China Chronicles - Second Installment

Day 3: Temple of 10,000 Buddhas, New Territories

My friend had the day off and we headed to the Temple of 10,000 Buddha’s in the New Territories. The path to the temple was flanked by golden Buddha statues in different postures each representing a different aspect of the Buddha. My favorite was a cheery fellow who sat with a serene yet mischievous look on his face while calmly opening his sternum to reveal a meditating Buddha within. His soul was enlightened and strong within him and he had no trouble sharing his wisdom with others. Yet he bared his soul in a slightly shocking manner demanding notice from even the coldest hearts, and the mischievous look on his face made it clear that he knew exactly what he was doing.

The temple itself was at the top of the path and its interior was a wonder with row upon row of tiny Buddha figurines covering the walls from floor to ceiling. Conical pillars housed more tiny Buddhas each individually lit with a tiny fairy light and on the main alter three large Buddha statues and a replica of the temple’s founding monk completed the picture. Despite its name the monastery contains more than 10,000 Buddhas and the main temple alone houses more than 12,000. In the main courtyard older Chinese women moved from alter to alter elegantly bowing with incense sticks and worshipping as the smoke curled into the still air. We tried to follow their lead, but we discovered that worship takes practice as we burned ourselves on the incense pots and dropped hot ash onto our sandaled feet. We provided locals with some entertainment and I think the Gods appreciated our trying - especially Kwan Yin who is the Goddess of Mercy and self compassion.

Day 4: Hong Kong Island Tour and the Fish, Flower and Bird Markets of Mongkok

We started the day with Dim Sum and I got to try deep fried chicken feet (quite tasty). Then we took a ferry to Aberdeen, a harbor on the southern shore of Hong Kong Island where we marveled at row upon row of traditional fishing boats and sampans. From Aberdeen we hopped on a minibus to Kennedy Town and my friend showed me the huge condominium towers where nearly all of her students live. In her kindergarten they don’t ask the kids which street they live on but rather which floor! From the upper class condos we walked into a poorer region of town where the buildings were tightly packed and blackened by acid rain, and the windows contained rusting AC units that dribbled condensation onto the street below. A huge highway flyover passed between the buildings, so close to the windows that residents could spit on passing cars!

From Kennedy Town we grabbed a double-decker tram and rumbled toWan Chai where we wandered through a sea food market. The Cantonese take fresh food very seriously and we watched as live fish were removed from buckets, butchered on spot and laid out on display with their hearts still beating! That’s fresh. Although many Westerners find this practice cruel, I feel that keeping meat products alive as long as possible is a practical way to stave off food poisoning in regions where refrigeration is scare. After all, the packaged and frozen meat we eat is also butchered; we are simply removed from the reality of the kill.

From Wan Chai we headed to Victoria Park where thousands of the city’s amahs (live in maids and nannies) were camped out for a festival. Hong Kong has over 250,000 foreign domestic workers (mostly women amahs) and on Sundays they take to the streets, parks and sidewalks to talk, laugh and enjoy their day off. It's really something to see, and for me it almost seemed like social action. It is as if hundreds of thousands of workers are saying "Remember us. We are a huge presence. We are the ones who run the houses and raise the children here".

We ended the day back in Mongkok where we headed to the fish market (goldfish in baggies everywhere), flower market and Yuen Po Bird Garden. This bird market has been around for years and is a testimony to the centuries old Chinese tradition of keeping songbirds as pets. But times do change, and today the market is posted with signs that read: The Agriculture, Fisheries and Conservation Department regularly collects specimens at the Yuen Po Bird Garden, Mongkok for testing. To date, all specimens have given negative test results for the H5N1 Influenza virus.

China Chronicles - First Installment

Day 1: Sheung Wan, the Mid-levels and Central, Hong Kong Island and Tsim Sha Tsui, Kowloon.

After 15 hours of travel, including an 11 hour flight, I thought I would need a rest before touring Hong Kong, but I was wrong. I got off the plane and hit the ground running, so inspired by the skyscrapers, the hordes of people and the hot humid air (that reminded me of Panama) that my fatigue evaporated. I checked my pack and went out to explore.

As expected the first thing I did was get lost. But not in winding alleys with Chinese only signs. Nope, I got lost in the concourse section of a huge skyscraper called the IFC (International Finance Center). After consulting my map and fuelling up with caffeine, I walked west into the Sheung Wan district – and I entered a different world. Sheung Wan is a traditionally Chinese neighborhood with narrow alleys, Chinese only signs and hundreds of tiny shops selling the raw ingredients for Chinese medicines – dried fish, seahorses, huge mushrooms, dried geckos on a stick, shark fins and a huge number of things I couldn’t identify. The sights and smells reminded me a bit of Toronto's Chinatown, until I found my first temple. The Man Mo temple in Sheung Wan was built in 1847 and was like nothing I’ve ever seen in Toronto. The interior was beautifully decorated in red and gold, and the air was thick with sandalwood smoke from huge incense coils that hung from the ceiling.

From the temple I wandered east and encountered the central-mid-levels escalator. One of Hong Kong’s long-standing transport problems has been that many middle class residents of the mid-levels, a residential district on the lower slope of Victoria Peak, work down in Central. The roads are narrow and the distance is more vertical than horizontal creating a traffic nightmare. The solution is ingenious, a huge escalator system consisting of 3 moving walkways and 20 elevated escalators. It is 800 meters long, takes 20 minutes to ride and is the world’s longest.

Later, in Central (the central business district) I craned my neck at the architecturally famous Bank of China building, the Lippo towers, and the robotic HSBC tower, all juxtaposed against older colonial buildings like the Government House and St. John’s Cathedral.

In the evening a friend who is teaching in Hong Kong and I took the typical tourist trip on the Star Ferry across Victoria harbor for a stunning view of the skyline. Then we used the ridiculously posh ladies room at the Peninsula Hotel for an elevated look (yes, the toilets have a view). Later we wandered the tourist shopping Mecca of Tsim Sha Tsui where I enjoyed a “1000 year old egg”. In fact, the duck egg was really only about a month or two old and preserved in lime solution which turns the egg white green and the yolk greenish black – yummy.

Day 2: Po Lin Monastery, Lantau Island

I woke to bird song and tropical sunshine. Inspired, I took Hong Kong’s wonderfully efficient subway (MTR) out to Lantau Island. Lantau is almost twice the size of Hong Kong Island and its mountains rise to nearly 1000m and are covered with lush green scrub forest. From the subway station I took a bus into the mountains with destination the Po Lin (Precious Lotus) monastery and the Tian Tan Buddha (Big Buddha). Before visiting the monastery I lunched on traditional Chinese fish ball soup and feeling daring decided to try the local condiments and added what I thought was seasoned salt to my meal. It was sugar. Luckily I didn’t add much, and roaring with laughter the locals set me straight.

The Big Buddha was in the clouds by the time I finished eating so I wandered the temple where the air was thick with sandalwood. From the temple I walked a short distance to the path of wisdom, a large wooden sculpture that consists of many halved logs arranged in a figure eight. On the flat face of each log are Chinese characters that teach the Heart Sutra (Wisdom of Emptiness). Fittingly, the flat face on the highest log, representing true enlightenment, is empty.

I’ve copied the English translation of the Heart Sutra verbatim for reference:

Everything is dependently arisen: an event occurs only if the adequacy of conditions obtains. Since everything is dependently arisen, there is no such thing as an eternally abiding entity. When one acquires this wisdom of emptiness one will realize that all physical and mental events are in a constant process of change, and accordingly everything can be changed by modifying conditions. Understanding the relativity of all standpoints will also prevent one from becoming irrationally attached to things. In this way, one will come to be free of all mental obstructions, and to attain perfect harmony and bliss.

After the path of wisdom I was ready to visit Big Buddha. He was still covered in mist when I got to him, but for me the symbolism was perfect. I could see the outline of something huge before me, but it wasn’t quite clear – kind of like "enlightenment", I can see it vaguely and I know it's big, but I know I am not there yet.

A Bridge between Canada and the Netherlands

Published in The Hague/Amsterdam/Rotterdam Times 12 May 2006 page 14

My husband and I decided to move to the Netherlands in part because we felt that the Dutch were more open minded and liberal than North Americans and we wanted to learn from Dutch society. My husband is from Panama, and a year-long battle with immigration for a Canadian visitor visa taught us that intolerance is alive and well there - at least at the bureaucratic level. Once the visa was issued, however, and we finally arrived for our visit, my husband fit right in. The residents of Toronto did not bat an eyelid at one more Latin American, and even when he spent a month in a small town of about 500 in southern Ontario, he didn’t feel any racial tension. The story has been very different in the Netherlands. There was no battle for a visa, but there has been racial tension. One memorable night, my husband was followed by a group of white males who hurled insults at him (most of which he didn’t understand) calling him a “kebab” and an “immigrant”. The incident did not escalate to violence, but it was chilling nonetheless.

The “immigration/integration situation” in the Netherlands entered Canadian society at the national level over a year ago in an article published in the national newspaper The Globe and Mail. The article was entitled “It just doesn’t feel like Holland anymore” and discussed a recent exodus of Dutch people to Canada - Dutch who are troubled by the ways in which immigration has changed their nation. Now there is irony for you. We moved to the Netherlands because of its reputation for tolerance and now many Dutch are moving to Canada in search of exactly the same thing! But is there a difference between tolerance in the Netherlands and tolerance in Canada? The Globe and Mail article stated that “the ethnic cleansing and mass migration of the two world wars left many European countries with one dominant ethnic group, so the presence of large numbers of visibly different people has alarmed and alienated many residents.” But the Dutch are traders who have come into contact with “buitenlanders” (foreigners) for centuries. I suppose the answer lies in the distinction between foreigners as trading partners and foreigners as permanent members of society. One Dutch emigrant interviewed in the Globe article stated that problems in the Netherlands stem from that fact that “Holland has let too many people in without attention to their ability to fit into Dutch society”. The citizens of his town now come in a variety of hues and hold a variety of beliefs, and to him it just doesn’t feel like home any more. I wonder how this man will feel when he arrives in Vancouver (multicultural to say the least and his chosen point of entry into Canada) and sees that several of the customs officers wear turbans and headscarves.

Personally, I have never had a problem with immigrants keeping their traditions. In fact, I find the ethnic alcoves of big cities - the China towns, Greek towns, Little Italy’s and Little India’s - an integral part of modern living. I thoroughly enjoy it when immigrants become active members of their new country without leaving their traditions from home behind. Many Dutch people agree. My husband and I have many Dutch friends who are embarrassed by their nation’s new found intolerance. Furthermore, many Dutch emigrants are leaving not because of the immigrants, but because of the Dutch reaction to them, which has “turned their country men into angry intolerant nationalists”. I sympathize. It’s shattering to discover that your country and your people are not as tolerant as you once believed. Before experiencing a year-long battle over permission to merely visit Canada, I too thought my country was a vision of tolerance. Still, Canada may have a few advantages (once the visas have been issued). The emigrants leaving the Netherlands because of the Dutch response to immigration feel that “Canada is a place where the tension between immigrants and non-immigrants does not exist, because that distinction does not exist”. It is true that in Canada, nearly everyone is an immigrant, so the distinction between “us and them” is blurred and integration becomes less of an issue. In my experience (and I can only speak for myself) there is a very distinct line between the Dutch and the foreigners in the Netherlands. This is not to say that there is no mixing, everyone works together and collaborations abound; however, in social situations there is a tangible “us and them” feeling. It is uncomfortable, it makes me feel guilty for not integrating more, and it is something I haven’t felt anywhere else.

I hope that Dutch immigrants seeking tolerance in Canada will find what they are looking for. Tolerance in the Americas is certainly not perfect. A look at the news in Canada and the US will show mass protests over the deportation of illegals, much like the news in the Netherlands follows the struggles of Taïda Pasic and Saba Rawi. Like the Netherlands, Canada is known throughout the world as a tolerant nation and I hope that despite it’s own debates, it can live up to that reputation.,

Barcelona beckons: A paradise of art and culture even in the winter

In Barcelona art and culture seem to spill from the galleries into the streets, and there is an infectious passion for living that radiates from the city’s inhabitants. People who are not ashamed to enjoy excellent paella with red wine at an hour many consider bedtime, followed by cervezas and mouth watering tapas several hours later. People who creatively showed their opposition to their governments support of military action in Iraq by a cacophonous nightly banging of pots and pans from the cities myriad of balconies. My kind of city and my kind of people!

 
Sculpture at Montserrat


Living in northern Europe gives me the distinct advantage of having many of the western world’s cultural hotspots a mere stones throw away (by Canadian standards at least) and this past month I decided it was time to visit Spain. After all, the Spanish have given us the novel, the guitar, flamenco, Picasso, gazpacho and in Barcelona they have dreamed up some of the world's most fabulous architecture. Indeed, it was the architecture and the rebellious yet simultaneously laid back attitude of Catalonians that focused my attention on the city of Barcelona and its surroundings.

I started my visit like any other tourist, strolling down Las Ramblas, the city’s most famous street. Even on an overcast Sunday in January, the spirit of this street could not be stifled. In fact, I enjoyed Las Ramblas far more on Sunday. After all, one can find stores anywhere, but when those retail outlets close, the unique styles and spirits of Barcelona’s human statues, painters, poets and musicians really shine through.

From Las Ramblas, I made my way to the Barri Gòtic, or the Gothic Quarter located at the very heart of Barcelona’s old town. There I wandered the narrow streets, walled on both sides by beautiful medieval buildings dating from the 14^th and 15^th centuries. For me the highlight was the cathedral La Seu. But it was not the interior or exterior of the cathedral itself that attracted me, rather the magnificent 14^th century cloister, beautifully floodlit at night, and in that eclectic Barcelona style, acoustically enhanced by a flock of honking white geese!

But Barcelona has more to offer than contemporary shopping streets and medieval architecture. The city is famous for modernisme, the Catalan offshoot of Art Noveau and the city’s 19^th century new town, the Eixample, is peppered with extraordinary modernista buildings designed by Antoni Gaudí, Lluís Domènech i Montaner and Josep Puig i Cadafalch.

A sight that is not to be missed is the unbelievable Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família (Expiatory Temple of the Holy Family). La Sagrada Família is a large Roman Catholic basilica designed by the Catalan architect Antoni Gaudí. Gaudí worked on the project for over 40 years, once joking "My client (God) is not in a hurry." Construction began in the late 19^th century and remarkably the church is still not completed! I always thought that churches which took hundreds of years to complete were a thing of the past. But when you pay entrance to la Sagrada Família you are contributing to the construction of this enormous basilica. It is being built one donation at a time, and to be a drop in an ocean of such donations, to see the construction in progress, is what truly made la Sagrada Família inspirational for me.

The church’s most striking features are its eight spindle-shaped towers. Many visitors find the architecture overpowering and some find it down right ugly, but I like Gaudí’s style. His Nativity façade, built before construction was interrupted by the Spanish Civil War in 1935, is exceptionally ornate and clearly shows the artist’s devotion to his work. In contrast, the Passion façade was designed by Joseph Subirachs and is especially striking (and controversial) for its understated and tormented characters portraying the crucifixion of Christ. The interior of the church is equally stunning, though it resembles and in fact is, a construction zone. In the main vestibule, columns modeled after trees reach skyward creating the distinct feeling that one is in a forest – natures own cathedral.

I was so inspired by Gaudí‘s work that I spent the better part of the following day in his Park Güell on the hill of El Carmel in the north of the city. Built from 1900 to 1914 the park was originally meant as a suburb for the rich, but it is now opened to the public. Gaudí‘s surreal style can be seen throughout the park in enormous wavy benches, lava-like stalactites, tree-like supports juxtaposed with stark Doric columns, all lavishly decorated with mosaics of broken ceramic fragments, a Catalan technique. And even more than in la Sagarada Família, ParkGüell is in tune with nature. Gaudí wound his paths and grottos around the hill’s natural slopes and cliffs giving the park a calm and peaceful feeling – even when full of tourists.

Of course no visit to Barcelona is complete without spending a few days in the surrounding mountains. One day trip not to be missed is to the mountain and monastery of Montserrat, a 40km train ride north west of the city. As soon as I stepped out of the cogwheel rail car I was awestruck by the view. Strangely rounded outcrops soared skywards in the sun above the monastery, and below the valley was filled with mist making it seen as if I were truly above the clouds and in heaven. Hiking in on the mountain of eroded sedimentary rock from a sea drained some 25 million years ago, was attraction enough for me. However, there are two major attractions within the monastery proper: “La Moreneta” (the Black Virgin), an icon supposedly hidden in the hills by St. Peter, and Montserrat’s world famous boys’ choir. Both are well worth the trip. I was impressed by the understated beauty of La Moreneta amid the riches of the monastery. The choir too was intriguing, and they could have been a heavenly chorus if it weren’t for the beeps and flashes emanating from the cellular phones that people were using to capture the moment. Perhaps they figured it was permitted since the pictograph requesting no photos showed a camera, and not a phone … Still, these days any place of great beauty has its tourist problems, and the camera phones were not enough to spoil the beauty of the mountain.

In fact despite its great (and well deserved) popularity with tourists, Barcelona and its surrounding areas have retained their spirit and very original flare. Barcelona beckons, summer or winter, and is well worth a visit.

Belgium: Well worth stopping for a visit

After passing through or flying over Belgium many times, I finally decided to stop and take a look around this small country with a long medieval history and an inviting contemporary mix of French and Flemish.

I began in Brussels, a true cultural hub and the capital of both the Flemish and French parts of Belgium, as well as the capital of the European Union. Brussels is a cosmopolitan city, with liveliness and appeal intimately related to its role as a crossroads for Europe. I spent an afternoon and evening wandering around this city of about 1.3 million, and finding that the city’s vibrancy and classic style reminded me of Paris. In the larger city squares I was delighted by fabulous antique carousels sporting giant Pterodactyls, World War II planes and Art Noveau insects instead of ponies for revelers to ride. I was charmed. My stomach was charmed too since hot chocolate and spiced wine were on offer everywhere as were delicious Belgium waffles and scrumptious Belgium chocolate truffles. It was a gastronomic delight!

The name Brussels comes from the old Dutch Bruocsella, Brucsella or Broekzele, meaning "marsh (bruoc, bruc or broek) home (sella or zele)", thus "home in the marsh". I imagine that the name symbolises the very beginings of the area. However, the official founding of Brussels is usually thought of as 979, two years after the Duke of Lorraine moved to Saint Gery Island (then encompassed by the Senne River) in what is now Brussels. Around the same time two other important Flemish cities, Ghent and Bruges were flourishing and I visited those two cities next.
I spent only a morning in Ghent, but even in that short time I was impressed by the cities medival buildings including the belfry and the towers of the Cathedral and Sint-Niklaas Church. These buildings made up what could be called the “Manhattan of the Middle Ages”. The region of Ghent was inhabited in Celtic times and the name comes from the Celtic word “ganda” which means “converging” (for example, of two rivers). When the Franks invaded the Roman territories from the end of the 4th century and into the 5th century they brought their language with them and Ghent became a region where Celtic and Latin were replaced by ancient Dutch. Outside Italy, Ghent was the biggest city in Europe (after Paris) until the 13th century; bigger than London, Cologne or Moscow.

From Ghent I headed to Bruges a city with a very long history. Bruges began more than 2000 years ago as a Gallo-Roman settlement, its name originating from the Old Norse "Bryggja" which means “landing stage”. Bruges has a long tradition of international port activity and by the eleventh century, Bruges had expanded to become a commercial centre for Europe. The the city grew and prospered until 1500, when the natural link between Bruges and the sea silted up, and the port of Antwerp became a rival. Bruges slept through the industrial revolution and by the middle of the 19th century, it had become the poorest town in Flanders. However, the lack of industrialization became a blessing in disguise, as the untouched medieval city center was later recognized as an open-air museum, and has been a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 2000. When I visited in the dead of winter, the ancient buildings glowed against a foreboding sky that threatened snow and added to the magical feeling of begin transported back in time.

I ended my visit to Belgium in Antwerp. As I moved from Brussels to Ghent and Bruges and then finally to Antwerp the change in culture from French to Flemish was striking. In fact, Antwerpen even looked and felt a little like the Dutch cities we know from the Netherlands. However, many aspects of the city were unique and the visit was well worth it.

According to folklore, the city of Antwerp got its name from a legend involving a mythical giant called Antigoon that lived near the river Scheldt. This giant exacted a toll from passers-by who wished to navigate the river. On refusal, the giant often severed one of their hands and threw them into the river. Eventually, the giant was slain by a young hero named Brabo, who cut off the giant's hand and threw it into the river. Hence the name Antwerpen from Flemish Hand werpen (hand-throwing). This legend explains the many hand shaped sculptures and forms throughout the city.

The city of Antwerp gained economic importance after the decay of Bruges and even today Antwerp remains Europe’s third, and the world’s fifth largest port. In addition to its trading heritage, Antwerp is famous for its diamonds. To me however, it has a very strange way of displaying them. In a long street adjacent to the central train station I found shop after shop literally “stuffed” with diamond jewelry. The displays looked like something from a pawn shop and yet there are real diamonds there among florescent pink signs screaming “50% off”. I was amazed and even managed a few photos before my camera and I were chased away. Photos of the displays it seems are “verboden” (forbidden). It was however a “classic Me” moment to be chased away from a diamond store.

Belgium is small and often forgotten by travellers making a whirlwind tour through Europe. But if one takes the time to stop and look around it is easy to understand why this countries inhabitants consider it the best kept secret in Europe. Belgium is Europe in a nutshell, multicultural and multilingual.

Full Circle

Life over the past few months has been busy – very busy. Between running a long-term experiment, commuting back and forth across a country (albeit a small one), and attending a conference in Ireland, I have pretty much kept my nose to the grindstone, with blinders firmly attached against all distractions from the real world. But a few small titbits of world news have broken through my defences.

As I’ve mentioned before, I am a BBC World Service addict. One of my favourite programs is “From our own Correspondent”, in which journalists, who must normally report objectively, give their personal feelings and experiences about a story that they are covering. Recently, two stories have really hit home for me. The first is from Nick Thorpe who offered comments about bird flu, and the second is from Chris Morris reporting on Europe’s identity crisis.

* * *

“Don’t demonize the wild birds” pleads Romanian ornithologist Eugen Petrescu in the BBC report, “Bird flu began among poultry in Southeast Asia almost certainly because of the way that people treat domesticated birds - cramped together in small cages. They infected the wild birds, which are now bringing the virus to Europe and Africa. Poultry are catching it and sooner or later so will humans. It’s coming full circle.”

Full circle indeed! Once I lifted my head from the sand I realized that almost everyone is paranoid about bird flu, and here I am working day in and day out with highly migratory birds caught from the wild. And to take things an ironic step further, I am working on their immune function.

The other day someone asked me what our research facility’s decontamination protocol was. Decontamination? I hadn’t even thought about it. Of course we are being more careful and visitor access to the aviaries has been restricted, but decontamination? I suppose the birds would be killed if there were an outbreak. Culling seems to be the solution everywhere else.

But what is the situation in infected areas in the wild? From Nick Thorpe’s BBC report it seems like the infected Danube delta has been completely closed off to visitors. In the coming year I hope to sample wild birds extensively, particularly during migration. But what happens if my primary research sites “catch” bird flu. Will access be restricted? Will my work be suspended? More importantly how will this affect the millions of wild birds that use these areas? How many of them will get sick and die? How many, if any, will be culled for our protection? What we humans tend to forget is that migratory birds are not only the vectors of the disease, they are also the innocent victims.

Eugen Petrescu hopes that scientists will try to engineer a vaccine for birds and not put all their effort into a vaccine for humans. This isn’t a bad idea. We humans don’t usually consider any perspective but our own. We worry about pandemics, we struggle to create human vaccines, and then we argue about who should have access to them. Why not at least try to vaccinate the chickens too and stop the transmission there? Lower the transmission among the birds and maybe save a few wild populations too. After all, the birds didn’t create bird flu - we are the most likely culprits.

We often forget that we are also animals, and that our own numbers are out of control. When a species overshoots its carrying capacity several factors come into play. There is normally a shortage of resources, be they food, fresh water or oil, and there is competition for those resources (i.e. wars). There is also disease. No one wants to suffer and no one wants to lose their livelihood, be it via the culling of enormous chicken farms, or the quiet loss of a few subsistence hens that mingled with wild birds in the backyard pond. And if bird flu or any other pandemic disease becomes a human to human pathogen no one will want to lose loved ones or their own lives. But if or when it comes full circle, we shouldn’t be surprised.

* * *

“Can values have borders, can we build barriers around them?” Chris Morris asks.

“I suppose people have tried to do just that throughout European history. Hadrian built his Wall, and many centuries later Stalin his Iron Curtain. The one to keep people out, the other to keep them in.”

“But it has never really been that simple …”

Just as the invasion of bird flu is a threat to Europe, some here feel as if they are fighting a different invasion – one of people. The EU is fiercely debating where its borders lie and who should be allowed to call themselves European.

My own background is rather diverse. My father is Swiss (a European but not in terms of the European Union). My mother is from Guyana, but she is Chinese by blood and had a rather British upbringing. I was born in Canada, but to complicate matters further I now live with my Panamanian husband in the Netherlands.

Confused?

So are many others and I am often asked, “What nationality do you identify with?”

I always answer Canadian. After all, I grew up there and aside from a few conflicts over (ironically) immigration laws, I have always felt fairly comfortable being Canadian. At times, I also feel Panamanian. Although I have spent much less time there, I married a Panamanian and from the beginning Panama stole my heart.

“But have you been to Switzerland?” people ask, “Do you feel Swiss?”

Despite holding a Swiss passport, I have never felt very Swiss.

“Do you feel Dutch after living nearly two years in the Netherlands?”

I do not. In fact I don’t feel European at all.

But how do the Europeans feel?

It seems to me that Europe can’t seem to decide who should be European and who should not. Fierce debates are raging about Turkey’s possible entrance into the EU, and about the flood of migrants from Africa and Asia trying to get into Europe. Debate is also raging about “integration problems” among the migrant communities who have already entered.

“It is rather different on the other side of the Atlantic,” says Chris Morris “Anyone can be an American. It does not matter where you are from.”

It’s true – at least once you get past immigration. And the same is true for Canada – at least it has always felt that way for me.

“There are Japanese Americans, Lithuanian Americans, Arab Americans and so on.” Chris continues, “In Europe we have British Asians, German Turks. But note the difference. In the US the emphasis is the other way around; they are not American Poles but Polish Americans. Americans first and foremost, implying a sense of belonging and of acceptance which Europe sometimes struggles to emulate.”

Growing up, I had friends of every shade and background. But I never even noticed. They were just my friends - simple. Of course, I can only speak for myself growing up in a large and multicultural city, perhaps, others had different experiences. But for me friends were friends, neighbors were neighbors – and yes there was a sense of belonging and acceptance for everyone, something that I have yet to feel in Europe. Even living in the tolerant Netherlands, I do not feel a sense of belonging or acceptance for everyone. But maybe tolerance is the problem, difference is tolerated – tolerated – but never accepted, and certainly never forgotten.

For me this is also a bit of a story about coming full circle. My husband and I came here as an admittedly idealistic pair who longed to live in what we believed to be a mature Europe, made wise by its history. We felt like teenagers hoping to come of age as we left the comparably immature glitz and glamour of the Americas. But now it seems like Europe is the one having the identity crises …

* * *

To sign off I must make one final comment …

It seems that in keeping my head in the sand I am decidedly human. To give a short example, ten minutes ago I heard that tropical storm Beta has been upgraded to a hurricane. Beta! This means that this year we have had so many tropical storms that we’ve run out of names! And yet in 1985 gas guzzling SUVs accounted for only 2 percent of new vehicle sales and today SUVs account for one in four new vehicles sold*. I scratch my sandy head …

^* Note the stats are representative of the United States and were taken from Harper and Newsweek Magazines.

Nordens Ark, Aby Fiord, Sweden

22 August 2005

This month I've decided that pictures really are worth thousands of words. So rather than trying to describe the beauty of the area around the Aby Fiord, about one and a half hours north of Gothenburg, Sweden. I'll let you see for yourselves. In the following post pictures 1 - 6 show a misty sunrise over the Aby Fiord, and pictures 7 - 9 show sunset over the rocky shores near the fishing village of Smogen.

Aby Fiord

In the damp morning air you are shrouded,
hidden beneath a white gauzy veil.

Then as if awakening,
warmth and light enter,
and you reveal yourself,
one miracle at a time.

Nordens Ark, Aby Fiord - Pictures

Reminiscing

It has been a crazy month in the world. The G8 met to discuss saving the world’s environment and saving Africa (with little on the agenda about the war on terrorism, much to George W’s dismay) and then London, and later Egypt, were bombed and terrorism once again came to the forefront of the political agenda. I listen to the news a lot these days, it keeps me sane as I work in the lab, but still it amazes me that terrorism has been in the forefront for years now. When I heard of the London bombings (which of course got more coverage than those in Eygpt) I thought about the political implications, namely how the environment and Africa would now be over shadowed at the G8 summit. It was much like my initial reaction to September 11th when my first thought was how this was an incredibly symbolic gesture - hitting the World Trade Center - a symbol against globalization and the Americanization of all other countries and cultures. I thought about how whoever did this surely made an impact and I thought about how George W. was lucky because now he could play the hero. I did not think about the tragedy of it all until I heard the TV announcer speaking to the people inside the buildings. She said “To those of you inside the trade towers, stay calm, feel your door before leaving your office. If it is hot do not leave. Stay close to the ground as smoke rises. To the people of New York City, please turn off your water as the firefighters will need it to fight the blaze.” After hearing that it dawned on me that there were people in those buildings - thousands of them. After September 11th I wore black and I mourned the strangers who died. Now nearly 4 years later, when I hear about more and more bombings, more and more security and more and more freedom lost I am just disgusted. The London Underground was bombed and now people in New York City are being searched as they enter the subway. That’s globalization for you, we are all in this together … The question is what on earth are we doing?! I have no answers for this, but the whole topic has made me reminiscent of the simpler things in life.
Yesterday I friend emailed me and we caught up on the happenings in our lives. She told me that in a week she and others would be going on their annual canoe trip. I used to attend those trips and I miss them sorely now that I am living far away. Her email made me look into my “musing archives” and my description of our first trip, and I have included those musings below. For me at least it’s time to return to simpler things, to look at the beauty in the world, and to remember that whilst we are fighting the “war on terror” we should not forget to protect our environment or our freedom.

26 June 2001 – Canoeing Algonquin

We woke up at 6 AM this morning to get on the road early for the four hour drive to the Park. Not surprisingly, the first hour and a half were spent in the living room where we made a valiant attempt to fit all of our food, gear and clothing in to two back packs. It was futile, and in the end we took three bags. Still, we made it out of the house by 7:30 and we were on our way to the great Canadian North (or at least north of Toronto).
We covered an amazing amount of ground that first day and ended up paddling way past where we had planned to stay. The further from civilization we paddled the more relaxed we all became. It was almost as if tension was released with every paddle stroke away from the cars, the motor boats and the cottages. By the time we docked at our campsite there were no signs of civilization. We were surrounded by trees, birds and the clear blue waters of a granite lake, completely placid in the evening air.
That night for dinner we built a fire and roasted wieners over the embers. The other girls turned in early but I stayed up to watch the sun set and to see the stars appear as the last light faded from the western sky. It was the day after the summer solstice and the last light did not fade until 11 pm. All around me I heard the sounds of the northern night. Frogs chirped and gurgled, and in the trees I could here the sporadic call of a barred owl. From the surrounding lakes loons called, their cries echoing eerily off of the water and sending chills down my spine. It was wonderful to be back in the interior of Algonquin Park.
Our second day was a physically challenging with almost 4 km of portages. We slept in until 9 am and feasted on a breakfast of French toast before beginning the grueling trek. After a feast of French toast before beginning the grueling trek, we paddled towards the untouched waters of the lakes further south. There were six portages in all and each time two people would carry the 70 pound aluminum canoes while the other two acted as spotters. Some of the portages were short and flat while others (the longest being 1.25 km) were longs hikes through the hills and valleys of the forest. For the spotters the cathedral like forests with towering maples and dense stands of hemlock were quite beautiful…but at least for me when I was carrying the canoe, I just wanted the portage to be over (I know…wimp). In total that day I carried the canoe 2.13 km and although it hurt I was happy to have done it. Perhaps it was the endorphin high or maybe just the sense of satisfaction in knowing that I could do something rugged in the great outdoors. In the end the portages were well worth it as they took us to a lake that was completely devoid of humans. I would imagine that people rarely volunteer to do such long portages and thus many don’t make it to that tiny jewel of a lake. The water was so still and quite that the calls of red eyed vireos, black throated green warblers, wood thrushes and ovenbirds could be heard clearly from the canoe in the middle of the lake. In the sky above us herring gulls drifted on thermals and a broad wing hawk hunted for prey.
The third day we began to head north again. It was a slow and short paddle and I had lots of time to practice steering the canoe from the stern of the boat. There was only one portage, a scant 590m which we handled barely breaking a sweat. We set up camp early and had time for a leisurely paddle around the lake and a cool swim. That night I escaped cooking to wander in the woods behind the campsite. Way off the beaten track, and surrounded by bird calls, I was able to absorb the beauty of the temperate forest - a world alive with life just like the tropical forest, but a more frantic life because here the growing and breeding season is a scant two to three months long. Surrounded by the sites and sounds of a forest teeming with life and animals charged with hormones and busy breeding, it was hard to believe that six months of the year the trees are bare and everything is covered in a blanket of snow. The experience was well worth the many many mosquito bites that I acquired.
After dinner I headed out onto the lake for an evening paddle. It was my first time out on the water at that time of night and it was beautiful. The water looked like glass, as if I could step out of the boat and walk over the smooth surface. In the sky the setting sun painted the clouds into pink and purple ribbons. That night we stayed up later than normal discussing life and love etc. We marveled at how we have known each other for 10 years now and at how much our lives have changed. Back in high school we all had the same problems. We all stressed about school tests and swim meets and looking fat in our bathing suits. Now our lives are so different; a crazy mix of jobs, car payments, mortgages, wedding planning and in my case immigration battles and moving to a different country. It is amazing how things change, but how in the still air of Algonquin Park, we four women sitting around that fire were still the same girls at heart.
That night I stayed up alone well into the night. It was my last night in the Park and I was determined not to miss a thing. I fed the fire which crackled and popped, giving off huge amounts of heat which I actually needed. The temperature dipped down close to zero and my breath puffed from my mouth as if it were winter. Above me in the darkening sky the stars put on a show. After I had doused the fire I could see millions of stars. So many that they looked like a carpet and I had a hard time seeing the constellations amid other tiny stars which I rarely get the opportunity to see. Up there I could see satellites in their lazy orbits around the earth and planes blending almost perfectly with the stars. In the eastern horizon Mars shone like a beacon and every once in a while a shooting star streaked across the sky, short-lived and dazzling.
Our last day in the Park started early and we quickly packed and headed north. It was hot, sunny and windless which made for wonderful paddling. We made excellent time and did the paddle and the two portages in less than 3 hours. At the Park office we turned in our canoes and gear and once again piled into the car back to civilization. During the drive we did not talk much. I suppose we were all lost in thought. I was completely satisfied and very happy that I had done this rugged yet relaxing trip into the “wilderness”, a trip that surrounded me in the words and feelings associated with sharing such an experience with three other girly women whom I have known for a long time.

Craving some romance?

My husband and I needed an escape. We were sick of the countryside and wanted to be somewhere else to celebrate our first five years as a couple. We had moved to Europe in part for its romance, but romance seemed altogether lacking. We were craving a city. And not just any city, but a city that sparkles, a city with elegance and flare, a city of artists, intellectuals, and above all romance – Paris.

We began our Parisian experience with a sampling of French cuisine. In a café in Montmartre we dined on boeuf bourguignon (with the decidedly unromantic translation of “beef stew”), gâteaux du mousse framboise and, of course, du vin rouge. From there we climbed the stairs to the summit of Montmartre (the name signifies "mount of martyrs" because it is the place of the martydom of Saint Denis) where we explored the beautiful Romano-Byzantine Basilique du Sacré-Coeur (1875 to 1919). We stood at the railings in front of the basilica, surrounded by thousands of others, tourists and Parisians alike, in love with the city, in love with each other, in love with the anonymity of it all, and spreading out before us in the setting sun lay Paris - just the city that we had been craving!

Like most visitors to Paris we indulged in a few touristy activities. We saw the required monuments: Notre Dame Cathedral, the Eiffel tower, L’Arch de Triomphe, L’Hôtel de Ville (Paris’city hall), Palais des Invalides etc. But it was later in the day that we really began to enjoy the city, throwing off the tourist label and doing our best to blend in with the locals.

We began exploring at the Paris Opera House, and from there took Le Metro (the Paris subway) to Paris’ eastern arrondissement (civil district) where we stopped for the quintessential café and gaufre du sucre (waffle with sugar) at a road side café and watched as the Parisians went about their lives.

We entered the Cimetière du Père Lachaise in the early afternoon, a beautiful cemetery with cobblestone avenues, tree lined paths and above-ground tombs that inspire both the eeriness and the serenity of death. The cemetery contains 100,000 tombs and over 44 hectares of land, and we were there because my husband is a musician and among those 100,000 tombs, Jim Morrison is buried. We visited Jim, and I also wanted to see the graves of Ferdinad de Lesseps, and Oscar Wilde.

The popularity of the graves in relation to the lives and deaths of these men was interesting to me. Ferdinand de Lesseps was a French man and a famous engineer who changed the face of travel and commence by uniting the Mediterranean and Red Seas with the Suez Canal. He also put Panama on the map with his valiant attempt to build a sea-level canal across the Isthmus of Panama. Yet despite his contributions his grave was devoid of visitors.

Oscar Wilde was an Irish poet and dramatist famous for works such as “Lady Windermere's Fan” (1892) and “The Importance of Being Earnest” (1895). His writing inspired people as did his personal life – or rather his homosexuality. His intimate association with Alfred Douglas led to charges of homosexuality and two years hard labor for the crime of sodomy. After his experiences and illnesses in prison Oscar was unable to rekindle his creative fires. He died from cerebral meningitis, alone and penniless in a cheap Paris hotel, broken by the intolerance of society that despised him because he loved men. Today however, Oscar is again adored and his tomb was covered with lipstick from many kisses - perhaps from both women and men …

Like Oscar, Jim Morrison, the lead singer of the Doors and America’s leather poet, died in a hotel in Paris. He died from an overdose (dubbed heart attack), rich, famous and adored, but evidently as alone as Oscar in some ways. Jim’s grave is hugely popular. So much so that a permanent guard is installed to ensure order and janitors are employed to erase the graffiti so thoughtlessly deposited on nearby gravestones.

They were three men, with three legacies and three completely different worlds: the visionary engineer, the homosexual poet and the modern icon of masculinity. And these are just three tombs among 100,000, three men who are as equal in death as are all of the others, famous, infamous, immortal and unknown, buried in Père Lachaise.

But sometimes it is not the death of someone famous that has the most impact. For me the most moving moment of the visit to the cemetery was a passing glance at a stranger, an elderly man, neatly dressed and placing flowers by a grave. On the gravestone was a small sculpture of the woman’s face and I cried as I watched the man take a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully clean the sculpture. I know nothing of this man, perhaps he was hired to up keep the grave, but I doubt it, because even from a distance and only in a passing moment, I felt his loss.

We left the cemetery feeling subdued but not saddened, and took the Metro back to the city centre where we wandered until we found a bustling market and a small park. Away from the tourist attractions this area known as La Place R. Cassin was the perfect place to blend with the locals and have a picnic of baguettes, cheese, chocolate and wine.

As the sun began to set we went to Montparnasse. Paris has always been a hub for artists and intellectuals. Artists Pablo Picasso, Joan Miró, and Henri Matisse; writers Ernst Hemmingway, Oscar Wilde, Scott Fitgerald, T.S. Eliot, and Gertrude Stein; existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre and political refugees such as Lenin and Trotsky were all drawn to Paris and frequented the cafes of Boulevard Montparnasse and Boulevard St. Germain. “The Quarter” was an area where the great minds of the early 1900s were inspired (as well as pickled since the intellectuals took to alcohol with gusto) and we wanted to experience this area for ourselves.

Our last morning in Paris was spent in a boat on the meandering River Seine where we took one last look at the sights of Paris and made the quintessential wish followed by the quintessential kiss as we passed under le Pont Marie. Legend has it that any wish made under the Pont Marie and followed by a kiss will come true within a year. We’ll see. All along the river, Parisians were out for their morning jogs and book sellers were displaying their wares. These small bookshops once distributed clandestine literature, and perhaps they still do.

We left Paris as we had entered it, in Montmartre the artist and bohemian hub of the 1890s, taking one last look at the city spread before us from the summit of the hill.

À bientôt Paris!