Hares & Rabbits

I've always been fairly superstitious. I avoid the obvious like walking under ladders and I always feel a bit nervous if a black cat happens to cross my path. I also try to never open an umbrella inside. I love happening to look at the clock when it's 11:11 or 12:34 (I didn't know this one until about five years ago but I really like it; although 11:11 has better wish power I believe) and making a wish. I also have a darker superstitious side that makes me sound a bit crazy and sometimes causes me stress. If I have to go into a building and there are two doors to enter it, some weird instinct (voice maybe? except I don't really hear it rather than feel it) tells me which door I have to go through. Sometimes it switches back and forth until the last second when I have to enter a door. This also happens sometimes when I'm walking down the street and am faced with a tree or telephone pole or some other obstacle. I have to choose which side to walk around it and again the instinct will kick in. The underlying current is that if I go through the wrong door (according to this instinct) something in my life won't work out, etc. This doesn't happen all the time by any means; I think it only happens at times when I am already particularly stressed out, but that doesn't help make it any better. I could probably work on doing exercises or something to stop feeling like this, and I should. Maybe that'll be one of my goals for the summer.

Kit Pearson was one of my favourite writers when I was younger, and I still love her books today (even though it's been a while since I read one.) My favourite of her books was Looking at the Moon but her first novel - The Daring Game - was a close second. That story took place at a boarding school in Vancouver. For a while after reading it, I was really interested in reading books about boarding school. It's funny because though I liked reading books about it (mostly because it sounded so romantic and idyllic), I would never ever have wanted to go to boarding school. I would have missed my mom and dad way too much! The characters in The Daring Game taught me this superstition: on the last day of the month just before going to sleep you say "hares". Then when you wake up in the morning on the first of the month you say "rabbits." If you say these two words at the times you're supposed to say them, you should have good luck all month. Just re-reading what I wrote, saying these two words does sound a bit silly. But, I must have been doing this for 15 (if not longer) years by now and I still haven't gotten sick of it. And, truth be told, I don't really think it's silly. Many of my other superstitions have fallen to the wayside but not this one. It's just become a part of my monthly routine. Clearly doing this has not always brought me good luck, but irrationally I am convinced I will have bad luck if I don't do it.

Over the last fifteen years or so (so long!), I really can't think of a time I've missed it. I am perhaps a little too obsessed with doing it. There have been a few near misses (for example: on the night of November 30, 2004 I was hanging out with S. in his room at Stebbins in Berkeley and one thing led to another and I lost track of time. I tried to discreetly look at my watch to see what time it was but he noticed and inquired as to what I was doing. We were actually in his bed at this point and so my looking at my watch did seem a bit rude. Deciding honesty was the best policy, I explained my little superstition to him and how it was about 12:15 am and thus December 1, 2004 and uh-oh I had missed saying "hares." I still remember how he smiled and said totally seriously but also in a kind of amused way "oh shit!" Then he went back to kissing me. It's actually one of my favourite memories of him because I like how he took it seriously and didn't just laugh, think I was weird and say something to me like "who are you? and why do I like you?" To finish the story: I decided to just say "hares" in my head and told myself it still counted because I hadn't gone to sleep yet. When I woke up the next morning I said "rabbits" and December 2004 was one of my most favourite months ever so obviously being a little late didn't hurt.) but never any complete omissions. I like routine, a lot, and I think a big reason I like this superstition as opposed to some of the others is because I know exactly what to expect and what I have to do. It's not that difficult - I just have to say two words. Trying to choose/avoid doorways and obstacles in my path is never straightforward. I never understand where the instinct in my head telling me which door to go through is coming from, and that makes me a bit anxious. This I can handle much better.

I don't recommend you become as obsessive about it as I am (unless you'd like to of course) but I do recommend giving it a try tonight (or if you're reading this in April then on the night of April 30) or on the last day of any other month when you want a little bit of good luck to come your way. It may seem silly, but it's actually kind of fun.

Going Grey

A few weeks ago, after just getting home from a step class and going to the bathroom to take a shower, I saw three incredibly long grey hairs I had not seen before coming out of my head. My hair was in a ponytail, which it only ever is when I'm exercising, and I guess the way I had pulled my hair back that day exposed these long lost greys. Normally, I monitor (and regularly try to cut) my grey hairs, so seeing those new ones, which by their length had obviously been there for a long time, was a bit shocking. I think I noticed my first grey hair when I was maybe 22 or 23. I can't remember exactly but I do know that the fall I was 24 is when I noticed I had more than one. Mine are also almost white, definitely more white than grey, which is a bit odd. I still call them grey hairs though just because it seems even weirder to have white hair.

The only friend I ever really talk about grey hair with is J. She also has long grey hairs which she dislikes and cuts. According to J., there is a link between not drinking milk and having grey hair. I hate milk and never drink it. She doesn't like it either. Maybe the study she read is true.

At one point, I would love it if I could just sit in a chair and someone would go through my hair, find all the grey hairs and cut them out. I wanted J. to do this when I visited her in Buenos Aires last year but I never ended up asking as it seemed a bit of an odd request. I'm not great with scissors and cutting though and often I cut out a bunch of regular brown hairs when trying to cut the one grey (or white) one. I need to find someone willing to do this for me :)

I still distinctly remember when A. told me that Taylor Hicks (see picture below) who had just won American Idol (this was back in 2006) was not in fact in his 40s, but was only 29. I didn't watch American Idol and therefore had only ever seen pictures of Hicks and had not really seen or considered his face up close. Discovering that he was 29 and not 45 was both surprising, and brought home for me the horrors of going prematurely grey. I read an article sometime recently on the Huff Po's Style page about grey hair now being popular in the fashion world. I really don't get it. Why would you want to go grey before your time voluntarily? I guess it is cool that some people, like Taylor Hicks, just own their grey-hairness. I, however, do not think I could be one of them.

Two people at the law school, both as far as I know in their 20s or max early 30s, have patches of exclusively grey hair while the rest of their heads have normal brown or blond (as the case may be) hair. I know it's mean to dislike features of other people's personal appearances in general, and features over which they have no control, in particular, but I really dislike grey patches. I really hope I never get one. If I did, I know I would have to dye it, which is something I would not want to do as I have always prided myself on never having dyed my hair, not even as a 13 year old when it seemed all my friends wanted to try having purple (or plum as the package called it) or red hair. Even amidst those exciting options I wasn't tempted. I have always liked my dark brown hair. In addition to worrying about a grey patch, I also just really hope that I won't go prematurely grey, or even just have enough grey hairs such that they are very noticeable and hence won't look good, and have to start dying it now! I guess one day if I had a lot of greys and they were very noticeable I would consider dying my hair.

But for now, my grey hair volume has held steady, with maybe a slight increase, for the past three and a half years. This is great and means I won't have to start drinking milk anytime soon.

The 29 Day Leap & Other Date Oddities

I am fascinated by Leap Year and Leap Day. I love dates & months & years and thinking about what happened on dates & months & years past. I like to be very exact when talking about these things, which is why, on the multiple occasions I have heard people refer to April 31st and June 31st, I have been both shocked that the person could make such a mistake, and just generally feel a bit distressed. The first time it happened was back in May 2007 when N. stayed with me in Paris for a week. We were talking about what he'd been doing that spring and he said, "I left New York on April 31st." I was speechless... but only for about 5 seconds.Then I said "April has 30 days!!" For the rest of the day I couldn't get over (nor could I let him get over) how he could have made that mistake. It was so interesting to me to think that he thought he had done something on a day that did not (and does not ever) exist - because the thing was, N. didn't say it like he was making a mistake and meant to say he left New York on April 30th. He said it like April 31st was a real day on which he had truly left New York.

The next time happened about a month later when I was on the train heading out to Meudon (just outside Paris) to have dinner with A. and S. I overheard this guy talking on his cell phone behind me and he made some reference to June 31st. I felt like turning around, interrupting his conversation and telling him that whatever he was planning on doing that day was impossible because June 31st does not exist! The last time was very recently, just over a week ago in fact. I was discussing the semester and what finals I had with a classmate, and she made some comment about finishing finals on the "31st." I don't know her very well and so it didn't feel right to say "I think you mean the 30th because April 31st isn't a real day." So instead I just nodded and carried on with the conversation, but inside the truth was screaming to get out :) Obviously, the number of days each month has is permanently ingrained in my brain. And so what I love about Leap Years is that that all gets changed up. I like how every four years we get that extra day. February is one of my least favourite months, except in Leap Years. Then I like it.

K.'s boyfriend B has such a cool (or annoying or odd depending on how you look at it...) birthday situation that I had to write about it here. His mom went into the hospital in Vancouver (or just outside it? K. which was it?) on April 14th, which was her birthday, to give birth to him. Unfortunately, she had a very long labour and he was not born until just after midnight on April 16. The hospital staff though, when filling out the paperwork, said he was born on April 14th. B.'s parents didn't realize the mistake until too late. They inquired into legally changing it when he was a kid but the whole thing was too complicated. So instead B. has two birthdays: his legal birthday of April 14 (which according to the Canadian/BC government/his drivers license/his passport is his real birthday) and April 16 (which is his real birthday and the one he celebrates.) I can't get over that! It must be so weird for B. on April 14 and April 15 knowing that according to some people/institutions he is really his new age, but knowing inside that he is really not. On the other hand, he does have two birthdays every year (in a way) and that's very cool.

It's interesting to compare B. to people born on February 29th. According to the Wiki page on February 29, in the UK and Hong Kong people born on February 29th are considered to have turned 18 (ie. the legal age) on March 1st of the relevant year. Whereas in New Zealand, people born on February 29th become the legal age on February 28th. Wiki doesn't say anything about which date other countries choose. Unlike B. who has two birthdays a year, people born on Leap Day only have a birthday every four years! I wonder which day those people prefer to celebrate their birthdays on - February 28 or March 1. I see wanting to celebrate your birthday on February 28 because then it's in the same month you were actually born in. On the other hand, I think I'd feel like I still hadn't reached a new age on February 28 and would therefore want to wait until March 1st. It would definitely be a dilemma! And I love birthdays, so I think I'd definitely feel sad not to get to have a real one every year. I am glad that 1984, the year I was born, was a Leap Year. There was a kid in my elementary school whose birthday was February 29th and I remember in 1996, so the year he (I/we) turned 12, everyone was joking that he was only turning 3. And this February 29th will only be his 7th actual birthday. If I had a Leap Day birthday, I'd make the biggest deal of my birthday every four years and have a huge party.

This coming February 29th is also D.'s half birthday - something he only gets to celebrate every four years. D.'s real birthday is August 29th so his half birthday is in February. I really like half birthdays and also smile and think to myself on July 18 how it's my half birthday. My mom, whose birthday is May 31st, never has a half birthday unfortunately since November only has 30 days. Neither do people born on August 30 or 31 or October 31 or March 31 or December 31. That's okay though... while fun, real birthdays are definitely better.

Wishing you a very happy Leap Day and Leap Year! Enjoy February 29th!

This Blog Post In Six Words

D. loves this podcast/radio show on the CBC called Q. It's a daily show about arts/pop culture etc. hosted by this man named Jian and it does seem pretty cool. I've listened to a few specific things like this interview Jian did with Charlaine Harris last summer and another funny clip about how Facebook is affecting jury selection (both recommended by D.) I have no doubt I would really like Q and would enjoy listening to it on a regular basis. However, I already subscribe to so many podcasts and always have so many to listen to that I just feel I can't add another one. That may change though, because on March 1 Jian is doing a live Q show in Montreal, which D. and I are going to. So maybe after that I'll decide I like Q so much I need to subscribe.

Anyway, this is all just a very long introduction to say that the day we were buying tickets for the show, I was on the Q website and came across this post about a six word love story contest. I was struck by the Ernest Hemingway story: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn" and how apparently he claimed it was the best thing he ever wrote. Later that night, I told D. about all this and he showed me this Ted Talk all about six word stories. I guess they are this total thing I had never before known about. Anyway, if you like Ted Talks (I know L. does!) or are just curious, it's worth watching this one. It's pretty funny, although at times a little too clever. The guy giving the talk said that the claim that Hemingway liked that six word story best of all his writing is an urban legend. I take that view too because while Hemingway's little six word story is poignant, a lot of his other work is better. And I don't think that six words can adequately tell a story. Forcing something to be just six words necessarily limits what the writer can say, and leaves so much out. I'm sure proponents of six word stories would argue that they force writers to get at the essence of what they want to say. But I just feel like it forces people to try too hard to be funny or clever or cute or whatever. I would rather read a novel over a six word story any day.

That said, of course I couldn't resist trying out a few of my own after I learned about them. Here some of them are, in no particular order. They are most definitely not my best writing and most of them are pretty cheesy, if not downright cliched. (See number 3.) Number 4 is also so embarrassing but I did know someone for a while who had purple-ly bags under his eyes (it sounds weird but it was actually really attractive) and when I read Twilight and learned about Edward's purple eyes I kept thinking about the guy I knew with the purply eyes. I used to see him in the daytime though so I know for sure he wasn't a vampire. Anyway, here they are:

1. Goodbye on Bloor, no tears, yet.
2. Saw you, hid, wished I hadn’t.
3. After: cigarette passed back and forth.
4. Your purple vampire eyes stake me.
5. Found: one earring, under your bed.
6. Middle of night, tears for free.

Now for six words of closing: thank you for reading this post. :)

Laundry Days

Movies and TV shows have romanticized laundromats to a very big degree. On a screen, they are places to fall in love at first sight or or laugh a lot at funny jokes or make new friends or throw clothes at each other in slow montages. Though I don't have much experience with laundromats, I have never known any of the above things to be true either for myself or any of my friends. For me, laundry has always been much more mundane. Something to do alone while listening to music, a chore to check off a list, a necessary but boring thing to do.

On that trip I took to Italy when I was 14 and which I have mentioned a few times before on this blog, Venice was definitely the highlight. It was perfect weather, the canals were enchanting, the gelato was extra delicious, my homesickness was all gone but I was also looking forward to going home soon, and I had become pretty good friends with some of the other people on the trip. The amateur photographer in me became fixated with the laundry that Venetians hung out to dry outside their windows over canals. I loved seeing bed sheets either billowing or gently swaying in the wind/breeze, along with bright coloured garments, and clothes of all sizes belonging to various family members. I took a whole bunch of pictures (unfortunately none of which are digitized so the pictures above and below that I found on Google images will have to do) which all looked the same, and I even blew one up when I got home and hung it on my wall. In retrospect, taking those pictures and being generally fascinated with laundry over canals wasn't the most original thing I've ever done/thought (as the search on Google images attests), but I still really like how people do their laundry there. Having your clothes air dry over a canal is way more interesting than how I've ever dried my clothes; and it seems pretty convenient too. Before I lived in Paris and became hopelessly devoted to that city, I used to imagine how lovely it would be to spend a summer in Venice. I'd wake up every morning and sit out on my balcony where I'd eat gelato and contemplate life while staring at the canal. Then after my gelato was finished and before I went out for a walk, I'd hang my laundry out to dry. By the time I came back from my walk, the laundry would be all dry and would smell fresh and sweet.

Despite thinking hanging laundry can be a very pretty sight, actually doing laundry has never been particularly fun, and in some living situations I've had it's been pretty stressful. Though I love(d) my Hilgard apt with my whole heart, the laundry situation there was terrible! There was only one washer and one dryer for a four story apt building that must have had at least 25 (if not more) apts. The washer was in constant use on the weekends, so I started doing my laundry on random days of the week. I never figured out how long either the washer or dryer took though and so was constantly trudging up and down four flights of stairs to check on it. Sometimes I'd just wait down there with a book but it was never particularly comfortable.

Starting at the second apt I lived in in Austin and then my current apt in Montreal, I've had my own washer-dryer in my apt. My one here sometimes acts up (the washer used to stay in the locked position for so long after the clothes were done being washed and I couldn't get them out, but it's stopped doing that recently and *fingers crossed* won't start up again) and in general I find that doing the laundry takes a really long time. I seem to have to devote hours to it. I mean, I can do other stuff while the laundry is in of course, but overall the whole process seems interminable some days. However, I really shouldn't complain! I am so grateful and glad I have my own in my apt. Both R. and K. have way worse laundry situations than I do. R. has to walk 15 minutes to a laundromat and hates doing laundry so much she will often go out and buy new underwear just to avoid having to do laundry. It was super cold last weekend and K., despite having laundry to do and a laundromat at the end of her street, was tempted to just stay inside and not face the cold and carrying a bag full of clothes along an icy sidewalk. I'd be the same. So yes, grateful I am.

Interestingly, my laundry experiences in Santiago and Paris were both way less stressful and much more positive than any laundry experience I've had in North America. In Santiago, I lived a few blocks from a fairly busy commercial street full of a variety of shops like a dry cleaners, a grocery store, a fruit stand and an internet cafe. The house I was living in did not have laundry and I soon discovered that the dry cleaners was actually a general cleaning place and for a very reasonable price would actually do all my laundry. So I didn't actually do laundry at all in Santiago. I would just carry all my dirty clothes in a big bag to the place at the end of the street and come back either later that day or the next day to find it all clean and fresh and folded and waiting for me to pick up. The man who worked there was this plump, smiley man with rosy cheeks and a very friendly demeanor. He would always laugh and joke with me whenever I brought him my clothes. I think it's much more common in Chile for people to get their laundry done like that, instead of doing it themselves. It was convenient and pretty stress-free and I got to speak Spanish and be on friendly terms with a nice Chilean. When I visited J. in Buenos Aires, the apt she stayed in had a central open courtyard (open even to the sky such that even inside, the apt was never fully shielded from the outside) with corridors running alongside it. The woman who owned the apt would hang her laundry along the corridor to air dry. To get to the bathroom or kitchen I had to walk down that corridor and on the day there was laundry there it felt like a maze. It was a bit windy too and the laundry kept blowing in my face. It was actually kind of fun, if not a little odd. But just goes to show that the methods of people doing laundry all over the world share some qualities while differing in others.

In Paris, my roommate F. had a little washing machine in the kitchen. The top of it actually doubled as counter space so whenever I wanted to wash my clothes I had lift up the counter. At first the machine seemed really complex and intimidating; however, F. showed me how it worked and I somehow memorized the complicated order of button pressing that had to go on. The one downside was that there was no dryer. On days F. did her laundry, I'd come home to find her clothes hanging to dry all over the apt. (D., who though we almost exclusively speak English is actually a Francophone and his roommate have a similar situation with just a washer and no dryer. He told me he too comes home to find his roommate's clothes hanging all over their apt. Maybe it's a French thing to dry laundry all over your house? In any event, it brought back memories.) I quickly realized I did not like air drying my clothes, especially since I first lived there in winter and that apt was sooooo freezing. I guess F. didn't want to pay high heat bills or something? But I would go to sleep at night under 4 blankets and wearing 2 tops and warm long underwear and I still found it very hard to get out of bed in the morning and into the cold apt. Anyway, I knew I needed warm and quickly dried clothes so after I washed my clothes, I started putting them in this giant BHV (very cool Parisian department store) bag and walking the half block down the street to the laundromat. Yes I am aware that I have romanticized Paris to over the top lengths, but I am sincere when I say that really (in my memories at least) nothing seemed that complicated there. In fact, I actually have fond memories of that laundromat. It was small and cute and clean and I actually enjoyed sitting there reading or writing letters while my clothes dried. Sometimes I'd go back to my apt and do other things and then come pick them up but it always seemed pretty hassle free. Interesting people were always there so I did enjoy going on weekend afternoons when it was always crowded. However, towards the end of my time in Paris I started going late on Friday nights (it was either open until 10 or 11 I can't remember) when I was the only person in the store and could pretend it was my own private laundry room. I vividly remember one Friday night at the end of June carrying my bag of dry laundry back to my apt around 10 pm and marvelling at how the sky was a pale blue with pinky orange streaks and how June Parisian nights seemed to last forever.

All this laundry talk has made me realize that the sheets and clothes I washed earlier are still waiting to be put on my bed and into my drawers respectively. So I better get to it!

Cocktail Hour: When Dreams Come True

"The cocktail symbolizes a well-being of the spirit, so dream all those dreams that are nearest to your heart. They can come true and at no other hour will their fulfillment seem so near. For this is the Cocktail Hour."

The above quote was featured in this book a friend of my mom's gave her once (I think as a joke?) called How to be Idle. There is a whole chapter on the cocktail hour which is introduced by this quote. Though I find it very cheesy, I also like it. It reminds me of this warm October night in Austin back in 2008 when my friend M. and I went to this great little bar called the Red Room to celebrate his 25th birthday. Amid stories about how his kitchen sink was broken and instead of just getting his landlord to come fix it he'd decided to do all his dishes in the bathtub, we started discussing his tangled love life which included his complicated feelings for his current girlfriend E., and his still everlasting love for our mutual friend H. Pointing to his drink M. said: "This stuff makes dreams come true." What dream of his alcohol made come true in whatever story he was telling now escapes me, but I still smile when I think about the rest of it. And some day I want to write a short story where one of the characters does their dishes in the bathtub :)

In high school I was not much of a drinker. In fact, I didn't get drunk for the first time until I was 19 and living in the dorms in Berkeley. But I still occasionally would have a drink at a party. At some high school party (I don't remember the who or where or when) someone introduced me to white russians (vodka, kahlua, milk) and even though I don't like milk plain I really liked it in that drink. I probably only had white russians a maximum of five times during high school, and then I can't remember ever having one after that. But I must have liked it and the taste must have stuck with me because last winter I was at Thompson House (this bar/restaurant in an old house on the McGill campus that grad/law/medical students can go to) with my friend K. and a few other people from the law school on a Friday afternoon. K. ordered cider (her favourite) and I think the others did too, and out of nowhere I found myself ordering a white russian. It tasted even better than I remembered and a few months later I had another one there. I haven't had one in a while but despite the drink being cold, I think it's well-suited to winter. I'll have to go for one soon.

In May 2006 L. and I had a joint graduation party at this Italian restaurant on College Avenue in Berkeley. Unfortunately, the restaurant had another big party coming in after us so we only had the upstairs area for two hours and then we had to go. Everyone was having so much fun that no one wanted to go home and instead we proceeded - en masse - to this bar called The Graduate a few blocks down College and across the invisible line that separates Berkeley from Oakland. There, S. and I had a conversation about what drink to order in bars. Despite my never having tasted one before that night, after S. recommended vodka tonics as a good drink to order when in doubt I wholeheartedly embraced her recommendation. For approximately the next seven months, every time I was at a bar, I'd order a vodka tonic, despite the fact that I didn't really like the taste. Are vodka sodas and vodka tonics the same? I'm not sure but I know whenever I ordered one it usually just felt like I was drinking Sprite and though I liked it as a kid, I don't really like the taste now. I'm not sure why S. and I didn't just order beers at a bar, especially S. who really likes beer. Maybe we thought ordering beer at a bar was boring? Or not sophisticated enough? That if you were going to go to a bar you may as well order something more interesting than beer? I don't know. I guess at that point in our lives neither of us had much bar going experience (not that I'm a huge expert now but definitely way more than then). Instead I had gone through most of Berkeley attending co-op parties where I did tequila and/or vodka shots before getting to the party, and then waiting in long lines for the keg (or if I knew the person serving cutting to the front). In any event, those seven months ended with me in Paris where I discovered kirs and have never looked back. I'm glad I've stopped ordering vodka tonics, no longer worry about what to order when out for drinks, and now just stick to beer or wine or kirs (or the very occasional white russian).

So I've mentioned kirs in passing on a few other blog posts (cafe culture, berries) but I've never gone into depth on them or why I love them so much. I love Paris/France/the French for so many reasons, one of which is their aperatif culture that I don't think we have here. I love how when you go to a restaurant or go to someone's house for dinner you always always get offered an aperatif before the meal. Sometimes people have hard liquor (whiskey, etc.) and sometimes just a glass of a different type of wine than they will be having with dinner. For me, my aperatif is and always will be a kir (or sometimes a kir royale - the same thing except substitute the white wine for champagne). Making a good kir is very simple. You need two things: 1. a bottle of white wine (the two best types for kirs are Sauvignon Blanc and Muscadet) and 2. a bottle of Creme de Cassis (see picture below), which is black current liqueur. I put in the Creme de Cassis first, and usually fill about a quarter of the glass. Then I put in the white wine. There is one very charming cafe in Paris near La Madeleine that I would go to semi-regularly and they always ask you there which flavour kir you want out of Creme de Cassis, or Creme de raspberry, peach or blackberry. I usually stuck with cassis, but I did try their blackberry and raspberry ones a few times and both were delicious. I can't actually remember which cafe I was in when I had my first kir, but it was love at first taste. It was a very exciting day for me, about a month after I had started having kirs, when I discovered that I could buy a bottle of Creme de Cassis and a bottle of Muscadet (the Muscadet sold for under 3 euros usually) at the grocery store down the street from my apt and make my own kirs every single night. Of course, there is something very pleasant about having a kir in a cafe. But going to cafes every single day sometimes isn't feasible or economical and it's nice to be able to have one at home too. When I lived in Paris I had kirs at least 4 times a week. It's much rarer for me to have them now, but that's okay. I know they are out there and how to make one if I ever really desire one. I love kirs for their taste, for their pretty colour, for how they're always going to be delicious and are available at absolutely any cafe in Paris (and probably in France), how they're enjoyable to drink alone or with friends, because they will always remind me of and symbolize Paris for me, and because they are the perfect drink to order in Paris, no matter where in that city you are.

To Bloom in Warm Climates

A few months ago I listened to a BBC Witness podcast episode about Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton's remarriage in Botswana in 1975 (see picture below; and side note: I love the picture of them above!). The journalist quoted Richard Burton who once said that "Elizabeth bloomed in warm climates." What a romantic and intriguing thing to say! I love the idea of someone blooming, and just generally being better suited, to warmer climates. What does blooming actually entail though? Does it mean you always look pretty and put together and not sweaty and shiny (like me in warm climates!)? Does it mean that when some people just want to take a long nap from the heat you have boundless energy and are awake & bright eyed and take long walks and/or swims followed by a glass (or several) of wine or tropical cocktails? Or maybe it means that your personality just gets bigger and better and you as a person feel happier? Though I suppose I wish some dark handsome man would say I, too, bloomed in warm climates I know that is not possible/true, as the following story illustrates.

In July 2004 N. and I went to Playa del Carmen on the Yucatan peninsula in Mexico for a week with L., her parents, her brother, their close family friends, her uncle and her aunt. On our second last day her aunt and uncle rented a van and took us to the famous Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza (see picture below). The van broke down before we even left Playa del Carmen and so we were delayed while L.'s uncle R. fixed it. We finally got on the road but then got lost multiple times on our way there. (We also got lost multiple times on our way back, and we got a flat tire about 20 minutes from Playa del Carmen. In total, our day lasted about 10 hours when it should have been 6, we didn't have a cell phone to call and say we were late, and L.'s parents were really worried that something bad had happened to us.) When we reached the ruins, I was already pretty sweaty and hot from the car. But then once we got inside, I guess it was even hotter and I started to sweat even more. I mostly just felt hot and thirsty, but definitely not sick or anything. However, L.'s aunt J. became convinced that I was about to get heat stroke. "Oh my gosh your back is drenched in sweat" she told me, and so of course everyone, including our guide, had to look at my back. "Your face is so red!" she also told me, and so of course everyone had to closely stare at my face. The number of times I've been told I have a red face (usually by acquaintances or complete strangers) is too numerous to count and needless to say, even when it's true, it really annoys me! The clincher in terms of my annoyance was when J. announced that it was because I was from Canada (argh! Canada is a huge country. I am from Toronto!) that I was so unused to the heat. I know J. was just concerned, and I did appreciate it, but I honestly believe me being from Toronto (which has hot summers!) had nothing to do with how I looked/felt that day. I never felt as bad as J. seemed to think I looked. However, clearly that day serves as a definite confirmation that I don't bloom in warm climates.

Do people ever bloom (or some similar adjective that is positive? maybe toast (as in toasty warm)?) in cold climates? Maybe avid skiers? There must be people that are the equivalent to Elizabeth Taylor in cold climates and just love the cold, ice, snow, etc. I don't bloom/toast in cold climates. In fact, despite being from a place that most definitely has winter, in particularly cold weather (like minus 20 celcius and below) I have to make sure my face is completely covered by a scarf or else my cheeks will get frost bite. In a way that is kind of sad since I can't seem to win in cold or warm climates. Maybe I bloom in temperate climates. But regardless, despite being prone to sweating in warm climates and frost bite in particularly cold ones, I still like experiencing both of those climates. So I think I should just count myself lucky that even though I may not bloom in those climates, I can still appreciate them.