10 planes in 11 days

11 days in 10 planes. That’s what I’ve done. Ok, this is a long, long, long post (but it is abridged!) and it’s really only for the very few of you who’ve had 4 or more emails from me (which reduces the count of invitees dramatically and does include both genders), or if you’re invited and excludes anyone who’s known me more than 1 year! And there may even be a jolly bit in here (somewhere), but no prizes in case you’re a little (or a lot) warped. I can’t stop anyone reading this and I have chosen to do this this way, so I’ll just have to accept whatever comes out of this by way of repercussions. It does happen to be personal, however, so it’s up to your conscience how much you pry. Some of you might get a pattern and might want to just follow that. Please bear in mind that I’m just going to write as though this is an over-long speech by me (happens sometimes) and it’ll meander so you might find something alluded to at page 1 and then again at pp 13, 46 and 4599. So if you’re one of the chosen few, put up your feet, have several hundred cups of tea/coffee/beer, have a cheese dip and a hundred pees, or whatever comes next and read on and on and, if you haven’t got it by now…. And if I’ve got my understanding of others’ understandings wrong…well, you see why I once answered “coming second”, when someone asked me what my worst habit was. After the look of puzzlement on her face had registered with me, I changed it to “I think too much”, but probably in a different way to how she (said she) did. And I do think incessantly. If you find the ‘off’ switch, please break it for good (once pressed). Not sure where to start, so I’ll start with now (22.46 my time) and go from there. You know I thought of emigrating to Canadia many years ago? No? Nor did probably anyone. I just happen to be a private person most of the time. And yes, I probably do make it hard for people to get to me. I’m a person of (possibly) quite marked contradictions. Ignore the self-deprecation (that’s just how I talk and think and it’s very often a large part of my public persona) but learn that I do, on occasion, berate myself quite severely – i.e. “beat up on me” while believing beyond belief that I’m the greatest person ever to have lived (in spirit). Well, Hell! That’s not conceited, is it? And pretty darn stoopid, too, but I feel it, even after some of what’s happened before today (there’s personal and there’s for no-one but me and whoever), so you could say I both love and hate myself concurrently. Maybe I’m a basketcase, who knows? I would think not, as I’ve just learned someone I know is a bona fide manic-depressive and I’m nowhere near them. My register (or range of emotion) is pretty normal, I’d guess; never seen a shrink and never will: no need. But I is a-mawkish in mood, currently. So I have a certain ambition, if you will. It’s still surprisingly hard to say (because I prefer to say nothing and just do it), but I’d like to do a couple of things before I croak it. And I would worry about this being some form of male menopause, except I’ve had these feelings ever since I can remember, so I guess it comes from being the youngest, although I might just as well have been an only child in many ways given the age difference between me and my siblings. I’d like to “touch the world”, is how I describe it. Nice and meaningless, a bit spiritualistic, if you’d like. And just like much of that belief system it can be interpreted as meaning pretty much anything. The other way of looking at it is that I’d like to “do something” worthwhile with my time here, although (as you might expect with me), it’s not as simple as waddling off to Africa and healing the unfortunate, because that’s not in me. I’m not inherently a fan of humanity and its idiot dealings with itself and everything else and, on the whole, I think that if someone has the ability to make a decision then the outcomes flowing from that decision are theirs to bear. And yes, I do take black and white stances and then argue the degrees of grey in between until…. And moving on, you know, I love Shakespeare. Sometimes I think there’s no need to ever write again, because he’s nailed humanity. He’s got it off pat with his writing for the masses and I get competitive! Yup! So when I read other good writers, and there are some damn good writers around, look at my links…and some who …well, I can’t comment about them here, but I think anyone who should be reading this would have a good idea who I mean, I want to be better than them (even though …much as it pains me to admit it, and by God! it pains me!!! I know that that ain’t gonna happen.). So there’s a compliment, no? If they were crap, they’d not be worthy of notice. But there’s also the fact that I like the people (invitees to this) who write. And that means that I choose to put them first (most, if not all of the time) and offer support. Especially if it’s a case of who’ll do the better and produce the greater. But a little bit of me occasionally smarts. I think that’s in most of us. It might help if they produce cause then you can feel good for them. That’s the “tortured genius” bit, although without the genius and no-one’s got a hot poker prodded up my arse (although the mog here, did stick his/her claws in my legs a coupla times…) And the last word on the ‘do something’ feeling. When I was 17, little Lucy wrote on my pencil case “why do you always feel you have to ‘do something’?”. So even though we’ve lost touch, somewhere there’s a pencil case with that on with her scrawl (it wouldn’t come off, no matter how much I scrubbed!). But I know I’ve not grown up much and nor will I. Yes, I’d love to write as well (ok, better) than Oscar Wilde, Steinbeck, Orwell, Hardy (I tend to think most modern stuff is expensive toilet paper) and write the eighth story. What did you think this round the world stuff was about? So I could be a “Thought Magician”, I hoped. Cause that’s what great writing does, it takes on a life of its own. It gives you the ability to see things as they are, or were, or might be and the desire to be, to see, to feel all of that again, in your life on planet …whoever you are. Whoever you are. Without regard for creed, sex, shape, age, time it talks to humanity through the ages, time immemorial and immeasurable, and lifts your spirit; it transforms and transports: base metal into …; you, the reader away to…, and you come back different, if you come back at all And there goes that lil play between God and the Devil that I was writing. Fluff, I know, but… But then, let’s see what happens. The worst customs officer I meet is Canadian. Good practice for the Russians, I thought. Nope! They just took 70 minutes to push us through passport control. Then when I try to declare something they just poo-poo me cause I’ve only got 39 US dollars! Well I won’t tell them about the 7 and a half Euros, the 85 quid, the 6 Canuck dollars or the genital warts I have then!!! Ok, that last bit was a lie!! I think; hold on, let me just have a look, …mmmmmm! It’s the bloody Ukranian Canuck who gives me the third degree! And the Evil Eye! Although I almost got ‘im once. Made ‘im smile with a quip! After I’ve found the baggage I had (that is barely hanging together, bloody idiots at Heathrow – shite airport!) I wait 3 hours for my lift. I’m finally one of those important people who are met with their name, or so I think. I wander around, looking and looking. I’ve been lead to believe I should take my time before panicking and after about 75 minutes, I hear my name mentioned over the tannoy. How embarrassing! I’m called to the information desk. It’s a small airport and there’s a sign which I follow. The receptionist person (not happy with English, but my counting to 10 and a few other words ain’t gonna get me far – bloody ignorant Englishman that I am) denies all knowledge of anything. This, I learn appears to be a Russian character trait: “I know nothing!”, “I don’t understand”, etc. I go to the other desk and there’s no-one there. After about 10 minutes someone arrives and…same thing. This leads me to collar one of the people holding the greeting boards: he’s Russian (helps. no surprise) with a pierced left earlobe, gaps between his teeth and unshaven. In short, he’s perfectly ok. He enquires for me in Russian and we ascertain that neither of us knows where the information desk in question is. He suggests that it might be in departures, and despite its barminess, I go to look, via x-ray machines and all. With the result that …there is no result. As I am phoneless again, I resolve to try to borrow his or ask him to call my employer. My return finds him gone and so I entrust my plight to a short moustachioed fellow, who obliges and shortly I get the promise of a taxi. Which saves me getting stiffed for $60 by the lot outside. After 3 hours of waiting, I’m picked up, and … wow! What a city! What. A. City! Did I mention passport control? People are herded (exact word) into a hallway with 3 exits (in use, 1 for Russian and Belarusian residents, 2 for the rest of we masses) and it looks as though it’s built for intimidation: people with machine guns on the terraces above could mow us down in seconds and there’s nowhere to go. And the passport control kiosks are down short alleys that are just wide enough for a generous helping of person, but not the two who might otherwise fit down there if the airport was operating at full capacity with very high windows, so you can see only the head and shoulders of the person deciding your acceptability. But the city. I’ve just read the view of David Starkey, a well-known historian in some quarters (history people, English educated people, his family) who believes that the English are a nation with an identity crisis (d’uh! – get your head out of a book sometime and you’d ‘ve discovered that years ago! I know what I blame…!) and some of Canadia felt a bit like that and was described as such by a friend of someone I know who spent two years doing her Phd at Toronto Uni (the Harvard of the North, evidently, I must remember to take the piss out of Sar about that…!). And in some ways this tops that. Get in your nice square block, looks like it was drawn by a six-year old me, car and drive away from all the people who have been specialising in mix-n-match car boot sale fashion statements. Into Bangalore - with better roads. I think you can get a feel for a country as soon as you can see it from the air, although I’ve been arguing with myself about the stereotype effect and my initial thoughts “blocks with blocks of flats inside them” and “not so miniature prairies with cows huddled in 1 corner, like pool balls covering a pocket” are reinforced by the ancient power station and the airport’s being hewn out of a forest. And the milling crowd of chunky cars and vehicles and the chunky road signs and buildings just say “not a developed country”. And I like it and am wary; because I’ve got too soft (especially around the middle, although with meat that smells like cat (?) and tastes…perfumed? I think that my new-found vegetarian status – now how do I tell them that?!- might mean a loss of padding). And the kitten here (I think) was taken away from her mum too early. I say I can spot a wounded animal at 100 paces, you know what I mean, right? If not, ask. The taxi travels along a road. One road. “Are we in Canadia?”, I ask myself. The road goes on and on and on. Though there aren’t roadside shops at regular intervals, compartmentalised. After about, five miles at least, I guess, we turn down a road and after a few more turns…ta daaa! I’m outside my new temporary residence. With no bell or means of getting through the gate…hmmm. Having discovered the taxi driver’s English is worse than my Russian (is this possible?!) and exchanged awkward smiles on the way over (is my bottom safe? A perennial mental occupation for the non-buggered) I wonder what to do next when someone comes out and I quickly barge through to … a lovely, covered on four sides courtyard with the local teenage mafia play-fighting with each other in their retro 1980’s mobster chic. And then, I’m saved by the bell. Well, my new landlady, most un-bell-like who turns out to be a computer programmer. Blast! Her English is better than my Russian and she can crack the password to my porn stash! What have I let myself in for?! And at 1.36, I’ll continue in domani. And I’m back, running over the same thoughts like a train over its only route, back and forth, back and forth. But I need to find my place again which means I’ll start to waffle until I do. And here I am at day 1 (proper) in Toronto and I’m walking south down Yonge Street and it occurs to me that Sar will ask what I think of Canada. Bound to, no? I look up and see a sign for “Canadian Idol” and grin …, better not think about that! Extra boring bit coming up! I’ve already had a lot of impressions about the signs, their phraseology, the bus and the people and their conversations on it (rare, but it occurs), the fact that there aren’t too many whites on the buses, the way Canadians and Americans and English people move and hold a stance and the feeling that you get when on the ground and as you walk through the air and, and, and, and… This continues throughout the entire trip and is still continuing, I’m not habituated to anything and I’m busy working it into my frames of reference while questioning how these work. So, for example, does my seeing someone as “reasonably typically German” (and wtf does that mean, exactly?!!!) actually occur in a way where I do see Germanic elements in their behaviour, dress and deportment or am I just overlaying my stereotypical view completely? It’s ok to do it a bit and then work with the filter, but not entirely and not work with the filter; you don’t learn anything that way. It’s like the streets in Toronto that are off the main thoroughfare: the ones around Dundas, St Patrick, Spadina and so on. I later learn that that’s the Chinatown part of the city and for me it’s the liveliest and most appealing. It has real people with real buildings and the sort of atmosphere that I can relate to certain areas of the UK and elsewhere that I’ve liked. It’s a place with character and Bloor cinema reminds me of Hyde Park picture house, with its antiquated design and seating and décor. I think it’s absolutely wonderful and I’m glad I came! I found the place by accident, looking to use a loo in a Burger King (the concept of public loos doesn’t exist in Canadia) and despite the sign saying “No soliciting allowed.” (Soliciting?! In BK?!!! I thought you just got crappy food and poor service there! I must be naïve!!! But at least it explains why they’re still in business…!). Looking over from BK, I see a headline “March of the Penguins”. Now then, I like penguins. Don’t have any as friends, but there’s still time, and the title means something to me. Sar has mentioned a film about pengies, which in my illiterate state I’ve not heard of before, and it strikes me that this is that. So I can spend my last proper night in Toronto back at my hotel monging, or I can see a film about pengies (hope it’s not a crappy Disney-esque type offering or I might be miffed) and get one over on Sar (in a jokey kind of way) cause I can say I’ve seen it and she might not have! One-upmanship: what motivation!!! As if needed! I only need one excuse and I’ve got three, so it’s settled! I walk around the streets for a while, to kill time. I like savouring the atmosphere and I decide to buy a paper from a homeless person (herein ‘hobo’, even if it might not be technically the correct word) to compare it to its English counterpart “The Big Issue”, which is crap, but I don’t buy it to read it! This is worse and the hobo has the charm of a blank whiteboard, so I decline to attempt a conversation. Not that that’s helped me here. In view of the heat, I’ve got thirsty frequently so I spend a fair amount of time walking into places and asking for water. “Do you have any water?” is the question, or something thereabouts. Now I know I’m not shouting and I am trying to sound more “English” than I would in England, a la Hugh Grant even, but I’m reduced eventually to simply saying “water”. “Wad-rr?” comes the reply and I nod wearily. We speak the same language?! I decide that Hugh isn’t gonna be my best role model, but who else “English” is there that might be known? (As opposed to the Irish, Liam Neeson, Colin Farrell or Scots, McGregor, Connery). Then it strikes me! If only I could get caught getting a BJ from a $20 hooker! That’s all I would need! Shame I have no time…. I sniff the paper. I do this with books (which I love, books that is) and the smell reminds me of the comics I used to read as a child, especially Spider Man, which I would buy every week with my pocket money (allowance). Then, as I sit down on a kerbside bench, a slightly rabid man with teeth so thick with film it seems he’s over-salivating and it’s drooling out of his mouth incessantly (or is that the peanuts he’s chewing speedily and spitting bits of at me as he speaks?) decides that I’m just like him (this happens to me quite a bit, especially if I don’t speak much e.g. “No!”) and decides to tell me about his abortive foray into super cheap t-shirt buying because of “them”. I think he means someone with dark skin because I think I hear that word, but his speech is very rapid and then there’s the peanut scattergun to contend with and the Koreans/Chinese around here don’t fit that bill (“yellow man”, if we’re talking skin types here?). He talks some more and then (thankfully, cause it’s not that interesting at all) decides to leave with the parting shot “And the Russians and the Chinese? They’re joining together to get us! 5 years! At least we got sunshine!” Believe me, “sunshine”, the Russians ain’t ever gonna take over the world, but that’s a 15 hour post in itself! (And the film? It was well worth it! Whee!) As I write, I occasionally look at my plethora of notes. These are there simply because I can’t remember if I’ve remembered everything and what the order is.And there are too many to reiterate, I’ve got to pick and choose. The writing gives me some form of order, cause with time I can recollect pretty much everything and pretty darn accurately, too, this just helps me get it out more efficiently. I also get swamped with thoughts and impressions and feelings and I feel as though my thoughts are rushing by like a gaggle of startled geese, squawking in protest. Unfortunately some of it is too cryptic for me, even after 10 days or less! E.g. what does “the rabbit comes east” mean?! Hmmm?! But at least this reminds me of C. Who I sit next to on plane #1. She’s catching up with her hubby, is quite old (I think, anyroad) and she’s got splayed eyes. They look like they’d had an argument many years ago and 1 had gone one way and 1 t’other. And ne’er the twain shall meet. She makes it plain that the book she has is her preferred companion and I have to say that our commonality (hmm – too much Star Trek?) is such that I’m perfectly happy for that to be the case. During our blissful 8 hours together (ah! Ma chere! Ma petitie chou, ma…hmmm, coughs and returns to the task at hand!) occasionally she looks out the window, making slight, sudden jerking movements like a chicken looking for grain and I wonder if she’s trying to make eye contact. Which eye, and what kind of contact? I decide to ignore her. It’s for the best. You still here? Or just popped in and cheated? If the former, give yourself a medal! In America my disparagement of the (now) natives commences. Now, I know that you can’t apply any form of valid stereotyping to a national population, so you’ll have to take it that the impressions I come up with are intrinsically of limited value and are always subject to revision, anyway. The only absolute rule (or as good as it gets) is that in terms of human nature, change comes only from within. Only you can change you. It’s the best I can do. I’m told the English are frigid, repressed, cold. In some ways they are, but the way they move is loose, chaotic, uncontrolled. They don’t seem to have much coordination, in a way. The Americans are the ones who move rigidly, as though pushing their way through the air is like swimming in the Dead Sea. They do seem somewhat belligerent, and there’s a tension in the air as though everyone expects the ground to suddenly ignite. Or maybe that’s just the airports. The Canadians are somewhere in between, but do seem a little hesitant in comparison to the Americans. At least they’re less rude than the English, inasmuch as my experience goes, but they do possess that most awful of traits: the “I, robot” which they share with those who’ve exported it. Never saw the film, might’ve read the book, but the phrase matches exactly the behaviour that’s summed up by “You’re welcome”. Blah, blah, blah, “You’re welcome”. There’s no feeling, no caring, no nothing except almost every time that it’s delivered it sounds like “Fuck you.”. It does. It’s robotic, insincere and and sanctimonious. I dislike being called “sir”, cause I’m not one and even if I were…, but this is even worse than that. The McDonald’s school of impersonal interaction strikes again. Yeuch! And double-yeuch! I think I’d rather you did tell me to “f-off”! At least that would be sincere! And I’ve got skin as thick as my brain, so I won’t care! Even if the English are sullen (according to other nationalities, as well as me) at least you’re getting something. And even the surly can be helpful, informative and correct. Which means I get all I want and if the other person involved wants to be a miserable bastard (and don’t we all sometimes?) then fine, it’s their life! Again on just my last evening in Toronto, as I walk around after the film I’m assaulted by the siren smells of the takeaways that permeate modern cities. A future that was predicted to leave humanity with a mass of leisure time has left us instead with fast food outlets that breed like mating season is all but over all competing to give us their deep-pan, special, extra extra crusts in exchange for our hard-earned one. It’s how I can measure how far I’ve gone; past the warm inviting smell of freshly-baked bread to the half-second gap when the air temperature drops a shade then to the hot, spicy aroma of pizza and fries and so on The waft of outpourings wafts me along with them like a game of olfactory pass the parcel.. And coming out of one such establishment, anonymous in this maze of nasal delights are 4 girls on a “night out”. They’re giggling and laughing at everything as girls like that do, or perhaps all girls, in the right circumstances and for some reason I choose to notice them and then overtake them as they’re walking too slowly. And then they’re gone. They serve as a contrast to the flower seller who sounds like Columbo and who raises a grin from me as he tries to persuade me to take some home to ‘she’. They serve as a contrast to the (to me) large numbers of homeless, trying their various purse-opening tactics: the plaintive, the ‘new best friend’, the honourable. On the whole I refuse to succumb; this place’ll bleed me dry before a day’s out if I do. And I’ve had experiences that have left a bad taste in my mouth so because I can’t tell the deserving (whatever that means) from the not at all deserving, I decline to enter the game, mostly. Before my visit to Niagara I wait outside the hotel where I’m to be picked up. It’s a lovely morning, the air is much cleaner than I’m used to and why be closeted away inside with the (admittedly often delectable) smell of coffee, TV ads for McDonald’s (sell the sizzle, Joe Average, paunch and all, reinforcing the comfortable feeling that people have on a holiday weekend) and stuffy atmosphere of a hotel lobby? I’m interrupted in my reverie by another hobo, working the early shift. For whatever reason I feel sympathetic to this one’s claim and I pull some change out of my pocket. I look at it and realise it’s probably a fair amount of money. But it doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s not the holiday gung-ho attitude (“Well, I got 14,000,000 lira to the £, so this stuff is worthless to me!”), it’s just that it’s just money. I do hold some back, cause I don’t think a $20-odd windfall in his direction is in any way productive (I’m not trying to buy my way to heaven, his gratitude, or a clearer conscience and I don’t want to leave him feeling smug) and in the process I drop 11 cents. I go to pick it up and hand it to him (instinct) and he mumbles “I can’t …” and points at his knee. Now I’m no knee expert, but…so I check for scars (none) and I haven’t seen any problem with his gait, so I think he’s just lying. Ok, so what? I go to hand him the money, slowly, my days of being fast just never were and he jumps back, cowering. This startles me and I look him in the eye as I hand over the money, “I wasn’t…” I begin but then realise there’s no point. It does worry me that someone would react that way, and to me however, and so I watch as he walks away. 10 yards away he meets up with his grey-tracksuited, balding accomplice and they divvy up the cash, seemingly pleased with their efforts. Mugged? I dunno. And here’s another break. I have a place to visit. Back. And while in Dresden, I met a friend of my sister’s (American, incidentally) who was (gently) taking the piss out of me about my soon-to-be-found status as a ‘catch’. “They’ll see you as a passport!”, she said. “Mmmm, goody!”, I thought, “flat and red!”. This continued with the usual stuff about women out to snare men and so on and I listened and simply said “Not likely!” when told that I might come back with a wife! What I thought was what I have thought before: I wouldn’t like to be seen as a catch. I remember at somewhere I worked there was a man who visited for one day who was the archetypical stud, tall, dark, handsome, well-built and he knew it. For a moment I felt jealous. Then I saw several womens’ reactions, how they pouted and preened themselves and got all excited and started to chatter and act restless, like animals at feeding time when they see the zoo keeper. And then, for a second, I felt sorry for him. Fancy having to go through all of that, to be the recipient of so much stupid, irritating attention. It would drive me mad! As it was, I later learned he was the kind of tosser that loved the attention and took advantage of it. But I’m not like that. I don’t want that and I don’t like it. I know that, in the main, women put out signals that men (sometimes) pick up on and think that they’re doing the running when they’ve already been “pulled”, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m the one who’s going to do the choosing. And if it does go well, I’m going to run some things my way. None of this down on bended knee in restaurant crap, unless it happens to be the perfect way of proposing to that person at that time (it won’t be). I have no idea what it will be. It will be personal, special, meaningful and a one-off for the person who is a one-off. Hmmm. Takin yourself tooooo serious there Jonny, though it's a rare conceit that displays its secrets. But so many of them preen and stare. Perhaps it's me? I really should do something about this massive zit on my nose. So the local coquettes (of which a cursory inspection today reveals a number – I wonder if they learn in the national curriculum how to walk like their head is up their arse?) can play and I can play right back. And they might think that they’ve got all that they need (there does seem, constraints and prejudices acknowledged, to be a group here that fits the stereotype of “big strong, dumb men are real men” men and “attractive, easily smart enough to get a man, but lacking in substance women” women) but they’ll just realise that they could’ve spent their time more productively if that’s what they wanna do. And they fit the (wrong) type. Which leads me very badly into, “Why did you go to Canada?” Well, to see Jessica and Sar (who reminds me of little Nicki), to be honest. But lacking bottle and brains, I didn’t actually say that or make that plain and then just managed to cock things up even more. I had, so I thought, considered it from every possible angle (worthwhile or otherwise) and that (every angle) of every person’s perspective and while it wasn’t easy to do even then and I probably wouldn’t have done it in the past; that time was a different time. So I took a flyer. I might never have another opportunity and the change in circumstances will mean far fewer opportunities to interact. Which I’ve enjoyed doing a lot. There was a lot more I was going to say about this, but it’s private (even more than personal) and as there are other people concerned and I’ve not spoken to them first (I consider it honourable to do so before I would even consider making anything public) what I’ll say is limited. Yes, I can rank them in terms of liking, for what it’s worth and that order’s fixed. Though it’s not an issue, as far as I know, I did write down as my aide-memoire that “some women, if they don’t have any interest in you, still want to possess you.” Anyway, I am drawing back from my original intent. Don’t read into this what isn’t there. So I had a good time in Toronto, but not as good as it could have been. I started listening to Idlewild’s “I never wanted”: ‘I created myself to be on my own, But I didn’t expect to be alone, But you create yourself to be on your own, These are the reasons things should be unknown.’ It’s a good song and the lyrics seemed kinda poignant, s’funny how a lyric can come along at the right/wrong time. And on my first evening proper in Toronto, something hits me. I glance at my watch as the sun begins its journey home: 6.25. 11.25 in my time. It’s weird: to me it should be (and still is, in a way) night time, dark; only it’s not. It’s a triumphant summer’s day on this always spinning, madly-grinning globe. I try to get a feel for this place: Toronto; Ontario; Canada. The glass towers of apartments in front of me remind me of Caen, France as does much of the area around the CN Tower. The adverts and hard-sell are pure neighbour from Hell, where? There are parts that remind me of Vienna, but never as fairytale picturesque and the smells are pure patisserie. There seem to be elements of the grandiose corporate schemes of Leeds, England but more intentional and vast. The scale is vast. There’s the intended to be pleasant and ‘accommodating’ seafront that’s just a bit too ostentatious in its supposed muted style for my taste, mainly due to the clientele you can recognise as the sort. But while it’s warm, enough to sunbathe, expatiating the hours away, the heat never seems to make it inside me. I guess this is what it feels like to be a stranger. And the dolour descends and subtly starts to begin to gnaw at me. I know it’s just (or predominantly) hormones going crazy – culture shock.. But it still hurts the same, nevertheless. Rationality don’t change a thing. I had thought this would be no problem in view of my mindset, but I realise this is different. This time I really do have nothing behind me, nothing to fall back on and I can only look and go on forward: into the unknown. Where everything is a novel challenge. And you know I dislike heights? To the extent that I get panic attacks in some situations. I guess I could have a phobia even. Well, it transpired that my original intention to “avoid” the CN Tower, didn’t quite work out right…hmmm. Got ‘caught off guard’!! :P But it didn’t look “too” bad from down below and it doesn’t seem as high as the Eiffel Tower and I’ve got the ticket, so…let’s get a bit of aversion therapy, eh? Nope. As soon as I get in the lift, the panic attack starts and I jump out before the doors close. Two hours pass. A very long two hours. And I’m nowhere near ready to go up. I’ve tried everything I can think of. Rational mind never beats irrational brain and so I’m left sitting outside the tower as the day fades and my feelings of self-esteem go with it. I know I’m not gonna sleep. I’m not sure I can move from the spot I’m at. I know this is gonna piss me off for the rest of my life, cause I can feel things deeply; can’t you? And I’m full only of the disgust I feel about myself. I arrive back at my hotel at about midnight. The hour doesn’t matter; it’s academic, cause I know exactly what’s coming. I have to go back, I know I do. I do, it’s as simple (and hard) as that. I lay my head down as a token gesture and try to relax. The tension inside me holds my limbs taut and I can’t sink into the bed and blissful sleep as I’d wish. But sleep does come. To be interrupted, again and again. And each time I wake, the thoughts that held back sleep before resurface instantly and it’s a struggle to once again go under. I’m making a meal of something very little, if the truth be known. 6.30 and I’m up and off for breakfast and on my way. Ev’ry footstep is like mulching through strength-sapping , soggy marshmallow. I get to the tower by 9.00 and I still feel like I’ve not slept for days. I buy my ticket and resolve to just go, not thinking. That should give me those vital few seconds before the door closes and then…I’m trapped so it’s all in the lap of the gods. I make the mistake of going to the loo and it gives me the pause I don’t want. And I wait. Perhaps five minutes later, two men come and I join them, explaining my predicament, as I do to the lift operator, a young Aussie fellow. “If I lose face, maybe I’ll grow another.”, I think. Well, to cut a dull story short, I make it up to the first level (no point in pushing it) and eventually, I’m ok with enjoying the truly phenomenal view. But there’s no sense of triumph or “conquering your fear” and while I didn’t admit it at the time, perhaps other things were starting to encroach on my mind, notwithstanding the good time I had visiting all the other attractions later that day. You might know the ones, they all had signs along the lines of “Undergoing Refurbishment. Come back in 2006 for a whole new experience!”. Might’ve just as well said “Jonny go home!” Pah!!!! ;) And while there’s much, much more (Lordy, don’t I go on?!), I remember leaving Toronto, Idlewild a-playing. And as they did I thought “Music holds the memories that cut like shards of glass.” And on to unrelated matters… I do remember thinking that if the Americans and English were combined, they could be unbeatable: the mix of determination and action coupled with thought and imagination. And as I’d heard from people that Canadians were meant to be like this, well…imagine my interest. I did get the impression in some ways that they were more like the cowed younger brother, however, forever striving to get out of their elder sibling’s shadow. But you can see that there’s something there, that they are undoubtedly …hmmm, pleasant. Toronto was a nice place. Obviously a longer stay would have been more productive: but I did get lucky in what I experienced and I wouldn’t say that my opinion is awry. Nice, pleasant, not great. Nothing that draws me in and makes me curious, gives me the feeling that I need or want to play with it. I think of something Jim Carrey said once about liking things that were at the extremes. I think I’m a bit more like that; the best things, the interesting things do happen on the periphery of society, before they’re sucked into the mainstream and heartily sanitised on the way. Let me tell you about the effect different diets have on your gut. Canadian doesn’t contain enough fibre. No shit! - Exactly! Where can I buy a do it yourself enema kit?! German, MSG-full and forget about your innards. Although the tea that is weaker than milk and water, sans tea, combined, is apparently a diuretic. Well, no more sitting on a bowl that’s 3 sizes too big for my skinny arse and holding on to the sides to stop me being swallowed while I while the hours away…! Although the flushing system is damn good – as good as a plane. I wonder why, hmmmmm…Russian? Well I wonder if I already have giardia lamblia already, even though I’ve avoided the water (it gives you bowel … problems) as I can’t stop blowing off! Or maybe it was breakfast of tomatoes, spicy cheese and cucumber on toast. Yup, I definitely need to re-train my mollycoddled palate! In a way the common themes are nice because you realise you can communicate with pretty much anyone. A common problem gives rise to a degree of common understanding. But it would be nice to have something totally alien, perhaps, as an opportunity to learn. I’ve lost my thread on this part, so I’ll leave it for now. Snippets: Two people on a date. She’s wearing a black t-shirt and a turquoise bra that shows. I’m not sure if it’s meant to be fashionable or just worn poorly, but the contrast makes it stand out. She’s sitting up straight and stiff and gulps from a pint. He’s sitting crouched forward and there’s no mirroring or warmth flowing from them. They’re going nowhere and might as well end it now. Does the number of psychics relate to the proportion of non-Canadianised inhabitants? Not that I’m a fan of psychics: they still owe me the car and the holiday I was promised! When wine-tasting, do I have to do the poncey, sniff, swirl, sniff, look, gulp, swoosh, spit, or can I just drink the stuff? Santi and I agree on tipping. Town planners don’t create communities, they destroy them. How do the blind get across the roads here? Sign” Men Ladies Kid” (no punctuation) Have I told you about my study of various latrines across the world? Sign: “Gentle dentistry.” Try advertising it as brutal, and see what happens! The Grand Buffet in the casino at Niagara: a microcosm in still life. I can get a haircut for $12; sixsquid. GAP = Great Adventure People. A packaged adrenaline rush. That’s not life (geezer), that’s rubbish! Life is like Livingstone whizzing off t’ jungle fer years then coming back and dying of syphilis (artistic licence). Hey! I never said it was great, did I? “Mahsinahhekahnikahmik”. Que? A road should wind and weave. What was that about coming second, or is this the male thing of 2 + 2 = free beer?

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"I am currently 22 years old." ...and I am..., well, let us say, hmmm...so much more. :PI'll give you a generalisation. As close to the absolute truth that that is meant to encompass : "Change comes only from within." If you wanna debate that...?I always liked autosuggestion."Is my presumption so off course?"Sounds like a closed question, t'me, although patently the issues (I hate that word!) under debate necessitate much more exploration.And I'll be so bold as to disagree with ALL the women who say they don't want more. And as soon as I do, they'll say that they didn't say that, so it's me who can't read.And you describe yourself as a "simple girl" - much as it pains you, I think you're not wrong!And why have I now deleted this, before publication without further ado about much more? (2/11/2005)jonny - "So will you tell me why women ask questions that have the answer within them?"Because they want to hear you say it. Think of it as a second opinion in form of conformation.I know this: I've been a child, had a mother; watched and listened, unobserved.~)