funny things

1) My work visa says I'm male, meaning that all the systems in Canada think I'm male. Is this a problem? Apparently. It's a several-hours-on-the-phone problem. Which I can't get to because I'm working on items 2-5, below.
2) I haven't gotten paid by the college yet, presumably because they've never dealt with post-docs before, the bureaucracy here is nuts, and ... god only knows. Currently figuring out how to get money wired from the U.S.
3) My car is now illegal here because I don't have the actual title or registration from Oregon because ... god only knows. Mom thinks that the car may be "hot."
4) I am moving.
5) I hear that I have a job.

My priorities have not changed, despite all this. I have repeated myself lately, often, by saying that bureaucracy is like quicksand, and "you need to just relax because if you struggle, you'll only sink faster." It's getting to be more like concrete boots. Doesn't matter if I struggle or just sink quietly into the sea, it's all the same.

The woman from the car dealership wrote to ask me if they speak English or French here. Seriously? Why would it matter? Write the thing in Latin, lady.

See? Funny things. They repeat, over and over. I'm trying to think of what will happen next. Perhaps late September is a bad time for me. Last year, I got viral meningitis. This year, I have Acute Bureaucralosis. Ha ha. It's funny.

Back to my priorities: exercise, coffee, and learning about tenure and ownership in Newfoundland. Oh, and getting pubs from my dissertation. I mean, I guess I can't help the rest of it, right? I don't want pity, I just wanted to vent.

Thank you, Mr. Internet.

Intangible Cultural Heritage

We approached the attic a little nervously, M and I; a small crowd (~25) was gathered there on various ad hoc sitting-things, circled around a woman with a harp and another woman standing, dramatic even in silence, red curly hair and a smile made of teeth. We sat and the show began, first a story, like a fairy tale but reinvented, from the redheaded woman, then some harp music on a Paraguayan harp.

We lowered the mean age of the crowd dramatically, surrounded by people with fluffy white hair and nice sweaters. At the intermission, we ate fattening things and sipped bubbly wine, and I got to meet more professors and talk about ethnography. I love that Grenfell has such a vibrant social science (and visual arts!) section; I'm surrounded by people who understand when I talk about interviews as data.

Saturday, we went toward Gros Morne, but stopped in at the Insectarium, which is run by M's dad. M's dad told us about the bees, and how they recently swarmed, which means half of them left the hive with a new queen; but they decided to return, and upon returning they killed the old queen and installed their queen as supreme ruler. They were in the process of killing the male drones by throwing them out of the hive, to starve. It is a violent and difficult world.

I could not hold the tarantulas, though I would love to. The first tarantula had a sign about how they are misrepresented as dangerous and, really, they don't bite very often and their venom is not "particularly" poisonous to humans. The rest of the tarantulas had signs about how they bite people and how their bites are varying degrees of harmful to humans.

We had a long hike up Long Pond, with the Tablelands on the left, barren and red, and a steep fjord abutting the "pond" to the right. We saw a herd of caribou, but mostly just their mottled white behinds and the enormous rack on the male. Here is a "pond" according to Newfies, with the fjord to the right, Tablelands to the left, and a cairn indicating the end of the trail:



Then we headed to a party; a long conversation with a history professor about Marxism and climate change, and another with two Russian physicists about the role of math in the social sciences, and then a late-night game of "werewolves," where you plot and kill each other.

Sunday, we headed to Burgeo. The drive was with M's two friends, and we headed through forest to a barren area with rocks settled on top of a Martian wasteland, and finally to this square-house, hanging-laundry town with beaches and sand. We hiked along the beaches, admiring the distant rock islands and the clear green water. I borrowed one of M's fancy cameras and took pictures that were out of focus on purpose. I tried to make them look, you know, artsy.

First, here is Marvin, looking pensive:



I call this Alien Pod, Landed:


We stopped at a cafe for ice cream, and on leaving, I saw a glint in the road. I went over and picked up a smashed ring, and went back into the cafe.
"I found this outside."
"Oh, that's wonderful. That wud be Rex's, you know, he's a mechanic and he never wears his ring and he got married in August, you know? And he just put on the ring for the first time the other day and, jayz, if he din't lose it right away. I tell you. Hey, Mary!"
Mary emerged.
"Look what this girl here found."
"Oh, that would be Rex's ring, would it?"

Then we went to the friends' parents house for dinner, and we talked about Newfoundland with the dad (CBC journalist guy) and art with the mom (visual artist) and Marvin ran off for a while and I got all worried but then we found him because the dad remembered a nearby moose carcass.

I decided, on the drive back home, that I love Newfoundland.

CFA

On Saturday, I went to breakfast at a coffee shop in town with my new friend Matthew. He saw a game on the shelf that he hadn't seen "in years" and we pulled it down: Newfoundlandia. It was Trivial Pursuit, but all about Newfoundland. Like Trivial Pursuit, it had an expiry date on its relevance, now long past. But he did know one answer: What is the acronym CFA? "Come from away. Like someone who comes from away, not Newfoundland." I have christened this my new favorite acronym.

We then headed to Cox's cove, down the bay on the north side... it's a quiet town with a strange, tilting staircase leading down to the beach. Beside the staircase is a playground, old and rusty, surrounded by a chain link fence that says "Private Property, use at your own risk." We took a spin on the merry-go-round, and reminisced about deadly playground equipment.

Then we walked down the staircase, Marvin in the lead, running like he was falling head first. All along the beach were strange rocks, fallen from the strange cliffs above. We picked along, remarking on the rocks, "look, it's an ice cream cone," "this is like a mortar, or maybe a pestle," until we reached a collection of 15 tiny square houses, and a sign: The resettled community of Brake's Cove. Resettled, I suppose, meaning people were settled away from it.

There were no people present, though the houses were clean and often looked just-used, like the people had just stepped out to the grocery store. Coats hung on hooks, flowers in the gardens. People must use them now as vacation homes. But no one was there. Across the bay were more little houses; every flat spot in Newfoundland that's on the water has a couple of houses.



I played Settlers of Catan that night, and you'll be happy (dad, Jess) to know that I won that night. Strategy: wheat and ore. Oddly, everyone here seems to play Settlers.

I bought my first Newfie dress - polyester, short-sleeve secretary dress in lilac paisley. Good stuff.

Tomorrow I give a talk, but I'm trying not to think of it. Mostly I'm focusing on my latest Newfoundland fiction: Random Passages. I have yet to form an opinion on it; it's definitely less schmaltzy than the last one, which was utter crap.

I'm feeling oddly American these days. I wish I were around the U.S. to complain about politics and get exasperated at people who seek simple solutions to difficult questions. I have decided that my personal heroes are lawyers and politicians. Good lawyers defend the weak against the strong. Good politicians shape society to propel the weak. The bad lawyers and the bad politicians aren't worth mentioning.

There's no connection for me to Canadian politics. Maybe if I find some political blogs up here; so far, politics seems more distant to me. There's a veneer of liberalism, as with the social programs and general niceness, but underneath it is a dangerous detachment. Environmental laws are shaped to avoid participation and are weak anyway. Litigation is very difficult, at least in my reading of it so far, and rarely used in environmental cases. Litigation has pushed environmental policy in the U.S. when the market has repeatedly failed. Litigation pushes, governmental subsidies pull, and business practices change. Some invisible hand, that.

The story of Marvin, part I

He lived in the wet, moldy pipes of the ship, scurrying from place to place under the floors and in the walls. He could see the people through screens, and could smell them cooking things and hear them talking, shouting, doing their people things. But they didn't pay him much mind, any more than the rats that lived with him in the dark pipes.

The rats were his friends, his only companions. Marvin didn't eat the rats, unless he was very very hungry. Mostly he wanted to play with them but sometimes when they played he would become too happy and try to hold one in his mouth and shake his head in joy, and the little rat would die. Then Marvin would be sad, but only for a moment. Then he would eat the rat.

The ship swayed as it moved through space, the metal softly groaning in its timeworn hull. Marvin knew the ship very well. He was born in the ship, in a dirty pipe; his mom was born in the ship, and his dad also. There used to be more of his kind, but now there were only the rats. His kind had died out over time, sometimes because of the people, sometimes for no reason at all.

He feared the people, and he especially feared their rulers, the furry cat-queens that sat on big pillows and ate food of unimaginable deliciousness. Marvin would peer very carefully at the cat-queens through the grates of the pipes, and wonder at their beauty. But he dared not approach one, for they were too far above his station, and what would he say, anyway?

Over time, Marvin grew lonely. He wanted very much to speak to someone, but the rats were no good at conversation. So he stayed quiet, and watchful, and he waited for scraps that the people would drop or, if he was really lucky, a dish of food left behind by a careless cat. Then he would swoop in, faster than anything, and lick the dish clean, and then disappear again into the pipes.

One day, the ship was making more noise than usual, a terrible racket. Marvin heard the people running about, shouting and calling to each other. He saw a person running by, carrying a cat, and the cat looked worried, and suddenly Marvin was very worried, too. What could a cat, as lucky as any creature Marvin could imagine, worry about?

The ship screeched and wailed, and it jerked back and forth. Marvin was thrown against the walls of the pipe, and then the ship stopped jerking and it was even more terrifying: Marvin could feel his stomach falling into his feet, and the walls around him grew hot.

Then there was a crash, and he was thrown into the top of the pipe, which thankfully wasn't very far from the bottom of the pipe. The metal around him crunched and folded and broke, and then all was still. Quiet. And a light, brighter than anything Marvin had ever seen, broke through the pipe, just ahead of him, in a narrow beam.

Marvin limped cautiously toward the light, his bones bruised and blood on his fur. The light came from the up-side of the pipe, a little hole. He touched the ray of light with his paw, and his paw went right through it. He pressed his nose to the hole, and smells of every kind, a symphony of smells, so wonderful it made him yelp, made his brain ache with joy.

He tried to push his nose through the hole, but he couldn't, so he kept trying for a long time, until he was very tired and the light went away and it was dark. He fell asleep, exhausted, in the pipe.

When he awoke, it was with a start. Such strange noises! And behind the noises, even more scarily, there was quiet. Then he realized why it was quiet: none of the people were making their noises. Just the sound of wind and the sweet singing of distant creatures to greet him. He went to the light and looked mournfully out the hole: What was out there? Where were his friends, the rats? And even his enemies, the people? And his rulers, the rulers of all, the cat-queens?

He turned down the hall toward one of the people-rooms, but it was difficult to move through the crumbled metal. The edges of pipes scratched his skin and tore at his coat as he wiggled through narrow spots.

Finally he reached the people-room, and it was so full of the light that he buried his head in his paws. Then he looked up, opening first one eye and then the next, squinting against the magnificent sun that he had never seen. The up-side was so blue! He could see green tall-things and he gathered his courage, scrambling over toppled furniture and broken glass. Some of the people were there, not moving and silent, and he avoided them as he limped carefully out of the ship, into the sunshine.

Eid ul-Fitr

I have had a couple of social engagements this weekend, both in the "townsite" section of Corner Brook, and both with people from Grenfell. First, there was the end of Ramadan celebration (Eid ul-Fitr) on Friday night, largely in celebration of the other post-doc in the department, who is from Egypt.



The townsite area is very interesting. The houses are nice, two-story (sometimes three) and a kind of craftsman. There are only about 4 different floor plans because it's a company town and therefore, they were all built at the same time by the same crews. Isn't it weird that company towns are so oddly similar to Soviet towns? I mean, when I used to walk into an apartment in the former Soviet Union, I'd know right away the era of its design and where the bathroom was. Here it's similar, but more quaint. But the idea is the same: the company (or government) will build for you what you need, and you'll work for the company (or government). It's a socialist vision, expressed through different means. In both cases, it has disappeared, and we're dealing with something after. In the case of the company town, the previous era was called "Fordism," for obvious reasons. Henry Ford developed a system of paying his workers enough to purchase his cars. This is a story across corporate America (and Canada, I guess) in the dream time that was the early and mid 20th century. There are a lot of great stories of timber towns in Oregon where the boss would drive around, inspecting people's lawns. In Pennsylvania, mom and I met a couple from Hershey, PA who talked about the Hershey family and how it built the town of Hershey and populated it with workers and a theme park. The corporation not only employed people, it provided for them. It was paternalistic.

Our current era is being called "post-Fordism," an uninspiring and non-descriptive term. Any time someone uses the prefix post you can be sure that they're living through it, and so its immediacy makes it blurry and muddled. Our relationship with corporate governance will have some other word, later, when our fates become evident. For now, we occupy the old Fordist structures, while the mills close one by one and move to China. Meanwhile the company houses of the townsite are filled with professors. And here I am, in the "information age" of America. I often wonder what will happen when the zombies come, and I'm forced to take stock of what I can contribute to a post-post-Fordist society. I will tell the dark overlord of the Mad Max future: "Sir, I can analyze the power structure here."

Saturday, I returned to the townsite for a campus-wide eating party. I enjoyed the din of congregated, concentrated conversing, and the plates of food, and the smiley, friendly Canadians, and discussions begun by awkwardly extending a hand and saying, "Hi, I'm Erin." I've thought about trying some interesting ice-breakers, but they always seem contrived. So I stick to the geography topic: "I'm from Oregon." It's a winner here. I shall spread the tale of my beloved Oregon, a land of cowboys and loggers and hippies and the most delicious beer in the universe.

A nice and satisfying tired

Marvin and I have arrived home after two days of good hiking. Sunday, we drove down from the northern peninsula in the wind, after going up as far as Eddie's Cove. We didn't go all the way to St. Anthony, but we got near enough, and then we headed south along the barren coast and back into the mountains. We set up camp at a campground in Gros Morne, went for a very fast run-hike up a hill then to a waterfall, then headed into town (Rocky Harbour) to procure rations. I wanted to head back before dark, so I ran around town looking for things. Food was a problem, as restaurants were very full or closing, and the grocery store offered canned ravioli and rotten fruit. I was so sick of meat. I went into a restaurant.
"I'd like something with vegetables, to go." I said.
"With vegetables?" She looked over the menu as though she'd never seen it before. "Hmmmm." Bacon-wrapped scallops, cod au gratin, various beef things. I spied a vegetable stir fry, but before I could say anything, she said, "we don't have the stir fry."
"How about pizza?"
So I got a pizza, then went to the grocery store and got canned spinach, which I poured over the pizza, then smothered it all in hot sauce. Gourmet. [Pronounce the "t".]

I also went to a Newfie craft and knick-knack store, where I got a book on Doctor Sir Grenfell. Newfoundland has tons of these shops, all full of jokey moose things and knitted caps and bags with the Newfoundland flag. And books. Lots of local books. I don't know if they're any good, but I'll work my wary through them. I got one by Earl B. Pilgrim, who's written a ton of fiction. It's historical fiction, called The Price Paid for Charley. Typical Newfie themes: isolation, hardships, the cold. The weather is like a respected uncle here, spoken of, sometimes cursed.

Today's hike was substantial: miles down through a narrow valley, then across a narrow river ("brook") and up a meadow to the Green Gardens. We met up with people there, mostly from Nfld but also from Europe. A couple of Swiss and a couple of Germans. There were sheep everywhere in the meadow. I walked Marvin on a leash past the sheep. He has a bit of sheepkiller in him. We walked along the coast, which reminded me of Big Sur, with dramatic cliffs and rocky beaches. Then up, up, up to the top and finally we got to the car and headed back to home base. I was planning dinner in my head.

Unfortunately, these Canadians take labo[u]r day seriously. No grocery stores were open, not even Walmart. A red Walmart! So I went to a Chinese place and got takeout.

Too much detail, but that's the story. Now I'm tired, bone tired. Too much walking. My feet hurt.

The salty wind is blowin'

Marvin and I went for a bit of a stroll around Port aux Choix this evening, while grit swirled in the air and blew into our eyes and the green sea tossed and bucked next to us. The town was a "resettlement" area, designated in the 1970s by then-boss (premier?) Richard Smallwood for people from very small towns to migrate to. It became a big cod fishery, and still today has a couple of fish and shrimp packing plants, though I'm pretty sure the fishery collapse caused some deterioration. The downtown:



I drove here from Corner Brook today, up through Gros Morne National Park, where we went for a couple of hikes through the boreal (balsam fir-black spruce-eastern larch) forest and admired the steep cliffs adjoining both sea and "pond." The Western Brook Pond, for example, seems a bit large to merit such a diminutive name:



So, the "pond" isn't just the water in the foreground - it goes clear back, through the mountains. They're actually inland fjords, glacially carved and then with sediment between the sea and the "pond," so the water is fresh.

I went to lunch in a town called Rocky Harbour, where I had moose pizza at a place that had everything from DVD rentals to tourist knick-knacks to homemade baked goods. After writing a bunch of postcards about how I haven't even seen a moose yet, Marvin and I came upon a mother-moose (cow?) and her lil' un right off the trail. They were eating alder leaves and couldn't be less concerned about the humans (other tourists, as well as myself) staring at them.

I found out, from the handy informative kiosks, that Newfoundland is mostly bog, not marsh. The soil is thin but the organic matter, "pickled" by acidity and cold, has stacked up. I'm not sure that I read a terribly scientific kiosk, but I like the idea of twigs and leaves and creatures pickling under my feet.

While driving, you occasionally see this sign:


Also, there's a huge sign that tells you the number of moose-vehicle collisions within Gros Morne in the year. This year, there have been 25.

When we got to Port aux Choix, about halfway up the northern peninsula on the western coast of Newfoundland, I was looking for a campsite. Then the wind picked up. I turned into an old motel, a bit beaten down. I went in and stood at the counter, and a woman with fake blond hair and leathery skin scowled at me.
"Do you have any vacancy?" I asked.
"Yeh." She said.
"Okay. How much for a single room?"
"It's ninety-four dollars."
So I left, as I'm not likely to enjoy a smoky, moldy room from a grumpy old lady. The wind was really blowing, but I figured I had a sleeping bag, and there must be something better in town. I drove past the "downtown," a few abandoned buildings, a fish plant, and a restaurant, and arrived at Jeannie's Sunrise B&B. I turned in, and parked. Not expecting to find vacancy, as several cars were already parked in the tiny lot.
I walked in. "Who's there? Oh, do you have reservations?" came a trill from upstairs. A plump woman bent over the railing and smiled. "Hellooooo!"
"Do you have any vacancy?" I asked.
"Of course, m'love. Come in! Is it just you?"
She proceeded to ask me questions, guide me around the little house ("and here's the common room, and there's the tea kettle, help yerself"), and tell me about herself ("I'm from right here, never wanted to leave. Nope, never.") The room is $79.

Across the street from the B&B is a little butchery:


I tried to record Jeannie in a conversation with a local man, but it came out too muffled. I've got to actually be right next to them, and I don't want to seem too nosy or make them self-conscious. I noticed that Jeannie spoke much more slowly with me than with the other man ("Oh, yeh must know me brudder Liam, he's over there," she said to him). I've also noticed that women have this habit of saying "yeah" with a sharp intake of breath. The first time I heard it, I thought maybe the lady had a lung problem. But now I've heard lots of women do it. They say "yeah" but breathing in, rather than out.

Port aux Choix is apparently a corruption of a Basque term; the place was part of the French fishery in the 1700s after the Treaty of Utrecht, when Britain got the bulk of Newfoundland. Neither country put many (white) settlers here, though, until the 20th century. There's a long history of Indians in the area, with found burial sites and at least three distinct cultures identified by archaeologists.

The town is very Newfie, with little square houses and fishing boats lined up in neat rows:


The wind is blowing:

It's almost labo[u]r day

Here's a video of a guy with a Newfie accent, talking about his Newfie dog. I've been thinking about recording people in my day-to-day adventures, especially people giving me directions. "Oh, ye go o'er the hill, thar, m'dear, and y'know the city hall? The new one? Yah, there, ye go down that road an' jus' across the street there, ye'll see it." I have taken to just blindly driving in a random direction and hoping that I run into whatever I was looking for.

I'm currently trying to decide what to do with my weekend. I think I'll just start driving and see if I end up in a place that I like. I had my first couple of days of work, so I'm pretty exhausted and need a vacation. Just a little joke. Actually, I'm feeling guilty as can be, and like I need to just stay in and work on some manuscripts from the phud, but I also don't want to waste this nice weather in this wonderful place. I'll take my recording device with me, and try to download conversations I have with random passersby. And people who give me directions.

Git 'er done

I have now started to see results after several days of grinding bureaucracy. I have a telephone (pow!), internet (kazam!), and... lots more to do. The telephone was hooked up yesterday, but I wasn't getting a dial tone, so I scheduled an appointment with a phone technician guy for "between 1 and 5" today. I was at home when the friendly telephone man showed up and started testing all the outlets to find there was no dial tone. We followed the line down to the basement and checked in this magical wire-box thing, and he said "a ha. I've seen this before." He pointed out where several wires had been cut. "It's the Rogers company, they've been cutting the lines." Turns out there are competing phone service providers, and the other company had come in and cut the telephone lines of their competitors just so this inconvenience would arise. But friendly telephone man fixed the problem and I suddenly, miraculously, had a line to the outside world.

In other news, my car will be officially illegal in a couple of weeks, and after standing in several lines and speaking with completely rational, polite, and helpful Canadian officials, I found out the car dealership in Oregon hasn't submitted my registration paperwork yet because "the title isn't right" or some shit. Ah. Well, at least they're doing their best.

Last night, I went to a movie (the execrable Eat, Pray, Love) with a couple girls from work then afterward went for a nip of the local specialty, screech. It was okay because the bartender mixed it with butterscotch liqueur. The "Burt Reynolds" he called it. It was a nice night - my first social night in Corner Brook.

Just finished The Shipping News (E. Annie Proulx), which was one of the best books I've read in a long time. Amazing. Four stars. It's about the northern peninsula of Newfoundland and I think I'll head up that way this labo"u"r day weekend.