A brief Montreal fling

A couple of days ago we spent a brief 2 days in Montréal to drop off G's Father at the airport and renew our visas as we returned across the border. Any excuse to enjoy Montréal at Xmas!
The next morning, we headed out amidst winter conditions through a route that took us through Vermont, New Hampshire, and northern Massachusetts. It probably would have taken us 6 hours had we driven straight, but we renewed our visas at the border just as a tour bus came through (we sat at the border for 3 hours). Anyway, the drive was gorgeous; here are some snaps. Here's the full Flickr set

Disturbing at so many levels

While reading a kid's nature book called "Creatures that Glow" I came across this passage regarding the Angler fish (which you may recall as the deep-sea fish with a flashlight from Finding Nemo):

During mating, the tiny male attaches himself by his teeth to the female. His body then fuses into hers--all that is left of the male is a small pouch on the female's side. The pouch contains the male's reproductive organs, which will fertilize the female's eggs.

Here's wikipedia's take on it:

When scientists first started capturing ceratioid anglerfish, they noticed that all of the specimens were females. These individuals were a few inches in size and almost all of them had what appeared to be parasites attached to them. It turned out that these "parasites" were the remains of male ceratioids [...]

When it is mature, the male's digestive system degenerates, making him incapable of feeding independently, which necessitates his quickly finding a female anglerfish to prevent his death [...]

When he finds a female, he bites into her skin, and releases an enzyme that digests the skin of his mouth and her body, fusing the pair down to the blood-vessel level. The male then atrophies into nothing more than a pair of gonads [...]

This extreme sexual dimorphism ensures that, when the female is ready to spawn, she has a mate immediately available.

Weird.

I'd better watch myself

We're settling into our new house and, by extension, our new life. It's kind of hard to deny that we have a certain commitment to our changed circumstances when you've just signed a 30-year mortgage. Anyway, it got me thinking about the last decade in Toronto, and a few flashbacks came to me:

• Port Hope, Ontario (a lovely small-ish town to the east of Toronto), I am walking down the main street with G., and saying "You know, I wouldn't mind living in a small town at some point. Something on a transit line to a city. Just to see what it would be like." "You'd hate it," says G. "Well, maybe. But would be interesting," I say.
• Antigua, Guatemala, 2005, I am walking the cobblestone streets with Cyp, an instructional technologist. "You know, I am thinking I want to get into this education and technology field. How do I go about that?" Cyp is offering some good advice; I would later apply for an Instructional Technologist position at Ryerson and not get it
• Toronto, probably around 2000, G. and I are musing over coffee, and I am saying "You know, I'd like to try living in the States. Just for a year or two. Just to try it out, see what it's like." "Well, you never know," says G. "You never know," I say.
  

Now I look at where I find myself; an instructional technologist in a small town in the intellectual heartland of the U.S., on a transit line to two major cities.

Before I do any more casual musings, I've got to start being very, very careful.

No kidding, Sherlock

This morning, amongst the mayhem of a typical weekday, Ben (freshly-turned 3-year-old) descended the stairs with his pants dragging around his ankles.

"I poo'd inda potty," he said, "... and took de lego OUT of the toilet."

Racing up the stairs with Ben under my arm, I hear G. call: "remember to wash the hands!"

Another truly gross moment brought to you by Parenthood™.

Harper vs Longoria

It's impossible not to get caught up in election fever -- unfolding now as I post -- even as a somewhat bemused Canadian (although, now that I am a resident, suddenly the election does seem a tad more relevant than it did before).

A couple of political aspects have struck me about the States. First, as everybody has noted, politics is far, far more passionate and divisive here than in Canada. The levels of hostility are somewhat alarming to behold, although I've mostly either observed them through the media or anecdotally. Truth be told, I have yet to meet an out-of-the-closet McCain supporter (they're hard to come by on Massachusetts Liberal Arts campuses), but I have heard one first-hand account of a woman in Texas reporting that a terrorist was parked nearby because she had seen an Obama bumper sticker.

People here do not vote Democrat or Republican, they are Liberals or Conservatives. Political affiliation is a far, far greater part of one's personal identity than in Canada. Combining this with the extreme emotions that have built up over the last 8 years has resulted in a weirdly intense climate that doesn't really compare to election time North of the border.

Enough about the divisive nature of the political climate here: other Canadians have blogged about this topic already, and better (this link points to a fascinating post from an American Liberal who finds his hatred of the Right to be approaching the bigotry and intolerance he himself opposes).

I though I would mention an aspect of all this that has really impressed me: people take their democracy very, very seriously down here. Not long after we arrived last year, there was an election for mayor of the town next to ours, and crowds of placard-carrying chanting supporters filled the downtown.

For the federal election, various state-level "propositions" are voted upon. Months prior to today, government-printed booklets with detailed examinations of the issues behind the propositions were widely distributed. Each proposition contained a (relatively) intelligent argument for and against (the online versions are here, here, and here). I have never seen anything close to such material in Canada.

Mind you, all the material and placards in the world does not result in informed voting or high voter turnout; nevertheless, I've been genuinely impressed by how democratic processes are (in some ways) taken more seriously here.

Plus, in terms of sheer entertainment, Election 2008 has been the best damn soap opera I've seen in a while. Frankly, comparing it to Election 2008: Canadian Edition was like comparing Desperate Housewives to CPAC.

Exotic local delicacies

A while back at work we got into a conversation about twinkies, and my American colleagues were shocked (SHOCKED!) and bemused to find that I had never had one.

(An aside: I think health Canada may have actually outlawed them. I do remember reading the comic book ads from the 70s advertising twinkies and Hostess Cup Cakes and wondering: cake? in a bag? How does that work?)

Anyway, to their delight and my horror they presented me with a real-life twinkie, all livid sponge cake and creme filling. I tried it and unbeknownst to me, somebody was on hand with a camera (thanks, Scott) to record the moment.

 

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is just that good.

Please note that it is evident that the kreme filling is not milk-based in any way, but some sort of petroleum product.

So was Goldilocks Canadian, or just a fairy tale American?

I uncovered another weird linguistic variation between Canada and the U.S. the other day. During an everyday discussion of "so what do you eat for breakfast?" with a colleague, I mentioned that I usually have porridge.

"You have what?" he exclaimed.

"Um, porridge," I said.

"That's hilarious! I've never heard anyone use the word 'porridge' before."

"Okay, what do you call oatmeal porridge?"

"Oatmeal!"

"Okay, and if it's not oatmeal, what do you call it?"

"Cream of wheat!"

"So, no one in the U.S. calls that kind of food 'porridge'?"

"Only in fairy tales."

Looking for a house, Part II

Today we checked out a real bargain — close to transit, decent size, enormous back yard - all for $240,000 (a good deal for Mansfield). We toured the house with mounting interest (a new addition with potlights, that's nice; a new kitchen, that's a plus; okay, the bedroom has wood paneling; we can work with that).

Inevitably, Beny has to use the toilet (I swear, for Benjamin house-hunting is the world's most potent laxative), so we go to the small bathroom off the kitchen. While I'm overseeing the process, I notice that the floor has significant sagging in the middle. What's more, small toadstool mushrooms are growing out of the middle of the bathroom floor. "That's odd," I think.

(Sorry, no pictures! I wished I'd brought the camera now)

Meanwhile, G. emerges from a tour of the basement with our agent, saying "Uh, you have got to check out the basement. Look up and to your right." So I finish up Ben and go downstairs to a dirt floor basement. I look up at the beams, which run under the first floor (including the bathroom). They are completely rotten; I can sink a fingernail into one easily.

It's a miracle the house is still standing, and we get the hell out as fast as we can.

Caveat emptor

The innocence of childhood

I've been reading a really good book in the last few days called You Can't Say You Can't Play, by Vivian Paley. It's a fascinating look at kindergarten and grade-school social politics.

Paley performs an experiment in her kindergarten class: what if social exclusion were simply banned? I'm just starting the section called "The New Order Begins" in which a new law is about to drop: nobody is allowed to exclude anyone else from playing with them.

Prior to enacting this law, Paley interviews each grade in the school for their feedback and thoughts on social exclusion. Many of these interviews are transcribed, and it shows the amazing self-awareness kids have of their own social interactions, as well as the complexity of schoolyard politics. Here are some examples; from the second grade class:

[A girl recalls ... ] "you didn't let me come in your club yesterday anyways!"

"It wasn't me. It was Curtis." He points to a tall blond boy. "He's the boss. He says who comes in the club."

Curtis is uncomfortable. "I don't want to be the boss. They say I am."

"We call him the boss," the boy explains.

"Yeah, because I made up the game. They wait for me to make up the game. Then I have to pick everyone or say no." [...]

"Tell me," I say, "why exactly is a boss necessary?"

"If they didn't have bosses," a boy replies, "they could just vote [to decide if someone can be allowed to play with the rest]" [...] They all agree that voting usually works in favor of the person wanting to come in and is the fairest way to decide. But having a boss is much better. [...]

One girl seems to speak for the group. "See, the bad thing about voting is, if you don't vote for that person she'll see all the people who don't like her. If it's a boss that's only one person doesn't like you so you don't feel so bad."

This is grade 2, and the rules of engagement are completely established. Here's an example from kindergarten:

Waka: I say let two people whoever wants to play. But who they don't want has to find someone else. My brother says that. He's in fourth grade.

Teacher: We should ask the older children about this.

Angelo: [who is often excluded] Let anybody play if someone asks.

Lisa: [who is a leader who often excludes] But then what's the whole point of playing?

On a related note, this week the New York Times had a piece on studies of social hierarchies in high school, called Spot on Popularity Scale Speaks to the Future; Middle Has Its Rewards. It notes that for "the rejected group, on the lowest rung on the ladder", their position is completely internalized by highschool:

In several remarkable studies, researchers have brought together students from different schools, representing different levels of the social hierarchy. Within hours, sometimes less, the children assume their accustomed places — the popular ones on top, the socially awkward on the bottom. Climbing out of the geek ghetto is hard, even if a child knows what likeability looks like.

However, not is all rosy for those on top. This passage reminds me of Curtis above:

Popularity, even the likable kind, can have costs. In his continuing study, Dr. Allen has found that the most socially skilled students are three times as likely to be drinking by age 14 as those outside the group. Up through 18, they are also more likely to commit vandalism, smoke marijuana and shoplift. They are, in short, seemlingly more vulnerable to peer pressure and expectations.

Some of those behaviors may just be due to increased opportunity and access: you can’t sample from the buffet if you’re not invited to the party.

Sam will be entering the school system next September.

Looking for a house, Part I, or: Putting the "hunting" in house-hunting

Yesterday we went house-hunting in Norton. Our budget being something less than minuscule, let us say that we are at the "lower end" of the housing market. Combined with a certain backwoods quality of Norton, this takes us into some interesting places.

We saw two houses. The first, a little bungalow featured a full closet by the front door that had no handle — it was a walk-in gun closet and the owners didn't want the children wandering in. The master bedroom also featured another gun closet, this one free-standing — a sort of "gun armoire" I suppose. We couldn't tour the yard because of the snarling dogs in the back.

The second house was a split level with a den in the basement. The den walls — indeed the walls throughout the house — were covered with animal heads and rear ends. Our real estate agent led me into dark workshop where there was a workbench with various implements, and corpses of a variety of local fauna in various stages of processing: the head of a deer, half of the rear end of a turkey, some bones. A shaved man in overalls was leaning against the bench. "I like to do taxidermy," he said.

Here are some promotional shots for your viewing pleasure:

Stay tuned — more adventures in house hunting await!

Should I be worried?

Today Sam overheard me listening to a Radiohead tune. He became obsessed with it, and I had to play it four or five times in a row for him.

The lyrics to this decidedly non-child-friendly song are:

I keep the wolf from the door
but he calls me up, calls me on the phone
tells me all the ways that he's gonna mess me up
Steal all my children if I don't pay the ransom and
I'll never see them again if I squeal to the cops ...

Evidently, Sam is going to make quite a teenager.

So that's what it's for

I just came across this organic gardening tidbit in New England Aquarium's Blue magazine:

Slugs in your garden? No problem. [...] Sink small plastic containers into your soil [and] fill each one with 1–2 inches of beer. Check for drowned slugs every morning. For best results, place your traps every few feet and use Michelob or Budweiser.

Final proof to discriminating Canadian beer connoisseurs that mainstream American beer really is drinkable!

Lack of viable alternatives on the optimism front

I remember hearing this quote some years ago, and it stuck in my head:

I am an optimist. It does not seem too much use being anything else. – Winston Churchill

Everyday activism on two wheels

I just finished reading that pop-social-science bestseller The Tipping Point: How Little Things Can Make a Big Difference (by Malcolm Gladwell), and like most high-aspiring popular books it was a fun, quick read — but it also got me thinking (again) about the idea of incorporating low-level activism into one's everyday behaviours.

Gladwell's thesis is that social trends spread like an epidemic due to certain conditions, including the "stickiness" of the idea, but also (and critically) due to the actions of certain people who have influential roles. It is, largely, a book about the nature of social networks. If the right people spread t he right idea, it takes off and becomes incorporated into society as a whole.

I am, as pretty much everybody who reads this knows, a fairly vehement biker. I like bikes, I like biking, but I also see a huge potential for everyday bicycling as a solution to many, many problems — be it issues of the environment, health, traffic congestion, what have you. What's more, riding a bike feels great. I see everyday bicycling as something that the average person could enjoy, were they to regard it as part of everyday life, rather than a fringe lifestyle choice. I would like to be part of a social epidemic that results in more widespread use of cycling.

Now, the obvious way to help bring this about is to become a bike activist—you know, join bike lobby groups, petition for more paths and lanes, hand out leaflets to passers-by, etc. All of that is important, but this book made me realize that perhaps the "tipping point" can be achieved at a much lower level.

I began to think about how I got into biking: I remember, sometime after Grad school, encountering a bank manager at a temp job. While other managers were ill-tempered, brown-nosing golfers (I exaggerate to make a point), this manager was youthful (but not young), optimistic, open-minded, confident, and cool. And he said "if you had told me a year ago that I would be biking to work, I would have thought you were nuts." I didn't cycle then, but he planted the idea that anyone—even a bank manager—could get to work on a bike.

Several years later, I was starting to think that one day, when I had the time and money, and got up the courage, maybe I would get a bicycle, and maybe I would try riding it to work. Then, one day, Dave who lived in my co-op suddenly gave me his bike. Dave was an avid cyclist and was upgrading to something nicer and gave me his really nice Giant Sedona. I knew Dave only as a good acquaintance, so this was an amazing act of generosity.

I started to bike to work, at first tentatively, once a week, then several times a week but not in bad weather and stopping in winter, then eventually year-round. By the time I had left Toronto, biking was the most natural, default way of getting to work. I'd been infected!

The Bank Manager and Dave, effectively, were bike activists. They spread the idea not by cajoling me, but simply by showing me that it was possible, and giving me the means to incorporate this idea into my life.

This week I took my Massachusetts bike map to work at lunchtime — it shows all the bike-friendly routes in the area — and for a brief moment, people were gathered around, finding their homes on the map and looking at the various ways they could cycle to work, at least in principle. A couple of them asked me where I bought the map.

Biking as everyday transportation is unheard of (even feared) here in the MA burbs, but maybe — just maybe — one of them will take the plunge and try it.

Parents, look out

I just got off the phone with Sam and Ben, who are in Vancouver with G. (I'm still in Massachusetts for the next couple of weeks)

Call me crazy, but I fear that the grandparents are starting to have an influence:

"So how are you, Sam?" I asked.

"Beny pooped in the potty for the first time, and for a prize we got a DAMN SPEEDBOAT."

"You got what as a prize?"

"A DAMN SPEEDBOAT. It has a battery, and now it doesn't work. But Grandpa Ted says he'll make us a wood speedboat that we can pull that's better than the DAMN SPEEDBOAT."

"Hmmm, I see. Well, what else have you been doing?"

"We're at Abuelita Marta's place. And do you know what she has? A cuckoo clock! Isn't that amazing!"

"Wow, that is amazing, Sam! And what does it do?"

"Nothing, it doesn't work, it's broken. But even though its key is broken, it moved. Do you know what that is?"

"What?"

"A miracle!"

Something sinister in the White House

As a leftie, I can't resist posting something I just heard on NPR.

Did you know that 4 of the last 7 American Presidents were left handed? Statistically, there should be only one for every 7 or 8 presidents.

And here's the kicker: both McCain and Obama are left-handed.

Here's a blog post on the subject

Musings on the Flag over Coffee

I've been thinking about the whole Flag thing lately, and I'm beginning to wonder if we've had it wrong this whole time.

When we (Canadians) come to the U.S., I think we tend to be struck by the number of flags, and associate that with a fervent nationalism. But I'm beginning to wonder if that's an assumption -- Culture 101 says we use symbols for lots of reasons.

Here's a thought: don't we deck the halls each year with Christmas paraphernalia? For a whole month? A visitor coming to Canada at Christmas would assume that Canada was an extremely religious Christian society.

The little Anthropologist in my ear (who's in Vancouver now, by the way) would probably roll her eyes and patiently explain that the flag means different things for different people at different times in different contexts.

Fair enough, but I'm still curious: does the national flag as emblem mean something different in Canada than the U.S.? Is the quantity of flags in the U.S. significant in terms of patriotic pride, or is it just a more versatile symbol?

Okay, maybe we aren't so different

Tomorrow being July 4, everybody was packing it home early for the long weekend. My colleague and office-neighbour ducked his head in on his way out.

"Being Canadian, I guess you won't be celebrating, but I gather you had a holiday earlier this week."

"Yes! Canada Day was on, um, Tuesday I think" I said.

"And what happened July 1st?" he asked.

I thought about this a while. "Um, not sure; maybe our confederation was signed?" I thought about it some more but couldn't recall. "So, what about in the U.S.? What happened on July 4th - the signing of the declaration of independence?"

"Um, not sure. Maybe."

We stood there a moment, trying to remember our respective national histories.

"Oh well! Have a great long weekend!"

"You too! See you Monday!"

It's not really about resting or washing, anyway

I've noticed a certain "battle of the euphemisms" when it comes to Canada vs. the U.S. Apparently neither of us like to explicitly describe what really goes on in the lavatory / toilet / whatever -- but we cover it up in a different way.

I've had to train myself out of asking people where the "washroom" is -- they just stare at me blankly. 'Round these parts it's the restroom.

However, rest assured that "bathroom" still works internationally in English-speaking North America. Kind of silly, since most don't have a bathtub, but there you go.

On a slightly different note, if you're Canajun, don't even think about asking for "whole wheat" toast -- it's brown toast.

Hope you found this post fascinating and informative.

Spotted at a local supermarket

Gratuitous Nationalism, Part 2

Spotted posted at a local pet store:

Gratuitous Nationalism, Part 1

I'm not one to ruminate too much on American/Canadian differences, partly because it's really hard to generalize either country (do I really know what the "average" Canadian is like? Um, not really). However, it is hard to miss one difference: the levels of nationalistic displays are way higher South of the border.

Now, I have yet to meet anyone here who raves in person about their country, but flags are everywhere, as well as bumper stickers, posters, lawn signs, etc.--to a degree unheard of in Canada (except maybe around about July 1; I'm bracing myself for July 4).

Having been here for over half a year, all the flags have kind of faded into the background; occasionally, though, there are nationalistic displays that cross the line deep into Ameri-kitch. When I see 'em (and have a camera nearby), I'll post 'em as part of a "gratuitous nationalism" photo-series.

Here's one to get started, fresh from Colorado Springs:

It's not just a snowball, it's an American snowball

Assimilation, Part 2

I came home last week, and Sam met me at the top of the stairs and immediately began belting out this song, from memory.

The horror! The horror!

Assimilation

Children live in an eternal present, which can be a little disconcerting for those of us who don't (anymore).

The week before last, I visited Toronto in order to re-enter the U.S. and obtain my work visa, and in some ways it felt that I had never left; five months disappeared in a flash. G and I often remark how we still feel like long-term tourists here, rather than residents.

Not so the boys. Ben, I am sure, has no recollection of Canada at this point. Sam still remembers snippets, but the memories are fading fast. Even more disturbing, he is quickly acquiring a Boston accent. For those of you who don't know, the Boston/Massachusetts accent is quite distinct—r is pronounced ah, and there's an overall drawl. It's a great accent; think Cliff Claven.

I thought I caught a snippet of it at the aquarium, a couple of months ago, when Sam pointed at the gift shop and asked: "Pat, can we go to the sto-wah?" Of course, I was horrified, and asked him "What did you say? What did you say??" and he repeated in a perfectly Canadian accent, so I wrote it off as an aberration, or the delusions of a paranoid ex-pat.

But last week I asked him how school was, and he showed me a sculpture he had crafted of cotton balls, a dixie cup, and a piece of paper. "What is that Sam?", I asked. Sam told me "Pat, it's a beyah." Before I could even begin to panic, he added: "And it's hibahnatin' in the wintah." I nearly spat up my coffee-crisp-and-maple-syrup latté.

Of course, the kids are right. Starting over inevitably means simultaneously giving up and acquiring. It's just a bit surprising to see your own kids moving on so much faster than yourself, but I have to remind myself: I am now living in a different country, I am starting to make good friends here, and I have a great job here. And one day soon, this will feel like home.

In some ways, Sam is just openly expressing the changes that we are all inevitably going through—even though some of us aren't quite ready to admit it, even to ourselves.

---

P.S.—G says that I sound "depressed" in this posting. I'm not! "Still in transition" would be a better term; on the contrary, life is good these days.

In the playground – note

As a follow-up to the post about Massachusetts health care, I came across this quote from Mitt Romney, the former governor of Mass. that is now running for (Republican) president:

We solved the problem in health care in our state not by having government take it over, the way Hillary Clinton would, with private free-enterprise approaches. My approach, I believe, is best for our nation

Take a left where?—Part 2

How could I have missed this? In my review of local place names I hadn't come across Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg, Massachusetts (I'm not making this up). I read about it in a cycling book—it is a Nipmuc name which translates to "I fish on my side, you fish on your side, and nobody fishes in the middle".

Oh, and the English name for this same lake? Webster Lake. Jolly good—let's not get carried away, wot?