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...

sh*t people say

lately, the coffee shops have been witnessing a lot of verbal diarrhea. in the world of translation -- as any good translator or translation scholar will tell you -- context is everything: unless you're specifically setting out to be perverse, no word or chapter or idea can be "properly" translated out of context. in the recent world of cafés, however, context has been doing little to offer insight into the aforementioned feces (which, incidentally -- as any good grad student will tell you -- rhymes with theses). so, we'll just let the perverse stench speak for itself.

conversational bathroom I: ottawa. starbucks. 
two girls in their early twenties, doctoring their drinks.
Girl 1, proudly: i saved up enough money for rent this month.
Girl 2: i'm so jealous -- i haven't worked all summer! *proceeds to slurp giant-sized latte*

CB II: toronto. second cup. 
platonic guy-girl couple in their early twenties, catching up, very very loudly.
Guy, laughingly referring to a girl he used to date: her vagina's all stretched out!

CB III: ottawa. starbucks. 

a gaggle of guys and girls in their mid-twenties.
Guy 1, joining the rest of the group: you know what i shoulda done? i was in the bathroom, and i shoulda just taken my sh*t and smooshed it aaaaall over the wall.

merde! [translation: "sh*t!" or "good luck!"...y'know, depending on the context.]

and now back to translating...

a catch

while Mother Nature typically has a knack for matching up people who are physically comparable, there are always anomalies. for instance: the Sexy Lady + Unattractive Man cliché. even less common, though, is the opposite pairing. yet here's just such a mash-up now! a married couple consisting of one objectively dashing gentleman -- all talldarkand chisel-smiled, and free of any pretension-induced swagger -- and one humble-looking (shall we say) woman. both fortyish. both upbeat. and both clearly very taken with each other. they're so sweet i can barely pry my eyes or smile away from them. but i digress and repeat: he's really something of a specimen. which, of course, shouldn't matter in the least (the hormones of certain onlookers -- ahem -- notwithstanding). it's just that the physical disparity between them is so unusual that i can't help wondering what's behind this unorthodox equation...

one possibility is that Ma Nature -- ever the wiley one! -- is just trying to keep us on our toes. (a-ha! this couple'll surely stump 'em!)

then again, perhaps there's a lesson to be learned from the relationship logic of Mr. and Mrs. Cliché (referenced above). after all, The Clichés make perfect sense together once we factor in two other convenient -- and nauseating -- stereotypes whereby Sexy's a gold-digger and Unattractive is an arm-candy fiend; thus, he gets the catch, she gets the cash, and bob's your uncle! if times they really are a-changin', then our forty-somethings may just be one example of a twenty-first-century, gender-bending variation on this theme: maybe Humble's middle name is Moneybags and she's bent on parading Specimen around; and maybe he's the one jonesing for a larger disposable income.

then again (again), maybe this theory's all a buncha hooey. because the more i stare at our duo (this hobby is truly shameless at times...), the more i realize they are, without a doubt, among the more delightful coffee-shop couples i've seen in a long time. the only remaining cause for suspicion then? well, they just make it look so easy.

and now back to translating...

the ministry

holiday monday, august 5

for all its breathtaking scenery (imagine gazing northbound from the corktown pedestrian bridge at sunset), ottawa is especially notorious for its bureaucrats: gaggles of nine-to-fiving, pulp-and-paper-pushing civil servants who work for one of the country's gazillion federal Departments and Ministries.

for better or for worse, the mythology surrounding bureaucratic life tends to twist my stomach into uncomfortable knots, calling to mind the sentiment of pink floyd's "money" (it's a gas; grab that cash with both hands and make a stash... *cha-ching*) and the image of a cubicle-shaped vice-grip tightening around the "autonomy" and "imagination" chambers of the brain.

but that perspective has suddenly (if only slightly) shifted, 'cause there's a new ministry in town: the ministry of coffee. a new elgin-street café, where the hot chocolate (still in its experimental stages, according to one of the kindly owners) already dazzles the taste buds and is -- be still my heart! -- scheduled to undergo some kind of nutella-based transformation come wintertime. brrr-illiant!

and that ain't all. there are yummy chicken/cranberry/walnut wraps and suzie q doughnuts waiting impatiently at the counter; kickass, artful photographs suspended from the walls; and van morrison b-sides humming on the speakers.

but how does one really know this place is groovy? by checking in with one of the harshest critics (of anything at all) around, of course. and looky who's here: BRF! (with her foxy beau in tow.) true to form, her resting face is as foul as ever. p.u.! uncharacteristically, however, her mug wavers now and then, revealing a telling expression. yep: that there is a smile! and particularly since she's choosing to be here on a stat holiday -- when all other ministries are temporary dust bowls of activity -- it seems clear that this ministry isn't just the newest of the bunch.

and now back to translating...

couples

a few nights ago, i arrive home to find a small, padded, canada-post envelope leaning up against my apartment door. as if the delightful bubbles of the packaging aren't gift enough -- *p-p-p-pop* -- the envelope contains a handful of items. among them, a gift card for the bridgehead coffee shop and a note from the friend who'd sent the goods: "y'know, fuel for blogging, thesis-writing and whatever else you like to do at bridgehead." hmmm, could this be a reminder to hop to it on the thesis front? pfff! that can't be right. surely it's more of a written nudge from the coffee-shop gods -- with my friend acting as the trusty conduit -- urging me to get back to blogging (or at least bloggery) after well over a month of neglect. (tsk tsk.) and since, as chance would have it, the past couple of weeks have proven to be quite the bonanza of café-based activity, here goes...

sunday july 13: the blues
it's the day after my very first bluesfest experience. Stars, on a sunny outdoor stage: outstanding! equally outstanding -- though far less predictably so -- is being at my usual caffeine-obsessed hangout today and spotting the couple who'd stood right in front of us (amid the sea of rather unfortunate back tattoos) at last night's concert. the guy's a spark plug of a Matthew Fox lookalike (hubba hubba!) and, therefore, decidedly memorable. but it's the girl i especially recall, namely thanks to the persistent ailment she seems to be suffering from: b*tchy resting face. ugh! when BRF's in the room, the festival of blues apparently never ends...

monday july 14: the heat
holy jeebus: it's hotter than hades, plus a helluva lotta humid! yet somehow i find myself working on the rooftop patio of a westboro second cup. and, not surprisingly, it's deserted. except, of course, for my new love interest and me. which raises the profound philosophical question: if a couple engages in public displays of affection on a coffee shop patio and no one's around to see it, are such displays still "public"?

wednesday july 16: the game
some great ideas are only "just fair" in practice. evidence suggests that -- despite the creative genius of its name -- monopolatte (ottawa's one and only board game café) is a case in point. first and foremost, their hot chocolate blows: wa wa waaa! second of all, since players need to concentrate on their moves, there's no background music playing. this is doubly problematic. any potential for ambience has been essentially nixed. (the space almost immediately feels clinical.) plus, you can hear everything the other groups of players are saying. if you've ever wondered what sound "ridiculous" might make, you need only overhear two people delving -- in absolute seriousness -- into the rules and objectives of a complex board game they've never played before. at one table: the player with a pig in his field will score x number of points for his city. at another: similar jibber jabber about how to play -- wait for it! -- zombicide. nuff said. nonetheless, there's hope for success over the long term, and i'll certainly be back in the near future, since, c'mon, who doesn't love board games! but today's rating = no dice.

saturday july 20: the nerve
thanks to the recent opportunity to complete an online starbucks survey, today has granted me a freebie hot chocolate. pure bliss! except that, as we all know, nothing's actually free. in this case, the not-free fee is enduring mother-daughter quality time in which thirty-something Mom -- who's rather preoccupied with the state of her hair and otherwise appears to be caught in the headlights, like a well-known antlered creature -- ignores her eight-year-old daughter, while Daughter bonds (via ipad) with Dora the Explorer. y'know, at top volume. as though this were their living room. in times like these, i wish i had the proverbial balls to walk over to their table and hand them my set of earphones. then again, i'm not quite sure Mom would understand what to do with them.

tuesday july 23: the boy
this morning, a duo of baristas are all a-tizzy over Kate and William's new bundle of joy.
barista 1, exasperated: it's just another baby!
barista 2, swooning: yeah, but Kate looks amazing!
as it happens, John Lennon's "beautiful boy" is playing in the background. could this be prophetic? despite the genetic influence of William's increasingly enormous forehead and horse-jawed mouth, Baby Royal really does stand a chance of being a looker -- which is, after all, the most important of royal duties. and yet such hopes are dashed only a day later when we find out what they've named him. forsooth, the parent who giveth his or her child a horrendous name sentenceth said child to ugly-dom! oh, boy George! if only your middle name were Costanza. then, at least, you'd be a contender for court jester.

friday july 26: the heart
this evening, for the first time in a while, i'm at the coffee shop alone. there are lots of other people here, actually; it's just that i don't recognize them. with the exception of one person. a guy with a charming smile and demeanour. the close friend of the man i'm now no longer seeing. i notice Friend only as he's exiting the coffee shop and passing by the large window on my right. what i want to do is hurry over to him, just to say hello and talk about nothing much at all. some brief friendly banter that allows me to reconnect vicariously with our mutual friend. but he doesn't seem to see me and, more importantly, probably wouldn't want to. fair enough. so i remain still in my seat, suddenly and once again wondering a number of things. like how it can be that even very short relationships can leave an indelible mark, compelling you to feel and learn so surprisingly much. or how it can be that, despite knowing a decision is right, you still don't have answers to all sorts of legitimate questions. my mom, i suspect, would tell me to start with some smaller, more manageable pieces of the puzzle. those that have simple, constructive solutions. so i'm starting with comfort: wrapping one hand around a venti mug of hot chocolate and using the other to begin writing; one of my very favourite couplings. sometimes, hot chocolate really is a hot date.

and now back to translating...

dada

some dads speak and act like their adolescent offspring. like latte-loving Roger Sterling over here on my left, chatting with his 19-year-old shorty-shorts-blonde-bombshell of a daughter about binge drinking, tossing in the occasional yeah, like, seriously! (*hair flip*). but i say: kudos, Rog'. because mastering this particular gift of the gab requires some serious dedication. (i mean, c'mon: being up to speed on the latest "hangover" movie quotes when you're nearly sixty? that ain't no easy task, man.) and because, in addition to responding to his rather desperate need to assert his supercoolness, this dedication mostly signals Roger's interest in connecting with his daughter. and, to his credit, it seems to be working: she's opening up to him like a disgruntled canadian on cross country check-up (oh, Rex...you do have a way with people...). besides, particularly once you've encountered truly disastrous father types, you know that such attempts are ultimately what matter. (even despite your discomfort in overhearing this wannabe silver fox refer to one of Shorty's friends as smokin' hot. i'm sure he hadn't quite intended it to come out that way. but, ew -- keep it in yer pants, Daddio!)

at the same time, people get used to what they know. and then, at least sometimes, come to believe that what they know is also what's best. so you'll forgive me for thinking that my dad kicks Roger's sweet little behind. sure, maybe Rog' can correctly use "then" and "than." (show-off!) and he probably doesn't inadvertently crush his opponent's (aka brother's, niece's, neighbour's) fingers when offering a friendly handshake. (yowch!) but Dad VB manages to redefine "cool." so that even his kids eventually buy into and feel liberated by it all. he's the guy belting out repeated, loud Bob and Doug McKenzie calls during our ball tournaments. KOO-rookookoo-kookoo-kookoooo! busting out shamelessly large step-touch/step-touch moves on the dance floor, accompanied by overhead hand-clapping and an ear-to-ear smile blazing across his face. designing marble games and shuffle boards for us with bits and pieces of wood and felt that were lying around the garage. telling elaborate bedtime stories about the ooooold (fictional) woman in moncton who was buried alive and could be heard clawing at the lid of her six-feet-under coffin with her long gnarly nails. spontaneously picking up and driving non-stop from toronto to thunder bay: more than twenty-four hours, with that same grin still ablaze.

once in a while, i picture in my mind the day (still quite far down the road) when i will defend my thesis. a very formal event, full of anxieties and expectation. Shorty's dad would, no doubt, arrive perfectly pressed, polite and poised. mine, on the other hand, will be the guy in the back of the room with his thumbs perched conspicuously on his temples, doing an antler hand dance, and waggling his tongue out as far as thunder bay. mark my words: i will want to kill him. yet, at the exact same time that i'm plotting his demise, i'll know he's awfully proud of me. and i'll be thinking to myself: damn, he's cool!

and now back to translating...