get the pronunciation right. The resident Sean Connery piped up, smiling, "Aye, eider a bird or a duck".

These are just a smattering of slightly-jarring differences I've noted. In all, it's been a surprisingly easy transition. Everyday, thus far, has been sunny and beautiful. We've ventured up to St. Andrews, around the village, and I've wandered up and down the seashore. We have wonderful landlords/neighbours who threw a welcome bash for us last night, making sure we met the rest of the neighbourhood characters. Tragically, the Spaniard did not break out either his beret or his blanket kilt for the occasion.

Aside from our neighbours, who've gone out of their way to make us feel welcome, my acclimatizing to Scotland has taken the form of writing in a "Keep Calm and Carry On" journal that the great and illustrious Lady J gave me, alongside copious amounts of wine (of which, I've no doubt, the Lady J would also approve). The Spaniard's acclimatizing has taken a different form. He's hibernating with the final Harry Potter book, shouting about giant snakes and does from the Tower.

* a fast-moving stream.

it's all over but the cleaning

2011-04-22T18:31:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
The Cleaning SkipMix

And then suddenly, it's real. The movers came yesterday and loaded everything, we're living out of our half-packed bags, and we slept on an air mattress last night (Thanks John!). The chaos we've been living in for the past two months has changed into monk-like simplicity. We are bravely facing life spoonless, tableless, and internetless.

Well, maybe we're not so bravely facing that last one. Hence this hectic and not at all coherent post. Everything must get done before the 5pm Shaw deadline and we're sent back into 1991.

Everyone seems keen to send us off to Scotland right. Yesterday, the moderators of CID started a thread of Canadian goodness (Rav Link) to send us on our way. They know full well I'm not leaving the group, but they still felt compelled to send me off right (unlike the Canucks, who are apparently compelled to send me off wrong)... although this likely has something to do with my soon-to-be proximity to Scottish yarns, wools, and tweeds. And tonight there'll be an iLab party to send Miguel off in style, which means that by 3am he'll likely be shouting "Exterminate!" at all and sundry. Apologies in advance.

In all, I'm pretty happy, excited, and even a little relaxed about the move. The only thing that is bothering me is the internet. Our internet won't be set up in Scotland until May 4th, but, for those of you keeping score, the Canadian election is on May 2nd. The only free internet access is at the public library, open a sparse few hours a week. So, if anyone knows of a reputable, fast carrier pigeon, I'm all ears.

bermuda shorts day

2011-04-15T20:16:00.001+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
drunken debauchery in the back alley

Any given day, there is a to-do list. At the top of today's list was changing our mailing address. Not a big deal.. except that today is Bermuda Shorts Day up at the University of Calgary and since we live in the Student Ghetto, this place is lousy with drunk undergrads. But it's only around noon, so I ask myself "what's the worst that could happen on the 3 minute walk between here and the post office?". Piles of vomit? Passed out engineers? Bah! The most dangerous thing between here and the post office was that the temperature is hovering around 0ºC. So I pop on my oh so snazzy CBC Radio 3 toque, head out the door and down the alley.

I am not more than a dozen steps into the alley when one of the undergrads, who has been holding court on the first floor balcony since 9am, pops his head out the door and shouts "Nice hat, faggot!". I stopped, looked up at the window where his rather mortified friend was standing, and said "really?!". I was shocked. I couldn't think of a wittier retort. My mind was reeling.

I've never had the word "faggot" hurled at me before, but it brought back all the associations of Grade 7. McGirr Elementary. Allison. Oh yes, I remember you. See, I was a real late bloomer and definitely going through an awkward stage. I was also new to this rather cliquey elementary school. And Allison started a rumour that I was actually a boy and that I'd moved to Nanaimo in order to restart my life as a girl. People believed her, including a boy, who would later become a dear friend of mine, but was so afraid the rumour was true that he wouldn't even speak to me for that first year. I was a complete pariah. Didn't help matters when the following year I chopped off my hair into a very cute pixie cut. "Are you a boy?" was a now-familiar refrain. I started to wear makeup and became hyper-feminine in an effort, I thought, to stem the abuse. When that didn't work, I picked up Friedan and de Beauvoir and challenged the stereotypes directly. No makeup. No form-fitting clothes. If you're going to judge me based on my appearance, then you're the last person I care to get to know.

I'd love to say that this new post-Grade 10 outlook left me full of self-confidence and self-esteem, but that'd be a lie. I've never felt secure in how I look, but I firmly believe that this is true for the majority of girls and women. Even now, I have absolutely no self-confidence when it comes to my appearance, while simultaneously I am aware that this lack of confidence is the result of a sexist media and patriarchal society.

By the drunken undergrad shouting "faggot!" at me, all the gender insecurity came flooding back. Am I not feminine enough? Maybe I should have worn some makeup today? What am I doing wrong? Yes, I know that the fellow is drunk, homophobic, insecure, and likely compensating. I know that I, in fact, did nothing at all wrong. I also know that I'd have to multiply how I feel at the moment by around a gazillion in order to come close to how a GLBT individual would feel.

Yet here I sit, firmly committed to growing my hair long again.

Rob Anders: Hasn't He Done Enough?

2011-04-10T20:30:00.002+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"True Patriot Love" by Joel Plaskett
"Oh.. Canada" by Classified

Today, I proudly announce a campaign to help out one of our own. A fellow Calgarian, just like our esteemed Prime Minister, who has worked tirelessly in Canadian politics since 1997 (CPC profile). A man so bold in his convictions, so firm in his beliefs, that the party that he represents does not even feel the need to force this man to campaign in his own riding during elections. I am speaking, of course, of Calgary-West's own Rob Anders.

But who is this man that has worked so doggedly for his riding? You may well ask, gentle reader. After earning a degree in Political Science from the University of Calgary, Anders grudgingly went to work in the States, helping the Republican Party's Jim Inhofe and overcoming his own quiet, demuring ways to become known a "foreign political saboteur" and a professional heckler (CBC profile). It was there, analysts believe, that Anders first became acquainted with the emerging philosophy of speaking from one's gut, or as it is known colloquially, Gut-Oral-Projection (or, more colloquially still, GOP). It is the GOP philosophy that has provided Anders with both his outlook and dogmatic guidance over the years.

Anders returned to Canada after his years abroad determined to make his home country a better place (unlike Michael Ignatieff who most definitely did not come back for us). He began by bravely facing off against fat, bureaucratic unions whose only goal is to swell their numbers in order to beat terrified, undefended, poor capitalists into submission. It was here that his path first crossed with that of Stephen Harper and the Reform Party of Canada. He was integral to the development of the Reform Party and their policies, both of which were helped not only by his GOP philosophy, but also his links to Focus on the Family and the Canadian Family Action Coalition, to name a few.

After being elected, Anders worked so tirelessly that he did not even have the strength to speak up in Parliament but a few times; however, those few times he did step onto the floor, Anders bravely spoke up for those who didn't have a voice. Who among us can forget the time when in 2001 Anders denounced Nelson Mandela as a "communist and a terrorist", striking a blow simultaneously for both McCarthy and Botha. Or the time when Anders gave Patton-esque military wisdom with his message in 2010 to Canadian troops in Afganistan "If in doubt, pull the trigger", brilliantly sweeping away past the past demons of Somalia. A true parliamentarian to the core, his giving of the middle finger to the opposition didn't even make hansard.

Yet after all he has done both on the Hill and in his riding (I, for one, am filled with glee when I open my mailbox to find yet another CPC mailer warning of the dangers of immigration, Muslims, and the Canadian Human Rights Act), Harper still will not let Anders take a knee, relax, and retire. How much more does Harper want to wring from this poor, over-commited, dedicated public servant? How much more can Anders take?

The solution is clear. The only way to give Anders the retirement he deserves - the retirement that all partisans so intent on destroying cronyism that they themselves become cronies truly deserve - is to send Anders to the Senate. It shouldn't be too difficult, seeing as the Senate is still an appointed body and Anders has the unblinking support of Harper. Send Harper a clear message. Support Anders by getting him into the Senate. Support Anders by voting him out this election.

Rob Anders: Hasn't he done enough?

#elxn41

2011-03-31T06:17:00.000+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Into Your Arms" by Nick Cave
"Sour Times" by Portishead

It's as though the federal party leaders knew I was planning to emigrate. For the fourth time in seven years, we're heading to the polls. Luckily enough for me, I'll be able to vote in the advance polls, as I'll be in Scotland by Election Day (May 2nd, for those keeping score). Those who know me know that I am a political junkie. And we're not talking your average run-of-the-mill-I-like-The-West-Wing-so-now-I-like-politics junkie. Oh no. I'm a CPAC-watching, MP-emailing, hansard-reading junkie. A Canadian federal election is my Superbowl. It's my Stanley Cup (bingo bango bongo). It's my Brier.

By the by, if you caught those last two references, you might be a Canadian.

So I should be thrilled about this election, and yet I'm ambivalent. Not because I don't think there should be an election right now. It's clear that the Government of Canada was in contempt of Parliament regarding Bev Oda and the Jets (also the name of my band). No, I've already decided how I'll be voting and am now focussed on coming up with a good drinking game for the Leaders' Debate.

After I establish residency in Scotland - which will be nearly as soon as we land - I will only be eligible to vote in Canadian elections for 5 more years. That's right. After five years abroad, I'll no longer be allowed to exercise my right of franchise. I'll still be a Canadian citizen, but I won't be allowed to vote.

So what's the big deal, you ask? After all, I'll be applying for residency and eventual citizenship in the UK, right? Just vote in the UK and be done with it. It's still a vote, after all. Does it really matter which country you're casting it in?

Maybe I'll feel different after I've been in Scotland for a while, but as it stands right now the thought of never again being able to vote in a Canadian election is about as devastating as the knowledge that I'll probably only see my family once a year. I remember every vote I've ever cast. I remember how Mom got teary-eyed not when I got my driver's license or graduated high school, but when I cast my first vote.

If Harper wins a majority, he'll probably manage to hold onto power for the full 5 years, which means that this will be my last federal election. It will also probably be good that I'll have beat the rush to get out of Canada. If Ignatieff wins a majority, he'll probably manage to hold onto power for the full 5 years, which means that although this is my last federal election, at least I'll get to see the Liberals back in power. If either the CPC or the Liberals win a minority, chances are I'll be able to vote at least once more from abroad.

So, gentle readers, consider voting ABC (Anything But Conservative) for this poor blogger. Help her to vote in at least one more election, or at the very least allow her to leave the country smiling with the knowledge that the Liberals are back in power.

british money...

2011-03-16T21:56:00.000Z

Today's soundtrack:
"We Used to Wait" by Arcade Fire

... is crazypants. No, admit it. It really is. I would know. I come from a country with a currency not all that dissimilar to Monopoly money. We call our one dollar coin the loonie. Our 5¢ coin has a beaver. I know crazy money. And you, gentle Brit readers, you have crazy money.

Today I give you a Canadian's guide to British currency, beginning with the penny and the two pence, which for some reason isn't called two pennies. Also, why do you have 2p? Is the whole concept of having 1p not wasteful enough? Every country and their dog is trying to do away with pennies, yet for some reason you've found a way to make two kinds of redundant coins.

Anyway, here's what a penny looks like:

Innocent enough? But wait until you see what 2p looks like:

Well, that's a rather large jump in size. I expect, based on this, for sand-dollar sized nickels.. sorry, 5p.. to be in order. But no, the 5p is roughly the same size to the penny.

Which would be fine, were the 10p a practical size as well. But no, somebody at the mint hit the supersize button and we end up with this:

Okay, I think I've got it figured out. Small, large, small, large. I see the pattern. British money - sorted.

What the hell is that? No, seriously. What about 20p suggests heptagon?

See, now this is just getting ridiculous. I understood the whole small, big thing. I even understood the difference between the colours (brown for 1p and 2p, silver for 5p and 10p), but this polygon business is just getting silly. What's next - squares? Triangles?

Ah, even better. A £1 coin which is roughly the same size at 20p. Right. That shouldn't be confusing at all. I mean, it's not like the £2 coin and the 50p are the roughly the same size.

Well, crap.

6 years in 18 discs

2011-03-10T18:40:00.000Z

Today's soundtrack:
Q on CBC Radio One

In the ongoing effort to reduce how much we're moving to Scotland, I've spent the past day digitizing all the music we own. The vast majority of our CDs are about to find themselves unceremoniously dumped at a local used CD shop for a pittance. There are some CDs, however, that I cannot bear to part with, even though I've already ripped them onto my computer. It's the memory of opening that particular CD case for the first time and flipping through the liner notes. The well-constructed artwork that accompanies the music, the live albums from the concerts you attended.

It goes without saying that my entire Radiohead selection is making the move. I simply refuse to part with a single disc. The Iron Lung EP I found at the used record store at Country Club Mall. The Airbag EP that I may or may not have skipped Math class to buy. I still remember the first time I heard "There There", sitting in our Florence apartment, drinking cheap rotgut chianti and eating gelato out of the carton.

Deciding on the rest of the CDs was more difficult. I was shocked when I tossed my Cranberries into the "to be sold" pile. Nine Inch Nails, U2, Pink Floyd, and Our Lady Peace didn't make the cut. So what did? And why?

Wide Mouth Mason's self-titled debut (1997): When I wasn't listening to Radiohead, this album was in high rotation. When they played at Malmenage, my sister and I were in the front row, singing along to every song. I was too chicken to ask for anything more than an autograph. My sister, on the other hand, got a hug.

54-40's Heavy Mellow (1999): It's impossible to grow up on the West Coast and not know 54-40. This live album is actually from their tour in 1998. I was at their Nanaimo show.

The Smashing Pumpkins's Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness (1995): Because I was a teenager in the '90s and reading Hamlet only does so much for angst. I saw them years later at Summersault. Even though Corgan's not much of a stage presence, hearing "1979" live was like nothing I've since experienced.

Matthew Good Band's Underdogs (1997) and Beautiful Midnight (1999): Beyond having seen them live during the supporting tour for Beautiful Midnight, these albums are completely entwined with my last three years of high school.

Sloan's Twice Removed (1994) and One Chord to Another (1996): Part of the East Coast Explosion. Although I still regret not seeing them live, I doubt I could hear "I Can Feel It" without becoming a puddle.

Joni Mitchell's Hits (1996): An important part of the Folk phrase of my life as an undergrad.

Alanis Morissette's Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie (1998): In my opinion, her best album. Nothing before or after hits on this level of confessional honesty. Just what a hormonal 16-year old needs.

Carole King's Tapestry (1977): When I was working at Stokes at Woodgrove, this album was the soundtrack to nearly every day.

Manic Street Preachers' This is my Truth Tell me Yours (1998): My then-boyfriend was a real anglophile, which is how I came to know the Manic Street Preachers. Have adored them ever since, although this is the only album of theirs I refuse to part with.

Stereophonics' Word Gets Around (1997) and Performance and Cocktails (1999): I saw them live when they were touring in support of Our Lady Peace. The drummer kept trying to flip his drumstick in the air and catch it, unsuccessfully. Folks on the other side of the stadium had a giant Wales flag and the energy was far and away better than what Our Lady Peace brought to the stage.

The Verve's Urban Hymns (1997): Although it captures those final, fraught years of high school, this album always resonated as something deeper than the other British music floating around my collection (I'm looking at you, Oasis).

Neil Finn's Try Whistling This (1998): I couldn't point out Crowded House if my life depended on it, you understand. However, this album got me out of a tight spot one night as it allowed me to prove that even though I was on the wrong side of 30, at least I knew good music.

Arcade Fire's Funeral (2004) and Neon Bible (2006): Answering the age-old question of "who is Arcade Fire?"

Kid Koala's Carpal Tunnel Syndrome (2000): The soundtrack to my first two years of undergrad. Nothing gets me giggling like "Like Irregular Chickens".

Aside from Arcade Fire, the majority of this music highlights 1994-2000, those angst-ridden teenage years. Which is why these albums are impossible to part with. Not only were they playing constantly in my room and on my discman, they are connected to nearly everything I did and felt during those 6 years. In all honesty, I should shove these discs in my nostalgia box, beside my yearbooks.

I never thought 18 CDs would sum up my teenage years.

where we're going, i don't know

2011-03-05T18:57:00.000Z

Today's soundtrack:
"I'll Bring The Sun" by Jason Collett
"Let's Talk" by Hannah Georgas
"Be Who U-R" by Underground Realroad feat. Miss Tee
"Procrastinator's Fight Song" by Shout Out Out Out Out
"Camilo (The Magician)" by Said the Whale
"Change of Season" by Sweet Thing

Miguel and I have now moved into what can only be described as a pre-acclimatizing acclimatizing mode. We're watching YouTube clips of Burnistoun and listening to BBC Radio Scotland in order to get used to the accent. This has been more or less successful, in that I can now do a pretty hilarious version of a very bad Scottish accent, and Miguel has no idea what anyone is saying. "Is that still English?" is a common refrain, especially when we're listening to the samples of Scots on ayecan.com. But in all fairness to Miguel, Scots isn't English, which I'm sure would be reassuring if he could understand the Scottish English accent.

Part two of our pre-acclimatizing acclimatizing is watching movies set in Scotland. The list of to-be-watched movies currently consists of 39 Steps, Local Hero, Trainspotting, Shallow Grave, Chariots of Fire, and The Winter Guest. I've seen half of these movies already, due many to a sizeable Ewan McGregor obsession I was afflicted with as a teenager. I'm a little hesitant at watching The Winter Guest again, as it's a quite bleak and wintery portrait of the area we're likely to be moving to (East Neuk). Miguel might mutiny and start to rethink this whole Scotland adventure.

So, gentle readers, can you suggest any other films or TV shows that we should be watching in order to prepare ourselves for life in East Fife (I'm looking at you, Lady J)?

Although, with all this preparing that we're doing for Scotland... is Scotland ready for us? A snapshot from not five minutes ago: I was explaining how CBC Radio 3 works to Miguel. Shout Out Out Out Out's "Procrastinator's Fight Song" was playing. In summing up how the system works, I turn to Miguel and say "so, basically, we're hipsters," at which point we break into our imitation hipster dancing (well, technically chairdancing. Turns out we're lazy hipsters that can't be bothered to stand when dancing). After a minute, Miguel turns to me and says "I really hope no one is recording this".

Are you ready for us pseudo-hipster, quasi-intellectual expats, Fife?

scotland, the canada of the uk

2011-03-02T07:46:00.000Z

Today's soundtrack:
Northern Exposure

So, you may be asking yourself just what I'm looking forward to in Scotland. Deep-fried Mars bars aside (far, far aside), the prospect of living in Scotland is undeniably exciting. Understanding that everything I know about Scotland I learned from Trainspotting, Braveheart, Scott's Bride of Lammermoor, Hogg's Confessions of a Justified Sinner, and Robbie Burns, there are clearly gaps in my knowledge. Also, the fact that not all Scottish men look like Ewan McGregor or James McAvoy has come as something of a disappointment.

If we are particularly lucky, we'll find housing in St. Andrews. I'm working to get past the fact that many of the ancestors of the students at St. Andrews oppressed my ancestors, focusing instead on the beautiful ruins of the Cathedral. Apparently I won't be able to swing a cat without hitting some historical building that's been around longer than my country. This is not a new feeling. When Miguel and I are in Spain, we regularly end up in cafes that have been around since the early 19th century. I've never lived that close to history, however. Well, not since those five weeks in Florence. And even with all those weeks, I never felt like I had managed to take it all in. Maybe with 5 years instead of 5 weeks, I'll be able to really experience St. Andrews.

Beyond the ruins, although, what I'm looking forward in Scotland is really what I love doing here in Canada, but in a new, more exotic (snicker all you want) locations. Hiking in the Rockies was amazing, but hiking the Highlands? And Fife apparently has half-decent cycle paths, which means that Miguel and I can jump on our bikes, ride for a few hours, have lunch beside the ruins of a castle, and be home in time for dinner. Or tea. Well, whatever it's called.

And although everyone keeps warning me about the damp and the cold, I'm really not all that concerned. I just spent six years living on the Canadian prairie. I walked from the University to Grosvenor Park in the blizzard. I've survived -50ºC. The cold? Bah! No danger of frostbite, no concern from this canuck. And the damp? Well, that's what has me quite excited about moving to St. Andrews. I spent the first seven years of my life on the north end of Vancouver Island, in a little logging town on the edge of the Strait of Georgia. Yet there were weeks where no one saw the islands just off the shore on account of the fog. The foghorn doubled as my alarm clock most days. And the rain. The wind would come howling in and the rain would fall at a 45º angle. Umbrellas were useless. Industrial rain gear was the only thing that worked. We'd have one or two warmish days in the summer, the dads would set up a PVC drainage pipe (sawn in half) into a wading pool. Our waterslide. In the winters, heavy snow would fall, our neighbour would bring out his machete and make igloo blocks. And in the spring and fall, simply because they could, bears and the occasional cougar would wander through the village.

Even though St. Andrews has no cougars or bears, I still feel like the climate will be all too familiar. The big shock will be the culture. The food, the people, the language, the customs. All that driving on the other side of the road business.

And the deep-fried Mars bars.

nostalgeria

2011-03-01T06:39:00.000Z

Today's soundtrack:
The King of Limbs by Radiohead

Kristen's comment on the last post got me thinking about things that I'm bound to miss once we move to Scotland. Not to get pre-nostalgic about Canada or to put unreasonably low expectations on St. Andrews, but she does make an excellent, if not altogether terrifying, point. The absence of good showers aside, I've traveled outside of Canada enough to know that there are some aspects that I miss when I'm away in Spain. It's not necessarily a longing for things or people, but for a place.

After all, it's hard to put my finger on what exactly it is about a prairie winter that I'll miss. The -37ºC windchill? The black ice? Even now, when the days are getting longer and the cabin fever is receding, I can't look out at a snowy morning and not smile. Coffee cup in hand, watching the snow fall and the inevitable quiet that follows. Margaret Atwood is right. The Canadian narrative is about survival, and there's really nothing that makes me feel as though I could look my homesteading ancestors in the eye than when I come out the other end of a particularly miserable snowstorm.

And then there are the mountains. Hiking through the Rockies the other year, the Romantic concept of sublime hit on a much deeper, less intellectual level than it had in university. It's not the size, or the colours, or the meandering goat paths, but put all together... and it still doesn't come close. The only way I can think to describe the Rockies is in a way that only two gentle readers of this blog will understand. Walking through the Rockies, up at Lake Louise and Sulphur Mountain, was like walking down the street, looking up, and realizing that I'm standing in front of the Duomo. That weak-in-the-knees overwhelming sense of place.

I can't leave off the cedars. That smell in the air when the cedars have been sun-blasted all afternoon. I don't remember ever walking through it, only driving past it on the way to Victoria, but Goldstream Park, with all the Spanish Moss hanging off the branches, always looked so impossibly green. Every conceivable shade. And even though the sun had been on the cedars all day, there was still that little bit of ferndamp as you walk through, leaving dark streaks on your pants. Or so I imagine.

So I could quip humorously (ideally) about how I'm going to miss double-paned windows and rain-free days, but the snow has been falling all day, I've got a cup of tea in my hand, and I'm remembering all the prairie winters and Rocky Mountain hikes I'll miss.

"just love great lakes"

2011-02-26T09:27:00.004Z

Today's soundtrack:
"Changes" by Stars
"My Friends Are All Assholes" by Male Nurse
"Great Lakes" by Harlan Pepper

It's only a few more weeks now and Miguel and I will be packing up our few possessions, catching a plane, and setting up house in St. Andrews, Scotland. Or not. It's completely possible that we'll be living under a bridge in St. Andrews. Just one of the many loose ends that have yet to be tied up. Although, it's not like I haven't been busy preparing for the move. I've been very busy, just not with anything that is on our never-ending list of things that must be done so we can move. Instead, I've been occupied with what I refer to as my Scottish Preparedness Kit.

Item #1: Mini-eggs. Oh yes, mini-eggs. They come in a near kilogram resealable bag, you know. Although, for the life of me I don't know why the bag is resealable. I've convinced myself that mini-eggs don't exist in Scotland and, therefore, I must eat as many as humanly possible during this Easter season.

Item #2: A hap blanket. Thick, woolly, and traditionally Scottish, I started knitting this wee blanket after we decided to move to Scotland. I theorized that by knitting a hap blanket that I would acclimatize to Scotland all the faster. I think it's working. Did you notice my use of the term "wee"?

Item #3: CBC Radio 3. Specifically, my brand-spanking new CBC Radio 3 toque (complete with pom-pom) which will assert both my Canadianness and my Indie-cred to all and sundry. Of course, my Doctor Who scarf will cancel out any toque-acquired Indie-cred with its overbearing geekiness.

Item #4: Doctor Who. I'm becoming more and more conversant in the most British and popular sci-fi television programme. While it's very helpful to know what the Fourth and Bountiful Human Empire will be like, Doctor Who is a little less helpful on life in 21st century East Scotland.

Item #5: Burnistoun. A Scottish sketch comedy show, this programme would be undeniably helpful in understanding life in 21st century Scotland if only I could understand what they were saying.

So clearly I'm ready for the move. We still have to organize the movers, the flights, where we're going to live and what we're going to take, and the hundreds of little things that are on our never-ending list... but other than that I'm completely ready.

Unless, of course, I've forgotten something. Is anything missing from my Scottish Preparedness Kit, gentle reader?

tapas

2010-12-31T12:26:00.002Z

Today's soundtrack:
Whatever is playing in the internet cafe at the moment.

What follows is a smattering of interesting facts, never before revealed, about life in Madrid.

- Papa Noel lives in the Madrid Metro.
In Linea 5, if I'm not mistaken. There was an adorable little 3 year old, mouth gapping open, at the sight of a 60 year old man, white beard and hair. "Papá, es Papá Noel," he whispered to his dad. I suppose the old man was used to it, because as the kid and his dad got up to leave, the old man gave the kid a wee card with a calender on it.

- The 10 metre sprint.
And speaking of the metro, there are intricacies to how one is supposed to behave when riding the train. For example, you should not sway in large circles, haphazardly, crashing into the backs and sides of everyone around you. I'm looking at you, annoying drunken man from Linea 1 last night. As a rule, everyone is grumpy on the metro. There is no smiling. Not even drunk, swaying guy was smiling. There is, however, an exception. If you are coming down the last flight of stairs, and you start to hear that familiar hum of the train coming into the station, followed by a herd of passangers moving towards the escalator, and you start to run in the usually vain hope that you'll make it to the doors before the beep, and by some miracle, you make it onto the train, then - and only then - are you allowed to smile broadly to all around. NB: If the train is full, smiling even under these conditions means that no one will give up their seat for you, because by running, you've only made the train more crowded. You jerk.

- December 23rd is National Health Awareness Day.
There is a lottery here called El Gordo. The prizes are usually pretty big and numerous, and Spaniards spend a few hours on the morning of the 23rd watching the parade of orphans/schoolchildren singing out the lucky numbers. By around 10:30am, El Gordo (the big prize) has been given out, and thus begins National Health Awareness Day. Every conversation you will overhear for the rest of the day will read as follows: "No, no, I didn't win a thing. But you know, the most important thing is that I have my health".

- How to survive your wife's diet.
As witnessed this morning, an older man came out of the butcher shop, carefully opened the bag of finely-sliced serrano ham, shoved as many pieces into his mouth as he could fit, then he closed the bag and walked home. How else can one survive the post-Christmas diet?

Happy New Year. ¡Feliz Año Nuevo!

is that snow?

2010-10-31T18:22:00.004Z

Today's soundtrack:
"Underwhelmed" by Sloan

In honour of the upcoming holidays, a Christmas Stocking pattern:

Inspired by striped pattern of jennieowen’s “George and Celia’s Stockings,” (Ravelry Link) I created this modest-sized stocking. Knit in the round with worsted weight yarn, this stocking can be easily completed within 2 days. Furthermore, as this pattern does not require complete skeins of Cascade 220, this stocking makes an excellent stashbuster.

The stripes allow for a degree of customization. Stick with the traditional holiday colours, or pick your own favourite colours, your favourite Doctor’s scarf, or your favourite team’s colours (which, when paired with a green or red CC1, will look surprisingly festive).

This pattern assumes familiarity with using DPNs, sock construction, and knitting terminology, and is suitable for an advanced beginner.

Yarn: Cascade 220 or another worsted weight yarn
CC1: cuff, heel, and toe, approx. 60-90 yards.
CC2: name background, approx. 30-50 yards.
MC1: main body stripes, approx 110-130 yards.
MC2: main body stripes, approx 110-130 yards.
Needle: US 7 / 4.5mm
Gauge: 10 sts / 14 rows = 2”/5cm in st st worked in the round.
Measurements: 16”/41cm leg (inc. heel), 9 ¼”/23.5cm foot (inc. heel).
Abbreviations:
K = knit P = purl
PU = pick up and knit Sl 1 pwise = slip 1 st purlwise
st(s) = stitch(es) MC1 = main colour 1
MC2 = main colour 2 CC1 = contrast colour 1
CC2 = contrast colour 2 p2tog = purl 2 sts together
k2tog = knit 2 sts together ssk = slip, slip, knit
st st = stockinette stitch rep = repeat

Note: In order to reduce the number of ends to weave in, catch the non-working MC yarn behind the working MC every few rows. Also, if you’re not using intarsia or fairisle to insert names into the white space (CC2) between the cuff and the beginning of the striped pattern names can be embroidered, duplicate-stitched, etc, later on. Or, you can also leave it blank.

Leg:
CO 56 sts in CC1. Work 6 rnds in 2x2 ribbing. Switch to CC2, k all for 14 rnds. *Switch to MC1, k 7 rnds. Switch to MC2, k 7 rnds. Rep from * 3 more times. For a long stocking, rep more than 3 times.

Heel:
Switch to CC1, cut both MC1 and MC2. Work heel and heel turn in CC1 as follows: k14, turn, sl 1, p27.
Row 1: sl 1 pwise, k to end.
Row 2: sl 1 pwise, p to end.
Rep these 2 rows until 28 rows have been worked, ending with a WS row.

Turn heel:
Row 1: k16, ssk, k1, turn.
Row 2: sl 1, p5, p2tog, p1, turn.
Row 3: sl 1, k to 1 st before gap, ssk, k1, turn.
Row 4: sl 1, p to 1 st before gap, p2tog, p1, turn.
Rep rows 3 and 4 until all sts have been worked. 16 sts remain. Cut CC1.

Gusset:
With MC1, k across all heel sts, PU 15 sts, k across held sts, PU 15 sts, k across first 8 sts of heel. Needles #1 and #4 will have 23 sts each, and needles #2 and #3 will have 14 sts each. Keeping stripe pattern as established on leg, work gusset as follows:
Rnd 1: On needle 1, k to last 3 sts, k2tog, k1; k across all instep sts on needles 2 and 3; on needle 4, k1, ssk, k to end.
Rnd 2: K all.
Rep these 2 rounds until 14 sts remain on each needle 1 and 4.

Work in stripe pattern until 2nd MC2 stripe is completed. You will have a total of 4 stripes since the heel. For a longer foot, simply repeat the stripe pattern.

Toe:
Switch to CC1, cut MC1 and MC2.
Rnd 1: Needle 1, k to last 3 sts, k2tog, k1; on needle 2, k1, ssk, k to end; on needle 3, k to last 3 sts, k2tog, k1; needle 4, k1, ssk, k to end.
Rnd 2: K all.
Rep 2 rnds until only 28 sts remain (7 on each needle). Rep rnd 1 until only 8 sts remain (2 on each needle). Graft remaining stitches. Weave in ends and tighten up possible holes at the gusset.

Loop:
Using one strand from each colour, make a twisted cord and attach to the heelside of the cuff.

yarn therapy

2010-03-10T03:05:00.004Z

Today's soundtrack:
"Drifter's Raus" by Joel Plaskett
"Rollin', Rollin', Rollin'" by Joel Plaskett
"Mourning Air" by Portishead

There are very few people in the world that can truly comprehend the seemingly endless slog of writing a dissertation. Now, any dissertation is difficult, but an English dissertation is a whole new level of insanity. There's no experiments or case studies. Just the books, pamphlets, and texts, and the narrative you construct to link them all together. It's not something that can be finished in a month or two. It is, at the very least, a year-long process. So every morning I make a pot of coffee, nestle myself in front of my computer and amongst my books, and do my damnedest to eek out another page or two of text. Somedays are wonderful. Somedays I not only get a fair bit of reading done, but also manage to effortlessly write five or more pages. Other days, however, are less fun.

This would be one of those days.

Now, don't get me wrong. The whole Ph.D process, while clearly designed for those with - at the very least - a penchant for masochism, has been really quite lovely. After all, I get paid to read, think, and write. And honestly, how hard could that really be?

Answer: Really freaking hard.

So on such days I reach for my knitting needles. Thankfully, with the deluge of babies in the past year, I've no shortage of wee ones to knit for. On the needles right now is Baby Chalice Blanket (Rav Link) in Lorna's Laces Shepherd Worsted "Midway".

The blanket is for the soon-to-be wee one of two of Miguel's friends back in Spain. And let's face it, when I hear that another baby is on the way, I can't stop myself from making blanket after hat after cardigan after socks... It's seems I'm of the firm belief that every baby that I come into contact with should be swimming in hand knits. And you'd think that by now I'd have a nice little stash of baby clothes for my inevitable kids. Not so much. Everything I've made baby-wise has been snatched up by parents who have made real use of my hand knits. A cable cardigan I made for Miguel's Dutch friends' baby boy finally had to be put away when it was completely outgrown (but not worn out, as to be ready for the next wee one). The first version of the Baby Chalice Blanket is being used to help cart my nephew all over Madrid.

And really, nothing could make me happier. Well, maybe another page or two on the dissertation...

the hill times

2009-11-14T23:05:00.008Z

Today's soundtrack:
"A Plea From a Cat Named Virtute" by The Weakerthans
"We Suck Young Blood (Your Time Is Up)" by Radiohead
"Brandy Alexander" by Feist

Last week, I went to Ottawa for a conference. I delivered my Tristram Shandy paper first thing in the morning on November 5th, which also happens to be Tristram Shandy's birthday. That reference probably escapes the majority of you. Savages. In fact, you folks probably only know "Remember, remember the fifth of November" from a) V for Vendetta or b) "The Hollow Men" by T.S. Eliot. My money's on the former. Conveniently enough, Parliament was right down the street from the conference hotel, but since no one had a stick of dynamite, we contented ourselves by drinking to Tristram Shandy's health. Shockingly, I didn't get to the Hill until the last day of the conference.

I took the afternoon off and set off with my camera to do the tourist thing. First stop, Parliament.

I went up the Peace Tower with an elevator full of Mexican university students who'd escaped Montreal for the weekend with their parents, who were visiting. It's odd, but it really feels like I speak more Spanish than English when traveling in Canada. Contrary to Lou Dobbs, I happen to think this is a rather lovely development.

After the Peace Tower, I went on the free tour of the building. After reminding the tour guide that Borden was our other wartime prime minister, I pressed my nose up against the windows as I looked into the House of Commons (the Opposition side, naturally). I half-expected to see paper airplanes and spitballs discarded under the chairs, but I imagine they get cleaned up after every Question Period.

The Library, which was the next stop, was the most impressive part of the tour. It's the only part of Parliament that didn't burn down, which is amazing when you consider that it's all wood and paper. The floors, the woodwork, the stacks and stacks of books left me speechless. I wanted to jump the barrier and dig into the card catalogue, but the security guard looked formidable, so I resigned myself to taking an obscene amount of photos and contemplating my chances of winning a seat in the House so that I could (legally) wander through the stacks.

The Senate, which has never held much appeal or interest, was nice enough. What made me giggle, however, is the stained glass ceiling in the foyer in front of the Senate. The first few Senate Speakers had their names up there, but eventually, one of the Speakers decided that this practice would soon run out of space, so he put up a panel for himself and all future Senate Speakers.

Now, this should translate to "somebody," which in itself is typical of Canadian understatedness, however a closer look of the French reveals a deeper problem. It should be "Quelqu'un". They misspelled the French, which, if I'm not mistaken, is also typically Canadian.

After Parliament, I walked over to the Byward Market, which is really just a bunch of restaurants. And restaurants aren't nearly as much fun when you're exploring on your own. So I hit a nearby Starbucks and wandered the Rideau Canal with coffee in hand.

The Canal is actually a lot narrow and shallower than I thought it'd be. It's actually quite quaint.

The stairs from the Canal lead right up to the War Memorial, which was next on my list. In the middle of an intersection (a very European location, I must say) there is a great space given over to the Memorial and a little plaza in front.

There was an older gentleman standing in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, looking quite morose. I kept my distance, taking photos of the monument itself. After he'd moved off, I noticed he'd slipped a photo of (I assume) a fallen Canadian soldier from the War in Afghanistan. I moved off a bit, down the steps, and watched in near-horror as a group of 20-something giddy Canadians laughed and posed in front of the memorial for pictures. Shaking his head, the older man left and I walked back towards the conference hotel.

glowsticks for everyone!

2009-10-28T18:18:00.003Z

Today's soundtrack:
"Porcelain" by Moby
"15 Step" by Radiohead
"Stay With Me" by Spiritualized
"Hotel Song" by Regina Spektor

This past week has been a bizarre trip back to the '90s. It started with the serendipitous finding of the sister of my childhood best friend on Facebook. Don't get me wrong - I still think Facebook is the devil, but it is undeniably useful in finding people (hence why it's the devil, but I digress). Through this sister (who happens to work at my favourite restaurant in Saskatoon - cue the X-Files music) I found out that things were pretty much as I feared regarding my childhood best friend. So I threw on some Nirvana, nostalgically thumbed through the few pictures I have of her, and tried to remember the early '90s. A completely futile and empty gesture, but when that's all that's left, what more can you do but remember the summer you helped to build the treehouse in the backyard? Or suntanned on the roof? Or the afternoon you spent at Woodgrove Mall before she completely disappeared?

The week was looking like a bad movie of the week until my new BFF won tickets to see Moby perform on campus. I brushed the early '90s aside in favour of the just-as-tumultuous-but-slightly-better-dressed late '90s. So off we went, surrounded by undergrads who believe this Moby guy has potential, mid-to-late (ahem) 20-somethings who hear Moby every time they open their high school yearbooks, and cougars who seemed to have brought their grey-haired husbands as some sort of back-up plan. We stood in the back (not a big fan of crowds since I somehow got stuck in a Foo Fighters moshpit) and people-watched. Well, more aptly, I'd saw we people-mocked. We mocked the girl with leggings and a fanny pack. We mocked the girls who firmly believe leggings ARE pants. We mocked the seemingly contagious dancing happening beside us. We mocked the heavy-set 30-something whose idea of dancing was spinning around in ever-narrowing circles, followed by some kind of Bollywood mash-up, beside the guy who looked like his dance abilities peaked with his Jolly Jumper. We mocked the cougars who believe that every 20-year old girl wears tight black tanktops and big hair.

And in between the mocking, we watched Moby, blue Moby, hair-light Moby, and this amazing woman who stole the show. Not that Moby is a very confident stage presence at all. The man is painfully awkward and hands most of the singing duties off to his bandmates. But this woman with her sunglasses would strut across the stage with a voice that forced me to stop people-mocking. During the encore, she and Moby did this amazing call-and-answer routine that made me wish I had experienced rave culture firsthand back in the '90s. Silly me, wasting my time with books and obeying my parents when I could have been dancing until 6am! Glowsticks for everyone!

I explained my lack of raveness to the Spaniard when I got home that night and he seemed quite aghast that I'd never been to, as he put it, "a disco". First of all, how wonderful is it that it's still called a disco in Spain? I envision a line of John Travoltas dancing to bad '70s music, but with glowsticks. Next time I'm in Madrid, I'm going to go to one of these discos that doesn't close down until sunrise and dance until my feet bleed.

And glowsticks. There better be glowsticks.

mountaineering

2009-10-03T19:25:00.019+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Begin to Hope by Regina Spektor
Buena Vista Social Club by Buena Vista Social Club
Viva la Vida by Coldplay

On Wednesday, the Spaniard and I rented a car and drove into the Rockies for a midweek mini-break. We had decided to stay at the Chateau Lake Louise, as Miguel had gotten a ridiculously good deal and we just couldn't say no. Mountainview hotel room for $139? Sure, why not? Who needs a view of the lake anyway? So we threw our clothes in the trunk, quickly burned a few cds, charged up our cameras and took off.

Since we couldn't check into the hotel until 4pm, we decided to spend Wednesday meandering about the Rockies, slowly and leisurely making our way to Lake Louise. We stopped in Banff and had a quick lunch at Subway (even though we were staying at Chateau Lake Louise, we were on a budget. We're students, after all) before driving to Sulphur Mountain. This is where the Banff Gondolas are, where you can ride all the way to the top of the mountain, enjoy the view, and ride back down before your Starbucks coffee gets cold. Being on a budget, however, we decided that the $24 per person ride just wasn't worth it (also, I am rather terrified of heights). Besides, why be lazy and take a gondola up when you can hike up the mountain! What's 5.8km and a vertical climb of 655m? The guidebook says it only takes about 2 hours each way. It'll be like a walk around Westwood Lake.

Within a few hundred meters of the beginning of the trail, I was already cursing Miguel. Whose brilliant idea was this anyway? At 1/4 of the way up and I'm sweating, panting, and seriously considering turning around. And just when I'm about ready to pack it in, this view erupts in front of us.

Okay, maybe we'll keep going. By the time we were 3/4 of the way, I understood why people took the gondola, but Miguel reminded me that the fellow who lived in the weather station at the top of the mountain would hike this trail everyday. Well, if a Brit could do it...

When we reached the top in 1 hour 30 minutes, I felt like I'd just climbed Mount Everest. I am Kate, Mountaineer. I was feeling very proud of myself. We hiked over to the weather station, from which the view is amazing, and back to the top of the gondola station. As we climbed a small flight of stairs, I felt as though my legs were about to fall off. I, quite literally, could not walk another step. All illusions of a future career as a world famous mountaineer disappeared as we hobbled towards the gondolas. What was normally a $12 one-way trip was free because the ticket agent wasn't working that day, so we hopped on a gondola and rode down the mountain. And while it was a lovely view from the gondola, it goes by so quickly that there is no real opportunity to soak it all in. Although my hip was screaming at me that night and the next day, the hike up Sulphur Mountain was worth it.

We arrived at Lake Louise and checked into our hotel, surrounded by young men in green Swiss mountain guide outfits. Turns out that's their uniform. We, to our great surprise, were put into a lakeview room on the 8th floor. The walls on one side slant in a bit on account of the gables and we had the most amazing view of the lake. In short, we couldn't have had a better view if we'd paid $500 a night. We snickered at those folks who did.

The next day, with my hip screaming at me, we were determined to hike the Plain of Six Glaciers, which is 14.2km roundtrip and a vertical climb of around 365m. Miguel, having visiting Lake Louise before, had hiked the Big Beehive and over to the Lake Agnes Teahouse, wanted to see the Victoria Glacier and the other teahouse. I had no real interest in heading to Lake Agnes, as it seemed like everyone went there. The trail is marked easy, after all. The Plain of Six Glaciers, however, is labeled "strenuous, steep sections". Excellent. We left at noon, pack filled with snacks, and started our trek with very few folks nearby. The trail was not busy, although we rarely went an hour without seeing someone. For the best, probably, as I spotted bear droppings in two places - not more than a day or two old - so the more people on the trail, the better.

The views from the trail were amazing. Rockfalls, glaciers, peaks, and rose quartz cliffs meant that we stopped pretty frequently for pictures.

At the teahouse, we scarfed down tuna salad sandwiches and lemonade. The teahouse itself is staffed by lovely folks who live in the cabins nearby for 5 days at a time, then hike down at the crew change. Afterwards, they hike back up with a full pack of supplies for the teahouse. What took us an hour and a half takes them an hour or less - with a full pack. There's no electricity and everything is cooked and heated by propane stoves and lamps. Essentially, they are camping in one of the most beautiful places in the world. Nice work if you can get it.

After lunch, we hiked out to the Abbott Lookout. What was a nice path turned into a goat path (all I could think of was when Lady J and I were lost in Cinque Terre), and then into a shale, rocky goat path. Summoning the little courage I had, I followed Miguel up this narrow goat path on top of a pile of rocks which overlooked a steep fall onto a glacier (and death) on one side and a less steep fall onto jagged rocks (and serious injury) on the other side. The filling of pants was worth it, though, when we reached the very end of the path and had this amazing view of the Victoria Glacier coming down the mountain. We couldn't see the little cabin, though. The very cold, very strong wind off of the Glacier sent us back down the mountain and towards the teahouse after only a few minutes.

My very fancy wool sweater actually kept me very warm up on the Lookout. Other folks (mainly Germans), with their fancy mountaineering clothes, rushed back shivering. Thank you, Elizabeth Zimmerman.

The way back was slower, as by this point my knee was hurting from compensating for my wonky hip. Miguel borrowed my Warmest Mittens, as his hands were freezing, and liked them so much that I'm now knitting him a pair to match his fancy orange scarf. At about 4:30 in the afternoon, we arrived back at the Chateau, jumped into our swimsuits and headed down to the steam room to warm up and rest our weary bones. After an amazing dinner and dessert in the Lounge, we headed back to our room and watched a Ken Burns documentary on the National Parks in the States. I'm already mentally planning our next hiking trip in the Rockies.

The next morning - our last morning there - we woke up to snow and fog. The other end of the lake wasn't even visible. Worrying about the roads, we left earlier (much to Miguel's chagrin) to avoid snow and ice. We stopped in Canmore for lunch and wandered around the downtown. I even managed to accidently stumble across a yarn store - Knit and Caboodle - but managed not to buy anything. Shocking, I know.

Today, being Saturday, we are no longer on vacation, although we have not yet had showers or moved from the futon. Miguel is reading Norwegian Wood and Regina Spektor is on the stereo. Maybe one more day of vacation wouldn't kill us...

no virginia, that wasn't vanilla ice

2009-09-28T02:35:00.002+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Cheap and Cheerful" by The Kills
"Raygun" by Matthew Good Band

I can barely keep my head up today. It's probably for the best. Sleeping last night was a bit dodgy, as the bed didn't stop spinning until about 9 this morning. My head was made of glass until about noon, when I crawled out of my bed, staggered to the futon, and collapsed. What was the cause of these insults to my delicate constitution?

We christened our apartment last night.

No, not in that way. Pervert. Get your head out of the gutter. We christened it in that we finally had a big party. There's nothing like squeezing 20 people into a tiny room and plying them with beer to make a house feel like a home. Even though we didn't get to do any knitting, I did manage to tell the Canada Research Chair that he was wasting his potential in Computer Science. The looks of absolute horror on the faces of his grad students was all the entertainment I needed. I'm still giggling. It's always good when the faculty has a sense of humour.

In that way, this group is a lot like the HCI crew at the U of S. Sure, there was no one singing in a bad British accent to "Wonderwall" while playing Rock Band, but we did have a good time making Miguel paranoid... although for the life of me, I can't quite remember what we were making him paranoid about. I met more knitters and crocheters, one of whom is now my new BFF (poor girl), and no one complained about the Radiohead-heavy music selection.

However, it's just not quite the same as Saskatoon. First of all, Alberta folk are drinking lightweights. They'd never make it through a Bunker Party. Secondly, all of these people work together professionally, so there isn't the complete and utter disregard for propriety. Also, no one got folded into the futon.

That being said, my new BFF and her lovely although tragically illiterate boyfriend (I mean, honestly, who pronounces Z "zee"?!) didn't leave until after 2am, I'm pretty sure nobody got sick in our bathroom, and the neighbours didn't call the cops. So all in all, a successful night. Once we get these Calgary folk trained up a bit, they should pass for half-decent Saskatoonians... Saskatooners... Saskatoonis?

we now return you to your regularly scheduled programming

2009-09-12T19:00:00.004+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Begin to Hope by Regina Spektor

First, we've had a bit of a summer. Between weddings, last minute moves to other cities, and seemingly endless days spent hovering over a blank page on my computer, I've completely forgotten both about this blog and my summer list. So let's see how I did:

- Read Wuthering Heights, The Sea, Niebla, The Idiot, Leaves of Grass, Norwegian Wood and The Rainbow. Also, I want to finish Possession and re-read The Divine Comedy. Hmm, that's a somewhat pretentious list, no? Well, you can just suck it, Stephanie Meyer.

Well, I did finish Possession. I also read Wuthering Heights, The Sea, Norwegian Wood and am mostly through The Rainbow. Possession was everything I'd been lead to believe it was. Essentially, a lit student's wet dream. It was fantastic and had references to my comp's reading list almost every chapter. And here I thought I never come across a textual reference to Roderick Random. Wuthering Heights and The Sea should always be read together, especially since it's impossible to understand the depth of the main character's suffering in The Sea and that moment he lashes out, screaming in anger at his dead wife, without having read Heathcliff's shouting out over the moors. I so thoroughly enjoyed these two books that they are now on my Top 5 list of the greatest books I've ever read (along with Dante, Austen, and Sterne).

Murakami, on the other hand, was a complete and utter disappointment after Brontë and Banville. Self-indulgent and repetitive. Nothing shocking or out of the ordinary. Dare I say it? It was boring... although perhaps not as boring as I've heard Atonement is. As for the other books, well I didn't get around to them this summer. In fact, I bought more books (Headline: Kate bought books - Moon also not made of cheese) that may supplant the rest of the books on my list: Don Quixote (in English translation), Not Wanted on the Voyage and The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.

- Go quasi-vegetarian for the summer. Why only quasi? Because giving up eggs, cheese, and milk is just not going to happen people. Also, I might sneak the odd bit of fish. But no red or white meat.

Done.

- Make my Ravelry queue, which is finally down to a reasonable size. At the very least, I want to have my Christmas knitting done by the end of August.

Would be done if people would keep their legs together for 5 minutes. I mean, Jesus Murphy people, give a knitter a break!

- Swim continuously for at least 45 minutes, twice a week. That means no more than a 30 second pause to grab water or a flipboard.

Okay, so that didn't happen. I did, however, perfect the fine art of deck slugging up at the Lake. And that takes some serious training and intensive practice.

- Finish a chapter of my dissertation.

Ha! Who was I kidding?

- Be less antisocial.

Only if people stop being idiots.

- Meet Lady J for a day-long coffee.

This only happened once, which makes me sad; however, Lady J was very busy and important with various wedding duties. I reinterate: This is why we eloped!

- Drink a beer at sunset on the roof of the Yard. Drink a beer at sunset at the Lake.

Didn't get up to the Yard for a beer, but did get to the Lake. Besides, there's always next year.

All in all, a nice and relaxing summer to help me recover from the burnout of field exams. As I'm feeling almost sane again, it's obviously time to begin work again in earnest. This time, however, in Calgary - a city which I am extremely ambivalent about. Sure, there's mass transit and an Ikea (woot!), but there's also Hummers and conspicuous consumption of every variety. I've never seen such pretension or entitlement as I've seen walking around the U of C campus. This student body is far removed from the farm kids of U of S and the hippies of Mal U/C. In truth, what this city reminds me of most is my high school, where if you didn't have name brand this and that, you just weren't worth the air you were sucking in.

But it's two years at the most and we're out of here. Away from steaks at every meal, 3 cars in every garage, and Louis Vuitton on every arm. It's true what Peter said in Florence: Too much love and too much money ruins everything.

phew, for a minute there i lost myself

2009-06-22T16:59:00.005+01:00

Today's soundrack:
"Karma Police" by Radiohead
"Testify" by Rage Against the Machine
"All Along the Watchtower" by Jimi Hendrix

This is what you'll get when you mess with us:

This is footage from Sunday, June 21st, showing a protest successfully forcing the Basij to back off in defeat.

Not all protests are successful, however. The rally that was planned to honour the memory of Neda was blocked and scattered by the Basij and riot police for the main reason that can public mourning is an incredibly powerful force for change in Iran. For a primer as to the importance of mourning rituals in Iran, see Robin Wright's article in Time. One of the Ayatollahs has called for 3 days of public mourning for the murdered protesters beginning June 24th. However, according to Iranbaan, as reported by Sullivan, there are reports of upwards of 2000 riot police and paramilitaries camped out in Lelah Park, a clear positioning to allow for the effective quashing of any and all protests and public mournings.

In response to the continued aggression and brutality of the regime, Iranians are preparing for a national strike in an attempt to cripple the government (such as it is). This, combined with the unconfirmed report that 40 out of the 86 leading clerics on the Guardian Council have called for the nullification of the election results, could do much to advance the protesters cause in the coming week.

If you haven't written a letter through Amnesty International, contacted your foreign minister, or taken to the streets in protest, please consider doing so. The protesters need to know they're not alone. At the moment, according to "Iran expert Jason Rezaian, who just left Iran, says that given the media blackout protesters 'feel like they're in this alone'" (Sullivan's Twitter Round-Up, Day 10).

The hour is getting late.

if you tolerate this, then your children will be next

2009-06-21T19:02:00.014+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"If You Tolerate This Then Your Children Will Be Next" by Manic Street Preachers
"Knockin' On Heaven's Door" by Bob Dylan
"Shed a Little Light" by James Taylor
"2+2=5 (The Lukewarm)" by Radiohead
"Justicia, Tierra y Libertad" by Maná
"Sunday Bloody Sunday" by U2

This is video - a short video - that has been posted to the live blogs I've been following. It's of a young girl named Neda who was standing by the roadside in Tehran, watching the protests with her father. She wasn't protesting herself. She was just standing there and bearing witness. She was shot through the heart by a Basij for watching the protest. The voice you hear is her father, who had been standing beside her.

Graphic is an inadequate word to describe this video of the last moments of Neda's life.

A Huffpo reader sent in the transcript. This is what Neda's father said:

"Neda, don't be afraid. Neda, don't be afraid. (There is yelling and screaming.) Neda, stay with me. Neda stay with me!"

Andrew Sullivan, whose blog on the Atlantic I've been following, posted this email that he received explaining the video:

"At 19:05 June 20th Place: Karekar Ave., at the corner crossing Khosravi St. and Salehi st. A young woman who was standing aside with her father watching the protests was shot by a basij member hiding on the rooftop of a civilian house. He had clear shot at the girl and could not miss her. However, he aimed straight her heart.

I am a doctor, so I rushed to try to save her. But the impact of the gunshot was so fierce that the bullet had blasted inside the victim's chest, and she died in less than 2 minutes. The protests were going on about 1 kilometers away in the main street and some of the protesting crowd were running from tear gass used among them, towards Salehi St.

The film is shot by my friend who was standing beside me. Please let the world know."

Bear witness:

amnesty international canada: Send a letter to the Government of Iran (such as it is) and please consider donating to keep the Urgent Action Network viable. Let the Iranian Government know that the world is watching.

Consider writing to your own governments asking them to open their embassies in Tehran, Iran, to help the wounded (if the wounded protesters go to hospitals, they are arrested). If your country's embassy has already opened its doors, thank them. Note: There are reports of the Basij blocking the entrances to the embassies. At the moment, the Canadian Embassy is not accepting wounded protesters. Email the Canadian Embassy in Tehran at tehran@international.gc.ca and Lawrence Cannon, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, at CannoL@parl.gc.ca to help change that. Ask them - politely - to open the embassy to accept wounded Iranians whose only crime is protesting for their rights.

Get out and show your support for the Iranian community in your city, courtesy of those helpful folks at Anonymous. The Spaniard and I hit the Calgary rally the other day (photos by Amir-Reza) and I was left speechless by the passion and the hope within the Persian community.

At the very least follow the work being done by Atlantic's Andrew Sullivan and Huffpo's Nico Pitney.

Also, check out fellow Raveler and revolutionary Burrow's blog for some fascinating insights into Iran, both before the protests and now. She has links up for how to make your computer into a proxy for the folks in Iran, as well as solid commentary on the events themselves.

tonight, in iran

2009-06-15T06:48:00.006+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Rise Up With Fists!!" by Jenny Lewis and the Twins

I've been following the coverage of the Iranian elections somewhat religiously since my internet was gloriously restored to me the other day. I don't know why exactly this particular revolt strikes a cord with me. I'm not Persian. I have no friends that are Persian. I don't know anybody in Iran. So it's clearly not the fact that this is happening particularly in Iran that has my interest. It's that were the situations reversed and I were in a country where the elections were stolen, I'd be doing the same thing as the thousands of Iranians students who have taken to the streets in protest.

The coverage on Huffpo was difficult to watch - especially the beating of women in the streets -, but it wasn't until the coverage of the police attacks on the universities that I felt my guts tying themselves into knots. Rubber bullets and riot police tearing through the dorms in search of any students, because students (as we all know) are the real shit disturbers. Faculty have resigned in protest of the elections and the students have taken to the streets. Thousands are marching... but over a hundred have been arrested.

Once they're arrested, they enter a no-man's land as far as the media is concerned. We don't really know what happens there. We can imagine, sure. The disappearances in Argentina aren't so far out of the collective memory of the world. However, thanks to a Canadian journalist who was "mistakenly" arrested, I now have a clearer picture of just what those protesting students face:

Inside a concrete room to my left, I could see more than 50 others being made to stand in uncomfortable positions – on their toes with their hands pressed behind their heads. Some were covered in blood, and police with batons patrolled the rows, tapping some detainees on the shoulders with their sticks. There was no screaming, just the sound of boots pacing on the concrete floor.

Tonight, while I lay in my bed beside Miguel, there are hundreds of protesters in Iran who are being tortured merely for marching for their human rights. You try sleeping soundly.

did i mention?

2009-06-03T21:59:00.005+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Whatever what playing at the party last night.

Well, it's done and I've passed. Now I'm trying to recover from a rather miserable hangover, organize our move, prepare an abstract, and figure out just what my stomach wants to eat today. It's the last item that I think will give me the most trouble today.

the list

2009-05-22T05:53:00.005+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"La Vida es un Ratico" by Juanes
"Me Enamora" by Juanes

Another update? It's as though I suddenly have free time. I just don't know what do to with myself. I've phoned some of my friends up and harassed them and my parents will begin to screen my calls any minute now. I've organized the big house party we've been talking about for a while. I went swimming this morning (and then promptly realized that my favourite part of swimming is the lounging on the deck that happens afterwards) and even bought groceries. That's right, my cupboard now contains more than rice cakes and peanut butter.

I thought I might like to follow Lady J's example and make a 101 things in 1001 days list, but math has never been my strong suit so figuring out what day it'll be 1001 days from now is just too much for my rum-and-coked mind. Besides, 1001 days is a big commitment (which, I suppose is the point), so instead I'm going to make a list of what I want to accomplish this summer:

- Read Wuthering Heights, The Sea, Niebla, The Idiot, Leaves of Grass, Norwegian Wood and The Rainbow. Also, I want to finish Possession and re-read The Divine Comedy. Hmm, that's a somewhat pretentious list, no? Well, you can just suck it, Stephanie Meyer.

- Go quasi-vegetarian for the summer. Why only quasi? Because giving up eggs, cheese, and milk is just not going to happen people. Also, I might sneak the odd bit of fish. But no red or white meat.

- Make my Ravelry queue, which is finally down to a reasonable size. At the very least, I want to have my Christmas knitting done by the end of August.

- Swim continuously for at least 45 minutes, twice a week. That means no more than a 30 second pause to grab water or a flipboard.

- Finish a chapter of my dissertation.

- Be less antisocial.

- Meet Lady J for a day-long coffee.

- Drink a beer at sunset on the roof of the Yard. Drink a beer at sunset at the Lake.

I think that's a pretty good list for the summer, although I may only accomplish the last two goals. In the meantime, however, if anyone has another goal to suggest for the summer, please feel free.

survival of the fittest

2009-05-20T22:57:00.004+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Just the sound of pen on paper.

To paraphrase Lovelace, "The exam is over. Katherine lives".

exam bathous; or, the art of sinking in comps

2009-05-20T01:33:00.004+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Fantasies by Metric

Dear blog:

Yeah, it's been a bit hit and miss this year, hasn't it? The Saskatoon Knitting Circle hasn't seen me in months. Jason, whose birthday is today (Happy Birthday, Jason!), has religiously and very sweetly avoiding phoning me... although this may have something to do with me freaking out on the phone "I HAVE NO TIME TO TALK! THE FUTURE OF CIVILIZATION RESTS WITH MY FIELD EXAMS!" And I haven't had a good virtual coffee with the dear Lady J since the last time we actually had coffee. And the Spaniard? Last I heard, he was somewhere in Calgary, wondering who thought snow in May was a good idea. I spent most of April wondering if I was turning 27 or 28 in May (the answer: 27, so I feel like I gained a year) because all modern knowledge had been pushed completely out of my head. Sure, I don't know how old I am, but let me tell you about the evolution of the epic form in the Eighteenth Century...

But all this insanity is almost at an end.

I wrote the first half of my field exam today.

Sure, the moment I stood up from the exam I realized that the last question I answered revolved around the evolution of Sensibility, which of course my answer circled around without actually explicitly stating... but hopefully I can fix that during the oral examination. But enough about that.

Tomorrow, I'll have another three hours of writing, then a break until June 2nd, when I do the oral examination. Hopefully it'll go something like my thesis defense, when the whole procedure took two hours, but an hour and a half of that is full of the professors asking questions. And at the end, somebody got bingo.

In quasi-celebration, I ordered pizza, moved some boxes into the office (so that's where the dust bunnies were coming from), SWEPT MY FLOORS (this is news to those who know that cleanliness and... well... food has become a non-existent priority. I call it the field exam diet), and in a few minutes, will be drinking a rum and coke. Tomorrow? More pizza (okay, leftover pizza) and rum and cokes. And sleeping. Oh yes, sweet, glorious, undisturbed sleeping.

I think I've handled the whole thing well, and I write that fully aware that many women think they've handled menopause well, too. The only time I've broken down completely was on the phone with Daniela the other day when the stress had piled up to hyperbolic levels. She very wisely pretended not to notice. I'd love to say that in hindsight, all the stress wasn't logical, but it really was. Field exams, regardless of the fact that they are tailored for each candidate, are just as terrifying and difficult as you imagine. A breakdown is inevitable and maybe even useful (big fan of the catharsis am I).

Regardless, as of 4pm tomorrow, I'll be finished the most important test I'll ever write. At 4:01pm, the debauchery will be just beginning...

a vindication of the rights of readers

2009-05-14T21:40:00.004+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Pop is Dead" by Radiohead
"Piano Concerto K. 365" by Mozart, as performed by Vladimir Ashkenazy and the Philharmonia Orchestra

Those of you who know me in real life know of my disdain for Dan Brown. Some of you, who live with me, remember the obscenities shouted at the terrible writing and ridiculously misogynistic pseudo-feminism.

Today, I'm happy to report that I'm not the only one who thinks Dan Brown is a hack writer who deserves to be pilloried like Colley Cibber. Ladies and gentlemen, Stellan Starsgard.

Yeah, I don't know who he is either, but seeing as we agree on Dan Brown being the epitome of everything that is wrong with the literary scene today, I think I'll be imdb-stalking his movies from now on.

lockean humour

2009-04-29T22:07:00.005+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
The Hazards of Love by the Decemberists

I've been reading Adam Smith and John Locke for the past 24 hours, which is insanity in itself, but when I got to this passage, something odd happened:

This might with Justice be expected from those Men, who lay stress upon this Opinion: and it gives occasion to distrust either their Knowledge or Charity, who declaring, That God has imprinted on the Minds of Men, the foundations of Knowledge, and the Rules of Living, are yet so little favourable to the Information of their Neighbours, or the Quiet of Mankind, as not to point out to them, which they are, in the variety of Men are distracted with. But in truth, were there any such innate Principles, there would be no need to teach them. (Essay Concerning Human Understanding 76)

After reading this, I began to laugh hysterically. See, what it means is that if God was an innate idea, along with all his rules for living, there would be no need for churches to teach us about God because we'd already have that knowledge. Get it? It's hilarious!

So clearly one of two things have happened: Either I am completely ready to write my comps or I've lost my mind entirely. Any philosophy scholars out there want to make a case for Locke's wicked sense of humour?

I thought not. I'll be awaiting the men in white coats, then.

On a slightly saner note, Happy Birthday, Mom. If you could possibly let me know how old I am, that'd be helpful. I haven't been able to remember in a little over a month.

fear is the mind killer

2009-04-28T05:13:00.004+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Explodo 3

Have been re-reading V for Vendetta in a vain attempt to keep my sanity as I prepare for comps. Noticed that V quotes "And did those feet" by Blake early on in the text. Made my 18th-century day.

I have a pile of books beside my bed, books that I'll read once comps are over: Wuthering Heights by Anne Bronte, Divine Comedy by Dante (this is re-read), Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, and Don Quijote by Cervantes. I've been told that nothing beats the first time you read Wuthering Heights, which reminds me of what I was told about A Confederacy of Dunces. Turned out to be true. I still can't see a hot-dog stand without snickering. Between this list and the promise of a night of sheer debauchery to celebrate the end of comps, June might be one of the best months I've had in a while.

But back to Pepys, that wife-beating, lecherous ass, and a cold glass of Moosehead. Cheers.

are you now...

2009-04-10T00:13:00.003+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Battlestar Galactica

So I know I haven't been blogging a lot lately. Something to do with my upcoming comps. But every once and a while, I feel like I should crawl out from under my rock to see what's happening in the world. And then I see something like this that makes me want to crawl right back under. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the latest McCarthy incarnation, as reported by today's Huffington Post:

Not too long ago, Congresswoman Michele Bachmann was on Hardball, calling for the media to investigate her Congressional colleagues to "find out if they are pro-America or anti-America." Well, it turns out that someone has taken up Bachmann's call on a proactive basis! His name is Spencer Bachus and he has made a list -- a secret list! -- of the socialists in the House of Representatives. Or so he told the Birmingham News. Who are the seventeen socialists? That's the secret part, apparently.

From The Hill's Briefing Room:

Rep. Spencer Bachus (R-Ala.) puts the number of socialists in the House at 17.

"Some of the men and women I work with in Congress are socialists," Bachus told local government leaders on Thursday, according to the Birmingham News.

Bachus gave the specific number of House socialists when pressed later by a reporter.

Run! Hide! The socialist menace is upon us! Won't somebody think of the children?!

And back under my rock I go.

in which i agree with karl pilkington

2009-03-14T17:32:00.003Z

Today's soundtrack:
"15 Step" by Radiohead

The other day I decided to find out what all this Twitter buzz was about. When it first came on the scene, I saw it as nothing more than solipsistic self-indulgence, spewing 140 characters into cyberspace because everyone in the world is entitled to know exactly what you thought of the latest Survivor challenge or the dog shit in your backyard. This theory has now been confirmed.

Admittedly, I only spent a few days on Twitter. During those few days, I was repeatedly spammed by the anti-Obama brigade (do you know the truth about Obama?) and friended by various creepy personas. After updating post-Stewart/Cramer smackdown, I was instantly added by someone else who had also updated about it. Well that's just a little too much in my personal space for me.

More and more, the internets seem to a be a place where those who feel the real world just doesn't understand their brilliant insights to spew their self-congratulatory praise. Lookit me! Lookit how clever I am! I don't have to write that I love something, I just put a 3 and a bracket together! See? <3 I'm brilliant! Oh, and Paris Hilton is a whore. Well thanks for the insight there, Sparky. Next!

Twitter seems to be the most annoying of these developments. 140 characters that reveal nothing but soundbits (if that), directed at no one in particular. A group of people talking at each other. Just what the doctor ordered.

In the words of Karl Pilkington, it's just not worth it.

snotcicles

2009-01-24T20:23:00.003Z

Today's soundtrack:
"Narcissist" by Sage Francis
"In the Bleak Midwinter" as sung by Harry Christophers & The Sixteen

It is cold. Bitterly cold. Miguel has a new method of measuring just how cold it is. If you can walk to the end of the block and you just begin to feel the cold in your jeans, it's not too bad. If you only get into the alley before the cold sets in, it's damned cold. And if you only get outside the door, it's just insane and you stay home.

But we are hardy folk so we trudged to school, our long underwear mocking our attempts to remain warm for 15 minutes. By the time we got to the university, Miguel had sprouted snotcicles - that is, icicles in his mustache, right beneath his nostrils - and was doing a pretty good impression of Dr. Zhivago (you remember the scene, when he's left the partisans and is trying to get back to Lara).

Just as we got to Place Riel, a kid from the Residence came bounding out the door in a flimsy t-shirt and jeans, and sauntered into Place Riel. Miguel and I could only look at each other in utter disbelief.

In my mad effort to stay warm, I'm knitting up a baby blanket for some friends Miguel will see in his round-the-world trip. I'm using leftover black yarn, which I figure is appropriate for a Danish baby. Get it? It's a Blanket for Baby Hamlet!

Alright, it's possible that I'm the only one that finds this completely entertaining. The rest of you are just a bunch of savages.

now hear this...

2009-01-16T21:55:00.004Z

Today's soundtrack:
"I'm So Tired" by the Beatles

I am not wearing any long underwear.

For the first time in weeks, I am long underwear-free. I'd do a little dance to celebrate, but it's so warm that I risk breaking a sweat if I do so.

I am, however, wearing my lovely handknit socks. They're made out of the Bearfoot Colors wool that my aunt gave me. Although the wool bleeds like a demon anytime it's near water, they are the most comfortable, lovely pair of socks that I've knit. And at this point, I've knit more than a few. See Ravelry.com for evidence.

But the sky is blue, the temperature is hovering around 0ºC, and I'm facing a weekend of bodice-ripping literature (re: Aphra Behn, for the uninitiated). Good times.

tying up loose ends

2009-01-12T20:51:00.007Z

Today's soundtrack:
"Me Enamora" by Juanes

Just snuck a peak at the 14-day weather projections for Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. It is going to be so cold that the yellow line literally plummets off of the graph. There is no numerical value for the degree of cold we're in for. And it's snowing. Again. Another 10cm today. Thank the gods I have a handy Spaniard at home who still regards shoveling snow as a novelty. Hopefully by the time the novelty wears off, we'll have kids that can shovel it for us. What better reason to have children, really, than to have people to shovel the walk and clean the bathrooms. Clever evolutionary invention.

Must distract self in order to maintain sanity, therefore...

So there are some loose ends from the vacation that I haven't tied up yet. So here they are, in no particular order other than the order in which they are presented.

1) During our walk in El Retiro, we saw a bunch of men on rollarblades playing hockey. Not field hockey. Real hockey. Well, minus the ice. Don't believe me? I give you photographic evidence that Canada is slowly taking over Spain:

2) In honour of the emblem of Madrid, I give you Miguel doing his best bear impression, although this may only be funny to the Spanish:

3) In Madrid, even the statues are well hung:

4) Although Spanish meals are something like final exams, something must be said for Dutch cooking. No, seriously. Witness the bliss on the Spaniard's face as he digs into a typically healthy Dutch lunch. Yes, those are giant chocolate sprinkles on black bread:

Although the jetlag is now gone, it's been replaced with a paralyzing fear that on good days manifests itself as nothing more than sheer panic. Comps are four months away and I'm bunkering myself into my office for hours every day. In light of this, I'm seriously considering changing my answering machine message to the following:

"Hi, we can't come to the phone. If it's urgent, leave a message and we'll get back to you in May. If it's not urgent, call back in May. Thank you, that is all."

when in spain...

2009-01-03T14:19:00.003Z

When I left you all here, hanging on the edges of your seats, I was off to Spain. At the moment, I'm now back in Utrecht. Internet access was limited in Madrid as Miguel's parents are computerless, so I hope you'll forgive the silence of the past few weeks. Nevertheless, I'll try to sum up, as briefly as possible, my past two weeks y pico in Madrid.

After we arrived in Barajas, we took the metro back to Miguel's parents's place. Have I mentioned how much I enjoy the metro in Madrid? Well, they have a new metro map and it's nothing short of a postmodernist nightmare. The stations on the map bear very little resemblance to their actual spatial arrangement in Madrid. Sure, it's pretty but I spent several minutes looking for Cuatro Caminos with no luck.

But not to worry, the metro was completely redeemed for me two days before New Year's Eve. Miguel and I were taking the escalators down and in front of us were four rather rowdy teenagers who were trying to pick up every girl that passed them by. "Feliz año, guapa!" over and over again. We all ended up in the same train car and the boys launched into a Spanish Christmas carol that sounds pretty flamenco (to a Canadian anyway). "Ande, ande, ande la Marimorena. Ande, ande, ande que es la Noche Buena!" was sung over and over again, with some pretty funny verses inbetween, by one of the guys while the other two clapped and the last one danced around the car.

The metro is actually a pretty critical part of any family dinner. It seems to be the custom, as the party is breaking up, to discuss which lines are the best or fastest to get home. Now why they don't just pull out the map and all look at it is beyond me. They prefer to do this by memory. Trouble is that their memories aren't always what they should be. "You should take Linea 9 until Plaza de Castilla, then switch to Linea 2" one would say. "Linea 2 doesn't come through Plaza de Castilla" the other replies. Such disagreements usually end with pistols at dawn in el Retiro.

We didn't spend the whole time in the metro, though. Miguel and I snuck out to the Museo Archeologico, the Museo Thyssen, and the Prado. We spent hours wandering around the Puerto del Sol, Palacio Real, and el Retiro. We went to an Improv competition that Miguel's friend Beatriz was performing in. We went for cañas and coffees and chocolates con churros. At one point we ended up in a bar in a district that Almodovar used to hang out in when he was younger. I don't think I stopped eating the whole time I was in Spain.

Christmas Eve was spent with Miguel's family, although we later went to mass with his friends. I didn't know the majority of the traditional Spanish Catholic songs or Christmas songs, but I did like the one that went "oh no, no pasaron!", which I believed was a direct reference to the Civil War Republican slogan in Madrid, but Miguel assures me that it is not the case.

I think I saw every Spaniard that I know while in Madrid. Even Marta, who we hadn't gotten in touch with but managed to run into accidently in a Gino's the night before we left Madrid. Que casualidad. We spent a lot of time with Miguel's friends who are all kinds of entertaining, although some are still battling tuberculosis.

We spent New Year's Eve with Miguel's parents, and later with Miguel's friends Dani and Maria. I still haven't managed to eat all 12 grapes during the 12 campanas, but I have another two years to practice. After the bells and the fireworks (oh those Valencians), Miguel and I went to play boardgames with Dani and Maria until 6am, when we decided that we should probably call it an early night.

But now we're back in Utrecht, after spending the night in Eindhoven with Richard, Sonia and the soon-to-be Small One/Pequeñin, crashing at Yvon's for the night. Tomorrow morning, we're going to take the train to Schiphol Airport, and then back to Canada and the -22 that awaits us. It'll be a bit of a change from the 18C we had in Madrid.

All in all, a nice long and relaxing trip. And now, the insanity of comp prep and dissertation writing...

in amsterdam

2008-12-13T06:19:00.003Z

Yesterday, Miguel and I went to Amsterdam for the day to see the Rijksmuseum and Anne Frank's house. It was the first time, we realized, that we'd be sightseeing alone. No family, no friends. And while I missed a bit of the camraderie that comes in a larger group, it was wonderful to finally spend a day in Europe free from any added stress (not including the loss and then miraclous rediscovery of the Anne Frank tickets). We spent the whole day walking around Amsterdam. Over canals, beside canals, between canals. Did I mention that there are canals? I think I took more pictures of those than anything else.

Before we got to the Rijksmuseum, we stopped for possibly the greatest bagel ever made at Village Bagel. The Dutch know cream cheese. I may need to rethink my anti-Dutch policies.

After carbing up, we hit the museum to see the Rembrandts and the Vermeers. Although the building looks massive from the outside, the actual gallery space seemed quite small in comparison to the Uffizi and the Prado. Miguel thinks they must be renovating and that when its finished, the museum will be much larger. Miguel saw his favourite Vermeer, the one with the maid pouring out a jug of milk. I saw Rembrandt's cloth merchants and the Night Watch. There is something brilliant about the way Vermeer and Rembrandt use like that is so unlike painters in Southern Europe. I think it has to do with the damp mists and grey hazes that are so common to places like Amsterdam and Nanaimo. There are diffusion of light so that it scatters everywhere and nowhere. Then, every once a while, a steady stream of sunlight highlights just a small part of a building or a street. In a place like this that is so grey most of the year, light is at a premium. No wonder it figures so prominently in Rembrandt's and Vermeer's work.

After the museum, we walked what felt like the length and breadth of the Netherlands and finally got to Anne Frank's House. It's around the corner from the fabulously old church and I found myself wondering if Anne every mentioned the bells in her diary. The house itself is bare. Otto Frank wanted the Annex to remain unfurnished. He didn't want it to look lived in, I suppose. Putting in the furnishings would make it look like a safe home, which it wasn't. Interesting aesthetic choice anyway. Most powerful for me was the ladder up to the attic. You can't actually climb the ladder, but then have a mirror propped up so you can see outside as Anne would have. At the very end of the self-guided tour is Anne Frank's diary. The real book, plaid cover and all. The whole experience left me pretty much speechless.

After Anne Frank's house, we walked back to the station and made it back to Utrecht where we met Yvon (at whose house we're crashing) and went for dinner at a new fusion-type restaurant she'd been wanting to try. Nothing really too exciting there, just thought you'd want to know that I'm eating fine.

Today we're off to Delft to see Jolien, then onto Eindhoven to see Sonia and Richard (more of Miguel's friends that are graciously allowing us to crash). Tomorrow, we on an early flight to Madrid where we'll be force fed manchego and jamon serrano for the next few weeks.

Also, because of the jet lag, I've been getting up at 5:30am. How unimpressed am I.

in utrecht

2008-12-12T04:31:00.002Z

Today's soundtrack:
Tropic Thunder
Vicky Christina Barcelona

It's ungodly early in the morning here but the jetlag has kicked in and I just couldn't sleep for another minute. So here I sit, at Yvon's computer, eating little gingerbread cookies that have a cool sounding Dutch name that I can't remember.

So here's what has happened so far...

After a mere 15 hours of traveling and the 100m dash in Frankfurt, we arrived in Amsterdam. Miguel's friend Froukje (one of the Dutch Girls, for those keeping score) met us at the airport and brought us to Utrecht, where we are crashing at yet another friend's lovely home. This home has the narrowest, steepest staircase I've ever seen in my life, but I've been assured this is typically Dutch. After a few hours of rest, Froukje came to drag us from our inflatable mattress and out to dinner. So we walked along canals, dodged bikes (they really do outnumber cars and they have their own lanes of traffic - very civilized), and passed a yarn store on our way to a nice little Yard and Flagon-esque pub.

Then a rather bizarre thing happened. I was wearing a beret, because it was a little chilly and I do have a delicate constitution, but I hadn't taken it off when we sat down. The waiter, after taking our orders for hot chocolate (and can I just say that the Dutch really know how to make a good hot chocolate), told me I had to take my hat off. I thought, okay sure, that's only polite. But politeness isn't why I had to take it off. This pub has a rule that no head coverings of any kind can be worn there. It's their not-so-subtle way of making sure that Muslim women who wear headscarfs cannot come in. Incredible, no?

After hot chocolate and after Giorgio (Froukje's fellow) arrived, we went to this lovely hole-in-the-wall Ethiopian restaurant. I was pretty brave (and am still quite proud of myself) and tried a little bit of everything on this massive platter of lentils, beans, tuna, and I really can't remember what else. The selling point for Froukje was that we could eat with our hands. I'm just happy I didn't fall asleep on the spongy bread.

But now, my cookies are almost all gone so I take that as a sign to go in search of more food. Today Miguel and I plan on going to the Rijksmuseum and to Anne Frank's house. Afterwards, the Dutch Girls, Miguel and I are going to have dinner and (hopefully) relax a little more.

last night

2008-11-05T21:28:00.004Z

Today's soundtrack:
"Gate 22" by Pascale Picard
"Red Flag" by Billy Talent
"Your Rocky Spine" by Great Lake Swimmers

President-Elect Obama.

Been smiling like an idiot all day. I knew last night was going to be one of those nights, but I don't think I was expecting the afterglow to last as long. I've read a lot of blogs and editorials today. Most of them focus on how wonderful it is that an African-American has won the presidency.

That's not why I'm excited. Sure, I lost it when I saw Jesse Jackson in the crowd, tears streaming down his face. Sure, I understand the racial divide in the States is something monumental to be overcome. But that's not why I'm excited.

It's taken me all day to be able to articulate this properly. Poor Miguel was stuck listening to my ramblings at 1am as I tried to explain why I am beside myself with glee.

During the CBC coverage of the election, they did a segment at the White House. The correspondent (Henry Champ, I think), gave a brief blurb but then gave his attention fully to what was happening in the street outside of the White House. Pennsylvania Avenue was packed with young adults. The noise was immense. The Secret Service were twitchy. Champ said that the people in the street had surrounded a car.

Later on in the night, the CBC went back to Champ and the White House. Champ explained that they were a bunch of university students who began texting each other when Obama was announced the winner. They all agreed to converge on the White House, but not to protest. To celebrate. They were dancing for joy in the street.

It is that joy, that relief, that the long dark eight years of the Bush presidency are almost over that hit me the hardest. That knowledge the world made it through, a little worse for wear, but changed. Obama's speech summed that up nicely.

Mom hit the nail on the head on the phone: "It's like they've got their innocence back." I, for one, cannot wait to hear the inauguration speech.

random art quiz

2008-11-01T19:09:00.001Z

Today's soundtrack:
Roadtrip SkipMix

Melistress of Ravelry fame led me to this art quiz. The results are rather uncanny:

Your result for What Your Taste in Art Says About You Test...

Balanced, Secure, and Realistic.

17 Impressionist, 2 Islamic, -4 Ukiyo-e, -9 Cubist, -20 Abstract and -6 Renaissance!

Impressionism is a movement in French painting, sometimes called optical realism because of its almost scientific interest in the actual visual experience and effect of light and movement on appearance of objects. Impressionist paintings are balanced, use colored shadows, use pure color, broken brushstrokes, thick paint, and scenes from everyday life or nature.

People that like Impressionist paintings may not alway be what is deemed socially acceptable. They tend to move on their own path without always worrying that it may be offensive to others. They value friendships but because they also value honesty tend to have a few really good friends. They do not, however, like people that are rude and do not appreciate the ideas of others. They are secure enough in themselves that they can listen to the ideas of other people without it affecting their own final decisions. The world for them is not black and white but more in shades of grey and muted colors. They like things to be aestically pleasing, not stark and sharp. There are many ways to view things, and the impresssionist personality views the world from many different aspects. They enjoy life and try to keep a realistic viewpoint of things, but are not very open to new experiences. If they are content in their live they will be more than likely pleased to keep things just the way they are.

Take What Your Taste in Art Says About You Test at HelloQuizzy

Thank you, that is all.

montreal, part deux

2008-10-18T19:24:00.002+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Me, Myself and Us by Pascale Picard

After a rather lazy morning, I wandered up Rue Saint-Hubert to A La Tricoteuse Laine on Rue Rachel. I found some more sock wool for my ever-expanding list of Christmas gifts. The couple who works there, and I believe owns the store, were very nice but also very quiet. I think they could tell I couldn't speak French. They have every conceivable colour of Regia sock wool. Everything in the store has its place, which gives the impression that they don't have much stock. But they do. Its tucked into every possible nook and cranny under and above the shelves.

But afterwards, I still had a few hours to kill before the afternoon session, so I googled Starbucks and found that the nearest one was only a few blocks away on Rue Saint-Denis. Well, I thought, I guess it's time for some more sightseeing. Sans camera this time. So down Saint-Denis I wandered, passing a Spanish restaurant (closed and apparently oblivious to my desire for a good bowl of gazpacho), and lo and behold, I ran into a fellow Saskatooner (is that what we're called?). She was here for another conference. So we chatted and went our own ways, leaving me quite bemused about the fact that I ran into someone I knew in the middle of Montreal. Saint-Denis is the more vibrant area of Montreal and much more interesting than Vieux Montreal. Sure, the cobblestones have their charm, but I could plainly see that afternoons in July on Saint-Denis would be a riot.

Eventually, and with Starbucks in hand, I found my way to Rue Sainte-Catherine. Apparently, this is the trendy area. So I wandered past high-end stores and sex shops and inadvertently found myself on the edge of a protest against the Church of Scientology. I guess they've opened an office on Sainte-Catherine and these protesters, dressed in bandanas and V for Vendetta masks, were handing out pamphlets on the street corners. The cops were already talking to the ringleaders and things were starting to look a wee bit tense. As good a time as any, I thought, to head back to the conference.

Tomorrow it's back to Saskatoon and real life. Montreal has been interesting, especially since it's the most European-ish city in Canada. But honestly, I'll take Madrid any day of the week over Montreal. If I'm going to be in a European (or European-ish) city, I'd much rather be able to speak the language. Besides, the store clerks here aren't nearly surly enough to pass for European.

bienvenue á montreal

2008-10-18T03:39:00.006+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Let it Die by Feist

For the past few days I've been in Montreal at the CSECS (Canadian Society of Eighteenth-Century Studies) Conference. The sessions have kept me pretty busy and I've spent every spare minute getting my paper ready. But after presenting this morning, I figured I owed it to myself to skip out on the first afternoon session and do some serious sightseeing. So me, my handful of French phrases, and my camera headed downtown.

In order to get to Vieux Montreal, I had to take the Métro. Have I mentioned how enamored I am of subway systems? Maybe it's all the movies and tv shows set in New York, but I just love that process of traveling by subway. The Montreal métro is significantly smaller that the Madrid metro, so finding my way was pretty easy. Now getting through the ticket wicket, that's a different story. It helps if you can count in French. Neuf, by the way, is nine. That took longer to figure out than it should have.

So I made it to Vieux Montreal and set out with my best nonchalant touristy air. The first impressive building I came across was this:
Lovely, no? I had no idea what the building was. I knew that the Notre-Dame Cathedral was around here somewhere, but this couldn't be it. It's too small. So off I trekked over cobblestone roads and found myself, soon enough, in a garden, which is pretty much par for the course anytime I'm in Europe. I can't count how many gardens Janet and I ended up in when we were in Florence. And every time I'm in Madrid, I drag Miguel off to another botanical landscape. So, dear Lady J, these garden photos are for you:
The garden is behind this old (in the Canadian sense, not the European) hotel that once housed the Governor General of Canada and the U.S. Army (although not at the same time) and is modeled after the traditional gardens in New France.

Afterwards, I made my way back down Rue Notre-Dame, past this building:I have no idea what that building is, but it was large and impressive. I then popped into the Tourist Information office to ask directions to the Cathedral. "Ou-es la Notre-Dame catedral?" I asked in a painful half-French, half-Spanish mix. "Five minutes down the street to the left" she answered in English, somewhat exasperated. So off I trot, back down the street. And whaddya know? That first building I saw was the Cathedral after all! I tried to get in, but the church was closed for a private function.

I blame Trudeau. The younger one, with the hair.

After that, I tried in vain to find Ariadne Knits, but ended up lost. So instead, I made my way back to the conference to catch the session of the day. I noticed that a lot of architecture in Vieux Montreal - and I'm referring to the large buildings - hearken back to Greco-Roman influences rather than Gothic. I'm curious to see Ottawa in order to compare English architecture in Upper Canada. All in all, a lovely afternoon of sightseeing.

live blog - the leaders debate

2008-10-03T02:03:00.016+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Leaders Debate on CBC

7:00 - Oooh, spiffy music. Can I get that on iTunes?

On the economy:

7:03 - Stephane Dion is sounding pretty clear. Apparently, the man has a plan.

7:04 - Why isn't Harper looking at me? Maybe it's for the best. Excellent, rather than explaining his plan for helping the economy, he just went after Dion, who actually has a plan.

7:05 - I think Jack Layton just convinced me to buy a program that will teach me to use Microsoft Word...

7:06 - Duceppe compared Harper to Bush. That took all of 6 minutes, folks. Drink up.

Roundtable discussion:

7:07-7:10 - Harper's pretty cocky for a guy that's riding on the Liberal's fiscal platform. Had they not left the government books in such good shape, he wouldn't be able to claim anything tonight. Oh lookit Elizabeth May go! She's definitely holding her own here tonight, calling Harper on his hypocrisy and inability to discuss his party's (nonexistent) platform. Miguel says that Harper is winning. I disagree. I think the moderator is winning. When Dion gets flustered, his English slips a bit, but he's doing well so far tonight. He's getting his points across, but so is Harper. Harper is against raising taxes on corporations, but all the other parties are for it.

7:12 - May accused Harper of being too pro-Alberta. For those playing along, time for another drink.

7:14 - "Laissez-faire, I don't care approach". Nice one, Dion.

7:16 - Harper's being a bit patronizing to May. And Layton just referenced Bush and Howard. That's two drinks folks.

7:17 - Finally, women are mentioned by Layton, but only in passing. Hopefully this will come back later.

7:18 - Harper's EI plan will allow self-employed women to take maternity leave. Of course, once those kids are squeezed out there's a little problem of daycare...

7:19 - Layton called Dion on propping up Harper's government. Drink up, me hearties, yo ho!

7:21-7:25 - Dion brings in Sweden to support his Green Shift plan. And here comes the moderator: "Are those [manufacturing] jobs gone for good?". Harper wants "jobs of the future", which I assume will be when we start working for the talking apes and/or alien overlords. Duceppe didn't answer the moderator's question (never good to get on his bad side). Harper called Duceppe "Gilles". I wonder about that familiarity. Is it belittling? May wants to bring back all the jobs in pulp and paper. Layton wants to stop raw log exports. I clapped and may have scared Miguel. According to Layton, if "we invest and have a strategy", we'll be fine. Love to know what that strategy is. Dion has a plan. It's clear. And he managed to jab Flaherty at the same time. Nicely done.

7:27 - Harper: "We're not going into a recession. We're in a slow down." Oh you coy fox, we could play with semantics all night...

7:29 - During May's last comment, Harper started to look a little uncomfortable. He's got a bit of a smirk on his face, but he's definitely taking it from all sides right now. He is a good debater, though. It's difficult to remember points three candidates ago without notes.

7:31 - Layton to Harper: "Where's your platform? Under the sweater?" Snort.

On taxation and economy:

7:33 - The Liberal plan wants to decrease taxes on what creates wealth and shift it to pollution. Makes sense. Is Harper right, though? Is it really a tax hike in sheep's clothing?

7:36 - Why is it that I always end up wanting to vote for Duceppe? Oh, right: "For Quebec, [applying the Kyoto protocols] means a profit". Now I remember.

7:37 - May referenced Sweden in terms of the environment. Let's add Sweden references to the game, shall we? Take a drink.

Roundtable discussion:

7:38 - Dion did a good job of shutting down Harper's attack. It is a hard sell, though, to make the Green Shift not look like a tax hike. Dion: "Don't believe this man [Harper]". Well, there's no real danger of that. May referenced Sweden at the end again. Better go grab another beer. Get some popcorn at the same time.

7:42 - Everyone agrees that Harper has no climate change plan. Dion is winning this round.

7:43 - May called Harper on being obstructive during the Bali conference and compared him to Bush (drink up!). Don't worry, May, I already emailed Harper and told him he was morally reprehensible during Bali.

7:45 - Harper is listing his environmental work. May called him a fraud. She and Layton had a nice moment there as Layton said "and you learned how to say that in French last night!".

On healthcare and the doctor shortage:

7:47 - Layton wants doctors to stay ten years in family practice in their communities and he'll forgive their loans. Duceppe is right to say healthcare is a provincial concern, but like my sister pointed out, if the government doesn't give the provinces money for healthcare, there is no money for healthcare.

7:50 - I'm not hearing a lot of specifics from Harper. There are a lot of vague statements, but no specific plan.

7:51 - Layton referenced Tommy Douglas in defense of healthcare. Again. New ammendment to the drinking game. Tommy Douglas = finish your beer.

7:52 - Oh well this is just silly. Harper is taking a cheap shot at Layton for using a private clinic with his OHIP card, so technically it was still public healthcare. And Layton mentioned Tommy Douglas' daughter in defense. Take a shot of your beer. The moderator is right on top of things here and Harper lost face on that exchange.

7:57 - Harper's back trying to smack Layton around on the private clinic issue. He keeps referencing what he's done before, but there is very little here about his plan for healthcare in the future.

On the arts (from Saskatchewan! Yay! Represent!)

7:59 - Duceppe: "Culture, which is the soul of a nation". Exactly. Suck it, Harper.

8:00 - May: "A creative class". An interesting notion, but when the class war hits, my money is not on the artists. Bunch of hippies.

8:01 - Dion: "A country is stimulated by his or her artists". Giggle.

8:01 - We're hearing a fair bit about Harper's family, which I really don't care about. Clearly he's trying to eat up time so he doesn't have to face the onslaught that we all know is coming.

8:02 - Layton: "I'm not particularly talented". Teehee. Excellent point on the reality of starving artists. First $20000 tax free for artists copyright residuals. Makes sense.

Roundtable discussion:

8:03 - Moderator: "Do you think Conservatives are barbarians?" I could hear Harper objecting to the question, but Dion jumped right in. Oh, Bush reference. Drink up, my friends! Can you still see the tv?

8:06 - May: "No, I don't think they're barbarians... but these mean-spirited cuts will help you win votes".

8:06 - Layton is taking issue with censorship. He couldn't come up with a good example, but May jumped in with one of Avi Lewis. He owes her. The moderator seems quite concerned about the Biden-Palin debate. I wonder how that's going...

8:08 - Dion wants to double the budget for the Arts Council: "More movies, more novels." Sounds good to me.

8:10 - Layton believes that Harper would rather give money to the banks than to the arts. Harper thinks Layton's ridiculous and that he makes no sense.

On crime:

8:10 - May, quite rightly, points to increased media coverage for the appearance of more violent crime. Handgun ban and a better long-gun registry.

8:11 - Dion wants a two-pronged approach: to be tough on crime and the causes of crime. Rational, succinct, concise, and clear. Maybe he should come and teach my students tomorrow.

8:12 - Harper believes that violent crime is increasing. His answer is to go after young offenders. He wants to attack the gangs, but not a word about how to get to the root of the problem as to why kids join gangs.

8:13 - Layton wants a handgun ban and a solution to deal with young people. Much like Dion's and Duceppe's plan.

8:14 - Duceppe is clearly against Harper's stance against young offenders. Also, he's the first and only one to mention the victims.

Roundtable discussion:

8:15 - May: "Literacy is an essential element to keeping kids out of crime". That's an interesting point. May says Harper killed literacy programs, Harper said that they never taught anyone to read. Haven't had a drink for a while. Maybe that's for the best. When is May going to bring out her bong?

8:17 - Layton wants to help poor families in order to stem crime. Of course, that only works if you believe that rich and middle class kids aren't likely to commit crimes as well.

8:17 - Dion to Harper: "I trust judges and you don't.... You want the politicians to decide" on young offenders.

8:20 - May: "You need to treat young people differently. They don't get to vote yet" so why should they be criminally punished as adults? She's definitely doing well tonight.

8:21 - Layton brings up the horrific number of First Nations, Metis and Inuit in jail. Harper is dodging this question completely and is talking about victims instead.

8:22 - Dion has been pretty quiet during his section, but he's talking about the Kelowna Accord now. He needs to come out stronger on crime so that the Liberals don't look so weak compared to the rest. Layton got some good digs in there about propping up the government and Dion was looking pretty flustered by the end.

On Afghanistan:

8:24 - Harper gave the pat answer on why we're in Afghanistan. Next.

8:25 - Layton is giving his most passionate speech right now. I like the idea of going in as UN Peacekeepers after the withdrawl.

8:26 - Duceppe called Layton out on his complicity with the Conservative government in not voting with the BQ to end the mission sooner.

8:26 - May compared Bush and Harper again. Get your drink on! She claims the NATO mission isn't working and wants to go to the UN, and use the poppies for medicinal purposes for developing countries. Don't think I'd heard that idea before.

8:27 - Dion will stay until 2011 in coalition with NATO and is thinking ahead to Darfur. Oh. Well. Hmm. Now that's worth thinking about.

Roundtable discussion:

8:28 - Harper says this is a UN mission, but May disagrees. Honestly, I've never heard it described as a UN mission in the news. It's always the NATO mission.

8:29 - Layton called Harper out on following the Bush doctrine (which I know about, even if Sarah Palin doesn't - Can I be a vice-president too, Mr. McCain?) and that's why we ran into Afghanistan. Drink up.

8:30-8:33 - Duceppe is calling Harper out for supporting Bush's war in Iraq. Drink up. Hell, just get a few more beers out and ready. Bush again. Take another drink. And here comes Obama into the debate. Duceppe claims (correctly) that were Harper PM in 2003, we'd be in Iraq. May pointed out the difference between UN-sanctioned and UN mission. More and more impressed with her tonight. She's also calling him on ignoring other countries and regions in need, such as Darfur.

8:33 - I don't remember what Dion said, but I think I agreed.

8:34 - Latyon: "Peace dividend", which is logical. Peace does tend to be war-free.

8:35 - Dion compared Harper's foreign policy to that of Bush. Drink up.

On first big issue once in office:

8:36 - Layton wants to replace $50 million (billion?) tax cuts with reinvestment into a variety of social and environmental programs.

8:37 - Duceppe, you funny funny man.

8:37 - May wants to fix the electoral system and move towards a proportional system, to work on carbon pollution.

8:38 - Dion wants to focus on the economy right away, as it is the most pressing issue. Logical. Will prepare an economic and fiscal update. You know, he's really coming off as rather prime ministerial right now.

8:39 - Harper will continue with status quo, with the tiny credits he's promised for first time homeowners and raising the age exemption on tax forms. Blah.

Roundtable discussion

8:40 - Kitchen table! Been waiting for that all night. Drink up! Layton is alternating between Harper and Dion, which seems to imply that either could really end up as Prime Minister.

8:41 - I wonder how much tongue-biting the moderator has been doing tonight. Dion has a good defense. I'm really impressed with him.

8:43 - Alright, May huffing and puffing in the corner there is not appropriate. She's showing her frustration and she really can't. Cooler heads must prevail in this kind of debate.

8:44 - Harper "I will not raise taxes". Moderator: "Ever?". Harper: "I will not raise taxes." Sigh. Shades of Bush Sr.: "Read my lips, no new taxes". Shall we start the pool now as to when Harper will raise taxes?

On trust:

8:47 - Duceppe is going after Harper's broken promises. I think this'll be a familiar refrain here.

8:48 - "Politicians are just above the paparazzi in public esteem", according to May. That's true.

8:49 - Dion is trying hard to distinguish himself from Harper and to show the Liberals as a different sort of party. I like this line of Dion's, that he wants to "reconcile mankind and the planet"

8:50 - Harper is giving another pat, uninspired answer and directs her towards the platform. May asked "where is it?" in reference to the missing platform. Hell, we're near the end. Finish your beer.

8:51 - Layton: "The sweater is nice but they'd like to know what your plans are". Oh that's good. Eek! Kitchen table. Get another beer and start drinking.

Roundtable discussion:

8:52 - Dion is gearing up here now, going after Harper. Layton is going after Dion (good sign, as that means Dion's in contention here) and then goes after Harper. Layton mentioned the boardroom tables and how Harper has bowed down completely to oil companies. Drink some more!

8:53 - And Danny Williams rears his lovely Newfie head. Right now, I'd like to see the leaders get screeched in. It all comes back to trust and whether or not Harper rules unilaterally or with his government.

8:54 - The Atlantic Accord is getting more time here than Aboriginal issues. Women have come up twice, but only in passing. Harper looks annoyed by May. That gives me joy in my soul.

8:56 - Now they're just getting pissy. Time for their naps. I hope the moderator has milk and cookies under the table somewhere. Damn, Dion is really doing well!

8:57 - Miguel just pointed out that Harper is sweating. May just had to get the last word. That's somewhat grating. But yes, Harper's sweating. Let's hope for a repeat of that infamous Nixon-Kennedy debate outcome.

Layton and May gave each other a hug after the debate. Rightfully so. May helped out Layton more than she helped out Dion tonight.

I'd love to commentate on all this, but Miguel has made dinner as I've been blogging here. So I'll sign off for tonight.

the day brad trost came to the knitting circle...

2008-09-29T17:20:00.003+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Lover's Spit" by Broken Social Scene
"July, July!" by the Decemberists
"Rebellion (Lies)" by Arcade Fire

Yesterday, Brad Trost came to talk to the knitting group, of which I am a member. He's the incumbent Conservative MP for Saskatoon-Humboldt (my riding). Naturally, I had a few questions. Top of my list was the government's anti-intelligentsia bias that seems determined to paint Stephane Dion as a hapless professor and to claim that all academics who disagree with Harper et al are nothing more than liberal elitists, perched in their ivory towers. Trost danced his way around the question while awkwardly fiddling with the Canada pins he'd brought (he made a lovely pyramid of pins several times throughout the afternoon). Dael, a fair more eloquent member of the knitting group, managed to get at the point I was attempting to make in my question. He was ignored by Trost, a move which solidified, in my mind, Trost's status as a bigot. But I think the point came out eventually, although perhaps only in my mind, that academics and the so-called "elite" of Canadian society (still not sure who these "elite" are, and Trost was good enough not to define his terms beyond the broad, useless strokes) that agree with the Conservatives are "ordinary people". Academics and the "elite" that disagree with the Conservatives are liberal effetes who don't understand the real world.

Well, I feel better. Don't you? It's always nice to have your opinion confirmed, especially when your opinion is that your opinion doesn't matter to those in power. In fact, the not-so-subtle subtext of the afternoon had my feminist butt ushered back to the kitchen by Trost.

Melissa, another member of the knitting group, brought up a very good point about the child-tax credit (which is, in reality, only $75. Trost said taxing the tax credit was in order to protect the Conservatives "from the left"). In defense of the anti-universal childcare platform of the Conservatives, Trost cited the example of his friend who lives rural (re: farmer), who has 3 children and a wife. I asked what the wife did and he looked at me with a mix of disdain and apathy, and said "she takes care of the children". Well of course universal childcare wouldn't help that particular family. The wife doesn't work outside the home! The point of universal childcare was to help the majority of Canadian families where both parents have to work outside the home. Staying at home is a luxury that is not a reality for the majority of Canadian families.

But I, as an Ivory Tower elitist, have no conception of the reality of the Canadian family. Clearly the Conservatives have this one under control.

I wanted to ask Trost why the sparse Conservative platform was simple pandering to key groups that they want to make gains in, rather than a comprehensive plan that will help all Canadians. Trost, however, was chomping at the bit to get out of the coffee shop and back to the Chamber of Commerce, where the good ol' boys would pat him on the back and stroke his wounded ego. Regardless, the measly tax relief offered to families buying their first home showed the Conservative bias and innate bigotry. A heterosexual couple (judging by all the information I've seen) buys a house on their 2-career income. Of course, when she gets pregnant she'll have to stay home with the kids as there is no universal childcare. Now with only one income and the expense of raising children, this house they bought with the "help" of the Conservatives is unsustainable. The Conservative dream would have these "ideal" families broke within ten years.

Good plan. Glad to see they've got it all under control.

I feel better. Don't you?

---

There is a way to avoid all this, however. Scott Ruston, the NDP candidate for Saskatoon-Humboldt, came earlier yesterday to... well, I was going to say talk to us, but he didn't. Trost talked at us. Ruston listened. In Melissa's blog post, she mentioned how comfortable Ruston seemed, completely relaxed and interacted with us as though we were all old friends. Ruston's platform wasn't just platitudes and apathy. He is, by far, one of the best candidates (NDP or otherwise) that I've ever come across - and I've been going to All-Candidates Meetings since I was old enough to sit still. None of us felt belittled or ignored. Our concerns were valid and were treated with the respect they deserved.

If there is anyone else who reads this blog that is from Saskatoon-Humboldt, I encourage you to park your vote with Ruston this election. There simply is no one better qualified to represent our riding.

For the rest of you, on October 14th vote early and vote often. Let's prove the over-confident Conservatives wrong and deny them the majority they believe they deserve but certainly haven't earned.

kate versus the ladybug

2008-09-11T21:40:00.005+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Be Mine" by R.E.M.
Ninth Symphony by Beethoven

Outside my office window the trees are just starting to go a little yellow. In a few more weeks I'll be able to see Thorv again. It's one of those absolutely glorious, blue-skied September days, but not because of anything I'm doing, though. I've been sitting in my office reading up on eighteenth-century beliefs about sensibility and the body and, occasionally, keeping tabs on a ladybug that heard from the fly that there might be some kind of way out of here.

I've been getting up at 6:30am (okay, for the past couple days, 7am, but still!) and putting in a real day's work. I think this might be the secret to academic success because I seem to be getting a lot done. More than that ladybug, anyway. My point is this: today, life is damned good.

Here's a sneak peak at my sister's socks:

They are ridiculously pink. Almost blindingly pink. She'll love 'em.

P.S. - Happy Birthday, Dad!

on my discovery of english literature...

2008-08-26T19:53:00.003+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Vida la vida by Coldplay

Today - in fact, just a few seconds ago - I rediscovered my love of English Literature. It had been lost all year, somewhat buried beneath my overwhelming fear of failure as Ph.D (please, feel fear to point out the ridiculousness of that), but has been miraculously recovered while perusing the table of contents of my new desk copy of the The Norton Introduction to English Literature. So that's it, then.

However, I do want to stand by my claim that for a book about a whore, Moll Flanders could not have been more dull.

prairie summer

2008-06-25T23:05:00.002+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
"Fireworks" by the Tragically Hip

As a transplanted Islander, I feel it is my duty to tell you, my dear Island folk, about the nuances of a prairie summer. Below is a list of recent aspects of summer that I've discovered:

1) Middle-aged, pot-bellied men feel there is nothing wrong with rollerblading in biker shorts. And only biker shorts.

2) Gophers are ridiculously cute, but also ridiculously stupid. If they just stayed still when something came close, they'd be impossible to see. Yet every time I am out riding my bike, the noise they make diving for their burrows forces me to look, then swerve, then try not to fall off of my bike.

3) Directionality. Specifically, the sun's directionality. There are no trees, no mountains, and rarely clouds to break up the sun. The result is that after a lovely dinner, one side of you is bright red, and the other side could pass for albino.

4) No matter which direction I peddle my bike, I am always riding into the wind. And what's more, the wind has the power not only to stop me dead in my tracks, but to push me backwards.

5) The smell of manure is in no way nostalgic for me, as it is for Mom. I'll take the smell of low tide over manure any day. Now, you may think it's impossible to smell low tide on the Prairies, but all you need to do is go to Regina and walk around Wascana Lake on a warm day.

6) When I rode my bike in Nanaimo, I'd hit a few bugs. Maybe. But here, it's as though the bugs are all kamikaze fighters and I'm the target. Mosquitos, flies, wasps, little green inchworms - anything goes!

But I'm not complaining. Oh no. Considering the spring you poor Islanders have had, and the miserable summer you're in for, I'll suffer through the suicidal gophers and mind-boggling wind.

where have you been all my life?

2008-06-16T23:05:00.002+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Symphony No. 5 and Symphony No. 9 by Beethoven

With the exception of WWKiP day and the Stitch & Bitch yesterday, I've kept myself locked up in my basement reading. What, you may ask. Well, Fanny Burney. Yes, I was doubtful at first, too, especially when I realised I was looking at 2500 pages of Regency prose, but now I'm quite smitten. I think she may even supplant Austen as my favourite author. So now my poor neighbours are suffering through a Beethoven-a-thon in honour of the final years of the 18th century, while I read (tea in hand) Camilla and Cecilia.

Yes, that is the extent of excitement in my life at the moment.

And yes, I am fully aware of how pathetic that is.

But not to worry! After I finish with Burney, it'll be onto Swift, Defoe, and - oh why not - Burke. Nothing says relaxing year of reading for the comps like Burke's A Philosophical Inquiry into the Sublime and Beautiful. Rivetting, no?

my wrist is on fire!

2008-06-01T01:54:00.003+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
Hockey Night in Canada

So fine. I admit it. I have a knitting addiction. Last night, as I watched the first season of Northern Exposure, my left thumb and wrist started to burn. But did I put down the knitting needles and take a break? Oh no, breaks are for wussies! So now my thumb and wrist only stop burning with ice. I am now on a knitting vacation until this burning sensation passes.

It wasn't all in vain, though. I've managed to make some lovely things.

This is the Lace Ribbon Scarf from Knitty

And this is an afghan for the Smug Marrieds.

Oh well done me. Now off to ice that wrist.

all things ravelry

2008-04-23T00:45:00.003+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
The Lake SkipMix

After a week down in Regina (which I will blog about at some point), I decided that I should get back to knitting. So over the weekend, I made this toddler sweater (not for me!) from Debbie Bliss's How to Knit:

And yes, I am all kinds of impressed with myself. But just as I was stitching the last seam together, my Ravelry invite arrived. I cannot even begin to describe my joy at being able to post pictures of my stash, of lining up my queue, and of describing my finished projects. I've come a long way from the scarf I made for Mom that looks like it was made by drunk house elves.

In celebration of my newly-realized skills as a beginner knitter, I cast on the Lace Ribbon Scarf from the current Knitty issue.

In further knitting news, my Knit Picks Harmony Wood DPNs arrived today. Yippee! They are quite lovely and will be put to work shortly. But as for tonight, Evelina by Burney is calling me.

sign of spring

2008-04-11T04:00:00.002+01:00

Today's soundtrack:
The Reminder by Feist

Well, it doesn't really feel like spring here. Sure, it's a bit warmer and the snow has melted almost completely, but the ground is brown, the trees are bare and the sky is grey. In reality, this feels more like fall.

Except for the gophers. The gophers are back.

There is no more reliable sign of spring than the gopher, and I spotted my first gopher running across the entrance to Place Riel this morning. A girl was sitting on what passes for grass at this time of year, waiting for the bus, when the gopher ran past her. Judging her great leap and quick scamper away, I think this may have been her first gopher sighting.

Naturally, just as spring is about to really start, I finally put the fringe on my Ravenclaw scarf. Just in time for next winter, I suppose. But now that the socks and scarf are done (and I am not-so-patiently waiting for my Ravelry invite), my project list is shrinking rapidly. I think it's time for a yarn hunting expedition...