The shelves in the grocery stores around town are suspiciously low on things like food. Oh sure, you can still get a bazillion variants of the potato chip, including the Canadian-specific Roast Chicken and All Dressed types, but at last check, there was no spinach, no lettuce, and only the saddest, floppiest species of broccoli.
Like many things about isolated places, this scarcity can be a blessing. In Korea, the quest for cheese took me to small back roads of Pusan and Seoul, paying mint for a block of non-processed cheddar. These adventures loom large in my imagination, informing my view of the hermit kingdom.
Corner Brook is another hermit kingdom. In this corner of the corner of Canada, the narrowing of options makes decisions simple. The single movie theater shows only two films at a time, one invariably a rom com starring Hugh Grant. Without the benefit of choice, evenings of board games have taken over my social schedule.
Speaking of changing options, I have begun my hockey era. On Friday night, I headed to the small hockey rink that resembled the indoor soccer fields of my Corvallis days. I followed my colleague Mario down the little hallway, carrying giant, distended shopping bags full of assorted padding. He headed into a small dressing room full of men, and I hung back until he popped his head back out and said "you're in here too." I headed in, greeting players that I recognized. People were lacing and taping and adjusting their assorted pads; there was one other woman, Crystal, a librarian that I've played lots of boardgames with. One other woman eventually showed up, the Vice President of Grenfell.
The assorted professors and staff walked onto the ice. Some were clearly great hockey players and they warmed up confidently, sprinting across the ice and stopping with a flourish of shaved ice crystals. I walked like a stiff-limbed marionette, until Marc, a friendly English professor, told me that hockey players skate with their legs bent. I hunched over and bent my legs and skated like he told me, my legs shooting to the sides. Then I tried stopping - and just spun in circles, my arms flailing around. This will be a challenge.
In the actual game, I did alright. I'm fast when I get going, but stopping or turning suddenly or using the stick in a more purposeful manner will require some practice. My stick was useful for holding me up as I skated fast, my back bent over, but it was less useful for hitting the puck.
Then yesterday, I went snowshoeing at the ski hill and then ate soup at the Tim Horton's in the little gas station at the bottom of the hill.
Turning shades of Canadian.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Finding Oregon
The Holiday break is over, and I find myself back in Newfoundland.
Oregon had not changed. Portland was full of hipsters, young (18) and old (45), in eyeliner and tight jeans, smoking cigarettes and working in the service industry. My friend Lisa lived next to Pier Park in St. John's, and we walked amidst the tall trees, down the streets of St. John's. We ate Thai food until we almost burst, and had a few overpriced drinks from surly waiters.
Corvallis was time spent with friends from graduate school, and time spent walking with Em in Willamette Park; watching Pride and Prejudice (BBC version, obvs) with Jess and squealing over Mr. Darcy; playing Settlers; visiting thrift stores and wandering the aisles in search of bright colors and obnoxious prints; eating competitively against Thiel at the China Buffet; and generally marveling at the saturated green-ness and the air that smelled of life.
I drove toward home in a roundabout way, through Vancouver, in order to see my friend. Vancouver is the poorly planned, sprawling, strip mall-congested step-child of beautiful, hip Portland. I had lunch with Ry and oohed over her expanding belly. She told me she's having the baby at home, and we discussed the possibility that birth is not a medical problem over good salsa and cheesy enchiladas.
Driving down the gorge, the fog clung to the basalt and waterfalls were frozen mid-fall along the cliffs. I stopped in Cascade Locks to... um... cut my locks [ugh], and walked into a salon with a chirpy Vietnamese woman who cut my hair while telling me all about her time in the U.S. She gilded no lilies, this one, and told me straight about the difficulties of moving to a country she barely knew, to marry a man she did not know. But she was a wonderful hairdresser and an animated speaker, though her quick words flowed without hard consonants, so that I had to ask her to repeat herself a lot. My hair looked amazing.
I arrived in Hood River, where I played Settlers with my family, ate too much, and woke up every morning very early to go for a run with my dad. "We'll start out slow" he said at the start of every run. He has started every run with those words as long as I can remember. We shuffle off, discussing the various important topics of the day, including but not limited to: geography, history, religion, politics, TV shows, gossip, and scatological humor. I went shopping during the days, sometimes just walking among the shops and other times buying Christmas presents. I found a shirt I liked in a little shop: $200. For a shirt. I didn't buy it. My brother arrived home and we watched the new zombie TV show and all of us ran around the house, getting in each others' ways.
I headed toward the coast, first stopping at my advisor's house for dinner with his family and our small circle of radical devotees. We discussed things related to the College of Forestry, but mostly things unrelated to the College of Forestry, and ate lasagna made with homemade noodles.
NYE was spent with a group of about 17 people at some run-down, quirky little cabins along the coast, and I coined my new phrase: "happy nye!" which received mostly quizzically-raised eyebrows. We discussed meeting up at the beach house in the case of zombie attack, and that zombies in Oregon would be the most sustainable and ethical, keeping humans in free-range pens.
The next morning, I awoke with a mysterious headache and a 4.5 hour drive to The Dalles, where my dad's retirement party was held. I drove there frantically, stopping to shower and arrived at the venue, called Riverenza. I ran up to the door, not noticing that there were no cars. All was locked. Dear gods! No phone, no computer, and everyone expecting to see me! I drove to the nearest pay phone, which was oddly stranded in the middle of a parking lot, and deposited quarters. It didn't work. No dial tone, and the quarters just sat there, out of reach but not dropping. I drove to Safeway and used the phone, leaving messages on my mom's, then my dad's, then my brother's phones. Each one, um, hey guys, uh, I'm not sure I know where the party is, so I guess I'll try calling again. Yeah. Okay.
I realized, however, that there were only a few venues that could host such an event in town. I drove to the Civic Center, and upon seeing my father's car, practically wept with joy. On arriving, I saw an old boss from my cherry orchard days, and acted as though it was perfectly natural I should be flushed and flummoxed upon entering the party. The party was wonderful, full of Kellys and Taylors and friends of my parents.
After the party, some of my family went to a fancy hotel surrounded by magical fairy lights, where we ordered drinks and food. I sat between my dad and my uncle Terry, who reminded me why I have a tendency toward dark humor as they took turns stabbing me in the leg or side with their forks.
Ah, the holidays.
Oregon had not changed. Portland was full of hipsters, young (18) and old (45), in eyeliner and tight jeans, smoking cigarettes and working in the service industry. My friend Lisa lived next to Pier Park in St. John's, and we walked amidst the tall trees, down the streets of St. John's. We ate Thai food until we almost burst, and had a few overpriced drinks from surly waiters.
Corvallis was time spent with friends from graduate school, and time spent walking with Em in Willamette Park; watching Pride and Prejudice (BBC version, obvs) with Jess and squealing over Mr. Darcy; playing Settlers; visiting thrift stores and wandering the aisles in search of bright colors and obnoxious prints; eating competitively against Thiel at the China Buffet; and generally marveling at the saturated green-ness and the air that smelled of life.
I drove toward home in a roundabout way, through Vancouver, in order to see my friend. Vancouver is the poorly planned, sprawling, strip mall-congested step-child of beautiful, hip Portland. I had lunch with Ry and oohed over her expanding belly. She told me she's having the baby at home, and we discussed the possibility that birth is not a medical problem over good salsa and cheesy enchiladas.
Driving down the gorge, the fog clung to the basalt and waterfalls were frozen mid-fall along the cliffs. I stopped in Cascade Locks to... um... cut my locks [ugh], and walked into a salon with a chirpy Vietnamese woman who cut my hair while telling me all about her time in the U.S. She gilded no lilies, this one, and told me straight about the difficulties of moving to a country she barely knew, to marry a man she did not know. But she was a wonderful hairdresser and an animated speaker, though her quick words flowed without hard consonants, so that I had to ask her to repeat herself a lot. My hair looked amazing.
I arrived in Hood River, where I played Settlers with my family, ate too much, and woke up every morning very early to go for a run with my dad. "We'll start out slow" he said at the start of every run. He has started every run with those words as long as I can remember. We shuffle off, discussing the various important topics of the day, including but not limited to: geography, history, religion, politics, TV shows, gossip, and scatological humor. I went shopping during the days, sometimes just walking among the shops and other times buying Christmas presents. I found a shirt I liked in a little shop: $200. For a shirt. I didn't buy it. My brother arrived home and we watched the new zombie TV show and all of us ran around the house, getting in each others' ways.
I headed toward the coast, first stopping at my advisor's house for dinner with his family and our small circle of radical devotees. We discussed things related to the College of Forestry, but mostly things unrelated to the College of Forestry, and ate lasagna made with homemade noodles.
NYE was spent with a group of about 17 people at some run-down, quirky little cabins along the coast, and I coined my new phrase: "happy nye!" which received mostly quizzically-raised eyebrows. We discussed meeting up at the beach house in the case of zombie attack, and that zombies in Oregon would be the most sustainable and ethical, keeping humans in free-range pens.
The next morning, I awoke with a mysterious headache and a 4.5 hour drive to The Dalles, where my dad's retirement party was held. I drove there frantically, stopping to shower and arrived at the venue, called Riverenza. I ran up to the door, not noticing that there were no cars. All was locked. Dear gods! No phone, no computer, and everyone expecting to see me! I drove to the nearest pay phone, which was oddly stranded in the middle of a parking lot, and deposited quarters. It didn't work. No dial tone, and the quarters just sat there, out of reach but not dropping. I drove to Safeway and used the phone, leaving messages on my mom's, then my dad's, then my brother's phones. Each one, um, hey guys, uh, I'm not sure I know where the party is, so I guess I'll try calling again. Yeah. Okay.
I realized, however, that there were only a few venues that could host such an event in town. I drove to the Civic Center, and upon seeing my father's car, practically wept with joy. On arriving, I saw an old boss from my cherry orchard days, and acted as though it was perfectly natural I should be flushed and flummoxed upon entering the party. The party was wonderful, full of Kellys and Taylors and friends of my parents.
After the party, some of my family went to a fancy hotel surrounded by magical fairy lights, where we ordered drinks and food. I sat between my dad and my uncle Terry, who reminded me why I have a tendency toward dark humor as they took turns stabbing me in the leg or side with their forks.
Ah, the holidays.
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