A little theoretical tangent

Since January I have been “home” in Canada. While there, I have been part of a few significant happenings, and I wondered how I would connect them here in this blog. My original thinking was to start with something like “I chose the right year to be here in North America”, which got me pondering the choice of the word “right” and all the connotations of this statement. So, through the writing of this post, I've reworded that idea and have spewed a little bit of theory according to me to support that rewording, for your reading pleasure. The result is the following.

Fate and destiny are popular themes in literature. I talk about them sometimes in the classes I teach. Macbeth believing in the fate prophesied to him by the witches and then doing everything in his power to make sure it all comes true; unfortunate Oedipus who finally plucked his own eyes out for his attempts to avoid his fate and, thus, fulfilling it. And we all know what happened to those poor “star-crossed lovers”. While these are rather tragic examples, the message that one shouldn't attempt to control one's own fate is clear, and worth discussing within the context of art. Even more popular modern stories love to play with the idea of fate: Harry Potter's famous scar and his fate to be the young hero of the magic world and defeat his enemy, Voldemort, is just one relatively recent example. But what about believing in destiny for real?

I can see why it is such a tempting idea, one that in a way alieviates one from a certain level of responsibility. It was meant to be. There was a reason that it happened this way. It was fate. There was a sign. And, even worse, its all a part of the grand plan. But it seems to me that real life works a little differently than the imagined world of literature and entertainment.

My favourite word to throw into this mix is “coincidence”. Or, if you like, “chance”, or “toeval”. The idea that one event can lead to another and then cause another one. A chain reaction. Like atoms bumping off of one another, sending each other into another direction to bump off of whatever is there.

I won't use the word “random”, though, don't worry. I'm not that callous. But the idea that things happen for a reason, and that reason is because they were meant to happen, they were pre-determined by some unknown force, is a concept I'll save for theoretical discussion in the classroom.

I figured that as a result of my decision to be here this year instead of working in Amsterdam, I would “bump into” some interesting people and events. I won't say my coming home this year was “meant to be”, but its definitely been full of interesting and handy coincidental events; so as chance would have it, I can say that its definitely been a “good” year to do it. I've got a few examples why.

I've met some people along the way that I'd like to keep in touch with. One or two who I do keep in touch with and one that I'm getting to know quite well. All thanks to a coincidental “being in the right place at the right time.”

Being home in Calgary has allowed me to support my parents through various situations as they continue to transition between working life and retired life. I was there the past week to help my friend get through the death of her mother. I was there, in the same week, to travel to Victoria and witness my brother's marriage.

Add the element of destiny, and the fact that I was around for all of this could make these stories classic. Art. But as real life, its been luck, coincidence, good timing. That, and intelligent decision making and action by getting plane tickets and making arrangements to physically be where I needed/wanted to be. I am absolutely glad the way this year has been working out. Whether any of it was “meant to be”, though, I doubt.

The same friend's father died a few years ago and there was no way for me to get there to help her. My mother was hit by a car while I was living in Norway and it took a week until I was able to be with her. My father had heart surgery, and since that operation took place during summer holiday, I was able to be there; I did have to leave sooner than we would have liked, though, to return to my life. Was it “meant to be” that I was away for these things? Or a coincidental result of my circumstances living so far away?

Stories that contain fate and destiny have a beginning and an end. Real life rolls along in its time and space. In the end, the snow was good in the mountains this winter, and I was able to watch Canada win gold at home and feel the pride honking and shouting its exuberant way down the streets last Sunday afternoon. Chance, or fate? :)

Park and Play

I've slowed down the journey over the past month; the result is, conversely, that I've found speed, speed of the exhilarating kind.

Towards the end of January, the Jamboree and I made our way into Texas, two days of full-on driving from New Orleans. Destination: Fredericksburg, the third corner of a triangle between San Antonio and Austin. In this small town in the Texas Hill country, I parked for a week and hauled Betty down from her rest in the bed above the driver's cab in the Jamboree. It was time for some speed on two wheels rather than six.

The hill country has over 20 cycling routes well laid out online www.cycletexas.com. The routes roam up and down and around gently rolling hills, past cattle ranches boasting Texas longhorns and Texas gates. And wineries! This region produces the second largest output of wine (and good wine, to my delight!) next to Napa in the US.

More than cycle-friendly, this is the first really cycling-enthusiastic place I've discovered in North America. It's a mecca, drawing hundreds of cyclists every year for individual pleasure and training, or for various events held by the local bike shop. The residents who pass by in their cars and, more commonly since we're in Texas, trucks, not only watch out for cyclists on the road, but actually smile and wave!

Why is there so much cycling in the region? Um, might have a wee bit to do with the fact that Lance has a ranch just down the road. When I stopped into the bike shop to pick up a few bobs and bits before trying out my first route, the guy at the shop mentioned that Lance sometimes shows up for the Tuesday or Thursday night group cycles, carries everyone for a while, and then drops off when he's done. As much as I'd love to be on one of those group rides, he'd leave me so far in the dust that I'd probably just end up out there alone and lost.

Not that I didn't discover some decent speed for my own cycling record! I sped along under normal conditions, which are not too scorchingly hot in January. A couple of days were incredibly windy, though, rendering me and Betty nearly motionless and pumping hard against the wind, but with it in our backs we sailed along at nearly 40 miles an hour! (MILES, people, not KMs!! That's fast!!)

After a week of speed on Betty's two wheels, I parked the Jamboree again, this time at the Austin airport, and flew back to my northern home. February in Calgary and Banff is prime skiing time, so I arranged to stay for a month and get some good use out of my Lake Louise ski pass www.skilouise.com.

This time, the speed was induced by steep downhills, snow, and freshly waxed skis. The beauty of the Canadian Rockies from the top of the mountain is about the only thing that could slow me down when I'm out on the hills, and I've now already spent several days barrelling my way across and down our alpine terrain.

To stop driving for a while. To park. To live in one spot for more than one or two nights. Fredericksburg, one week, Calgary-Banff, one month. To get out on my gear and play, challenge myself to go, hard, fast, feel that wind, love that speed, build that strength. Makes me wish winter would never end.

Soon, I will return to both places. And I will return to the blog about both places in more detail. Until then, here are some preliminary pictures of both for you:

Texas, Jan 2010

Skiing at Louise, Feb 2010

Oh, When the Saints Go Marching In… New Orleans!

I seem to have been having a lot of conversations recently about the apparently random variety of suffixes used in English to call people and their languages. For example, everyone knows that a person from New York is a “New Yorker”, and that, in English, both the people from Japan and their language are known as “Japanese”.

We have several endings to choose from. Here are some, a quickly-brainstormed-as-I-write list:
-er, - ian, -ese, -ean, -an, -s, -ic

The one you use is obviously based on grammatical explanations, such as whether the last letter of the word that you are adding the suffix to is a vowel or a consonant, and how many syllables are in the word. When you start wondering what people from there are called, though, it also seems to have a lot less to do with grammatical logic and a lot more to do with cultural evolution of the language. And of course any attempt at explanation does not account for the ever-expected exceptions, which ruin any attempts at applying patterns or rules; I'll use “Dutch” as an example, with no ending whatsoever, in fact an entirely different word from both “Holland” and “Netherlands”. Why do they not speak “Hollandic” or, as they do in Dutch, “Netherlands”?

Here’s another interesting example, which I recently argued against, and now concede that there’s something to it. As you are well aware, I come from Canada. I am called a “Canadian”. Why do I not come from “Canadia”? Or, why am I not a “Canadan”? People from America are called “American”. Not “Americian”.

I know what you are thinking. SHE’S an English teacher, you’d think she’d have an answer for it. True, I am, but I don’t. While I do know quite a lot about English literature and the English language, I have never claimed to know everything. And if I had to teach it or were asked about it in class, I’d head out to research an answer for whichever inquiring mind wanted to know. But I’m rather limited in the Jamboree at the moment as to research materials.

The reason for this verbose preamble is that I have a correction to make from a couple of posts ago, the one titled “Cold is a Matter of Perspective”.

It was me and Sabine’s first evening in New Orleans. We pulled into our campsite in town – yes there’s an RV lot IN New Orleans! I know, I was excited too – just in time for dinner. We wanted to hear live Jazz, of course, because that’s what one does in New Orleans, right? And, we were hungry. Luckily there was a restaurant in the French Quarter that served all the Cajun classics like Gumbo and Jambalaya AND featured a live jazz band every night. How unexpected, right?

Our campsite hooked us up with Mr. David, who became our personal driver for the remainder of our stay in New Orleans, and he kept us entertained for the whole drive into the famous old town and back and there and back again each time we needed to get around. The jazz and food that first night were both good, but there was more to it than that.

I noticed soon after we arrived an interesting, well-dressed, older man wandering around the place, talking to people, wearing an old-fashioned gentleman’s hat. If anyone had character, he had it. Sure enough, partway through our meal, he started singing with the band. And after the meal the family sitting next to us, who had already been helpful in recommending items from the menu, found the singer on Wikipedia on their handheld. Turns out, he’s quite a well-known New Orleans singer called “Uncle Lionel”. Here’s the Wikipedia link if you don’t believe me: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lionel_Batiste

As coincidence would have it, this family, the Langs, also had dinner reservations at Antoine’s, the famous and expensive restaurant of the French Quarter dating back to 1840, for the next night, also at 7:30. Originally from Michigan, when we met the Langs the following night at Antoine’s, after they’d had a chance to check out my blog, they advised me that people from Michigan don’t really like to be called “Michigonians”, as I had written in my blog. A better way to call someone from Michigan is a “Michigander”.

Who knew? Who could have ever even guessed that one? (Someone from Michigan, I suppose.) I like it!

The remainder of my time in New Orleans was spent pretty much as you would expect: eating Gumbo, walking around the French Quarter taking photos, and going to as much live jazz as possible. My favourite night was my last, at the Preservation Hall.

There's so much more to New Orleans than I mentioned here. I know you are all thinking "Katrina". As it was my first visit to the city, I feel somewhat unqualified to comment. But I did see a lot of areas that are still in need of a boost. Many people I talked to said the city just still isn’t yet back to where it was. Such a shame for one of the most unique and culturally interesting stops I’ve made so far in the States. I hope that it thrives on its reputation and excellent vibe and that they are able to rebuild the areas that are still really in need.

And so I end this blog post at the place where I began: I still haven’t figured out yet what you call someone from New Orleans. A “New Orleaner”? A “New Orleanean”? Or, simply, for better or for worse, with bags on their heads or decked out head to toe in gold and black pride, a “Saint”?

New Orleans