unto others

not unlike many people of my generation and subsequent cohorts, i have a certain disdain for organized religion. the roots and ramifications of this societal trend have been debated elsewhere with more oomph and insight than i could ever hope to offer, so let's not get into (all of) them here. what's nagging at me this december is that this discomfort (to put it more lightly) with churches, synagogues, mosques, etc., and with the various figure(head)s and tenets they house and espouse, can lead to the misconception that religion isn't still informing our day-to-day lives, our worldviews, our decision-making.

after all, for many of us there are certain biographical truths that can't be denied. i, for one, am a caucasian of dutch-irish descent, who was born in canada in the late seventies, attended a french catholic elementary school (despite never being baptized *gasp*) and has always been enthusiastically involved in december's decorated evergreens, "silent nights" and after-eights (*licking of lips*). add to that the fact that Mom and Dad repeated and put into very regular practice mantras like don't take your luck or luxuries for granted and do unto others as you'd have done unto you. suddenly, claiming that religion (and christianity, more particularly) hasn't been shaping me since the womb becomes awfully asinine.

(i can hear you now: blah blah blah! this has nothing to do with coffeeshopping. well, just hold your horses!)

with xmas fast approaching and my visits to the coffee shop generally intact, i've been thinking more than usual about luxuries and luck and Others.

it began last week when i realized i hadn't seen Cherub -- the older man who, on three separate occasions, gave me a gift in honour of his february birthday -- in a long while, and subsequently learned from the café manager that he has very likely passed away (the result of his rather massive brain tumour, chances are). the unhappy absence of Cherub made me think of Paco, whose whereabouts remain unknown, if only to me. which made me think of Luigi, whom i haven't seen since the spring. remembering Luigi's trembling fingers then made me think of Frances's quaking walk and of a couple of other regulars who seem to face more than their fair share of challenges.

it's not shocking that you then perceive your own set of circumstances in a differently coloured light. among the numerous luxuries, big and small, in my life is an almost-daily hot chocolate. absolutely delicious and -- for reasons i don't pretend to understand -- motivating! but it's $3.60 a day. hardly chump change, especially when you multiply it over the course of a month, not to mention a couple of years. indeed, my admirably-if-not-aggravatingly frugal mother is surely rolling in her grave over this (even if i like to think she's simultaneously smiling because she sees how far those delicious frothy mugs go in propelling my work)! my point: if a $3.60 hot chocolate can make it into my daily budget, there must be a little extra cash to spare for other, less self-indulgent purposes. and, despite my disdain (please see above), i don't mind one bit if Religion-Infused December feels like an important time (vs the only time, let's be clear) to share.

so, for the duration of the month, i'm instating a second daily ritual. in addition to a hocho, every day will include a $5 donation to a different not-for-profit organization, each of which is inspired by a particular individual. the line-up thus far:

dec 1: the brain tumour foundation of canada, in honour/memory of Cherub.
dec 2: the parkinson society of canada, in honour of Frances.
dec 3: the alzheimer society of canada, in honour of the gentle, elderly italian man who regularly wanders rather lost through the coffee shop, repeatedly showing off photos of his grandchildren and asking people to help him use his cell phone.
dec 4: out of the cold, in honour of Paco.
dec 5: the post-traumatic stress disorder association, in honour of Luigi.
dec 6: simcoe community services, in memory of my brother Graham.
dec 7: the breast cancer society of canada, in memory of Mom and Aunt Linda, and in honour of Aunt Tricia.
dec 8: wikipedia, in honour of anyone (laypersons and academics alike) anywhere doing research about anything at all.

i'm accepting recommendations and requests for the remaining days of december and will report back throughout the month. you are also welcome to partake, in whatever capacity suits your own budget and/or heart strings.

and now back to translating…

play time

i don't pretend to know much of anything about video games -- two notable exceptions being the ever-popular commodore 64 classics, burger time and maniac mansion (circa 1989). and, no doubt owing to the fact that my phone's about as un-fancy as they get (sorry, did you say you wanted to send me a photo? *bewilderment*), this ignorance extends to all cell phone gaming as well. all of this may explain how i ended up very inaccurately assessing the wild gesticulations of the smoker-voiced, leather-faced, sixty-something woman seated beside me this morning.

when i glance in her direction, it becomes clear that she's playing a game on the phone she's holding over her lap. but, just moments earlier -- while i'm engrossed in reading about canada's official languages and can see her only out of the corner of my eye -- what i eventually come to understand as a vigorous index-finger-led manual assault on her telephone screen (fastfurious and relentless, like a woodpecker on crack) initially seems a hell of a lot more like, er, an entirely other kind of desperation-infused solo act. (her sixty-odd years have generated some mad skills.) yikes! apparently, she just couldn't sit still while her husband was off fetching their drinks.

in the end, her (fr)antics remind me that there's a third video game i (somehow) knew as a pre-teen: leisure suit larry in the land of lounge lizards.

and now back to translating…

what's in a name?

when you place your drink order, and the barista asks for your name so s/he can write it on your to-go cup, s/he has a very clear practical objective in mind: to easily distinguish your drink from someone else's. (calling all rocket scientists!) but don't be fooled: there's some sleight of hand at play here. indeed, this is manipulation at its simplest, at its best. Bill Shakes, via a star-crossed lover, once asked: what's in a name? well, i'll tell ya: your entire identity! the whole of your ego(mania). wrapped up -- quickly, succinctly -- in a single word. a single, glorious word. surely, your most favourite of all words out there, in fact. so, when the barista calls that name (grande no-whip hocho for T!) and then has the gall to use it beyond the cup (have a great day, T!) -- with a sincere smile to boot, as though s/he really knows you, as if s/he really cares -- there's a sudden zing of wow-i-feel-awfully-special that charges through your core, zips jaw-to-temples up both sides of your face, and culminates in an electric fiesta on top of your head (¡arriba!), right above the spot that was dangerously soft when you were a newborn.

thing is, you can't quite be sure that, before uttering the magic word, s/he'd actually said have a great day. it mighta been: geez, your hair's pretty grey, or gawd, you look rough today. you've been had by the zing-zip-fiesta! that's what's in a name. and it's how you know that -- even though you're the one forking up the change -- you're also actually at the fragile mercy of the one who's collecting it. the cup's to go, but you're coming back.

and now back to translating…

waking up and smelling the coffee (shopper)

every now and then, you find yourself downwind of…well...wind. borborygmus emissions. gas. flatus. flatulence. so potent that the aroma of the boldest of bold blends permeating the coffee shop cannot overpower it.

but even the intestinal unloading of a passer-by offers something of a silver lining (don't think about that for too long): yes, after the shock, after the wheezing, after the questioning (is it real? is this actually happening?), there is the humour. and the jolt that such laughter pumps into the day (y'know, via the nostrils) has gotta be better than the jumpstart that comes from any caffeinated beverage.

and now (*cough*) back to translating…

coffinity

working in a coffee shop when you're tackling a thesis becomes particularly tricky as you reach the pivotal stage where your writing and research have you boomeranging (*boing boing*) between not only your computer screen (where you're making "historic" observations…er…) and the extra monitor you've set up (to simultaneously view excel spreadsheets you pretend to have mastered) but also a wide range of books and journals and human sources that -- when you were peanutbuttering your toast this morning -- you had no idea you were going to need to consult this afternoon. at this point in your process, you've also reached your 75-book limit at the university library (aaah!), which means that, in order to take out that new book you (so desperately) need, you're first going to have to return one of the texts that's spent so many months on your desk you've practically come to regard it as an integral member of your family. (which reminds you: you really should call home again one day.)


in short, this is the moment when it dawns on you: in spite of your truly inspired pipe-dream of hauling all nearly fourscore books around town with you in a trusty granny-grocery-cart (which you've seriously considered purchasing from the dollar store with some of your scholarship funds), you simply cannot tote every one of your "what if i need to consult you today?" books to the coffee shop. and you're nothing without those books. no-thing! so, much to your own chagrin, and after trying to stave off reality, you find yourself beshackled to your "real" office. the one that never hosts first dates for eavesdropping on; the one that only occasionally welcomes a visit from Professor FLQ; the one that, most prominently, features a desk piling high with some books you now refer to as "bibles" and others you wink at on the regular, as if to say: don't you worry, Little Guy, i will read you one day! (um, this just in: no, you won't.)

worst of all, Real Office features a perpetual, head-on attack by that rat bastard named Silence. bang. bang. bang. under these conditions, how can you possibly concentrate on the pure genius stirring about in your brain! grrr. you decidedly miss the coffee shop. but what can you do?!

enter the bee's knees! (which, incidentally, is the name of a coffee shop near calgary.)

yes, in this age of "there's an app for everything," you can still satisfy your affinity with cafés and nourish your coffeeshop creativity -- thanks to coffitivity! more than sharing your philosophy on ambient noise, it's a timely answer to your prayers. aaaand you won't smell like java when you head home. point! *sigh of relief*

and NOW back to translating…

scandals

the ubiquitous senate expenses scandal (which the sixty-something brady b(r)unchers beside me are currently debating) began roughly a year ago. right around the start of that other scandal: the NHL lockout. and right around the start of my acquaintanceship with Paco, a tiny mediterranean man in his thirties who'd frequented this coffeeshop until he was permanently kicked out on account of being routinely disruptive. he and i had met months before he got the boot: at the grocery store just a few doors down from the café, Paco had been standing by the avocados when he made eye contact with me at the checkout and declared: hey, Bella, you're an aquarius, aren't you! after he failed twice more at "Name That Zodiac Sign" (and after i immediately identified him as a leo -- huzzah!), we regularly ran into each other at the coffee shop and on the neighbourhood's main drag. i would listen while he -- fully flamboyant, perpetually mid-sentence, and equal parts endearing and belligerent -- would tell a tale or two about the xmas gifts he'd picked out for his mom or about having a bottle hurled against his apartment door during a fiery episode with his landlady or boyfriend the night before.

one evening a week or so ago, while passing the park that faces the coffee shop, i noticed someone lying curled up at the base of one of the trees. Paco. he had a torn blanket and a skinny excuse for a pillow underneath him, and there was an empty tim hortons cup nearby. my friend and i (on our way to the coffee shop) stopped to talk with him, and he told us the story of getting kicked out of a few different homes, including his mother's. an hour later, we dropped off a banana and a yogourt (Grandma says you should eat one of each, every day), a hot coffee and, shortly after that, an intact pillow.

on this chilly, drizzly ottawa morning, the coffee shop and its many mugs are full. the park, meanwhile, is decidedly empty. and it feels even emptier when, perusing today's globe and mail, i come across an article about Harley Lawrence -- "the only homeless man" in berwick, nova scotia -- who "mysteriously" passed away on wednesday. a fiery episode, seemingly involving two teenagers, some gasoline and a bus shelter. ah, la vida es una mierda maravillosa; sometimes, life is one marvellous piece of sh*t.

and now back to translating...

the whip

i'm a grande-no-whip-hot-chocolate kinda gal. less than a grande is too little, more is almost always too much, and -- while i couldn't truthfully say i don't like whip cream (it is undeniably delightful) -- i don't love the flavour enough to want to consume all those calories or all that extra sugar on a daily (*gulp*) basis. (plus, sticking with this regimen makes whip cream all the tastier when, in about a week's time, it shows up in giant-homemade-dollop form atop a spectacular slice of Grandma's pumpkin pie. *salivating*)

but, this morning, the campus baristas goofed: missed the "no whip" component of my order. it happens. and it's no problem. on the contrary, i'm of the opinion that goofing (whether "up" or "around") usually serves a constructive purpose. and so i'm inclined to embrace the blunder and wonder what it all might mean. (i know: how new-age!) indeed, it seems that, today, the whip isn't just the sweet, white, foamy mass of fantastic fat it would have us believe it is. no, no. it's a disguised kick in the ass. a lactose-rich hat tip to the key political figure by the same name -- the one "charged with ensuring party discipline among members of the caucus." riiiiiight...discipline. parliament -- having once again been prorogued -- isn't the only one seemingly lacking it lately. just a ten-minute walk southeast of the hill, some of those attempting to produce a thoughtful and coherent thesis proposal are, unfortunately, also in need of just such a whipping. in the words of another ottawa figure: wuh-PAH!

and, so, now back to translating a whole lot of readings and scribblings into some semblance of a thesis proposal...