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.

Google Doodle: Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island.

I awoke today to a brand new Google Doodle, which warmed my heart and gladdened my eyes. It is a Treasure Island themed vignette celebrating the 160th birthday of the book's author: Robert Louis Stevenson.

I love Robert Louis Stevenson's writing. I am not sure what Virginia Woolf, whose work I also admire, found wrong with it, but frankly I don't care. He is a huge inspiration.
I recently re-discovered "Treasure Island" as I was reading it to my English-speaking 7-year old. I'd read the book as a child in Russian (and a good translation it was) and never forgot the thrill it gave me. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the original version is a hundred times more thrilling! Even though I knew the story very well, the way it was written totally captivated me. An avowed Anglophile copycat, I can't help using expressions from the book at the smallest provocation, pirate talk especially, which, as per literary convention already in place when Stevenson wrote the book, is mostly based on the West Country dialect and Devonshire accent. 

Most of the sayings I like belong to Long John Silver, one of the most memorable literary characters ever created.

They include things like: "Think on it, boys",  "Care killed a cat. Fetch ahead for the doubloons", "Latin by the bucket" and countless other gems. Here is the hilarious tirade directed at his chief accomplice, Israel Hands:

"Israel," said Silver, "your head ain't much account, nor ever was. But you're able to hear, I reckon; leastways, your ears is big enough. Now, here's what I say: you'll berth forward, and you'll live hard, and you'll speak soft, and you'll keep sober till I give the word; and you may lay to that, my son."

Earlier this year I spent a month in bed, recovering from a surgery. I did not feel like doing much of anything, nor could I do much, but reading and re-reading Treasure Island and then watching every film and TV adaptation of it I could find made me forget my troubles. 

The first screen version of Treasure Island  made in color, 1950's classic Disney adaptation, has a cartoonish feel to it (to be fair, it is Disney's first completely live-action film), but Robert Newton is superb. 

The 1990's TV version with Charlton Heston as Long John Silver, Christian Bale as Jim Hawkins, and Oliver Reed as Billy Bones, is an action-packed thriller and a cinematic treat of high production value.The film is well paced, is fairly close to the book, and has one of the most dynamic and beautifully choreographed fighting scenes I've ever seen on big or small screen (Episode: The Stockade).

The 1982 Soviet Russian screen version of Treasure Island  with  then childhood idol Fedor Stukov  (Jim Hawkins) and inimitable Oleg Borisov (Long John Silver) is fairly good too. It's a lot more light-hearted than the later 1990 British version and is touchingly inventive in its attempts to recreate 18th century England on location in Leningrad (now Saint Petersburg). Check out this episode in which Squire Trelawney arrives in Bristol and is introduced to Long John Silver at his tavern.

Thank you, Google, for using your awesome power for paying such a well-deserved tribute to Robert Louis Stevenson and his timeless masterpiece.

Cat Stevens and freedom

I'd started writing about Cat Stevens yesterday, but then had to stop, because my son was taking the break as a licence to be the laziest kid in the entire world, so I had to intervene.

I say, for the better. As they say in Russia: "The morning is wiser than the evening."

Why was I writing about Cat Stevens? I have to admit that I only recently found out that the author of such amazing songs as "Wild World", "First Cut is the Deepest", "Father and Son", etc, and Yusuf Islam are one and the same person. (Yes, I know that everyone knows this, but I grew up in the Soviet Union, where listening to any Western music, except the transcendent ones, the Beatles, was strongly discouraged and pretty much impossible)

My interest was peaked. Of course, Yusuf Islam also just recently performed at Jon Stewart's Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear, which some in the media humorously dubbed "Rally to Restore the Reputation of Yusuf Islam". With that in mind, I started digging up some facts on Yusuf Islam, slightly torn between my distrust of what I perceived as a bit of a provocative stance and my admiration for his songwriting abilities and also, quite frankly, his electrifying voice. I found out that he was a Londoner, a Brit of Greek and Swedish background, and that he was a talented loner, who often sat on the rooftop of his parents' restaurant listening to the sounds of musicals being performed nearby in London's theater district. He was also very cute.

I ended up establishing so much for myself: as sensitive as the topic of Islam is in the West right now, Cat Stevens converted years ago, so this has nothing to do with trying to pick anybody's wounds or giving anyone the finger. This calmed me down.

I am all for freedom, but one of the reasons I started this blog is to look at different expressions of freedom and try to pinpoint the moment where one's freedom to do whatever one likes with one's life starts intefering with other people's freedoms to do or to be whatever they like, with all the ensuing consequences. Wow! A long sentence! Must remember not to emulate Tolstoy. (As if I could).

Being a very visual person, I think in images, so images are a big source of information for me.

What I noticed, looking at all the current images of Yusuf Islam I could find on the net including on his own website is that he looks really happy. So does his wife.

Islam's reasoning for quitting the music business twenty seven years ago supports this visual point . He says that up to his decision he had been looking for his path in life and once he found it, his search was finished and he had to simply get down to the business of living his life. Which is not the same thing as "carving out a life", "striving for a better life", "building a life", etc. He had built his life and now he wanted live it.

Living his life obviously worked out really well for him. The royalties from his songs had something to do with it, I suppose, in so far as allowing him to do a lot of charitable work, but he would have done something along those lines anyway, since charity is a fundamental part of being a Muslim.

Despite being high-profile and all, Cat Stevens' example is illuminating on the point of freedom. By quitting the life style that wasn't making him happy, he made use of the freedom to live one's life as one sees fit. The contradictory nature of this is that freedom does have limitations. And everyone is free to accept them or not. If you don't accept them, you keep on working on the project of your life. Luckily for Cat Stevens, he was able to move on a long time ago.

Thumper is thumpin'

This post is a first one of what I imagine will be a long string of posts born from my passionate love affair with the English language. I am a collector, a savourer, an ESL nerd, whatever you like to call me. I am always expanding my English vocabulary, which is like the ocean - inexhaustible. 

The latest treat comes right out of the US midterm elections media extravaganza.

While President Obama chose "shellacking" to describe the recent Democratic defeat in the House of Congress, former President George W. Bush is often quoted these days referring to the 2006 Republican loss of seats as a "thumpin'". Political analysts and news people are also using the term "drubbing" a lot.

Political issues aside (this blog will not get partisan), I celebrate the creative use of the English language in the American public discourse. For us, non-native speakers/copycats, it's invaluable. One thing is to come across a word like that in a book, first try to extract its meaning from the context, and then, still not quite getting a good grasp of it, look it up online (or in an actual paper dictionary), but quite another is to hear it directed at and understood by such a large pool of people. No longer am I limited to "beating" and "thrashing". Three fresh synonyms is one swat. Just watch me use them now!

A Family Affair

My first post was a submission for the contest launched by Templeton Press, the publisher of a collection of essays edited by Adam Bellow, currently vice president/executive editor at HarperCollins. It's titled New Threats to Freedom. I genuinely believe in what I wrote and am not bummed out at all that I was not picked. Thank you to Templeton Press for motivating me to finally start this blog.

Now it's time to actually blog. What to blog about? Obviously, my themes are freedom, books, and flowers, as per title. Myriad of things fall under these topics, so my entries will vary greatly, I suspect.

I am new to the blogging business, but I've been following a blog for almost two years now that I really like and whose writer I hugely admire. It's called familyaffairsandothermatters and it has its own website. The blogger, Lulu, has risen to prominence as a mommy blogger in the UK and her blog is not only entertaining and funny, but hugely informative and sets a remarkable example when it comes to charitable campaigns. It also makes me cry at times, like the last two entries, for example. One is about the mother-daughter bond and the very last one is about Lulu's father gently fading surrounded by his best friends: his wife of over forty years and his three children.  In moments of sadness, the little community of regular commenters serves as a support network not only to Lulu, but to the commenters themselves. 

Lulu is related to my husband and has taken to referring to me (she posted a few things that I wrote on the blog) as her lovely cousin from Canada. I can now reciprocate and call her my lovely cousin from the UK.

Thank you, Lulu. My family and I love you and we love your father. His valor and grace are humbling. I am proud to be able to call him family.

The Art of Conversation

When was the last time you had a good conversation? The monologue you delivered to your mother about how unfair your ex-husband’s treatment of you was does not count, just as her upbraiding you for not following a stricter parenting course with your children. Your best friend used to be a great conversation partner, only she has two children, a demanding job, and a new boyfriend.

Sometimes you manage to have really good conversations with your children. Those are the best, but they are rare, because there is very little time. Somehow the pace of life has become staggering. Both children and parents have so much on “the agenda” that there are not enough hours in the day to fulfill the most pressing engagements and obligations, let alone have time to sit down and talk about things. Children love to talk. They long for a conversation. But the art of conversation has to be taught. How can we teach the art of conversation if we ourselves forgot how to practice it? The literature is full of satirical portrayals of ladies and gentlemen idling away time talking nonsense and gossip over tea or wine. By focusing on these, however, we forget to take into account how many intelligent conversations must have taken place between people. Their regulated routines included time for that. Intelligent, well-honed conversation is vital for exercising our intellectual abilities. Where does one learn? At parties, for example, where conversation is required. It would be interesting to find out what percentage of the population still throws house parties. In the developed world, leisure is mostly spent being physically active or engaged in virtual social networking. A conversation cannot flourish via Facebook or Twitter. If anything, the level of discourse tends to get lower and lower, discouraging many from participating. And then there is the lack of physical reality and accountability for what one says - main factors in a conversation. When people do face one another at a party, another problem is common: the growing inability to accept a difference in opinion. For all the celebrated experience in diversity, there is a surprisingly low level of tolerance for the dissenters from the main “party line” - views borrowed from a relatively small group of opinion makers. The latter dedicate their professional lives to creating and promoting the “narrative”, a storyline for educated people who do not make time for serious reflection on current topics, to use in social settings.
Outside the Western world, conversation still lives, since large swathes of the population have no incentive to submit themselves to grueling schedules. Once they catch up, the same scarcity of real conversation will probably occur. Conversation requires investment of time and resources. If regarded as luxury, it becomes meaningless. Free thinking is inconceivable without good conversation. Totalitarian regimes spy on people’s conversations and punish the participants because they feel threatened by it. Tyrants are afraid of conversations. That alone should inspire us to keep it up.

This post is an entry in the blog contest responding to the new book, New Threats to Freedom edited by Adam Bellow. The contest is open to all and further information can be found here.