Wind in my face...

I was rudely woken up this morning by high winds. They have been wailing around off and on all day, though they must be southerly, because it's not necessarily cold out. But what struck me more than the fact that I wanted to punch that wind in the face, was that I knew from the sound of it that it was NEWFOUNDLAND wind.

Ok, I'm not going crazy. Or rather, not going crazier.... Wind is wind. Rain is rain. Snow is snow. Sun is sun. I get that. But there is undeniably a different quality of wind, rain, snow, sun in different parts of the world. Yes, this is kind of obvious, and I'm not stating anything new here. Travel writers, novelists and other pretentious bloggers discuss the quality of light in Tuscany, that it seems warmer, brighter, more rich. The warm rains of New Orleans versus the cold, chill-you-to-the-bone rains of England. The hot, spicy winds of the Mediterranean versus the cold, destruction of Atlantic Canada. The softly falling snow coating pines in the Pacific Northwest versus the frozen tundra of the extreme North. Yes, yes, it's clear that "weather" can both be the same and vastly different depending on geographical region, season; even on whether or not you are experiencing it in a city or a rural setting. But there is that quality of "home" in weather that I was struck by today.

Thomas Appleton said, "A Boston man is the east wind made flesh." Norman Mailer said that "America is a hurricane," and then said that White Protestants were jerks standing in the eye of the storm or something...cause, you know. It's Mailer. Seneca, that wiley Roman philosopher, said "If a man knows not what harbour he seeks, then any wind is the right wind," but also, "If one does not know to which port one is sailing, no wind is favourable." I think these quotes are the ones I harken to at the moment.

The closer I get to knowing I will be back on the Pacific side of the world, the further it seems to be. And, as I stated in my last post, the fact that I will be in four extremely distinct parts of the world in a year are starting to sink in. As I work on my resume for a Northern contract job, it's sinking in even deeper! And I am longing for the feel of wind from home. And rain. And sun. Snow...well...I'll take it if I have to, but....

I can remember the first fall I was here, dealing with the Newfoundland wind for the first time. Being raised in Kamloops, British Columbia, I was no stranger to wind. In a valley inside the Thompson-Nicola region, just past the lush Okanagon, and riding a strange divide between nice-growing river-valley and semi-desert scrub, at certain times of year the wind could ride through like a fleet of freight trains, bringing sand and lightening and heat and rain. I remember visiting home a few years ago and going in to a grocery store for a few things, and coming out literally about 15 minutes later to find the sky gone dark, the wind whipping a shopping cart across the parking lot, and my mom in her car shouting, "Get in!" She had seen the sky darken and rode up to get me like a tiny, round saviour, and I barely made it into the car before the wind drove a ton of sand and heat across us. It can get biblical in Kamloops, sometimes, and a hail of locusts riding those summer storms wouldn't even cause me to blink.

But the wind is hot, sudden, and fickle. It drives up, sandblasts your short-clad legs in the summer, and then recedes again. Newfoundland wind is a steady, driving, constant force. It's the guest that will NOT leave, and only had moments where it gets a little drunk after dinner and starts telling slightly racist jokes in a too-loud voice. Sometimes it tries to start a fight with your uncle, and then it grabs it's head and slumps into the couch to just moan quietly about the headache-inducing qualities of low-cost gin. And you hate it a little, but you tolerate it, too. You get used to it, and talk to your friends and family behind it's back, but deal with it all the same. It's a wind that annoys you, but sort of builds character.

When I was in Harlow, the wind smelled good. I'm sure it stinks of city and cars and trolleys and pollution sometimes, too. But to me it smelled like gardens and flowers and growing things. Vancouver smells like that to me as well, depending on where you're standing, of course. Again, smog and dirt and despair can get carried on that wind, but so often it brings clean smells of rain and trees. The Pacific has a mustier, more "fishy" scent to it than the more crisp, salty Atlantic. But it's a smell of home that gets carried on the rain, and it smells GOOD! And rain that falls down, instead of in your face, is also a pleasure I have done without for too long.

I can remember walking in summertime Vancouver, people in shorts and summer dresses, shopping tourists, honking cars and everyone busy. Then, the sky grew grey with rain clouds, the clouds opened, and a torrent of hot, straight-down-falling rain poured over the streets like someone taking a bucket and just tipping it over. Everyone calmly stepped under awnings, into doorways, sharing space with the ever-present homeless. No one opened an umbrella, it was only a summer shower, but everything stopped for just a few brief minutes. People chatted quietly with their friends, or made companionable gestures at strangers, rolled eyes at dashing tourists, tried to ignore the crazies you might be sharing a space with, and the rain came down like a curtain. Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped, the curtain parted, and an immediate blast of sunshine rays came down to brighten the wet pavement. Everyone stepped back out into the street, and went back to whatever they had been doing, bustling along like nothing had happened, except now they had to dodge puddles and dripping eaves.

Now, obviously Vancouver is not existing in some sort of 1940s musical, with this sort of thing happening everyday. But the rain that everyone complains about in the Lower Mainland is the rain that those who live there understand. It is THEIR rain. They know when to open an umbrella, when to step aside and let it pass, when to break out the rubber boots (or pvc stiletto heels). The only thing to understand about Newfoundland rain is that using an umbrella to try and keep dry will make you look like a fool and a tourist. It took me a while to understand what THIS weather meant.

And yes, everything is now making me wax poetic. I'm acutely aware of the weather, the smells, the people, the taste of food, the availability of product, the quality of the light, the sound of the wind. I'm in a limbo state, where I am not really IN this place anymore, but not really anywhere else either. I am going to experience so many "tastes" and states of rain, wind, earth, food, people. I will have to continually adjust, and by the time I understand THAT wind, THAT rain, THAT sun, I'll be off again getting used to it all in a new space. But the closer I get to going "home" the more I think about the wind and rain there, the light coming in my high rise windows carrying the musty smell of the Pacific. And I guess there is some fear there, as well. IS that the smell of home? Or is home the wind making me cranky outside my window right now. Or the hot rain that might possibly drive a giant beetle into my rented apartment in New Orleans, causing screaming and crying. Or will some new, yet unknown zephyr bring me a clearer sense of where my place in this world is.

Yep, the wind is making me moody. As Catherine the Great once said, A great wind is blowing, and that either gives you imagination or a headache. I guess Newfoundland wind brings both. As long as it's not an "ill wind that blows no good," I guess I'll ride it out.

Oh Lord, where has the time gone?

Sometimes I feel as though I roll over in bed, open my eyes to look at the clock, and am faced with a whole new calendar year instead! When did it get to be 2012 already? And why is it almost MARCH? Did those Mayans come and pull some whammy on me?

I clearly didn't finish all the adventures of New Orleans, so those will just have to be interspersed among the--hopefully--new blog posts. Some close friends (Crystle Reid, Anya Zub, Heather Read) have been working on their own blogs, and I'm shamed to have had one for so long, with so few posts. So, now I'm going to try and update at least once a week in order to keep the ol' hand in the writing jar, so to speak.

Plus, more travel is coming up. Including MORE New Orleans!

Yep, the intrepid traveller is gathering up this freak show called My Life, and heading out into the world again. At the end of April, things will be shipped back to the Western region of Canada, I will be heading somewhere North....waaaaaaayyyyyy North for the summer, and then back East and South to New Orleans in the fall. By the start of 2013, I hope like hell to be back in the Vancouver Lower Mainland somewhere, starting a new chapter of my life, and writing my thesis as if the devil was waiting for chapters...fast!

I'm teaching my second course this Winter term, and we've just passed the half way point. Rather hard to believe. This...from a gal who used to get panic attacks...travelling and teaching and studying like mad.

Oh, and I turned 40 this year. But we won't make a fuss over that.

Well, ok, a little fuss. Yes, I turned 40. It's weird, hard to believe, slightly lame, and rather wonderful, all at once. I once read in "Anne of Green Gables" or "Emily of New Moon" (read your L.M. Montgomery, y'all!) that the character wrote a letter when she was a child, 10 or 11 or something, and addressed it to herself as an adult. I'm terribly, terribly glad I never did that. It seems ridiculously awful to read a letter from your prior, more rosy, more youthful, more full of piss and vinegar, more naive self at an age where you GET how very naive you actually were. Even the character in the book has this reaction, and the letter only serves to make her more tired, and a little sad. The thought of even my 30-year-old self writing this slightly more embittered, yet strangely jauntier, 40-year-old self makes me damned glad I never bought into that saccharine crap!

At 30 I was just getting out of a marriage, living on my own for the first time in my life, going back to school and wondering if I even had the ability to learn or retain knowledge anymore. I was working at a job that sucked a lot of my soul out, suffering from occasional panic attacks, meeting new friends, and trying to remember that just because my husband and I had not made it work, that I was not broken at the core of myself.

At 33, I got a plane for the first time in my life, as this blog will tell you. I left my province for the first time in my life (I had previously only travelled to the States on two day trips, and Saskatchewan with my mother at an age where I don't remember the trip at all), and headed clear from one coast to the other, across the second largest country in the world. I started a new life with nothing: no furniture, no friends in the area, no dishes, no job. All to start a folklore program in a province I didn't yet understand.

Now, at 40, I have lived almost 10 years in Newfoundland, have travelled to and lived for six weeks across the pond in England, have lived for three and a half months in New Orleans, Louisiana, have travelled to Churchpoint and Halifax in Nova Scotia, Montreal and Quebec City in Quebec, Toronto in Ontario, Baton Rouge in Louisiana and Bloomington in Indiana. I am now planning on living for four months up North in the territories, then going back to New Orleans, and finally, after a decade away, moving back to my home province. And yet, I have no idea if that will be where I permanently hang my hat, and am prepared to move again as jobs, opportunities and conferences arise. I get up and teach 57 undergraduate university students in my Folklore 1000 class, and am working on the final (though biggest and baddest) stages of my doctoral program in Folklore, and I'm hoping by the end of 2013 I can be called Doctor!

I think I would shoot myself in the head if I had to read a "letter to myself" from 30, 20, dear god...could you even imagine reading one from your teen years??? The horror. But taking stock is always interesting. As I gear up for a final push off the island of Newfoundland, back into the world, I realize that I will once again be without a bed, without dishes, without a job, but with the knowledge that I can start anywhere, at any age, and make it work. It's damned nice, when you're feeling rather lonely and overwhelmed with work and planning and logistics and...well...fear, that you've felt those things before and ended up here: in an apartment, with good friends in the area, and dishes, and a job.

The point? There is none...this is a blog. A self-indulgent online diary. Sheesh. And it is definitely NOT a letter to myself at 50!!

However....if I could say something to that person...that greying wreck...I'd say that wherever you are, you have come very, very, very far to get there.

Heat, Horrors, and Southern Decadence in Many Forms

THURSDAY

On September 2^nd, we woke up and decided to head to the little café directly across the street from the Bohemian Armadillo, La Peniche, for some breakfast.  We were served by a brusque older woman (who I later found out is named Joe), who efficiently bustled around the small café taking orders, delivering food, refilling coffee and iced tea, and she took our orders–and my weird “jokes” which stand as some sort of banter–in quick time.  The breakfast was fantastic, the price great, and overall it was a rather satisfying start to the day. We only casually took note of the many pride flags and posters relating to something called “Southern Decadence” as we headed to the car. Our mission today, outer borough shopping for a better coffee maker, a lamp, some cups and other sundries and my first cellphone!

Mr. T rudely directed us towards the highway, and through the maze of on- and off-ramps, we swirled our way towards the mall we had accidently found the night before in our food-crazed and over-tired haze.  Phoebe drove like a pro, but I was still white-knuckling the speed and craziness of the American highway system.  We wandered around a smallish and slightly depressed mall in what we later found out was Metairie, one of the suburbs or smaller communities surrounding New Orleans proper.  We shopped at a used book store, checked out what was playing at the local theatre, and then I acted like a monkey choosing and trying to figure out payment plans at the AT&T store. One cheap blue cellphone later, we headed to Target and picked up my various living needs…which would never see the light of day at the Bohemian!

Arriving back at the Voodoo Room after a full day of shopping, driving and Mr. T’s seemingly worsening directions, we pushed our overheated and muggy bodies into the cool of our living quarters and I headed into the kitchen to unpack a new coffee maker (only $7 at Target!! Woooo!!). 

I’m sure Phoebe can remember the slightly elevated voice and rising sounds of panic as I began to really take in my surroundings.  Some sort of bugs had skittered under the microwave on the counter as I turned on the light. Heading towards the stove and the piece of counter there, I noticed something receding into the darkness under the stove. I opened the only kitchen drawer which I knew must hold cutlery and other kitchen utensils, but was shocked to find ALSO held several fast moving shapes and a lot of small dark “dirt” looking spots everywhere. I asked Phoebe to come in and check things out with me, and together we tentatively lifted the microwave, hairs rising on the backs of my arms. Yep, cockroaches dashed from the now-lit counter to the dark nooks behind the fridge, which sits right by that piece of counter.  A plethora of roach poop, I’m assuming (unless it was mouse poop) sat on the counter alongside an old garlic clove. Egads and little fishes…no, don’t mention little fishes…it reminds me of the roaches! I sprayed the counter liberally with cleanser and paper towelled the area, and then we simply backed slowly from the kitchen back into the living room to access.

Now, I’m a city gal but have certainly spent my time in the country. I know bugs exist out there in the world in droves. And, as a city gal, I’ve seen my share of giant harbour and garbage rats, carpet beetles, silverfish (gross, gross, gross), diseased looking pigeons and other pests.  However, I ain’t no Rhoda Morgenstern here (look it up people), and I ain’t never lived in New York or nuttin’.  I have never really seen a cockroach except in movies and such, and I am now thankful I never had to deal with them until now. They are gross.  I immediately contacted the landlords who appeared to be as appalled as we were, and they promised to get both a cleaner and a bug person in to deal with the problem as soon as possible.  Meanwhile, for some odd reason which I’m sure is related to cash flow, Phoebe and I attempted to make the best of the situation, kill the few roaches which made it out of the kitchen area, avoid the kitchen entirely, and try to just get on. *shudder* The horror…………THE HORROR.

We had already eaten on the way home, so that night we huddled on the daybed and watched a movie on my laptop, then headed timidly to bed and talked and I`m sure eventually fell asleep.

FRIDAY

We again headed to La Peniche for some breakfast, sheepishly showing up two days in a row, and this time the pride flags, and a poster depicting several drag queens who had apparently all signed their love to the restaurant was a little more noticeable.  As were what appeared to be a LOT of tables filled with older gay men.  As were what appeared to be a LOT of tables filled with older gay men.  We wondered what was going on, and soon found out as we headed into the Quarter...it was Southern Decadence, New Orleans version of Gay Pride! Phoebe and I were both struck with how many of the slightly older gay-set were out (heh heh) and about, but I figured the youngers were sleeping off terrible hangovers and danced out muscles from several parties that were advertised around town (including a classic White Party).

We lovingly gazed at wrought-iron balconies draped with plants and ivies, avoided loaded and reeking garbage cans, and attempted to see only the beautiful and exotic and not the grungy and puke-covered. The Vieux Carre, or French Quarter, is awesome. It's a really vibrant, unusual and eclectic space that has that sort of hippy artist vibe, mixed with a sort of goth vibe, mixed with a sort of old world southern charm vibe, mixed with a drink till you puke your brains out vibe. We discovered a myriad of antique shops, old book stores, voodoo shops, jewellery, soap, chapeaus, dresses…yep, good shopping in the Quarter. Most of it is somewhat pricey, being a super tourist area, but everyone was super friendly, even if they often had that slightly “hustler” thing going on. However, even after we would indicate that we were most likely not going to be spending money in an establishment, we were still treated with friendliness and were asked where we were from, etc.

After shopping for a while, we decided to try out those beignets and coffee everyone was raving about before heading out of town for the afternoon. We shopped our way to Café Du Monde, the famous café that serves basically two things: café au lait and beignets (though you can get coke or cold milk of the white and chocolate varieties as well). You can get your coffee iced or hot, and everything comes with a glass of water, and have I mentioned that beignets are the best thing ever?! Well, they are. They are squares and triangle of fried dough, sort of sweet but more bread-y than doughnut-y, if you can figure out what I mean by that, and are COATED in powdered sugar. For our first venture, Phoebes and I shared a plate, which we did not do again. So tasty, yet so messy.  I will note here that I have yet to find a seat in Café du Monde that does not have either a fan blowing my powdered sugar in my face, or a vent above me that does not drip weird water down the back of my neck. It was actually getting to be ridiculous as I changed seats only to have water dripping AGAIN! Regardless, well worth the trouble!

For our afternoon, we decided to head to Oak Alley Plantation, in Vacherie, Louisiana, about an hour and a bit from New Orleans. By this point we had abandoned Mr. T and opted for “Susan,” a strong, efficient voice that we felt sure would get us there with little to no trouble.  After a pit stop at our hacienda and re-sealing our bags against possible cockroach invasion, off we headed to the country.

The day was lovely, and my beloved albeit slightly aggressive driver Phoebe and I were excited to head out of the city and see some of that swampy beauty.  After navigating several highways and overpasses, we began to head up, Up, UP a strangely high and curving single lane highway-bridge-road-to-nowhere that seemed to head over swamp and treetops. Spanish moss covered branches were parallel to our car, and though Phoebe found it pretty, my un-adventurous ass was clenched in the seat and my hand was on the seat belt buckle as if I could physically hold myself into the car should it suddenly veer and topple into brackish water below. (Needless to say, I feel that Phoebe may have found driving with me as a passenger slightly exhausting at times!)The day was lovely, and my beloved albeit slightly aggressive driver Phoebe and I were excited to head out of the city and see some of that swampy beauty.  After navigating several highways and overpasses, we began to head up, Up, UP a strangely high and curving single lane highway-bridge-road-to-nowhere that seemed to head over swamp and treetops. Spanish moss covered branches were parallel to our car, and though Phoebe found it pretty, my un-adventurous ass was clenched in the seat and my hand was on the seat belt buckle as if I could physically hold myself into the car should it suddenly veer and topple into brackish water below. (Needless to say, I feel that Phoebe may have found driving with me as a passenger slightly exhausting at times!)

Soon after we turned onto Highway 61, and of course I calmed down enough to snap, like, 80 pictures of Highway 61 road signs like a git.  Tall, bright green fields of what I thought was corn turned out to be sugar cane, and I was suddenly so IN the South it was ridiculous! Susan led us on a merry chase around a few of these cane fields, and I feel was desperately trying to get us to drive through one, Cannonball Run style, but since we left our Burt Reynolds moustaches at home, we kept to the roads. The highway soon turned into a long and fast-paced dirt road along the Mississippi, and there we were in Plantation-orama-land.  All along the Mississippi are plantations dotted about, as the river was used as an easy and effective transportation system for crops and supplies. We passed the Laura Plantation as we drove further up the road to Oak Alley, which we chose because it’s one of the most famous and filmed plantations in the area. And it was definitely worth a look-see.

It was still hot as dog’s balls out, and re-adopting our Harlow Fieldtrip Survival Guide, we headed to the café first.  We had discovered that when you are about to get your history on, a sit down at the location, a glance through the gift shop, and a cup of coffee really helps to settle you and get you prepared for what’s ahead. After our coffee and pie, and postcards up the whazzoo, we headed towards the main house.  The oaks which the plantation is named for are truly breathtaking. Covered in Spanish moss and ivy, they’re like something out of a fairy tale, and the landscapers were busy cutting the acres of grass, so though there was more noise than we loved, the smell of cut grass and flowers was yummy indeed. The roots of the oaks were bulging through the ground like giant varicose veins (yes, not a romantic image at all, but it’s what you get with me), and some of their branches were so large and heavy that they didn’t so much branch up, but rather sort of languished along and drooped towards the ground. Some branches would rest there, only to then reach up again, like giants elbows on a green table cloth (there’s some romance for you, fools!).  Large copper bowls, which we later found out were sugar cane boiling kettles (where slaves would boil the sugar cane over hot bonfires to leach out the impurities for hours on end in sweltering Louisiana heat) were reutilized as water features, and large lilies and lily pads were visible when you looked over the tops. 

As we approached the main house, we could see ladies in semi-period costume standing about with a nearby refreshment stand that sold alcoholic or non-alcoholic juleps.  As we walked around to the “front” of the house we walked along a wrap-around veranda with tall, Grecian columns and then saw the famous “Oak Alley,” a long driveway with 200-year-old oaks placed on either side leading to the main road. It was ridiculously stunning, and I must admit to feeling a little breath taken.  Soon, Geraldine, our guide opened the front doors and we were let into the house.

Geraldine was a lovely, blonde woman most likely in her 40s, who had the most awesome voice ever! I could most definitely spend hours sipping iced tea and listening to the cicadas and her voice tell me stories of the Old South. It was that particular voice that some Southern woman have that is very deep, smooth, and almost liquid-y with a touch of raspy-ness. It’s the kind of voice that I always wished I had, instead of my sometimes high-pitched, sometimes nasally, often childish talking-from-the-top-of-your-chest kind of voice. Perhaps I need to take up smoking and get drinking a lot harder!

The house was actually smaller than I felt it should be, and some of that might be owning to the thickness of the walls, which apparently helped keep the place cool without a/c back in the day. But it was pretty, and very plantation-y. I was surprised that although the website boasted some good ghost stories, Geraldine kept strictly to the history of the family and house. We mostly heard about Jacques Etienne, and his 2^nd wife Celina. Celina was much younger than Jacques, and more of an 18^th century party gal, and so Jacques attempted to build the plantation up so that she would be able to entertain and have parties, while at the same time maintain a working plantation. However, Celina, who supposedly loved Jacques very much, kept mainly to New Orleans in a house in the French Quarter, so she could go to affairs in town. Though we kept hearing about how much Celina loved Jacques, I’m not sure the story really sounds like that. It sort of sounds like she was young and spoiled, and spent as much time away from the place as possible, or that Jacques was already an older man with a large family who was marrying some young thing and wanting to keep her nearer on the plantation. Who the hell knows, though, as none of us were there!  After Jacques died his wife, most likely through inexperience at running a plantation, drove it into the ground, and it was eventually sold.

One great story we heard that I must share has to do with pineapple symbolism! You heard me! So, pineapples are a big thing in the south, and they were carved into a lot of wood-work, etc. If you were a guest at one of these lovely plantations back in, oh, say, 1775 or so, you might get a pineapple left in your room as a sign of welcome and hospitality. However, if you overstayed your welcome and were just clinging and eating the free food too long, the maid would bring up your breakfast and there would be a second, more dreaded pineapple with your eggs and coffee. This golden fruit meant, GO HOME! So, as Geraldine told us, and as many a good assassination proves, always beware the second pineapple!

After the tour we were asked if there was anything else we wanted to know, and I piped up, “Are there any good ghost stories here?” I was interested to note that Geraldine’s total demeanour changed, and she instantly become less formal and somewhat more animated. She said that yes, there are some ghosts that supposedly haunt the place, including a woman in black who is, perhaps, the grieving Celina. Phoebe and I both agreed that again, I’m not sure that Celina would be grieving too much at the plantation, and would most likely be more grooving in town, but still interesting.  Geraldine herself had seen what she thinks may be the spectre of a dog or cat which crossed the hallway and promptly disappeared through a wall, but it moved too fast for her to see clearly, and was not in the adjoining room.  Our guide, who was fantastic and a good storyteller, seemed so much more personable and connected to the house when she was relating her own paranormal sighting, and indeed, the fact that she had possibly seen something from another time most likely would connect you in some way to the history of a space. Almost as if you are a part of something that happened there long ago, which I think is so crucial to why people connect to historic spaces so much. They can almost tangibly feel that people from a bygone era had used those rooms, or walked those paths, or cooked in that kitchen, etc.  The idea of literally experiencing something sensual, as in with your senses, from the past could be both frightening and deeply connecting in some way---or at least so I muse.

On the way home we stopped at a drugstore called Rite Aid to pick up much needed anti-itch cream for Miss Phoebe as she was bug-bit to hell. Apparently she was taking all the mosquitoes for me, like a good friend. When we got back to our room, we decided to head out for pizza and ate at Desperadoes on Frenchman, which was deeee-lish!  And that (after bug check and a movie) ended another day in the Big Easy.

Planes, Trolleys and Automobiles

Written in the Newark Airport

So far so good.

I got to the St. John’s airport a tad early, though maybe that was good as security went ballistic on my bags–a first for me.  They poked around, opened everything, swabbed everything they could get the swab on, and were confused by my many American quarters in my change purse.  They asked what I needed all the quarters for, and I confusedly said, “Laundry?”  Perhaps my cleanly habits renewed their view of me as a stand-up citizen as they now let me move on into the secured area.

Waiting in airports, or really any transit waiting rooms, is fascinating. I know many people have written–and far, far more eloquently than I–on travel themes such as the waiting room. But dang it, they are just such a flotsam and jetsam humanity collective, that who can blame me for wanting to touch on the subject myself.

In the St. John’s airport are four women sitting just behind me, all heading to Florida together. They are all in their mid-to-late forties, or perhaps even early fifties, and are ridiculously cute. They are clacking together and the noise volumes wax and wane as they first talk all together in an excited rush, and then suddenly break off into smaller conversations or silence as they pour over maps and itineraries.  Suddenly, they all start thanking one of the “gals” for putting this trip together, and how excited they all are, and how much fun they’re going to have being just the “girls” and no men.  One woman tells the others a hilarious story about her husband noticing the baggage by the door the night before, and asking, “Where are you going?” plaintively.  She says to him, “I’m finally leaving you after 26 years of you not doing the dishes!” But apparently the poor hubbie ended up looking so stricken that she finally laughed and said, “Florida, dummy. Remember?” One of the other women laughed like a loon and comments, “He’s so nice, but what a sin that he’s so damn stupid.” Cackling all around, and then discussions of who will drive in the states, and how exciting the Harry Potter Theme Park will be, even for old ladies.

After feeling like the Friendly Giant (or not so friendly by the end of the flight. More like the Slightly Surly Giant), I landed in Newark, my first American airport! I’ll admit, all my fears of gloved fingers, tiny interrogation rooms and hard-noses, Hill-Street-Blues-esque cops asking me hard questions was starting to make my tummy rumble. I had to grab my extremely heavy luggage and head to customs.

~Can I just say here that though I am a feminista indeed, I find that I would very much like a large, burly man to jump up one day and say, “Why, let me carry those bags, ma’am.” Ok, I’ll be feminist enough to say that I’d take a large, burly woman as well. Basically, I don’t wants to carry ‘em bags no mo! Stupid non-existent manly-man/woman.~

And speaking of non-existent, there was literally no interrogation at the border at all!! In fact, I firmly believe that I could have had two dead hookers stuffed with dead midgets, who were in turn stuffed with cocaine, ecstasy, heroine and fake Eiffel Towers for resale purposes, and all would have been fine. Yep, no gloved hands for this kid! Although, going through security again I DID have to take off my shoes, and boy did my feet stink to high heaven. Security officer, I am smuggling bad smells across state lines! And, while good old Sinjan’s security practically repacked my luggage entirely for me, the Newark team looked me up and down and waved me along. Badda bing, badda boom. I’m now wondering if the Toronto customs people will go to hell on me on my way back. I suppose it depends on how saucy I get in Nawlin’s.

In true Newark fashion (notice how I’m pretending to know what I’m talking about here, while never having left Canada for more than a day trip), there was the cutest elderly Jewish couple who happened to be waiting for the plane to Vegas very near where I was waiting for my plane to Houston. The gentleman (notice I didn’t say gentile-man…that would just be wrong as well as incorrect) was wearing striped suspenders and a tiny baseball cap, while his wife was very florally dressed in some muumuu-type concoction doing a Sudoku. He kept sort of waddling around in his Penguin-like body croaking out, “Estelle, would you look at the cover of that magazine. What’s going on these days,” and “Estelle, did you see that guys luggage, we should get some carry on like that,” and “Estelle, remind me to go to the bathroom before we have to board, would ya?” Priceless. “Estelle” just kept doing her puzzle and mumbled the occasional affirmation to keep Mr. Estelle happy.

After hitting the bathroom, I’m off to Houston!! Hello to my friend, Ginny-Fugarino-Land! Or, at least, hello airport-where-Ginny-Fugarino-may-have-once-taken-a-plane.

Written in New Orleans

Well, a rather uneventful flight from Newark to Houston, and then after navigating the GIANT Houston airport, I found my gate and read until it was time to head to New Orleans. Arriving in the Big Easy I suddenly realized that, though I was to have my lovely pal Phoebe meet me here, I had NO idea where to meet her. I assumed we were on the same airline, so figuring if I wandered down to baggage she would eventually show up.  As I got my bags, which both arrived safe and sound thank you very much, I looked at the baggage carts longingly. Why did I not get a baggage cart? Was it because I had no American cash? Nay, I had all those quarters, plus some sweet dollars. Or, was it because I am stupid and have some sort of weird martyr complex? Ding, ding, ding. Yep, Phoebe was NOT on the same airline as me, and her airplane would be arriving clear across the airport, with its own baggage area. So, instead of pushing a single cart around I apparently chose to go the saint-route and wheel my individual bags, with my carry on looped together, across the entire, rather largish airport. By the time I finally got to my destination sweat was pouring off me, and my hands were red and swollen. Not that saints necessarily martyr themselves with wheeled uprights, but it makes me sound more dramatic, non?

Just as I reached the area where I was hoping like hell Phoebe would be coming from, who runs out from the crowd but PHOEBE! She helped me grab a cart, berated me for not getting one in the first place, and then dropped the C-bomb. Yep, the gal rented a car for the week she was in town. La-di-da! Little did I realize the tension-filled and pants-filling adventures that would occur with my California driver tackling the bizarre highways and off-ramps of Louisiana*.

*Note: Now, I’m quite sure that these roads were NOT so bizarre to my little American friend, and I fully admit my high regards for her driving and navigating skills. However, not having driven so much in recent years, and having neither driven or been driven in the States since the mid-nineties, I am guilty of some side-seat driving, fake brake pumping, and white knuckling it on the door panel.  I apologize profusely to all concerned. Namely, Phoebe.*

Once we got our car there was a little scrambling in the thick Louisiana heat to sort our stuff out, figure out various car functions, and then laughingly find our way out of the parking lot maze. Phoebe’s Dad kindly (or rather begrudgingly) lent us his GPS, and so with Mr. T as our guide we headed off into the night towards the Marigny area of New Orleans. Mr. T, you ask? You heard me, fool!  However, not only did Mr. T’s constant berating add to the surreal-ness of the moment, but it apparently makes Phoebe crazy! Even though she badgered her father to download the voice, Mr. T makes Phoebe angry and argumentative. Yep, we were in another world for sure.

With only a few confused moments as we hit the many one-way streets of the New Orleans core, Mr. T telling us to “go left, not right, fool, LEFT, LEFT” we made it to the Bohemian Armadillo Guesthouse with really no problems at all. My negative Virgo-senses should have been tingling, but no, I thought glibly to myself, “Ah, this is all going so well!”

But no, NO! Bad Virgo! *slap, slap* You should have known!

Arriving at the Voodoo Room, my place for 3 months (aptly named for my research purposes, I thought), we discovered a rather dank, dark, odd space. It was definitely cute, but just sort of…..off. A living room with a mantle, armour, mouldy smelling linen closet and daybed led into a bedroom with a queen bed, loud and chilly (though thankfully so) air-conditioner, which then led into a small and slightly dirty bathroom and kitchen respectively. The bathroom was hung with one towel, which proved to have old make-up smeared on it, and the bedding looked clean-ish, though not the hotel/vacation spot quality I think we were both expecting. The kitchen looked weird, but I could only see it in the dim light and didn’t explore too carefully. We decided to wash up as best we could with one towel (I called immediately and was told more towels would be left on the back door for us later), and then head to Frenchman Street for much needed nosh.

Unfortunately, Frenchman was actually the last place we should have gone being in the rather odd, over-tired, over-wrought and low-blood-sugared moods we seemed to be in. It was FILLED with hipsters! Jiving on the streets, spilling out of “joints” and there were no quickly found restaurants. I, at any rate, was just sort of done. Overwhelmed, thy name is Venus!

So, what do you do in that circumstance? Especially if you have a car and driver at your disposal? Why, head to Denny’s of course!

Yes, you gourmands and adventurers and hipsters and cool-niks, scoff if you must. Scoff away, naysayers!! I was done. I needed comfort food, I needed something familiar, and so onto the ramps and highways and off to Denny’s we went. (In one odd missed turn we found a likely mall we would explore later and get my cellphone!) It was greasy and lovely and the coffee was hot and the water cold and I thoroughly needed it.

With new towels on the back door (though note I said new, not clean…those suckers shed on us something awful!), and our toothbrushes and jammies unpacked we prepared for bed. Since there were no sheets for the daybed, Phoebe and I later clamoured into bed together and under the loud buzz of the air-conditioner we fell asleep for the first time in New Orleans.

 Little did we know the horror to come.

Customs Dreams, Hurricane Earl and Books, Books, Books

So, after leaving my last blog in the proverbial dust for so long, the intrepid and adventurous Venus in Fangs has returned and is heading out into the unknown yet again. The first time was waving goodbye to my beloved Vancouver in order to see what this Folklore stuff was all about in Merry Old St. John’s, Newfoundland. After finding out I liked this Folklore stuff very much indeed, I have worked my way through a few degrees, and am now finished course work, studying for comprehensive exams, and am off to New Orleans, Louisiana, USA for fieldwork and fun! For 3 months. Eeeep.


Did I mention I’ve never actually been to the States before? Well, I went on a couple day trips to Bellingham, Washington, or once to Seattle for a concert (Skinny Puppy…why we had to travel to Seattle to see a band originally from Vancouver is still beyond me, but there you go), and I did go to Harlow in even Merrier Old England last summer. But yeah, for those who read the old blog, I started most of my travelling in my 30s, and am now almost 39 and really heading into the US for the first time.

Needless to say I’ve been having mad dreams regarding boisterous laughter from the airport personnel working the body scanners, and gloves snapping crisply onto large, hairy hands in the customs rooms as I am searched for hidden bags of cocaine, heroin and other “mule packs” up the old bummoli. I feel fairly certain, though I won’t tempt any fates here by saying I know for sure, that this will not happen. But the dreams cometh anywayeth.

Thanks be to the Folklore Gods that a friend is coming with! Yep, my good chum Phoebe will arrive a mere 20 minutes after me! Lord knows why she agreed to this, or what will happen to her on this wacky adventure, but she’s been gracious enough to come and help get the old gal settled in NOLA. We shall wreak havoc on the city……….if by havoc one means drinking a lot of coffee at cafés and checking out some jazz and maybe going to the zoo and a plantation tour. Yep: Wreak. Some. Havoc.

She is, this Ms. Phoebe, a very good friend as, in true Venus fashion, I discover that there is some sort of hurricane on the loose in the Atlantic and heading for the Gulf States and Eastern Canada. I mean, come on! Even if I was staying home in St. John’s, we are RIGHT ON THE ATLANTIC. You think something would have tipped me off that some sort of “weather” was on its way. But, as per usual really, in my normal glib and uninformed way, I only found out about it as I skulked about on my new laptop trying to decide just how much “extra strong” deodorant I should slather on before heading to the airport in the morning. Thankfully for me, thus far my new chum Earl doesn’t seem to be planning a visit, though we may end up with some crap weather. I’m worried for friends along the Eastern Seaboard, but thankful that I will not be flying through some crazy Class 12 storm cloud peering out the window for gremlins on the wing!

And speaking of gremlins…or, well, monkeys on the back, so to speak, did you catch the part where I’m “studying for comprehensive exams?” Yep, it really wouldn’t be me if I didn’t nail the windows shut, batten the hatches, paint myself into a corner and then, while wearing my bacon suit, let a hungry tiger loose in the room. Now, I’m not saying that drying paint will keep me from running full tilt from a tiger, but yeah, I’ve set myself up for a wee bit of stress and weirdness, yet again. Due to courses being finished, and a pesky language requirement, I’m stuck studying and WRITING my comps, three 8-hour days of hell and hokum in November, from the Big Easy. On top of trying to do loads of fieldwork. Weeeeeee….. Come join us, we’re all mad here! And what has been the biggest challenge thus far in this comps hell? Books, books, books, articles, books, articles, articles, articles, classnotes. Yep, here’s a riddle for you: how the hairy heck do you get all the materials you need to the place you’re going to be for three months when you can only bring so much luggage and the books are heavy and the classnotes are scattered and you are unsure if the libraries will let you borrow stuff and you really really really want to do well or at least pass these suckers? Discuss.

I was thankfully able to solicit a couple letters of introduction, and I plan to do a LOT of begging at circulation desks. Kinko will become my new best friend (sorry Crystle) as I plan to do a LOT of printing there, and I finally broke down and shipped books to myself keeping only a couple starter things in the luggage. This will be a challenge. Yep.

Ah well. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my 39 years in my “bacon suit,” I seem to somehow battle through and succeed. I can never tell if I’m actually a bit clever, the most medium-luckiest son-of-a-bitch ever to walk the planet, or if the fates are just pulling me through in order to lead me to some HUGE whammy later, but I get through things and soldier on. Good soldier. Brave soldier.

Stupid soldier. Sheesh….

My fieldwork will definitely be a blessing that will hopefully cancel out the anathema that is my comps. Not that comps can’t be sort of good, in their way. I do like studying and learning and getting things down and figuring things out. But I definitely prefer going on tours, talking to folks, and writing a LOT more! Not to say that fieldwork won’t have its own stressors, as I definitely get shy at the worst moments. But I gots me a cooooool topic, so heyla, off I go!

Just to clarify, what I’m doing is looking at belief and dark tourism in New Orleans. What’s belief and dark tourism? Why, any type of tourism that deals with belief or darkness, silly. Basically, I’m looking at ghost tours, voodoo tours, vampire tours, cemetery tours, etc. and trying to find out why people go on this type of tourism. How belief is dealt with, what sorts of narratives are going on, are there new narratives post-Katrina, and also how these types of tourism are often very cost-efficient (you don’t need much for a walking tour but some historic knowledge, a route and a good story teller), and how this type of tourism helped grow the New Orleans economy back after Katrina. I think a lot of issues are going to start really rearing their macabre heads as I actually get into the tours and start talking to guides and companies.

Ah, ain’t it grand to be a Folklorist!

So, that’s it. The beginning to this blog. I hope to keep it entertaining, and I’m sure some wacky shizznat will go down in old Nawlins. It will be a fieldwork blog, and I hope to keep you abreast of the happenings in the South, research tips (mostly, I’m sure, in the “Do Not Do This” variety), and something fun to read over a delicious lunch of a sandwich, perhaps with some delightful potato chips on the side.

Here’s hoping finger stay out of my bum, we all get in safely, and I don’t accidentally take the one “Death Cab” parked at the airport!

Oi, Premier!

So, you know you're back in Newfoundland when...

After a glorious summer in BC, hanging with the fam and rockin' the hot temperatures, I'm finally back in Newfoundland to start my PhD. That's right, finished the ol' MA, and I'm back for more punishment. I mean, I'm nothing if not masochistic!

Upon first arrival home, I spent the night with wonderful friends, Mitch and Kristine, as my sub letter had one more day before returning home to Ireland. No sense sending her packing for just one more night, after all. Next day, Mitch, being the kind and helpful young lad that he is, helped me wheel my 2 giant, overstuffed suitcases down the hill, with my various other flotsam and jetsam, to get it into my apartment. As we were walking (we only live a block from each other) past an intersection, cases rattling along behind us like mechanical lambs, I hear a man's voice from the car in the intersection waiting for us to pass: "Running away from home?"

Well, it was none other than good, old Danny Williams. Who is Danny Williams, those from the Mainland ask? Why, Newfoundland's Premier, of course!

Yes, I was heckled by my provincial premier from a passing car, signaling that I was no longer in BC--with it's snooty politicians with their body guards and "don't talk to me" attitudes. I was now in Newfoundland, where I could shout out, "Not if you keep the economy good!" in response to a saucy quip from our conservative leader.

Aaah, good to be back!

Concentric Ripples in the Upholstry of Life

So, helped a friend clean her old place today, and she was very grateful and sweet, and made the comment in reference to her whole moving experience: "What would I do without my friends?"

This got me waxing a bit poetic and nostalgic about my own moving, furniture acquiring and friendship experiences. Or maybe it's just the PMS talking...who knows.

A good friend, Lynn, recently left the city, and bequeathed me two giant, rather ugly, but suitably squashy and comfy armchairs. She even arranged two likely young lads (one friend and one brother) to haul the chairs up to the 3rd floor for me so I wouldn't have to worry about it. This is my most recent furniture contribution, and I love them. It adds extra seating for more peeps, and nice cozy spots for me. Said friend is a fellow student from the Folklore Department, and I suddenly realized that a huge amount of my current possessions have originated from this hub of learning and iniquity!

I have two bookshelves bought from Lynne, a PhD Folkie, and her hubby Steve, both of whom returned to their native United States, as well as the complete Black Adder VHS set (previously owned by another grad). This couple also supplied my futon, which has most definitely made the departmental rounds and was owned by a few other lowly students who have joyously bent the bars and compacted the cushion nicely. I have a bed and some chairs, as well as a sewing machine, purchased from Jodi and Ian, another couple, both folklorists, who have since moved on as well. A kitchen table, coffee and end table, and some dishes from Kelly, who went to teach in Korea and work on her thesis. Additionally, I have various books, articles, video cassettes and an Irish newspaper all left, "free for the taking," by fellow grads; and a kick ass set of tea cups and saucers from Dr. Paul Smith, beloved and truly mental prof. This is all not to mention the overwhelming help, advice and small favours my colleagues provide me with!

The next ring of this furniture ripple relates to the university as a whole. Meeting Ginny through German classes, and then subsequently her partner Blair, meant that I have enjoyed much assistance, grocery trips, and awesome knick knacks and bath products! From working in the QEII campus library, I was able to score a plethora of bookshelves from retiring librarian Laura, and from my bosses Michael and Dawn have happily accepted Cd's, gift certificates and chocolates (in the form of Xmas goodies). As I get to help with the book sale each year, I also make out like a bandit in the used reading material racket. Definitely a perk.

In the ever broadening pool, friends and roommates have bequeathed me with artwork, dishes, posters, knick knacks, books, music, movies, calendars, games, food products and food-like products, and of course support and fun times.

When I first moved to Newfoundland I lived at the outskirts of town (having not read a map when I signed up for my apartment over the phone in Van.), and my landlord and new found neighbours made sure I ate and knew how to get around, and gave the "girl from B.C." a lamp, TV stand, desk and bed.

The biggest ring, the one that almost touches the end of the proverbial pond (I am certainly prosaic this evening...must be all the cleaning products I used today!), represents those people, family and friends alike, who actually got me to Newfoundland, and made sure I was OK when I got here. Nathan sent me a gift certificate to Zellars that enabled me to buy a desk and chair, and much needed kitchen accessories, as well as sending me care packages. Crystle and Nathan helped get me home for my first visit a year after my arrival, and Crystle recently sent me a fabulous care package filled with everything from deodorant to DVDs. My auntie bought me a TV my first Christmas away so I wouldn't go stir crazy (I am a TV-generation gal!!). Parents and my brother of the younger persuasion have sent me gobs of cash, care packages and all manner of interesting things, and mummy has put up with many rants and odd phone calls.

I suppose, if I really wanted to be truly entrenched in my prose-osity at this moment, I could also mention the splash back (like a guy in the can after a night of drinking) that represents all the help just getting on my feet and back to school after my separation, which led me here in the first place. Or should those people be shot for trapping me in a never ending cycle of winter and graduate school hell? Who knows. I guess they get their payback in my rather poor "friend-man-ship" over the years. They knew what they were signing up for.

Yes, my ripple metaphor has been beaten over the head like so many hippies at a cop convention, and I don't even have a daisy in the barrel of my gun to show for it!! Ah well, a little waxing on now and then should not only be allowed, but encouraged. Otherwise how will you know when you're high, drunk, or dying??

Besides, after the mouse incident, I think I deserve a little compassion, non?

Like sands through the hour glass, and ripples across the pee-filled kiddie pool, these are the metaphor-filled days of our lives!

So sayeth the rippling Venus!