L is for ...

... Landslide.

A couple nights ago I went to see Fleetwood Mac at the ACC.  We all know that I love concerts and I'm not so much a snob that I only see bands in small intimate venues.  Big, huge concerts in spacious arenas may not be ideal, but for big musicians with big music and big personas it's almost preferred.  While I'd love to see Springsteen or U2 now play Massey Hall (CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE?!)  there's something about their anthemic music and the way they work a crowd that calls for a big huge venue.  It's an event and the challenge is in the connection:  can one be made between performer and audience in a way that doesn't feel phoned in?  If you're a pro and you care and you've got the tunes the answer is a resounding hell yes.

We all have 'a song'.  That song that no matter where you are or what you're doing, when you hear it you just stop and listen.  Your mind goes elsewhere - to that place the song reminds you of - and you're emotional and, well, of course, you cry.  It's that song.  This song can mean a million things to a million people - this meaning may not even be what the song is actually about - but for you, it speaks its particular story and you are lost within in.  I think that's the power of a great song; its ability to transcend meaning and morph into what you take it to mean for you.  I'm not an expert - and I certainly have no musical talent or even very good ears - but I can feel things and I can get emotional and Jesus Christ everytime I hear Landslide I just break down and cry.  Sometimes it's sobcrying.  Sometimes it's simple flow crying.  But always, always, there are tears.  It's my song.

I'm sometimes concerned with how people will react to my public displays of crybaby, but generally my people are pretty good.  Last year at Adele, C basically said that as long as I wasn't rolling on the floor in the fetal position she'd be fine.  When I told my darling M before the Fleetwood concert that there would likely be tears, she took both my hands and said "and this is why I love you".  I mean, how I keep winning the friend lottery is beyond me.  In any case, two nights ago in a crowd of thousands, there was that connection of which I spoke - the tears flowed amidst the smiles, which is exactly what poignant memories should do.  Memories evoked by song, whose meanings are whatever it is they are to you.

Here's Landslide.  Go ahead, give it a little cry.  I will always, always have tissues.  Always. 


  


L is for Landslide.

K is for ...

... Kingslayer.

Game of Thrones!  (Spoiler alerts ahead.)

Do you love it or do you love it?  I don't know many people that don't, but mind you I tend to hang with people that like all the same things I do so perhaps I am skewing my own data.  In any event, Game of Thrones is gearing up for a stellar third season and I can't get enough.  I'm coming at it new, never having read the books, by George R. R Martin, that the series is based on, and I started on it a bit late, tearing through Season One in about a week just before the Season Two premiere.

If I'm being honest, I did need a second take.  I watched the Series Premiere and it confused the hell out of me.  Everyone sort of looked the same.  There were so many of them.  It was always rather dark.  Whose against who?  I paid very close attention.  I listened very carefully.  I almost took notes.  I thought I had it all figured out - who was who and all that, when in the last scene of this episode Jaime kisses Cersei and I'm like "WHAT?!  How did I get them mixed up?!  They are brother and sister! ???".  I was mad I had lost the character set up - after all my concentration work - but in fact, Jaime and Cersei ARE brother and sister.  That's Game of Thrones.  Not since Flowers in the Attic has sibling incest been so mainstream!  I thought I was punishing the show by not watching Season One 'live', but I was really punishing myself because like the show really cares.

Diving in fresh, nothing much changed - it's still super dark, everyone still looks the same (those beards!  those cloaks!), those that don't look the same have similar sounding names (Tyrion, Tywin, what?!).  As soon as I have someone down pat, they go off and get killed (I miss you, Gay King Renly!).  I still don't know most of anyone's name and resort to "you know the guy in the cave married to that woman who had the smoke baby" descriptions.  I'm only about 72% confident that I am following the story properly.  But you know what?  Who cares!  As was proven in Episode One, Season One it's almost a waste of time to really, really know what's going on because BAM, just like that, it could all explode in an instant. 

Any series that kills off its supposed main character in the first season has major balls.  The sequence of Ned's beheading was one of the most brilliantly filmed scenes I've ever seen.  It shocked you in more ways than one and put you on notice that anything could happen.  And anything usually does.  The storylines are accompanied by objects of fantasy - those glorious direwolves, scary smoke monsters, firebreathing dragons - but in the end it's the relationships between the characters and their attempts to find their place in the world that holds your attention.  Tyrion's desire for fatherly acceptance, Jon Snow's desire for any type of acceptance, Robb's attempts to become his own man, Jaime's petulant sarcasm as he tries to break free of his notorious past - and that's just (some of) the boys!  I want Arya to take over everything.  I want Cersei to kill Joffrey (we know she's capable, having almost poisoned her other kid last season!) while Boobs (sorry, what is her name?  Gay King Renly's widow?) watches!  While I'm admittedly a bit tired of Mama Stark, I'm totally obsessed the Khalessi.  So much so I often yell things like "WHERE ARE MY APPLES?" when I'm feeling a little lost but, alas, no one brings me any.

I have no idea what this season has in store for us - but, I hear from those that have read the books that I won't be happy.  Well, okay, I can deal with that.  I can deal with being shaken out of my television complacency by a show that takes chances and doesn't write plot points based on a popularity contest.  I love the notion of throwing characters on screen that are far from perfect and do bad things without remorse - who want power simply for the sake of it and will bring anyone down who attempts to stop them.  Of course it's cruel, cutting and ruthless but it's also brilliant storytelling, especially when we surprisingly find their pathos along the way.  I personally can't wait to see how it all turns out. In a complete about turn of my own personality, I'm being patient with this one. I am NOT going to start ripping through the books! Not because I'm not curious, and not because I like waiting but because those books don't have that incredibly majestic theme song. Which, I'm quite comfortable falling in love with as it is likely the only sacred entity on this magnificent show.




K is for ... Kingslayer.

J is for ...

... Jerkface.

Remember back in the days when we were younger and dumber and couldn't say things like "dickhead" and "douchebag"?  In those days we'd have to come up with equally awful epithets to bestow on the objects of our derision.  Usually boys.  Always boys.

Endowments like dummy, stupid moron, knucklehead and, my most favourite, jerkface.

Thinking on it now, the visual image of the word 'jerkface' is so strong it's hard to imagine anything but a complete recoil when uttered - it's the perfect Elaine Benes Dance Move + Gnarly Feet On Their Way to Naturalizer combination.  It's ugly and assaulting from the inside out.  It lets it be known - loud and proud - that dude, you are directly on your way to douchebag with a pit stop at dickhead.  All you will be collecting along the way is scorn. 

Nowadays, calling someone a jerkface doesn't seem so bad.  It's a wholesome little "aw, shucks, golly, what a jerkface you are!", while cutely smushing ice cream in each other's faces fun time kind of thing.  But no.  Not for me, lovebugs.  For me, jerkface is the first step on the road to dude-blivion. 

Got that, Jerkface?*

J is for Jerkface.


*Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.  Or not.

I is for ...

... I'm back!


Well, I've never left but I did leave the Alphabet.  I just sort of dumped it and now I want it back.  I missed it.  And you know what?  The Alphabet is forgiving.  The Alphabet took me back.  It understood my need to chart other waters and realize what I was missing out on - The Alphabet is confident in itself.  It didn't grovel or cry.  It stood firm.  It knew I was making a mistake of folly and waited, patiently, for me to do my thing and figure things out on my own.  It knew I would come around.  And I did.  The Alphabet is one strong sucker.  Can't say I would do the same thing.  Not many would.  But this Alphabet of mine?  It's a keeper.  I am excited to begin anew - just me & my Alphabet ... together until the end.

I is for I'm back.

Adventures 2013 - Volume 4, So This Is What Happened - Part Two

Being outside your normal routine for a time soon has me feeling out of sorts.  While I don't miss work, waking up at the crack of dawn or my laundry, I miss my patterns - my knowing that it's time for this or that.  It's things as simple as the way my morning coffee guy confirms how I take my coffee everyday ("just milk, yeah?") which allow me to feel settled and calm.  There's none of this on vacation, which I think is why I like to plan them to death - I need to insert my own sense of knowing into my adventures to instill that sense of calm.

This particular trip in that regard has been challenging.  Aside from our hotels, one concert and one restaurant we have generally had no idea what we're doing.  My natural inclination to freak out at this has waned substantially - we are being so well taken care of and I'm finding routine and pattern in people rather than things.  Take for example The Glasses Family.  We first happened on them at our hotel in Bilbao.  Mom, Dad, Brother and Sister - tall, lean and blond, all but the sister with glasses.  Andrea and I talked for hours about them.  Does sister feel superior because she's the only one with perfect vision, or left out because she doesn't have glasses like everyone else?  We saw them for breakfast at the hotel, for tea later in the afternoon and, much to our surprise, at the airport heading for Brussels.  We gasped with glee as if it was a family reunion!  THE GLASSES FAMILY!  Going home to Brussels!  With us!  They had no idea who we were and I'm sure didn't give us a passing glance at any point during our random run - ins over the past couple of days, but that's the way it should be:  no one should be watching professional people watchers!  We're boring!

We lost The Glasses Family at the Brussels Airport (or, maybe, they finally lost us), but weren't sad for too long as we had another real-life family to meet: the Zadows!

My dear friend Matthew moved with his family to Brussels about six years ago.  He's an opera singer and there's simply more work and training for him in & around Brussels - he's short train rides away from Antwerp, Paris, you name it.  His wife, Maggie, is a teacher and their boys, Malcolm and Duncan are two of the most whip smart charmers you'd ever hope to lay your eyes on.  We parachuted into their lives for two days and, again, let the natives take the lead.

The Zadows picked us up from our hotel in the late afternoon and we embarked on a stroll through the city that basically involved chocolate, beer, mussels, frites, gaufres a bit of history and plenty of laughs.

I often joke that I drink about two beers a year.  Judging from my beer consumption in Brussels, I'm probably good for about a decade now - it's just that the beer doesn't taste like beer there.  It tastes like delicious!  Matthew did a great job choosing for my palate (black cherry!) and I wanted to try it all - light, strong, fruity, all of it!  I'm a "when in Rome" type of person and Belgium is Beer.  In fact,  beer  in Belgium is served in specific glasses and if the bar or restaurant does not have the right glass to serve what you ordered, they will either not serve it or apologize profusely.  I can completely dig standards like that, so after many taste tests and very full bellies we head back to the hotel for much needed sleep and the anticipation of tomorrow.

To say I'm excited about going to Bruges is a massive understatement.  I AM SO EXCITED TO GO TO BRUGES!  The town has held a magical place in my mind well before the amazing 2008 film In Bruges, starring Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleason.  Of course there's a small worry it won't live up to my expectations, but I calm myself down knowing that even if that happens there will be chocolate.  Lots and lots of chocolate.

We're picked up from the hotel by just the boys as Maggie is tutoring, and embark on our 40 minute train ride to Bruges.  As we arrive, the weather is foggy, gray and almost mystical.  It's as if we are on set of our own murder mystery movie.

Made complete with a 90s soundtrack:

And swans in love:

The day continues with whimsy just like this.  Cobblestone streets, horse drawn carriages, boat rides, chocolate shops upon chocolate shops, beer, frites and a climb up the Belfry.

Bruges is a ridiculously charming place.  The type of place that seems to only exist in movies or Disneyland.  We now know that's not true - ridiculous charm exists in Belgium and its name is Bruges.  We're off now, to the Zadows for dinner.

Ah, a comfortable sofa, neverending glasses of champagne, delicious food and glorious company.  Did we mention Shaggy on the sound system?  Why not!  Everything rolls when you're open to it and I couldn't have imagined a more perfect final night.

And so, a trip that began with a casual sentence over dinner has come to an end and I can't say that my delays in posting about it weren't due to the fact I'm still in denial - I miss Alex and Raul and Uri and Adrian and Matthew and Maggie and Malcolm and Duncan and The Glasses Family and our anger management cab driver and laughing with Andrea everyday and eating loads of chocolate and pinxtos and drinking bottles of vodka with a squirt of lemon juice and beer.  I miss drinking beer!  I miss singing Debbie Gibson.  I miss my holiday.  And that's why we need them.  To shake us up and out of our normal day - our routines - to see life fresh and new, when we're there and also when we're home.  To make us fuller and richer in experience, so we can see that our ways aren't the only ways - it's a big world out there lovebugs, and it's up to us to explore it.

Let's Go! 

Adventures 2013 - Volume 4, So This Is What Happened - Part One

After a teary goodbye, Andrea and I hop on DE BUS, DE BUS, DE BUS (nevermind all non-San Sebastianites) for our ride to Bilbao.

Arriving in the city we have to slum it and do everything ourselves.  Like hail a cab.  And check in.  We are not used to self-service vacations!  Our boys have spoiled us hard!

Our home for the next two nights is the Hotel Miro, which is conveniently located right across the street from the Guggenheim. The location obviously can't be beat and we suppose the European chic decor and full on complimentary breakfast will be adequate enough for our newly honed Maria Cristina luxury palates. Our first goal upon check in is to get a map as we'll actually need one here.

After a bit of downtime and freshening up, we take to the streets (well, the street) and hit the Guggenheim (The Goog). Our plan for tonight is simple:  take copious amounts of photos of The Goog outdoors, eat something, drink a little and head to a concert.  

The outer facade of The Goog is an iconic image of architectural wizardry.  You look at it in photos and wonder how it's possible.  I stared at it up close and wondered the same thing.  Steel curved so delicately, without a brick to be seen, it takes conventions of traditional building and turns them topsy turvy.  The museum is set back from the street in perfect proportion (unlike our own ROM) so we  are able to take it in from afar in perspective, slowly walking closer to gain full appreciation of the intricacies of this gorgeous building.

We wet our appetites just enough literally and figuratively but can only look after one at the moment - food!  The inside of The Goog will have to wait until tomorrow.  After a quick pit stop of (by this point boringly delicious) beer and pintxos we're off again for our evening's main event.  

I find it's always a treat to see a known performer in a foreign city.  It somehow makes the world a little smaller knowing that people are humming and singing the same tune miles and oceans away from you, and here you are, with them, humming and singing together. Through the all knowing power of the Internet, we learned Glen Hansard was performing in Bilbao while we were there - a perfect must do.  For those not familiar, Glen Hansard is an Irish songwriter who gained notoriety in the early 2000's for the movie Once.  He, along with his songwriting partner, Marketa Irglova, wrote much of the music for the movie and also starred in it.  The hallmark song from the film, "Falling Slowly", won the duo an Academy Award and the film has now been staged on Broadway to high praise and many Tonys.  In truth, I think Glen's a bit of a dick.  He didn't have many positive things to say about the Broadway adaptation until it was a critical and box office smash and in the ultimate dick-move of all time, he cut off poor Marketa during their Oscar acceptance speech before she had a chance to say anything.  Are you kidding me?!  Can you even imagine?! I would have clocked the guy with my Oscar right then and there OR said nothing and sulked about it very passive - aggressively for eons afterwards.  (What do you think?  Probably B, right?).  It all turned out okay for Marketa, though, because Jon Stewart, hosting that year, felt so badly for her that HE CALLED HER BACK ONSTAGE AFTER THE COMMERCIAL BREAK, allowing her to say a few words of thanks!  Do you love that?  This is unheard of!  Marketa & Glen aren't together anymore (surprise!) and Jon Stewart has taken his rightful place in my heart as love of my life.  Anyway, Glen's playing  in Bilbao at the Cafe Antzokia, a small room within a larger cultural complex, full of character and old world charm which means that if it wasn't in a European city it would be a little dumpy.  That said, it's a very small, intimate venue perfectly suited for a guy and his guitar.

For all my thoughts of dick-Glen, I will say he's a raw performer. The concert was simply amazing - Glen killed it for 3 hours, introducing each song with Irish flair and humour.  He even came right into the crowd and balcony with his guitar, cheering us all on in sing-a-long.  It was clear he was having just  as much fun as we all were.  I have been known to hold a grudge and that Oscar faux-pas will not be forgotten by me, but I will put this one down in the books as one of the best shows I've ever seen.  I'm fair like that.

It's late now, concert over - our eyes are teary and hearts full.  My feet, however, have had it.  I made a really stupid shoe selection when getting ready and after a city walk plus 5 hours of concert standing, I am officially raising the white flag.  Even though we could get back to the hotel within 20 minutes by foot, I can't do it - we need a cab.  In most large metropolitan centres this isn't much of a challenge, but for some reason at this time of night (morning) in Bilbao we are having a really hard time.  I'm almost ready to walk home in my socks but Andrea saves the day, flags one down and off we go, but not without an adventure of another sort.  We get in the cab, shut the doors and our cab driver begins to yell at us.  We can't figure out why - because he's yelling in Spanish - but slowly manage to figure out that he's yelling because he feels we shut the doors too hard.  This, of course, is hysterical - dude, look at us: Do you really think we can break your car?!  We spent the next 10 minutes laughing and thinking of ways not to anger him further upon drop off - do we leave the doors open?  ask our concierge for cotton batting to protect the delicate frame of this precious automobile?  In the end, we were as gentle as possible and laughed all the way upstairs, Amazon women that we are.  This was the best Valentine's Day I've had in years.

Friday morning came a little too quickly, and it wasn't necessarily welcome.  It seems the weather has finally gotten the best of us - Andrea hasn't slept, I'm feeling out of sorts.  We decide to partake in the hotel's breakfast spread, Andrea will come back to sleep, I'll meander and we'll regroup later for The Goog.  After breakfast, we come back to the room, me for only a pit stop which turned into a two hour nap.   I finally wake and manage to get myself all the way to the hotel bar for loads of tea and book reading.  After a few more hours, we make it to The Goog.  Aren't vacations grand?  

Admittedly I'm not much of an art connoisseur.  I suppose I like what I like but I'm not really sure what that is - I like sketches and watercolours and sculpture and photography but I don't really get the 'modern' stuff.  Installations of rocks? Damien Hirst? Jackson Pollack?  I just don't know - it seems a bit too self congratulatory for me, like 'look at how deep and intellectual I am that I can see meaning and symbolism in a red dot'.  Take me to the Monets please!  Because of this, the inside of The Goog didn't really do it for me which is totally fine because when the building that houses your art is art itself, you take care of art-neophytes like myself.  Thank you, Goog!  

As we're wandering around trying to make sense of it all we see a sign.  No, no - an actual sign.  The sign details information of something called 'Guggenheim After Dark', an after hours party held at The Goog with real 'put the needle on the record' DJs and drinks and dancing.  It's happening tonight.  What are the chances?  We're in!  This is a perfect happy accident situation that can only happen on vacation maybe once a decade (Two years ago, U2 was playing a concert in Athens the day my ship was literally sailing to Turkey.  Is it still missing the boat when you didn't want to be on that boat?  In any event, I know from bad vacation luck.) It also helped that we had nothing on the agenda aside from 'let's eat and listen to live music' (note to self:  it's okay not to plan everything! bad things won't happen!).   

Armed with the prospect of yet another fantastic night, we venture off to our most favourite thing:  the funicular!  Two cities, two funiculars, two wild and crazy girls ready for adventure and photo ops.  Love, Love, Love.  At 0.95 euros a piece the Bilbao funicular is the deal of the trip - the breathtaking views of city were expected, the roller figure skating practice, was not.  

High atop the Artxanda Mountain, we gained a lovely perspective of the city.  Bilbao is rather small in comparison to other European cities of its stature, and in fact is actually the 10th largest city in Spain with a population of 360,000.  I suppose the notoriety of The Goog had vaulted it in my own mind to something larger which is often the case when you read, talk, imagine something.  The new and old part of the city is separated by the Nervion River and a full walk along this path (which we will do in short order) only takes about 20 minutes.  It's on the mountain that I become fully amazed at the power of my new camera's zoom - I'm certain I could have taken these photos of The Goog from Portugal, the zoom is that amazing!

The roller figure skating practice, in our opinion, lacked flair and requisite jumping.  With a language barrier to deal with, we decide to let the fellas figure it out for themselves - and hopefully before it's too late! - and we walk back to the hotel on the shoreline path and then the Gran Via, aka The Main Drag. We poke into some shops and stop for some delicious hot cocoa before tucking in for a much needed nap.

Our evening at The Goog was one of those nights we'll never forget.  At least we better not considering I deleted all our photos.  You see, there are a few things you should NEVER do when getting home very, very late after drinking many, many drinks.  Tops on that list for me is anything to do with technology.  You can get into all sorts of trouble this way.  We may not be able to look nostalgically at how awesome we looked that night (very), or how nutty we were sneaking photos in non-photo areas (Very) or how completely cool the whole thing was (VERY) but if we make a vow to talk about it as much as possible we will never forget it!   Sadly, the Goog After Dark, will have to actually be that way.

We did learn definitively that night that no one makes a mixed cocktail like the Spaniards.  Wine and beer is extremely inexpensive in Spain (much like most of Europe) but spirits are not.  And they are not because one solitary vodka con limone is actually half a bottle of vodka with some lemon pop and two ice cubes.  How efficient!  I tried to replicate this when back home and almost gave Andrea alcohol poisoning.  Oh well, some things are just better on vacation.  Armed with the fortitude that only this amount of vodka can provide, Andrea struck up a conversation with a lonely lovely- looking fellow who turned out to be a self-possessed jerk.  Some things don't change on vacation ( This is a story best saved for in person as it involves accents and attitude.  Please remind me to tell you!).  We danced and laughed and people watched and stumbled back to the hotel, conveniently located ACROSS THE STREET.  

With respect to Dinos After Dark, or whatever the ROM is calling their similar event (which, ironically, I could also stumble home from), you are no Goog.  Maybe because Toronto is no Bilbao, or because no one in Spain has an attitude.  I'm actually coming to think that the attitude of which I speak doesn't exist anywhere else but Toronto.  Everyone seems too cool for school at home - there is a seriousness to fun in Toronto which is absurd.  It smacks of effort.  Not caring to the point of overwrought indifference is, ironically, caring too much.  In Spain, where we met the coolest guys in the world who unapologetically rock out to Debbie Gibson,  we saw first hand what it's like to just do what makes you happy and take whoever wants to go along for the ride.  I am always ready for that ride, my friends.

After deleting the photos (I feel less bad about it if I say it matter of factly, but seriously, I am a moron when left unattended and I DO feel really, really terrible about it) we need to hit the sack, for tomorrow ... we venture to Belgium!

Adventures 2013 - Volume 3, Tough Love

So, here we are.  Thursday.  I'm sad.

I'm sad to be leaving San Sebastián.
I'm sad to be saying goodbye to Alex & Raul.
I'm sad to say that I'm sick.  Like full blown yucky sick.
I'm sad (well, more frustrated and annoyed and plain out pissed) that each of these past blog posts have taken me no less than 2 hours to compose.  I often forget that an iPad is really just a phone with big dreams, so posting has been nothing short of a nightmare.  Ask Andrea - she had no idea that someone could say 'fuck' so often in a minute.  I feel bad, I do.  I really, really do.  It feels like I made a promise and am now faced with possibly breaking it.  I really don't want to.  That's not how I roll.  So, imagine my glee when I read my horoscope today:

"You are putting too much pressure on yourself, Sagittarius. This is unnecessary. You have taken on a lot recently, and yet you are still tempted to take on even more. Although you are always a conscientious and hard worker who is very dedicated to filling your obligations, you may want to consider excusing yourself from at least one of the promises you made. You don't have to bow out completely - perhaps you can just take a rain check and tackle it later, and that way you won't have to feel bad about backing out."

And with that, I wish you all a most happy Valentine's Day.  I will tackle this later.  At home.   See you all there ... xoxo, Love Bugs.