professor FLQ

he's ba-ack!

and now back to translating...

the (w)rite of spring

this blog was born just a little over a year ago. right around the time Spring had pleasantly surprised us with its very early and uncharacteristic balminess: on march 21/12, ottawa -- as in, the city that's home to the world's largest skating rink -- was some 27˚C! a far cry from spring 2013, which has included one sizeable snowfall and, more recently, midday temperatures hovering somewhere around 6˚. this return to climatic normalcy should probably offer some comfort on the global warming front (*fingers crossed*). yet it seems the contrast between this year and last has some people very, very confused about what to wear. or so says a quick scan of this here coffee shop...

on the one hand, there's the bare-legged young woman in line sporting the increasingly familiar itsy-bitsy black stretch-skirt, which does indeed reveal almost all of her "its" and "bits". meanwhile, there's february's birthday boy, who's now leaving the premises wearing a big fluffy red toque. but it's while watching Birthday walk away that i notice today's most memorable character: a dapper fifty-year-old man, standing by the door in full business attire. dress pants. suit jacket. fancy schmancy shiny shoes. posh purple tie. shades. and just the right amount of 'tude. the fact that there's no sign of a coat or gloves (or a toque, for that matter) isn't particularly shocking. what is startling, however, is that he's got one hand in his pocket, and the other one is -- nope, not hailing a taxi cab (though he does seem to be waiting for one), or wielding a briefcase, or even clutching a cup of coffee. (pfff -- those would all be too obvious!) no, the other hand is holding...a pair of cross-country skis.

poof! just like that -- and just like spring -- the coffee shop has once again proved it's completely unpredictable. "ski suit" will never mean the same thing again.

and now back to translating...

ode to (a venti no-whip) hot chocolate

when Work is drab, and Brain is dumb;
when Sun is grey, and Sidewalk's glum;
when Spring's astray, and Jays are few;
when Music's dim, and Sight's askew;
when Foot's asleep, and Nothing's new...
i thank the stars that i have You!

and now back to translating...

father of the pride

there's no doubt that coffee shops are microcosms of the broader public, corralling the student and the professor; the baby and the gen-zed; the wobbly-bodied and the festive-minded; the artsy, the angry and the assertive; the religious and the romantic and the rich and famous. and today, very unfortunately, the victim of domestic abuse. as well as her a**hole father.

Father's ignorance initially rears its (butt-ugly) head when he begins pontificating about muslims: they should follow the rules in canada and all become catholic! (uh-oh! i haven't been baptized yet...) and then: they must be drunk or on drugs to believe [something-er-other about honour killings]. when Daughter responds that tons of muslims don't believe in honour killings and that, by the by, most muslims don't drink, Father concludes that it must be drugs then.

my insides really tense up, though, when Daughter reveals some solemn news: i don't feel safe with him at this point. "him," it quickly becomes clear, is her boyfriend. during an argument a few nights ago, he'd hit her. hard. across the face. now, she's thinking of getting a restraining order. and, while she seems to have nearly made up her mind, she clearly wants Father's validation. clearly wants him to say something like: i think the restraining order is a good idea. and probably: i'm so sorry, Honey. maybe even: what's wrong with that pr*ck?!

instead, having learned that this is "only" the first time Boyfriend has behaved this way, Father calmly and ever-so-logically offers: i'm not picking sides, but...you know, you were fighting. and he just snapped. what makes you think he'd do it again? (i suddenly feel transported back to a decade -- or century or millenium -- i've never had the privilege of living in. to a time before the cycle of violence became very common knowledge.) he continues: my role here is to protect the family and keep it together. and, sometimes, that means overlooking your needs. 

there's a brief pause. then Daughter begins silently sobbing. i'm scared even to be near him, she says. Father grows impatient, embarrassed and abrupt. don't get upset. don't get upset! we're done this conversation now, he decides. she buries her head in her hands for a few moments. then bursts out of the coffee shop, with Father trailing a bit behind. sure is a good thing he's managed to stay so far away from all that honour business.

and now back to translating...

teeter-totters

for many months -- or maybe for ever? -- this coffee shop has housed a round wooden table that, when provoked, tips so far one way that your hot chocolate spills all over the floor. and usually onto your neighbour's pant leg. (hmmm, sorry...) but it never tips so far as to actually fall down. despite the havoc the table regularly wreaks, the staff hasn't seemed to want to get rid of or replace it. instead, someone one day decided to stick a yellow post-it to the tabletop: careful -- very wobbly! the table proceeded to migrate conspicuously around the room, as people borrowed and rejected it to accommodate their fluctuating needs, (mis)understanding just how wibbly "wobbly" was. eventually, Wobbles was given a permanent home in the far corner. near the vigilant baristas. just below the rotating artwork. there, as long as the table's turned the right way, it can't tip. can't spill any milk. can't send any cookies a-crumbling.

around the same time that the yellow note surfaced, so did a newbie regular. an elderly woman who, without the slightest provocation, perpetually teeters baaack and forth. manoeuvring her cane as best she can. struggling to walk in a straight line. and uncontrollably making contact with every object and person in her path between the coffee shop entrance, the dessert display case, and whichever available table she opts to sit down at. once she's seated, a barista delivers the food she's ordered: here you go, Frances. and, in no time, the coffee goes flying like from the dashboard of a moving, off-road vehicle. and the muffin explodes like sweeps from Mary Poppins chimneys. throughout, Frances -- "free one" (and the first woman in the u.s. cabinet!) -- is absorbed in the newspaper, its pages trembling like pre-storm leaves in her hands.

while she's here, you get the feeling that the rest of the coffee shop is a very tight pair of lungs. (and you can hear a cavernous heartbeat in the background: guh-GUNG...guh-GUNG...) eventually and slowly, Franny lifts herself up and totters out the door, into the taxi she's asked the barista to call. her impromptu dance routine -- complete with props, sound effects, fireworks, and a very attentive audience -- is unorthodox and utterly unapologetic. and, somehow, she never falls down. thank goodness nobody puts Frances in the corner.

and now back to translating...