Catching a Wave

In one of my previous blog postings, I discussed how I loathed public transit in bitter detail.  Since that entry I have sought to remedy the problem.  In a somewhat spontaneous move, I purchased a 50 cc scooter to commute to and from work.  It is a beautiful piece of machinery and has been a great fit for our lifestyle.  

When I first aired my complaints about taking the bus to work everyday, neither my boyfriend nor I even considered putting a second vehicle on the road.  Our two commutes take us in two different directions every working day and our hours differ too much to make carpooling practical.  While we are saving for our first property,  taking on the cost of insurance, maintenance, and gas for another car wasn't within the realm of financial possibility.  The idea of buying a scooter had come to me a while back, and I thought it would be worth re-investigating.  I quickly came to the decision that a scooter would complement our lifestyle in an undeniable way.  The initial cost of a scooter or moped can vary quite a bit depending on the make (with Vespas being at the very top end), but I opted to buy a used 2007 Yamaha Vino.  

The Vino is great, I love driving it, and the savings over public transportation is staggering. What I didn't know about was the complex hierarchy of the motorcycling world that I was about to enter.  Needless to say I am at the bottom of the food chain. I had no idea how bikers would treat me as I sped around town, and assumed that they would view me in a geeky novelty. Then the mocking began.  I would sit at a stoplight next to one biker and they would hoot and holler, or sing a little song in order to have a little fun at my expense.  It's really interesting to see grown men behave this way, especially considering how focused and quiet I am when I travel down the road.  I can see their frustration with the local tourists who rent scooters for the day and generally cause mayhem on the roads of our fair city, but that has nothing to do with me.  Also there seems to be tension between the bikers who drive the traditional chrome motorcycles and those who get around on "crotch rockets."  Though it is not fair to stereotype the two different groups, my experience after a few months within this world is that a lot of "crotch rocket" bikers take unnecessary risks, weaving in and out of traffic at dangerous speeds.  They are also a bit more disdainful of me, giving me a challenging look and gunning their engine at every opportunity.  I suppose they need a punching bag to make up for the flack that they take from the more traditional riders, but I don't want to get sucked into the realm of insecure male bravado.  Quite frankly, one false move and we are all roadkill, and as a chick on a bike with the power of a lawn mower, it's better that I not engage in this type of posturing.  The release of the movie "Larry Crowne" with it's scooter gang, will probably not help my cause either.

Besides the hidden hierarchy, their is also the introduction of the motorcycle wave.  Due to my place in this chrome caste system, I only receive the wave on very few occasions. And it's always exciting.  For those who don't know, the motorcycle wave is basically a peace sign held out sideways towards the recipient.  Often bikers will wave to one another right in front of me and glare as I approach, whatever.  This is not high school and I don't require to acknowledgement of the cool kids, but it is always a happy moment when I get the wave or a stoic nod from a fellow biker. It is a nice reminder that whatever the internal politics are, we are all motorists who are in it together, inches from death at every turn.   

Left Behind

Things have been a bit complicated over the last few months, with a lot of questions hanging over my head.  My life as the girlfriend of a member of the navy has never been without its challenging moments, but the drama lately took on over-the-top proportions.  

His ship, the HMCS Vancouver is leaving today for Libya where it will relieve the HMCS Charlottetown.  As soon as my boyfriend Gio learned that there was even a possibility that he could take part in a NATO mission he became very excited about the prospect. This was why he joined the navy, to sail the world and gain combat experiences.  There is also a financial incentive for sailors to sail into war zones, which was a dangling carrot in front of his face.  Essentially his income would be doubled and he would not have to pay any taxes on this pile of cash.  For us, two people saving up to purchase our first house, it would have opened up a better class of options.  Also my little metal-chaser would have satisfied his need to be close to combat, before settling down and starting the next phase of his training.  Though I will never be in favour of my boyfriend sailing for over six months , especially with the remote chance that he might get hurt, I understood his enthusiasm and knew that everything would be okay.  

Unfortunately, Gio has been a hot potato between his superiors and his career manager, and his fellow sailors will be leaving him behind on the jetty today. Instead of sailing across the world to confront a crazed, power-hungry dictator, he will be starting a two-year engineering course in order to further his career. According to the zealous career manager that pushed for him to go down this path, he has been hand-picked as one of the rising stars.  Gio could not be more disappointed that he has been singled out.  I try my best to be sympathetic and am genuinely sad that he is upset.  But he and I both know that I am happy that he will be on solid ground rather than dodging missiles and taking leave in Sicily.  

To my mind, whatever home we buy will be fine and there will always be another insane dictator looking to shake things up.  One of the few things that we can count on in life is new challenges, whether they be in the form of a course, an aggressive regime, or a house hunt.  

Chester Brown's Louis Riel

When it comes to Canadian history, sometimes we need to dig a little deeper to find the charismatic, bold personalities that permeate American history.  With their intrepid pioneers and revered founding fathers, it's hard not to be a bit jealous.  If one cares to look, though, we have our share of interesting characters.  One of the more colourful actors on the stage of Canadian history has got to be the incendiary Louis Riel.  His Red River Rebellion is chronicled in Chester Brown's graphic novel, Louis Riel: A Comic-Strip Biography. 

At the heart of this novel is the conflict between the Metis of the Red River Valley and the Canadian government who wished to expand westward and complete a national railroad.  Without consulting the local population about what it wanted, the Canadian government sent in surveyors and carved up the land that the Metis had settled for generations.  Riel led a group of Metis who opposed the Canadian government's high-handed approach and demanded that residents of Manitoba have some say in whether or not they wish to join Canada or form their own country.  Things went downhill from there.  Without giving anything away (though Manitoba is part of Canada so you can't be totally unaware of what happens) there are some skirmishes between the Canadian troops and the Metis.  

The ending is pretty obvious, but Louis Riel's personal story makes it a lot more interesting.  Brown does a great job in outlining the foibles of this leader while telling the story of the rebellion.  Riel is plagued by a single-minded determination to provide his people with representation and delusions of grandeur.  He considers himself to be a prophet and the Metis cause to be his holy crusade.  Between his various stints in mental institutions, he hid from those who persecuted him across Canada and the northern United States.  The story of Louis Riel is somewhat difficult for any writer of skill to screw up, with the constant conflict between various factions and Riel's demons.  However, Brown's drawing style and writing do nothing to detract from the plot.  What really excites me about this book is the fact that it might be a good way for a lot of people who wouldn't normally pick up a book about a Canadian historical figure.  And that is miracle in an of itself. 

 

Once Bitten

I have a hard time with some forms of escapist fiction and thus am not familiar with the Twilight series of books, or those that have sprung up to try to emulate their success.  When my sister recommended the book Bitten by Kelley Armstrong, I was quite skeptical.  Luckily for both of us, I recognize her gift for choosing great books and submitted myself to her better judgement. My big issue with fiction that requires me to suspend my disbelief, is that it rarely manages to turn off my internal b.s. meter.  I want to immerse myself in the story without thinking about the plausibility of the plot or the fantastical nature of the characters.  For the most part, unless they are of the more trashy variety, I am able to do this while reading romance novels.  Perhaps this is not a fair comparison, because I read such books with the specific intention of bidding farewell to the rational part of my brain. 


Though I approached Bitten with a certain amount of trepidation and I considered this type of book to be a relic of my teenage past, I found myself sucked in.  The plot of the novel revolves around Elena, a werewolf that tries her best to maintain a "normal" human existence.  She finds herself drawn back into her old Pack when she is contacted out of the blue.  Dropping everything she leaves her home and boyfriend to find out more about this mysterious threat to her adoptive family.  While investigating the deaths of innocent people around Pack territory, Elena reunites with her former lover and fellow werewolf, Clay.  Their troubled relationship and her kinship with her werewolf brethren cause her to question her dream of assimilation into human society.  This is one of those plots that is somewhat generic in that monsters usually struggle with their identities and often display internal conflicts about the acts that they commit.  One of the best examples of this is Anne Rice's character, Louis, from Interview with a Vampire.  Another such example is that of Pinocchio, who just wants to be a real boy.  


What differentiates this book from so many others is Armstrong's strong understanding of the genre and her plucky heroine.  Elena embodies a lot of the qualities that women strive for, she has an almost unthinking belief in her ability to take on challenges.  She takes on scary situations with the aggression and rebelliousness one would expect from a young woman with superhuman strength.  The other aspect of the book that I enjoyed, is the self-effacing jokes that Armstrong makes throughout the novel that shows the reader that she has a sense of humour about her work and the genre she employs.  Overall I was pleasantly surprised by how well-paced the plot was, with almost non-stop action and some steamy love scenes.  I am still going to be a bit selective about the escapist fiction I read, but if I can find more of it that is as good as Bitten, I might have to reconsider my position.

Too Old For This Ride

Today I want to talk about an old nemesis of mine: public transportation.  I have a job whose location requires me to travel via transit for at least an hour and a half every working day.  Though I love my job and wouldn't give it up for a quicker commute, the bus has been grating on me lately and I must get this frustration off my chest.


Let me begin what is essentially going to turn into a rant on a positive note.  I do understand that many people take the bus as a gesture of environmentalism or for lack of a designated driver.  My hat's off to you.  Also, one can argue that the transit service in my community is extremely reliable in comparison to public transportation elsewhere, with buses arriving pretty much on schedule.  I can attest to the fact that whenever it snows in my temperate community, I always arrive on time for work, whereas my four-by-four driving colleagues hunkered down and waited for the snowplows.  With few exceptions, transit drivers are also polite, compassionate and take constant abuse.  They are often called upon to handle uncomfortable situations and will usually slow down if they see me running down the street like a half-crazed lunatic.


The part about riding the bus that I hate is the other passengers.  For me, the morning starts off okay because the only other people on the bus are working people like me.  Mostly people going to office jobs and/or tradespeople heading to their respective sites.  Everyone is tired, their noses stuck in a book, or sipping quietly on their coffee trying to wake up.  Nobody tries to strike up a conversation, and passengers maintain a comfortable level of personal space.  Unfortunately it all goes downhill at the start of my evening commute. At the end of the day I lose patience with the lack of boundaries people have within public space.  I don't want to sound old-fashioned, but there are some activities and conversations that are meant to be done behind closed doors.  


Today I couldn't help but overhear (she was talking very loudly) a woman talking about how her diabetes medication caused a tear in her bowel.  In what context is it socially acceptable to talk frankly about bowel movements to complete strangers who you happened to strike up a conversation with?  The same goes for loud cellphone conversations about sexual escapades and/or lover's quarrels.  It brings out the intervener in me which is difficult to suppress.  I feel like today's society has lost the privacy (or religious shame) of our forefathers and we need a politeness movement.  The bus forces me to confront how uncomfortable it makes me to sit thigh to thigh with strangers or when the bus lurches forward, pitching me into another person.  Physical closeness with people not of my choosing is one thing, but the questionable hygiene of some of the patrons is another issue altogether.  On a number of occasions I have quietly sat beside men who hadn't bathed in about a week or so, their stink causing me to ponder fleeing the comfort of my seat.  Men who reek are one thing, but the one that always takes the cake in my mind is the woman who cut her fingernails covertly while sitting a few seat ahead of me.  She didn't just manicure a broken nail, she went to town and left her clippings on the floor.  


I suppose it is the confessional nature of our society which has infringed upon my private space too many times.  With talk shows and reality shows abound, people seem to want to air their dirty laundry publicly and the bus is just another forum.  I will not take the bus forever, in fact, I am learning how to drive and will somehow finance a vehicle.  I am tantalizingly close to my goal of a license and will soon have to find something else to complain about besides the crush of humanity that awaits me every time that door opens.      

My Life Under Threat

Throughout my entire life I have been living with the threat of imminent death.  I don't live in a third world country where I lack the resources to survive and I'm not part of some persecuted minority group which struggles in the face of ignorance.  I'm a person living in an earthquake zone, where there is the high probability that "The Big One" will strike and wipe out all that I hold dear.  


For as long as I can remember, scientists and teachers have placed extreme importance on emergency preparedness in a manner similar to the way my mother was instructed about  possible nuclear bombing.  At the same time that seismic upgrades were added to buildings and people were making sure they had First Aid Kits at the ready, another threat emerged.  Living in an area which is close to, or at sea level, should the polar ice caps melt in a way that scientist predict they will, my island will probably be toast.  During my high school years it became a bit of a joke, how likely we were to expire at the hands of nature one way or another.  I had one teacher who tried to hammer home the importance of thinking about our impending mortality, but you can imagine how this fell on deaf ears. Too many of people my age were dying as a result of automobile accidents for me to pay all that much attention to threats out of my control.  

This week it hit home how lucky I've been for the last twenty-something years.  I got a phone call at 5:00 in the morning from my boyfriend's mother, who just wanted to hear that he was okay.  He had just returned from Hawaii and came back to another place threatened by earthquake and tsunami alike.  His relatives from back east were all wringing their hands, hoping that our island wouldn't be hit with a tsunami similar to the one that hit Japan.  I was blissfully ignorant of all of this drama, having barely heard about a large earthquake in Japan, and having spent most of my life under the threat of one disaster or another, I never actually believe that I am in any type of jeopardy.  Though I'm sure that the people of Japan probably felt something similar until the recent devastation.  I don't doubt that a Japanese person my age has been drilled in earthquake safety the same as me, and being island-dwellers they too know the beauty and power of the ocean.  It is a double-edged sword living on the water.  


Unless I have a complete change of heart, I don't think that there is anywhere else which I would rather live.  Despite the consequences of dwelling in "The Ring of Fire," I think I'll learn to deal with it.  For me, there is comfort knowing that I will always be within walking distance to a body of water, come what may.  Meanwhile, I will stock up on emergency provisions, buy a First Aid Kit, and stop using our stash of bottled water to make coffee.  There is nothing wrong with basic emergency preparedness, but my life won't be dominated by the predictions of scientists that I have been listening to for as long as I can remember.  If the worst does happen, I hope that I'm totally ignorant of my fate, sitting on my couch with a beverage of my choice, awaiting whatever "The Big One" can dish out.

After the Asp

The story of Cleopatra has always been one of those classic tales of political power and seduction, but few books elaborate on what happens after the asp.  I always wondered what transpired after her death, to her country and family.  With this in mind, I picked up Cleopatra's Daughter by Michelle Moran.  Also I needed a bit of an antidote to Stephen King's mutants, and thought this novel might provide some girlish entertainment.

The novel begins with the Roman invasion of Alexandria and the deaths of both Marc Anthony and Cleopatra.  Octavian, the leader of Rome, takes Cleopatra's children, Selene, Alexander, and Ptolemy back home as trophies.  There are many other prisoners of Rome, slaves and royalty alike, who teach them how to manipulate the political system in their favour.  Luckily, Selene and Alexander have Octavian's formidable sister, Octavia, on their side and she takes them in and treats them like her own children.  Her slave, Gallia, instructs them about how to behave and endear themselves to Octavian, who holds their fate in his hands.  The tactic they use is to outwardly give the appearance of loyalty and usefulness in the hopes of one day returning to Egypt. For Selene, the situation is very tenuous because it is made clear to her that she will be used as a political pawn once she is of marriageable age.  There are examples of unhappy marriages and capricious divorces all around her, and so the future looks grim.

To feel some semblance of power over her life, she chooses to pursue her love of architecture.  With the help of Octavia, Selene convinces an architect to mentor her and spends all of her spare time designing buildings and  mosaics.  Though Selene's story is compelling, I think that the novel's strength is in the focus on the social history of Rome. The role of women and slaves within the empire is heavily discussed amongst the characters and provides some of the most interesting subject matter. The story also moves really quickly and there is plenty of intrigue.  There is a downside, however. Clearly a lot of research went into the writing of this book, and unfortunately the facts aren't woven into the narrative as seamlessly as I would like.  I felt there were times where the plot is bogged down with excess information and I think that it hurt the overall story.  For the serious history buffs it might seem a little lightweight, but it's good entertainment with a large amount of social history.