making it up

migration is about as common an experience as you can find. the particulars surrounding the change in location become what distinguish an easier or simpler move -- including the kind we rarely think of as "migration" (remember when you 'migrated' into a dorm for the first time?) -- from a more difficult or adventurous one: to what extent was the move forced upon you (e.g. by economic, political, ecological factors) versus a choice you made on your own terms? how many kilometres have you been displaced? what kind of social infrastructure do you have supporting you? how well do you know the languages spoken in your new home? how open are you to giving white or black pudding a chance? and so on...

on the sliding scale of easy to difficult, my recent move -- inspired by events that took place almost exactly three years ago (i.e. when i was introduced to the person who has since become my spouse) and, as it turns out, just a few days after my last blog post -- has been easy breezy beautiful.

still, when you move to a new country, one of your (or at least my) inadvertent new obsessions becomes asking questions. some travel writer or migration studies scholar has surely already outlined a typology of them (via an article called "wondering wanderers: a typology of immigrants' questions" or some such), so i won't even attempt to cover all the bases here. but many of the questions are formulated along the lines of: is behaviour X considered 'normal' here? this is asked less judgmentally than it probably sounds there. it is also asked ad nauseam, since the task of teasing apart the particular (what a specific person does) from the general (what people in a community generally do) is an inherently lengthy process, and deserves as much energy and patience as one can afford to give it. (this being said, one related question i ask myself several times a day -- in purely rhetorical fashion now because i simply can't wrap my brain around the phenomenon -- is: why are so many women painting themselves orange? and why don't they at least rub the (orange) self-tanning product / bronzer in all the way? #orangeblossom #anklestreaks #kanklestreaks #walkingpumpkins. but that's a matter for another post...)

other routine questions sound more like: what does it mean when someone says Y? i'm surprised by how often i find myself asking this question, particularly when the linguistic landscape of my day-to-day has by and large remained the same (in other words: english continues its hegemonic rule, and i still get to speak french fairly regularly).

given the sheer volume of your questions, their often sensitive nature, and the fact that you'd really love it if your partner didn't file for divorce, ever, for any reason, but especially not during the first few months of marriage and on the grounds of "interminable intercultural querying," you try to keep the vast majority of the questions to yourself. in fact, you don't even want to hear them anymore! you keep trying to free yourself from their incessantness, as they follow you around when you're dropping your dirty clothes off at the laundrette, or taking out the garbage, or making your way to the coffee shop. but this morning, this -- the coffee shop -- is where i've finally found some relief on that front.

seated in plush leather armchairs next to me are two fortysomething women, whom i now realize i've seen here before. or at least heard here before. i recognize their crisp local accents. i recognize their friends-y chatter with one another (which is one weird, capitalism-infused step beyond, or beneath, friendly chatter). and then, most especially, i recognize their launch into how that eyeshadow really catches the light beautifully, doesn't it and oh my, it really does and you know, we have that coming out soon in shade Z!

avon calling! or maybe it's mary kay or arbonne...who's to know. but it's just like being back in ottawa (or toronto, montreal, barrie or charlottetown). amid this transatlantic shuffle and the ensuing Qs&A, here's a little friends-y reminder that plus ça change...

and now back to translating...

trumped

shorter than usual line-up at the quieter than usual campus coffee shop. i make my way, more quickly than usual, to the counter. barista looks up at me, ready to take my order.

barista: hello.

me: hi, how are you?

barista: angry. how are you?

me: angry, too. nice to meet you!

thankfully, even on days of mourning, there is community.

and now back to translating...

batter up!

there is a man i quickly grew to love, thanks to this blog.

before i'd begun frequenting my first regular coffee shop, he'd already been a regular there. before i'd ever spoken to him, i'd written (a few times...) about him here. and although an acquaintanceship was launched through a series of unpredicted run-ins at that starbucks on elgin street, our friendship really hit its stride several months later, eventually involving monthly-ish phone calls as well as scheduled hour-long get-togethers taking place in whatever coffee shop has happened to be convenient.

he wears a fedora, a misfit blazer, a pair of wacky socks, and an enormous tie featuring cartoon baseball games. in my mind's eye, he is always striking up a friendly conversation with someone (an old colleague, an "important" public figure, an unsuspecting stranger who won't be a stranger for long) and -- somehow simultaneously -- he perpetually has his arms reaching out towards me, welcoming a warm hello of a hug and the kind of conversation that masterfully and naturally weaves together "how's your family doing?" and "let's get into [very heated topic X]."

even in the early days, he would belt out that he knew i'd be "great." he'd gregariously anticipate -- before a whole room of (perhaps reluctant) witnesses -- grandiose opportunities and accolades for me that actually began to seem possible, in spite of themselves.

and somewhere in each of our conversations, he'd reiterate that he's just never been someone who gets down; how -- i kid you not, Trish! -- he always wakes up with a smile on his face and a positive outlook on the day.

this afternoon, i checked my messages and heard the voice of a somewhat weaker man. but don't you worry about me (he eventually said). i just wanted to know how you were doing! i'll give you a shout tomorrow. before all of that, of course, was the story of how he'd been in the hospital for a week, after having a stroke and being paralyzed on his left side.

tick tock. a stroke of the clock. stroke of genius. stroke of good luck.

i don't know who gets used to the prospect of loss. we mustn't dwell in that room for too long, because the floor there is too slippery (coffee's always just been spilled; there's been no time yet to put up the yellow warning signs; the bruising and concussion from our impending fall are already palpable). but, if we discover -- by circumstance, a hunch, or a miracle -- the right amount of time to be calm in the middle of that room and to have a look around, then i think we catch a very vivid glimpse of, say, a gigantic tie with a colourful new york yankees baseball scene cartooned onto it. even more vivid than seeing it across the table, hanging from your friend's checkered shirt collar. so vivid that you can actually make out Babe Ruth beginning to swing his bat. sah-WING, batterbatterbatter! and it's a strike.

and now back to translating...

craft dad

it's funny how certain things that remain crystal clear for one person can completely fall by the wayside for others, and vice versa.

case in point: the craft dad.

i recently found out that my friends don't remember him at all. for me, however, he remains a vivid caricature that we not only devised but also referenced throughout (and after) our creatively uninhibited middle-school years, during downtime between fart jokes, fort building, Capture the Flag, and conversations about some unattainable boy we had a crush on.

basically, a "craft dad" was a guy, typically of "dad" age (according to ten year-olds), who was exaggeratedly soft-spoken and passive -- typing an exclamation mark, even to express joy, would overstimulate his senses -- and therefore limited in terms of the potential activities he could engage in with his kids. there could be no movies or toboganning or board games, for instance. (stop the insanity. no exclamation mark.) instead, he might be able to carefully prepare a peanut-butter sandwich on Weston white bread for them. (mind you, this was in the 80s, before peanuts represented a threat to civilization.) or read them a relaxing bedtime story. (kindly keep your distance, Robert Munsch.) mostly, though, he could handle, and even calmly enjoy, sitting at a table in the rec room and -- that's right -- doing crafts with his kids. gently reminding them, of course, that they should never run with scissors. (no exclamation mark.)

anyway, i bring all of this up because, this afternoon, i find myself in Westboro Village, in a café-meets-culinary-hotspot. to be fair, the food here is outstanding, and i've just noticed that the music playing off in the distance seems to be a jig (hold on to your hats). but otherwise, things seem just a bit too serene. and there's definitely something missing when i hear people around me appreciating their food: "oh, that's spicy," they mutter. and "mmm, delicious."

i dunno. but i think i can smell the glue.

and now back to translating...

open-book barista

the earbuds are in as i'm rediscovering the soundtrack to 500 days of summer ("oh reckless abandon, like no one's watching you") while quietly fine-tuning a translation. but, don't worry, i can still hear her lunchbreak phone call with Dad.

the multisyllabic syndrome she thinks she's been diagnosed with. (detailed twice, cause Dad didn't catch it the first time round.)

how many funds she's entitled to.

when her next shift is.

getting a better picture -- literally: Dad, please text one, stat! -- of the insurance policy. (maybe she'll get her eyes checked out today. plus, she'll need to see the dentist soon.)

how suchandsuch payments got cancelled, and as a result: bouncing cheques.

oh -- and how the stove needs to get fixed soon. 'cause, um, i'd like to use the stove!

thankfully, she's gone over everything with Carmela, so things seem to be ok now. (oh, phew!)

*briefest pause to mow down on her Green Rebel roughage-in-a-box*

and then an "i'm sorry, Dad, i just needed to rub [somethingorother] in and be bitter about the [somethingorother] for a moment. k, i luv you, gotta go."

and yes, of course -- and as i like to think you've already deduced -- uptalk was at FULL throttle.

and now back to translating...

unlike the others

i have just sat down in the lord elgin starbucks. have just taken my first sip of hot chocolate. have just contributed my latest to a heartfelt correspondence with a wonderful old friend of my mom's. have just received a text message confirmation from one of my colleague friends saying she won't be able to join me for this afternoon's café work session. have just opened up my notepad and jotted down the goals for the next few hours.

in sum, i've just completed one variation of a routine first five minutes of being in the coffee shop before resuming thesis work.

far less routine, however, is the line-up to my right. unbeknownst to this string of customers, they are all performing in a classic game of "one of these things is not like the other." (best of luck getting that jingle out of your head.) and we are the contestants.

here's what's the same: seven of the eight customers are behaving like a buncha lazy, boring, normal people, standing there facing the eventual baristas. some are quietly talking to each other. (yawn.) others are alone and checking their phones. (snore.) some clutch a purse or a briefcase...others are trailing a little beetle of a roller-suitcase behind them. (weak.) most look moderately out of it (it is, after all, 3:30pm -- aka the witching hour of the nine-to-five workday).

but they can't fool us. mostly because the second-last guy in line (who's clearly never played this game before and who has no idea what "lazy," "boring" or "normal" entails) immediately gives himself away. we all watch (a hush falls over the crowd, so you can barely hear my commentator's voice) as he sets his sights on the tee, takes the time to line everything up juuust right, and then -- really putting his business-suited, forty-seven-year-old hips into it -- suh-WINGS, following all the way through with his arms.

"fooooooore!"

if you could only see the pride stretch across his face as he watches that ball fly all the way down the fairway until it's time to place his order.

and now back to translating...

hot air

a trio of very happy undergrad girls enter the campus coffee shop. one of them is holding a long hot-pink ribbon that extends high into the air and eventually explodes into a black helium-filled balloon that has two special features:
1) hot-pink letters that spell out "princess grad"; and
2) a pink and silver tiara on top (as in, a tiara made of balloonery).

witnessing the scene firsthand, i can't deny that, while their celebratory spirit is kinda contagious, it all looks pretty precious, pretty pretentious and, honestly, rather ridiculous -- not unlike the way princesses (or the drunken bachelorette-party-goers these girls currently resemble) tend to seem.

then again... remember the fairy tale about kissing a frog and finding a prince? well, now it seems you complete your exams and (poof!) become a princess. both narratives could use some tweaking, i'd say. but the direction of this shift in plot ain't half bad. stay tuned!

and now back to translating...

some things are not open for interpretation

me: hi there. may i please have a grande, half-sweet, no-whip hot chocolate?

barista: sure!

me: thanks.

barista: would you like whip cream on that?

if only this were a one-off kinda response.

and now back to translating...

#nailsonachalkboard #wheresmybazooka

next to me in the coffee shop:

bright, friendly grade-twelvers are, one by one, consulting with a bright, friendly Cornell graduate (not Andy from The Office, much to my dismay), to find out more about the oh-là-là ithaca school they're crossing their fingers to be accepted to later this year. among the positive and negative takeaways from overhearing the lengthy conversations is one that's especially threatening. one that screams out for attention. one that states, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that we (anglophones, at least) live in an Unstoppably Uptalking World. it's not just the kelly taylors, the alicia-silverstones-as-stacey-dash, the kim kardashians. it's also boys. it's grown women. it's grown men. it's ivyleaguers.

i'm clearly in the minority on this one. and inevitably i'm ageing myself by thinking such thoughts (let alone writing them down to share with others). but here it is: i don't want the spoken world around us to sound like this, g%ddammit! when i don't know the answer to something, i will ask about it. when i'm confused or hesitant, i will allow (and at times urge) myself to say as much. but i refuse to hand my thoughts and feelings over to the netherworld of statements-formulated-as-questions. and so, for now, the struggle towards acceptance in this matter is a closed, closed door. locked nice and tight. with the key thrown away.

and now back to translating...

the izz and izznt of coffee shops

a coffee shop is:
a space for [insert any number of activities that you already know a coffee shop is intended or useful or enjoyable for].

a coffee shop ain't:
a space for watching youtube (or lubetube or facebook or netflix or home recording) clips (of a hilarious cat or a most recent sexual partner or your kid's birthday party or a bit by Jimmy Fallon (gawdlovehim!) or your most favouritest TEDtalk or a tragic scene from last night's news) at a volume that any other human can detect with their ears, as though your phone were the television (or radio or computer or morse code transmitter) in your home living room (or bedroom or basement or bathroom...*flush*).

we've been here before. (remember the nail clipper? and Little Miss Dora the Explorer?) yet dogma seems necessary when it's motivated by a reverence for common courtesy.

while we're at it, we might as well cover a few other activites that just aren't ok in a coffee shop, since (apparently) nothing is too obvious. so, you heard it here first, folks: the coffee shop is, unfortunately, also not a space where you can:
-let your dog lift its leg for just a quick pee
-run an up-and-coming clown training program
-have sex
-pedal drugs (though orchestrating pyramid schemes -- provided they're cleverly disguised as self-confidence-boosting small-business ventures -- regularly proves to be a kosher practice)
-can preserves so you can enjoy peach slices or pickled eggs or strawberry-rhubarb jam all year round
-draw chalk outlines on the floor, as though the coffee shop were a crime scene
-hurl doughnuts (whether fresh or stale) or cranberry-bliss bars at someone seated across the room
-use a sharpie to draw movember moustaches on the faces of strangers' babies, claiming it's all in the name of prostate cancer awareness

the list goes on, of course. feel free to contribute your own.

and now back to translating...

yappy days

imagine the sound of a parakeet. a squawking parakeet. a squawking parakeet with a penchant for hitting higher decibels and octaves than you'd thought possible.

or

imagine a high school hallway floor freshly washed by the janitor and now overcome by sneaker-sporting teens incessantly twisting about (like wedding guests on the dance floor, hypnotized by Chubby Checker's dogma), and digging deeper with every stop it already from the principal and teachers.

now imagine that that parakeet / those sneaker-sporting teens on a wet floor are dressed up for hallowe'en (more of a "trick" than a "treat") like a small yappy dog that's been tied to the bike rack just on the other side of the coffee shop window. and that its owner, seated comfortably on the inside of the café, thinks this is all very cute and, therefore, smiles and carries on with her saturday leisure reading.

and now back to translating...

cuckoo for coconut

six mocha coconut frappuccino samplers.
barely anyone in the coffee shop.
the barista circulates with her sampler tray.
no takers.
these thirty seconds after the samplers have been prepped, she returns, disappointed, to her station behind the counter.
manager, without flinching: ok. throw them out. if no one wants them in the next five minutes, chuck them. they'll start melting.

just a mocha coconut frappuccino reminder that we -- in our business- and consumer-obsessed world -- are effed. (alas, that's as much originality, subtlety and poetry as this moment will allow.)

and now back to translating...

all reptile, no magic

enter a puffy-chested man. caucasian. mid-height. fortysomething.

in spite of the bit of John Goodman hanging over his belt, he looks a whole lot like Don Johnson: tight white tee, wannabe gentleman's blazer, and the presumption that he's "all the ladies want" spewing out from his hair gel.

he places his drink order.

the barista enquires as to whether Puff would like his beverage made with whole milk. affirmative. then: hesitation, distrust. quickly inflating his chest further, Puff lets out: sorry, um, is this the first time you're making that drink?

affirmative.

at once, and deadpan, Puff signals to the other, more familiar barista (has he just snapped his fingers at him?): yeah, could you make my drink for me instead?

at which point a silent cloud of smoke seems to bleed from the collective nostrils of the other customers.

and now back to translating...

voices

here's what i first hear from the table nearby: you say you wanna go downtown? but we're already downtown, Buddy. the words are followed by a little chuckle -- a friendly sound that carries a hint of a kindly father speaking to his six-year-old kid.

i haven't looked up yet from the document i'm translating. i don't look up until i hear the same voice gently say: i don't think she heard you, Buddy. 

that's when i notice the twenty-year-old guy, wearing a black ball cap, black spongy runners, and thick unmatched socks pulled halfway up his calves, who's sitting at the same table as the thirty-something voice.

with an innocent, endearing, goofy grin on his face, Twenty slowly turns around to look me in the eyes and repeats what he'd apparently said before: hi. then he adds, articulating the syllables equally slowly: you're beautiful. i thank him, a couple of times (beaming goofily now myself), and then Voice -- clearly yet calmly proud of Twenty -- says, still with the hint of kindly parent: yep, that's how you make friends, Buddy. you say hello, and then they say hello back.

immediately, Twenty -- whom i can't take my eyes off of -- turns to the young woman at the table on the other side of them. hi. you're beautiful! he says.

the woman responds much like i had. and then, through more friendly chuckling, Voice announces: ok, Buddy, i'll take you downtown now.

Twenty slowly, eagerly stands up from the table and moves towards the door, completely unaware (it would seem) of his precarious footing, and having perhaps already forgotten about the other woman and me. but no one minds. the thrill and urgency of getting downtown are palpable and contagious. and, besides, we are now all basking drunk in the loud sun of friendship.

and now back to translating...

patchouli and hoohas

these are the yoga scents and twenty-year-old-girl sights privileged at the coffee shop today.

and now back to translating (with my nose plugged and eyes closed)...

Sun Day

every Ottawan longs for the same momentous day of the year. no, not the day the canal opens for skating; (certainly) not Canada Day; not the day when we find out whether the Sens have made the playoffs either (though yesterday afternoon's elgin street party may suggest otherwise).

no: what Ottawans collectively and viscerally yearn for is today -- Sun Day! the first day of the calendar year when we can finally go outside without having to wear a balaclava and waffle-textured undergarments. the day when people are instantly pulled from the depths of their months-long winter bitterness and reach new heights of delirious optimism.

and so, outside, the patios are once again busting at the seams with giddy patrons. and the east shore of the canal is newly littered with bikini'd women (while piles of snow still cover the ground on the opposite side of the currently unkempt waterway).

enthusiasm is equally "everywhere" inside the coffee shops. iced teas and lemonades are the order of the day; a six-year-old boy has just wrapped his little mouth eagerly around the spout of the self-serve metal cooler that dispenses citrus water (sucking plenty hard on the teat); and, through a big-but-bashful smile, an eight-year-old girl is now waving vigorously at me from across the way.

Little Eight's enthusiasm is particularly notable because, after sitting down with her family, she proceeds to pass by me some ten times, deliberately trying to make eye contact with me, each time throwing a giant grin my way but never saying anything, in spite of my returned smiles and eventual hello.

she's clearly coming up with excuses to pass by -- throwing a straw in the nearby garbage; fetching yet another glass of citrus water (evidently unaware of Little Six's earlier visit). she seems to know me. but i have no idea who she is or how i've managed to attract her wonderful attention. (admittedly, i start to wonder whether i have some lunchtime burrito bits trapped in my hair.)

then i remember how things often come in threes. in this case, the threes of familiar-ish faces:

ONE: when i first arrived at the caé, i saw the lookalike of a guy i briefly dated a couple of years ago (a kind of hallucination that required an anxiety-ridden double-take to confirm away).
TWO: while in line, i ended up beside the manager of one of the campus coffee shops (who awkwardly seemed to not want to recognize me).
THREE: this little girl, who -- i now realize -- i saw for the first time earlier this morning. she was in the elevator with her mom, heading out for a bike ride together, and had been just as shy-meets-smiley then, saying goodbye to me with that same enthusiastic wave as i exited our apartment building lobby.

this is, i think, what we really love about Sun Day: in the wake of winter's inadvertent everyday scowling, Sun Day brings smiles that are delivered repeatedly and for no reason at all.

and now back to translating...

health

today's coffeeshop lesson of the day:

when you hear someone -- aka the thirtysomething blonde at the neighbouring table -- wheeze (nearly published as "weaze"... o_O) through a disastrously raspy voice, don't even think about assuming they're a diehard chain-smoker! they may, as it turns out, just be a very enthusiastic Goodlife fitness instructor.

(hope she notices the cross-trainers peeking now-triumphantly out of my backpack...)

and now back to translating...

mystery man: part III (or take II of parts I and II)

this evening, last week's barista-meets-delivery-girl greets me from the other side of the coffeeshop counter. it's quiet in here now. so, before serving me my hot tea, she enquires -- engaged and enthusiastic -- about "the event" she and i have yet to discuss. we proceed to back and forth about it, each of us sharing her own side of the experience. she tells me how some young woman had approached her near the drink bar and passed along the goods while on the phone getting confirmation that the timing of the delivery was in fact right. i tell her how i'd later learned that that young woman -- whom i'd never met, but who'd been commissioned to run the romantic errand on behalf of her metropolitan friend -- had been sitting right across from me as i received the gauzy blue gift...how she'd been on the phone with the Giver, covertly providing him with a play-by-play of my giddy reaction and then frantically hanging up when she saw me reach for my own phone in order to call him, in an it's-the-night-before-xmas kind of disbelief, to at least attempt to express my gratitude.

after a pause, and amid the kind of smiles that seem to float overhead and softly settle around you like a pillow or a cloud, she says: wow...it's kinda like in a movie!

yeah, he really is pretty great, i say. it's a response that spills out slowly and naturally from a very warm place deep inside my chest. nonetheless, when it's typed out, the statement is decidedly and regretfully inadequate.

upon sitting down with my tea, i flip open my laptop and, without feeling hurried, reread the last two blog entries. after all, one of the beauties of keeping a blog is that you can navel-gaze and otherwise indulge yourself as much as you want or need to. and, through this indulgence, i rediscover those moments: their surprise, my burning cheeks, the mystery man, his rare thoughtfulness, the fleeting and deluded and perfect feeling of believing i was the most special person in the world.

and it now occurs to me that another beautiful thing about blogging is time travel. today is a very sad day. but, thanks to this portal, i've momently resurfaced.

and now back to translating...

mystery man: part II

i'd already been in the coffee shop for several hours. catching up with a good friend first thing this morning, then working on polishing a (still ongoing) translation. all of it interspersed with brief minglings with several baristas.

long after i'd finished my hot chocolate and only shortly after i'd grabbed a sandwich and rice krispies square, one of the baristas -- whom i'd yet to mingle with today but otherwise know well (y'know, as much as a coffee shop regular might know a barista) -- walks over and, smilingly though quite tentatively, says:

hey there. i was instructed to deliver this to Trish. i don't really know anything else about it. but...you are Trish, right?

then, before returning to her post, she hands over a small, gauzy, light-blue bag. inside it are a scroll, with a long and thoughtful hand-written note in it, and a long thin box containing six chocolate truffles.

*insert long pause for general giddiness, notably featuring beet-red blushing*

truth be told, i know the identity of the man who sent the bag. but the mystery surrounding him (how'd he get the bag here? where'd he learn to be so considerate? how've i managed to be on the receiving end of such gestures? how do i encourage more of this behaviour?) remains.

and now back to translating...

mystery man

first thing this morning, i'm tucked into my favourite neighbourhood coffee shop, seated at one of the round tables by the window. as i'm about to indulge in the first sips from my very tall mug of hot chocolate and resume a literary translation side project, a very tall thirtysomething man (in loose jogging pants, with his toque snugly in place around his ears, and seemingly having just tumbled out of bed) walks over, leans down towards me and, in a soft voice, says: i see you already have a hot chocolate. but, just so you know, i've paid for another one for you. Gracie says you can claim it later today or even another day this week. 

then, after a brief pause, he continues: i know you have a lot of work to do, so i'll let you get back to that now. 

and, with that, and a warm gentle smile, he steps away from my round table, walks out the door, and heads off through the park and into the distance.

and now back to translating...