Autumn

The season turns inwards. The trees shake off their leaves, rid themselves of finery and jewels, turning towards the sky with dark and reaching fingers. Only the pure and empty handed enter the kingdom of winter. The sun makes diamonds between my lashes and the blue of the sky is a painter's puzzle.

Shade and sun push at each other as I pull out the last tomato plants and add them to the dried bean stalks that lie defeated on the driveway.

A man I was once in love with described nature as shrouding herself in fog in the winter, hiding away from the world so she could renew herself in peace and in private. That may have applied in his part of the world but here there is a sense of stripping bare, going to the bone, ridding ourselves of the superfluous. It is not only the trees. The grass and plants fold into themselves, dig towards the earth in a penance, kneeling to the soil can be the most humbling yet most fulfilling position. The sky alternates between the quick scrub of blue skies with fast clouds and thrashing rains, washing away all the dirt.

All to prepare for the austerity of winter, the frugality of colour, the chill in the bone.

Despite despising winter, I do see the beauty in it, but especially in nature's preparations.

If on a fall's afternoon a reader

Just finished Italo Calvino's If on a winter's night a traveller (1981). Wow. I have been curious about Calvino since I read an excerpt of a new translation of Cosmicomics in a magazine. At the time, I thought, "who is this guy?" the writing was so out there. I then did a half-hearted search for his works in a Renaud-Bray but could only find him translated into French and figured if I was going to read a translation, since my Italian isn't what it should be, I would rather read it in English.

It was in London, J- rummaging through her book collection, looking for something to give me for the return trip to Canada, that I saw his name again. If on a winter's night a traveller was my distraction during the long haul across the Atlantic, having found its way into my hands in a most circuitous way. I love books that come to me by way of accident, serendipity, coincidence. One of my most beloved finds was The Shah of Shahs by Ryszard Kapuscinski, that I found in a tiny, second hand bookshop in Havana on a sunny evening while L- and I searched for a reasonable restaurant. Anyone who has been to Cuba will know that a reasonable restaurant is hard to find.

Back to Calvino. If on a winter's.. is a reader's book. It is full of winks and nudges to the reader. In fact the main character, if he can be called so as he is addressed as 'you', is called 'the Reader'. His/your love interest is 'the Other Reader'. It is all twisted inside out. Stories within stories. Murders and plots and a grand scheme to put 'fakes' inside of books. I laughed out loud.

There is one fantastic scene where the 'you' is distracted from his mission of finding the conclusions to books by a young woman, who he starts to seduce. This is how Calvino describes the scene:

"With this, Sheila-Alfonsina-Gertrude has thrown herself on you, torn off your prisoner's trousers; your naked limbs mingle under the closets of electronic memories.

Reader, what are you doing? Aren't you going to resist? Aren't you going to escape? Ah, you are participating... Ah, you fling yourself into it, too... You're the absolute protagonist of this book, very well; but do you believe that gives you the right to have carnal relations with all the female characters?" (p. 219)

Pure, hysterical brilliance. Now I just have to get my hands on Cosmicomics.

On the way home (04/10/10)

Charles de Gaulle Airport.

The day slowly erases the night. I am sitting in the departure lounge of Terminal 3, the poor cousin of impressive and cosmopolitan Terminals 1 and 2. I am feeling a little worried because I was told that I cannot take my four bottles of wine through on the plane in my hand luggage. I had to put them into my suitcase. I hope that I don't arrive in Montreal to a wine-drenched suitcase, my dirty underwear and lovely gifts ruined for the sake of a cheap (but good) drink.

Impressions of Paris (03/10/10)

I was meant to be writing this from the cafe down the street called 'Irene and Bernard' but E- upon leaving the apartment this morning for her morning run locked the door behind her and now I am trapped inside. I have taken off my shoes and opened the windows to the street. I will write from the enclosed comfort of the couch while Paris life clatters by on expensive heels on the street below.

I love Paris. I love it for all of the cliches that have been repeated a thousand times before much more eloquently than I could hope to match so I will only say that I truly do love Paris. It has been seven years since I was last here.

Yesterday, we went to the local grocery chain, Carrefour, and bought wine. There were aisles upon aisles of wine. I bought a bottle of St Emilion with prize-winning stickers for 5 euros. I was truly in heaven. The yogurt aisle was varied and exotic. I bought whimsically shaped pots of coconut and chestnut flavours.

Last night, E- brought me to a bar in the heart of a park where the doors open at 6 pm and dancing finishes by midnight. My kind of place.

I am now at the cafe, E- having returned mortified that she locked me in. I was turfed from the terrasse where I get the impression only those planning to order food are allowed to sit. It was suggested I have my coffee standing at the bar but I managed to negotiate a table inside. It's a shame because it is a beautiful sunny day. Only in Paris.

Where was I? Rosa Bonheur, with sparkly lights and a tree in the middle of a garden where we wolfed down take-away pizza on a park bench before entering. Tons of people of various ages. It was so nice to go out and not feel like I was somehow impinging on the amusements of the young. The hook: for a piece of i.d. you could borrow a headset that was tuned-into one of two d.j.s who stood behind a table with their laptops. Depending on which channel you chose you got completely different music. And to those without a 'casque', the spectacle of people shuffling about rhythmically, head-bobbing and hip swaying was absolutely hysterical. So in the silence of Parisian night, people danced and danced, the only sound the scraping of foot soles on the grit of wet pavement. It created a wonderfully convivial atmosphere: strangers would share headphones with each other, dancers would gesture with their fingers to indicate what channel they were listening to ( I remember a man across the garden indicating an A with two fingers of his left hand and one finger of his right, a big grin on his face as he grooved to what turned out to be a remix of an old Whitney Houston song. Whitney Houston! Only in France.) I met a tall, curly haired Spaniard who was so full of joy, a beautiful Parisian with long blonde hair, tight jeans and high heels who cried and cried and told me "je suis malheureuse" and wanted my phone number. Of course I gave it to her. And Nicolas, the Toulousian with an accent so thick I was sure he was putting it on. Headphones in a nightclub: the great social icebreaker.

Impressions of London III (01/10/10)

Last morning in London. Am sitting in an ostensibly Italian restaurant called 'La Barca' around the corner from J-'s apartment but I had trouble finding anything Italian on the menu besides my cafe latte. The place, like many in the neighbourhood, is run by Turks which is fine by me because I have an intense and long-standing desire to visit Turkey. I also noticed, after I sat down, that aside from the waitress, I am the only woman in the restaurant but in a very non threatening way. Across the street is a Western Union office called Cedi House. The discussion towards the back of the cafe is becoming heated - hand gestures chopping through the air and a random elderly gentleman feels compelled to add his voice to the debate.

The trip up north was fantastic. I kept saying that, day after day, "this is fantastic!" It is so rare to be truly happy and to be aware of it at the same time. Here, therefore, are the ingredients for happiness as defined by myself: 1) a bicycle 2) changing landscape, sometimes shrouded by fog and cloud and sometimes dramatically exposed 3) sheep 4) good company 5) financial security such that fancy B&Bs don't leave a tightening in the chest, so that supper can be appreciated and not choked down 6) cheap and varied drink 7) physical exertion (see 1) 8) good health. There it is , the recipe for pure undiluted joy. Northumberland and Cumbria crossed coast to coast on Hadrian's cycle path. And today, Paris.

Birdoswall, Cumbria (27/09/10)

In the B&B this morning we asked the owner about the relations between the Northern English and the Scots seeing as how the border is so tangible, what with Hadrian's wall (around 100 a.d. but I could be wrong) still standing. After telling us about the savage Scots who would rape and pillage before crossing back over the border in Scotland, she told us that a local woman had been hung in the town square for marrying a Scot in the sixteenth or seventeenth century. Moving to the present, she made us to understand that the Scots were a bunch of freeloaders. It seems relations remain tense.

Impressions of London II (25/09/10)

Saturday, Hampstead Heath

Am sitting next to a pond , hills and trees across the way. Black ducks with white tipped faces and beaks churn the water gracelessly, their heads bobbing rhythmically, one can see that they are working hard just under the surface of the water. Like young teenagers, they haven't mastered the technique of making it look easy.

I love Hampstead Heath. I recall walking for what felt like hours here the first time I was in London at the age of nineteen. I especially liked the forest of trees that opened up onto vast rolling fields punctuated here and there by wide reaching and centennial trees. I remember the unexpected pleasure of coming across swimming ponds. There among the reeds and lily pads were the English, splashing about enthusiastically. It seemed to me then the height of genteel hedonism.

I am, if anything, a creature of habit. Even here in London, I have made my little rituals, which is why this morning, I went for the second day in a row (I have only been here two days) to the little Turkish grocery to get my breakfast of cheese wrapped in a flat bread. While walking down the street, breakfast in hand and feeling quite pleased with myself in the sunny, crisp morning air, I heard a man yell. I turned around to see a young man hollering at me from a car, from the back seat no less. I leaned towards him to try to understand what he was telling me but the light changed and he drove off laughing. I have no idea what he said, like I mentioned before, these accents are impossible to decipher. I am certain though, that he was not remarking on my stunning good looks nor on my intelligent taste in breakfast.

The sun has come out, casting my hand in shadow across this page. There are men fishing on this pond which is no larger than an American football field. I wonder if the city of London stocks the pond with fish each year to satisfy the cravings of urban fishermen. Behind me two women discuss the swimming conditions of the ponds. Could they still be open? It is late fall and probably no more than ten degrees. I shiver in my wind jacket and the idea of taking off even one item of clothing seems unhealthy.

I contemplate the hill across the way. I would like to climb across its grassy back before returning to the gated bourgeoisie of Camden but a pressing need to pee is tempering my enthusiasm.

Impressions of London (24/09/10)

Rain. Sun on the French side of the channel but rain and cloud when the train came out in England. It has been raining since.

I am sitting in a pub, Chandos, near Leicester Square, waiting to meet with P- and B- and their children, whom I haven't seen in over ten years. There is a pub lounge upstairs, they may be up there but I want to finish my (incredibly cheap) beer before I go up to check. They are quite possibly up there but if not, I'll have to find another place to roost when I come back down, will probably have to buy another drink as well. Still have some beer to go.

The transition from Montreal to Paris to London: All the English men in suits in the Eurostar waiting lounge, shoes that click like high heels on the their feet. The sudden complexity of English accents throws me. I keep thinking that London is full of foreigners (which it is) but often when I listen more closely I realize most are speaking English.

Where J- lives is a predominantly Turkish and Ghanaian area. The grocery store with a wall of olives to choose from and another wall with teas so exotic I am not even tempted. The woman behind the bakery counter tries unsuccessfully to teach me 'thank you' in Turkish. Esh-dashesh?

London retains an aura of soot and grime that decades of rain have not been able to erase. I feel the weight of coal here.

Beer almost finished. I hope they're up there. I'll be drunk if I have to come back down and order another beer before they arrive. Maybe I'll order a Sprite or something.

I walked most of the way here from Bethnel Green. I'd gone to the Museum of Childhood to see a photo exhibit of dolls' faces. Turns out there were only half a dozen pictures so I spent the rest of the time looking at children's toys in the museum and listening to teachers and parents reprimand their charges.

Have gone for a look upstairs. No dice. Have come back down and gotten a juice. Luckily for me, no one has taken my table near the door. No watch. Not quite sure of the time. Two thirty, maybe? Perhaps closer to three? I have nowhere else I have to be. What a great feeling.