My first entry for 2012.... Better late than never.
Earlier in the spring I attended a poetry workshop at the University of Toronto, where I am currently pursuing a major in Medieval Studies. I was taking an economics class (of medieval times, of course) and by March the inevitable statistics had me so bogged down that I turned to poetry to save me from the doldrums.
The encounter with poetry got me inspired to write the following short poem:

Spring cadences are whistling through the night

The chilly winds - a knife edge to the soul

The past is hidden, over its darkened path

To keep the silence I do solemnly vow

The reins are pulsing, taut, the panting breath

Is rushing through the space, raspy and loud

No longer do I dream of cities fair

My heart is filled with fields and rolling mounts

Once river flow was measured by the eye

Once was the ear attuned to Eastern hum

Now feet are skimming, swift and light

The mossy undergrowth and boulders realm

What was amassed has long since gone to waste

What was expended was returned three-fold

As unannounced, joy has come to stay

And drowned sorrow in its boundless font

Sergei Magnitsky

Where did he get the courage? What was he like as a person? What was he thinking? Does his face look familiar? (He was the same age, from Moscow, like me). Did he seem older than his age? (In pre-detention photos).

All these questions..... What good are they now? Is there something that can be learned from his life and death?

His name was Sergei. In 2009 he was 37 year old. He was a lawyer, working in Moscow for a Western hedge fund. Had I met him before, I would have looked at him with suspicion and slight hostility. Really? A hedge fund? Give me a break. You are not kidding anyone by wearing the suit and the tie. What real business can one talk about, given the hostile business environment in Russia? Practicing law? The same law that is routinely used to punish honest businessmen and strip them of everything, kick them out into the street?

These questions did not seem to be on Sergei's mind when, instead of getting the hell out of the country, as his former boss advised him to do, he went to the State Investigative Commission to report a theft of tax revenue in the amount of $235 million dollars from the Russian state by the very state revenue and law enforcement officials whose job is to protect the state from such crimes. After testifying, he was arrested on the order of the same officials he accused of perpetrating the enormous theft and held in jail awaiting trial. 11 months he spent there, writing letters of complaint, in his neat, curiously titled cursive, which reminded me of the humanistic script of the 15th century. His wife and mother sent him parcels with food. He never received them. He was never allowed to talk to his kids (he had two). He kept writing and describing the conditions he was kept in (sordid). He kept writing, even in severe pain, having developed an acute digestive track disorder.

Nobody helped. He was told that he had to change his testimony first. He didn't. He kept asking for help. He died asking for help.

Who were you, Sergei? What gave you the strength to stand the pain? Why did you die, unbroken, in that broken place? Forgive the questions.

London Calling

If I could, I would go to London every other weekend. I would see my lovely UK cousins (see first post). Stroll around Richmond Park. See my childhood friend and her family. Go to Victoria and Albert and to the British Museum. And generally just dream walk.
It's hard to describe how I feel about London, but here is a try:

A good writer once said that all his hopes lay in one city, but it took moving to that city for him to realize it.
As far as I know, there is no steadfast rule that one actually has to live in the city where one’s hopes lie. I’ve lived in a number of cities and have learned not to pin many hopes on any particular location, no matter how big and versatile. At the same time I have not yet learned to let go of my hopes. They still exist and and, in my mind, at least, I still like to find a pleasant spot for them to reside in, without me having to move with them. It is a much nicer exercise, since they, the hopes, don’t have to rent or buy a place, contend with high prices and unfamiliar line-up of goods, worry about jobs or schools. The hopes are free to go wherever they want. They are my representatives to the world and they can reap all the benefits the place has to offer, without any of the inconveniences.
The search went on for quite a while, but I am happy to say that I finally settled on a place. All my hopes lie in London.
I have been to London only once, and I must say that the visit was crucial in finalizing my choice. I could not go as far as to choose a place solely on the authority of others.
London turned out to be really beautiful – full of roses, and old trees, and parks with free-roaming deer. The Thames is not all embanked in stone and you can watch the tide rise and subside on its shores. It has great and small bridges and you can tread on most of them at your will. Each of the many railway stations – Waterloo, Liverpool, Paddington, Victoria – has its own history and distinct character. Being inside them is like stepping out into the world without ever having to leave the city. Looking at London, who would ever think that it is situated on an island?
It was a thrill to be there. The only day that somewhat faded from my mind was the day we spent on the sight-seeing bus. To be fair, the day was rainy and we had to stay on the first floor of the double-decker.
I knew I would like London. I didn’t know I would love it. I cannot imagine the world without it. Its reputation precedes it and it does not disappoint. It’s the only place in the world where to be affected is quite natural.
It is very old, of course. Feet have been beating its pavements for almost 2000 years and that alone is reassuring. London burned more than once and was bombed repeatedly, yet it is as densely built and as densely populated as ever. In earlier times, London would signal its approval or disapprobation by opening or closing its gates. It is still used to having its opinion consulted and bestows it generously and decidedly on matters ranging from world politics, to music, to shopping, to literature, through its many newspapers and magazines.
To the outside world, London as a symbol of traditionalism, of old, entrenched views. To the people who live in it, it is all about the newest and the latest. Tradition lives well when it is continually challenged.
London is a relentless self-promoter. There is no other city in the world the streets of which we know so well by name, without ever setting foot there. “So and so of London” on a label is as much a boast as it is a craftsman’s guarantee. London is so seductive, because it wants you. It wants you to come and set up shop and bring your family. It wants you in its stores, its restaurants and its clubs. To that end, it is prepared to shuttle you back and forth across the city in its sprawling underground and its colorful comfortable buses at practically any time of day and night.
London is an enduring experiment in self-determination. From the earliest days, it has been its own highest authority. The government that has its seat there is not the boss – it’s a tenant, like countless other outfits and organizations. The Royals are at the service of the city and not vice versa. They add glitter and pomp to its events and serve as a huge tourist attraction.
Finally, London is unsentimental. It does not find joy in romantic decay of glories past. It is rather annoyed by them and prefers to concentrate on future glories. The bronze kittens of the Trafalgar square are as hungry as ever. At Paddington station, a little bronze bear positively shines with anticipation of future marmelade sandwiches. I’d better get my hopes a ticket on that train

Armen's Cafe, Southampton, Ontario, Canada

One of the greateast freedoms is the freedom to travel. Anybody raised in Eastern Europe would tell you that.
A lot of times you don't have to go far to find a treasured spot.
Here is a piece of travel writing about one of my family's favourite spots.

Food is about trust, security, and feeling good about yourself and the world.
Armen Higgins understands that. After spending several years as a chef at some
of the culinary hot spots of the posh ski-resorts of Alberta and British
Columbia, he came back to the picturesque lake-side town of Southampton,
Ontario, where he grew up , to set up his own shop.

He chose a narrow two-level loft for his restaurant and named it “Armen’s Cafe”.
Inside, he covered the walls with photographs from his travels, paintings by
local artists, a collection of vintage hardware and World War I memorabilia.
Upstairs the walls are decorated with antique Armenian rugs (his mother was
Armenian) and printed silk scarves from India. A pair of skis hang from the
balustrade.

This sets the tone for the food. The menu runs the gamut from quesadillas, to
eggs benedict, fritatas, borsht, and hummus made in-house. It’s a medley of
tastes and nations and Armen is not one bit self-conscious about it. His
restaurant is what one may call fusion, but mostly it reflects the owner’s
adventurous spirit. He is unabashed about his use of spices – they are by no
means overpowering, but quite assertive in most of his dishes. To some, the
abundance of greens and alfalfa sprouts creates the impression that “Armen’s”
is an “alternative”, or green” food place. Armen definitely offers many
extremely attractive options for vegetarians, but his choice of ingredients is
unrestricted, except by culinary and practical considerations. Don’t be fooled
by the casual atmosphere – behind every bite is Armen’s steady hand that
guarantees quality and consistency. Taste, presentation, fast and friendly
service, all speak of a consummate pro. Smiling and chatting with the patrons,
Armen makes it look easy, but he definitely does not take it easy.Very little
escapes his attention. That is why his establishment is thriving after eight
years in business.

“Armen’s Cafe” is known far beyond the limits of the county. Once, as a joke, at
the beginning of the cottage season, Armen put up a “for sale” sign in his
window. Frantic calls came from as far as Toronto, which is 150 miles away.

Armen also finds time to nurture a new generation of food experts. His manager,
Jenn McLaughlin, started behind the counter, but, spurred on by Armen and her
own curiosity, gradually developed a passion for pastry-making. As a result, on
any given day you might be surprised by pasteis de nata – the famous Portuguese
custard tarts, Moroccan sesame cookies, or some other delectable dessert, on
top of the regular dessert line-up. The twenty-five year old Jenn is absolutely
fearless when it comes to tackling demanding recipes. The expression “labour
intensive” is an invitation, not a turn off. Jenn also designs menues for
Armen’s world cuisine nights and follows through on every little detail, from
writing down the ideas to personally waiting on the guests, making sure that
they are happy and satisfied. The attention to each and every customer is
definitely a hall-mark of “Armen’s”.

If you are ever in our corner of the world, drop by. You will see that great
chefs can be found anywhere.

Catching and Fielding

I love J.D. Salinger's "Catcher in the Rye". As with many other great works of British and American literature, I first read it in Russian. It is such a terrific book that it is almost as enjoyable in translation as in its original language. The title of the Russian version, translated literally back into English, reads "Over the abyss, amidst the rye". The  word "catcher" was "lost in translation", but the title still retains its dream-like imagery and emotional suspense.

In my  mind, the notion of a "catcher" is closely interwoven with Allie's baseball glove. A very American ideal, a catcher is the player on the field who catches the ball and saves the game. Holden imagines himself as a saviour of children who run around in the rye field, dangerously close to the edge of a cliff. Internally, he wishes he had caught and saved his brother Allie, who died as a child. Ironically for someone who constantly frets about entering adulthood, Holden already possesses a real adult experience of losing a loved one, a child, the most senseless tragedy of all.

Holden has a heightened sense of responsibility for himself and other people. People around him are pretty much thoughtless - his jock of a roommate does not think twice before making out with Holden's childhood friend in the back of a car while Holden writes the ingrate's English essay; his icky neighbour completely lacks self-awareness and any sense of boundaries; his old teacher repeats the same platitudes over and over while sipping hot chocolate, hardly an inspirational figure. The weight on Holden's shoulders is excruciating - he suffers for his older brother because of the latter's "sell-out" to Hollywood, he suffers for his little sister Phoebe because of her innocence and her trust in the good of people.

Holden feels compelled to field the hard questions and it often lands him in trouble. He is not a confrontational fellow - he is open with himself and the reader about his fears and considers himself a coward. However, if you are a-fielding, your job is a lot harder than that of a self-absorbed jock or a lowly pimp who use brute force and primitive intimidation. Fielding is acting on the consequences of other people's actions. It is all about reaction. You are not the one who started the trouble, but you have to come in to save the day - the toughest, most ungrateful job ever. No wonder Holden ends up in a mental clinic. The sole fact that he even tries is greatly to his credit.

The Holden Caulfields of this world (note that the first name contains the word "hold" and the last name the word "field") suffer silently, but it is the suffering that separates them from the phonies. They are the ones you want around when you are falling off a cliff.

Dragonoid Colossus

Children's toys these days are something else.

For a long time I did not pay much attention to the things that are scattered around the floor of my son's room. My husband, very much a boy at heart, buys the toys. I pick them up from the floor. Today is the day when I finally woke up to the idea that children these days might be living in a toy paradise. What I mean is that the toys are way, way better than when we were growing up in the seventies and the eighties.

My son has just turned eight and his thoughtful dad presented him with four things from the two of us. Three, in particular, stand out:

Dragonoid Colossus from the Bakugan Gundalian invaders series, Moon In My Room, and Glow Crazy distance doodler.

By some kids' accounts, Bakugan is already passe, but my son still really enjoys playing with this toy and trading card game based on the Japanese anime show of the same name. 

According to eHow's Catherine Chant, the show is about six friends who fight to save the Earth from evil forces that had previously attempted to destroy the Bakugan world Vestroia. The Bakugan appear on Earth in a form of marbles to aid the humans in defending their planet and restoring order in both worlds.

When dropped on a special metal "gate card", these colorful plastic marbles the size of a walnut burst open to reveal the fantasy creature inside. They are great to touch and I literally get goose bumps every time I see one spring open. There are no electronic chips - they work on magnets.

Fold the marble back into its walnut shape and repeat ad nauseam.

And then there is the Dragonoid Colossus. It's a 3 inch tall, 9 inch long dragon, beautifully crafted from red and golden-yellow plastic parts. When you drop a character marble on its back, bam!, it springs open with a characteristic dragon-appropriate clatter, throwing out wings and a tail, becoming 14 inches long in the process. If this is not magic, then I don't know what is.

I don't remember anything remotely so exciting when I was a kid. Neither can my husband, who was born and raised in Canada.

Moon In My Room is an authentically detailed plastic moon that hangs on your wall and shines just like the real moon. It follows the 12 lunar phases on automatic or manual function. In other words, you can let it follow the actual lunar calendar or you can have a full or a crescent moon every day. For my lucky child's convenience, it comes with the remote control and an educational CD. 

Another thing he can do right from the comfort of his bed is to doodle with  the Glow Crazy distance doodler - a light wand that allows you to draw and write with light.

When I was in film school, we would occasionally amuse ourselves by creating special effects like angel wings, which we would "draw on" to a person in a dark room with a flash light while taking a really long exposure photograph. That exercise compares to Glow Crazy like climbing uphill with your skis in your hands does to riding on the skilift.

This kit and kaboodle of instant gratification costs no more than CAD100. And the joys are completely unisex - my 5 year old niece, for example, loves the Bakugan. Except instead the battle cry "Bakugan Brawl!", she shouts "Bakugan, roll!" as she throws the marbles hard against the floor.

Same difference.

Bocce Ball

I took my sister to the park the other day. She is having a very difficult time, so I thought that a walk in the park would do her good. It was a very nice day for November - warm, fresh, and sunny. We went off the path and were walking among the trees when a red ball the size of a small canteloupe rolled in front of my feet. I turned to look in the direction of where the ball had come from and saw a group of people at a small distance, waving enthusiastically and shouting instructions.

Instead of throwing the ball back to them, I was to put it beside a smaller white ball that was also a few steps away from me. I carefully placed the red ball beside the white one and my sister and I were about to move on when the whole group caught up to us. There were six of them, five guys and a girl, aged somewhere between 25 to 35. Next thing I knew my sister and I were playing bocce ball with them. For the first time in our lives. We've been living by this park for fifteen years and it never occurred to us to spend a Saturday afternoon in this way.

Turns out it's a lot of fun. Especially when you are surrounded by people that we met. They were having a ball, literally. They seemed to know each other very well, possibly having gone to university together. Only one person from the group was living in Toronto - all the others had come or flown in for the weekend from as far as Peterborough, Ottawa, and even Vancouver. Open, friendly faces, easy laughter, easy conversation, elegant urban attire - in other words my sister and I had accidentally walked into a real life episode of "Friends". What do you do when this happens?
I invited them all to a dance party I am throwing in December. Then my sister and I went on our way.

I am really itching to throw in a combination of  a "life is a walk in a park" and "when life throws you a curve ball" cliches, but I will restrain myself. I just wanted to record this so that I can go back later and know that this actually happened.