As many of you know, I have little time for christmas. For one thing, I’m not a christian. For another, the stampede of consumer frenzy that takes place all around me – starting in October these days – leaves me feeling considerably less than spiritual. I choose to honour the spirit of the solstice that was long ago kidnapped by those promoting the birth of J. Christ, despite the alleged saviour’s birth having taken place sometime in the summer, by some accounts. Anti-pagan politics, or simply a calendar error? Only one historical virgin with stretch marks (excluding the possibility of immaculate gestation) knew for sure, and she’s not around to ask.

Compounding the problem is that my birthday happens also to be December 25th, but I’m never very enthusiastic about birthdays, either (“what is he enthusiastic about?”, you might wonder. The answer is here.). I haven’t had any interest in a party of any kind since I was about twelve. Who’d want to go to a party on or near Christmas anyway? I probably wouldn’t even show up for my own. Over the years I have developed my own birthday ritual, however. I like to spend the morning of December 25th somewere surrounded in nature, preferably alone. My first choice is to travel somewhere, but that’s often not the optimum time of year for flying. Usually, I spend the morning hiking somewhere in the woods. It’s often inconvenient to get out of town for the day, since I ride a bike and often have to be somewhere or other in the afternoon. Thus, my ritual is usually exercised either in Stanley Park, or at the Reifel bird refuge. This year it was Reifel.

When I arrived at the refuge at 9:00 (opening time), there was only one other person there, but the crowd grew quickly, since it’s Snow Goose season, but mercifully it was not a particularly vocal crowd. It was my last opportunity for birdwatching before I leave town, so I brought my camera along. There has occasionally been a Black-crowned Night Heron near the first blind, but it is usually well hidden, since it is generally nocturnal. On this morning, however, there were at least four of them, and all in relatively plain view. I also managed to get some great shots of a Red-tailed hawk that was particularly bold and flew quite close to me. There were also a number of juvenile eagles around. See the Recent Photos page for some of the pictures.

And that was it for another year. Perhaps next year I will spend Christmas in the Galapagos.

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Since it doesn’t snow much in Vancouver, half the city is out taking pictures: 1,000,000 icicles will probably be photographed this week.

I didn’t even have to leave the house to take my icicle picture. It’s orange because the sunset is behind it. I scaled down the size of the image, but otherwise it is, er… uncut:

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Perhaps it’s simply because I’m in possession of a plane ticket to the tropics, but I am feeling a little more sensitive to the cold this year than usual. Actually, I think it has more to do with the fact that I’m living in a house for the first time in many years. Most houses, it seems to me, are very energy-inefficient compared with solid buildings with a central boiler, but this one seems particularly ill-equipped to keep the cold air out, or to warm the cold air effectively. When I was in my apartment I was always warm, so jumping on my bike and riding somewhere was actually quite refreshing; but here, I’m chilled through before I’m even contemplating going outside. It’s very easy to just stay in the house – in bed even.

Now that there’s a foot of snow outside and it’s down to -7 celsius (feels like -18 with the wind, they say), I’m even less enthusiastic. It’s not just the cold, though. I can’t cycle, so I’d have to take public transit, also an annoying inefficiency. I don’t think that there’s anything inherently wrong with transit, but our local governments seem to try to discourage its use. Instead of fifteen minutes to get to school on my bike, it will probably take at least an hour, if not more. Fortunately, my school has been closed for the past two days due to the snow. You easterners (definition: anyone living east of Hope) will laugh at that, as a foot of snow and -7 sounds balmy to someone from, say, Winnipeg, but you have to understand that the snow here is much wetter than the dry stuff you’re used to, and the air’s much more moist. Also, many people here either don’t own snow tires, or they have used them as landscaping material and are now in their backyards with winter pansies springing from beneath their mossy rims.

This doesn’t stop people from driving anyway, mainly of those who would never lower themselves to share a bus with “smelly foreign poor people”, or who have completely forgotten that feet were originally invented for walking on. The first night it snowed, I watched from my bedroom window as a young man up the alley tried to take his BMW out for a spin at midnight. He has those really thin tires everyone is using now that I just don’t understand, and one of those “scoops” under his front fender that almost touch the ground and that I also don’t understand. Perhaps they have a purpose, but when there’s snow on the ground, they aren’t much good. That piece of plastic is getting ripped off by the first piece of ice it finds. Anyway, this guy actually shovelled the alley all the way down to the road so that his plastic thingy wouldn’t hit the snow. Trouble is, once he got to the road his front wheel drive Barbie tires just slid on the hard-packed snow and wouldn’t go anywhere, so he ended up leaving his car in the middle of the road all night.

Anyway, that’s Vancouver when it snows. Why did I bring this up? Oh yeah, I’m cold and that Caribbean beach is looking pretty enticing right now. This is only making it harder for me to concentrate on school, of course. I only have a week left before the exams, so… whatever. Here’s an interesting, though unrelated detail: when I got up this morning, I had a huge knot in my hair. In the back, about two inches from my scalp. I mean, huge. How it happened, I don’t know – it wasn’t there yesterday, and I can’t get it untangled, even after soaking it in conditioner for a while. I’m starting to wonder if my hair isn’t doing some sort of spontaneous dredlocking thing in anticipation of my soon-to-be adjacency to everything reggae. I may have to shave my head. I can’t just cut out the knot, or I’ll look like more of an accident victim than usual, and I can’t let it go dred. “Pale, middle-aged white guy in the Caribbean with dredlocks” just sounds pathetic.

Enough with the mental wandering. With all this time in house, I have had plenty of time to study Milton in anticipation of my coming exams, so naturally I have been doing lots of work on wesbites. Two are new, destined to become my Costa Rican projects (details later), but also this site. Besides the subscription thing that I added recently, you may notice some other new features. In the right side column, I have condensed the long list of ‘Archive’ links into a single pull-down menu; I’ve re-organised the blog categories for easier reading of specific topics; I’ve finally recompiled all my old blog entries from my last bike trip; I’ve started updating my ‘Travels’ page; I’ve added a Where’s Edward Now box so you can see where I am or what I’m up to at any given time; and I’ve added a weather indicator so that you can see at a glance what the weather is like in the area of Costa Rica in which I will be residing. Best of all (I think), I have opened a Flickr account and built a link to it, so that you can view my photos without leaving this site. I’ve recently upgraded my Nikon SLR to a digital SLR, so I hope to be doing lots of photography in Costa Rica, and uploading the pictures for you to see (expect lots of birds and bugs). The “Photos” link is in the top menu bar. You can also get directly to my Flickr page when you are vewing a particular image.

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I’m shocked that it’s mid-November already – it seems like just last week it was 1987. How the time does accelerate as we age. Where’s the justice in this? It just reinforces my opinion that intelligent design was at best an ability of Le Corbusier and that the Darwin-deniers in Arkansas (or Red Deer?) have misappropriated the phrase to avoid facing their own existential insecurities. What sort of omnipotent intellect, especially one alleged to be loving, would create a world in which a man doesn’t begin to understand the pleasures of life until his body begins to forget them? There’s never any time to waste. As Guy Lombardo once sang, “It’s later than you think”.

With only three weeks of school remaining in this semester, and a more immediate decision to be made about the following semester, I am once again contemplating my own existence. This is not foreign – I have done so with compulsive regularity for as long as I remember. It’s only been in recent years, however, that I’ve managed to put the analysis to much in the form of practical application. Clearly, I am a slow learner when it comes to lessons of life. I’m a bit better in the classroom, but not by a wide margin. I manage to get good grades in my classes, but I don’t get the sense that my progress is destined to be cumulative, at least not in a manner that suits the conventions of academe.

For whatever reason you prefer to derive from the preceding text, I have decided not to register for classes in January. Recently, while sitting in the frigid college library (on a chair that provides all the comfort of an upholstered cinder block), I put Shakespeare aside and contemplated my options. Despite my admiration for all the dead white guys I have been studying, and the many revelatory moments I have had in the past year as I absorb information that I value, the classroom experience is just not turning me on with sufficient satisfaction to justify the time and money I’m investing in it. Therefore, I think it is time to move along to a new adventure.

Naturally, when I say “new adventure” I don’t mean go back to my little tan cubicle. Now that I’m off the treadmill, I’m not keen on jumping back on. I don’t mean to sound as if I’m soiling the old nest, but to resume being a cog in this hyper-efficient but frighteningly inefficient economy is just not an immediate option for me. Of course, there’s no escaping it completely unless one emigrates to North Korea, but I’m not so good with authority and bowing down to Kim Jong Il statues every third block is not in the cards for this cadre either.

No, instead, I am once again departing for Costa Rica. For how long? Until it’s time to move on, whenever that turns out to be. Three weeks? Three months? Three years? ‘Que sera sera’, as we like to say our cliches in Spanish. (Unfortunately, besides a few menu options, that’s largely the extent of my Spanish. I’m trusting that immersion is going to improve on that). Exciting, no? And aren’t you lucky? You’ll get to read all about it, right here!

I will be located in Puerto Viejo, on the Caribbean coast, where I spent most of my time in August, 2005. If you’re reaching for your atlas, you’ll want to know that there are three towns in Costa Rica named Puerto Viejo, which means “Old Port”, so you want to find the right one. (As far as I know, there are no towns named “Puerto Nuevo”). See the location on this map. The yellow line is the highway from San Jose, the capital city:

What will I do in Puerto Viejo, you might ask? Well, there’s swimming. The eating of fruit. Swinging in the hammock. Yoga on the beach. Learning about the Spanish and indigenos cultures. Some of the best bird watching anywhere. Meeting lots of new and interesting people (as Colin likes to say, Puerto Viejo is a town for the ‘most wanted’ and the ‘least wanted’. My role is yet to be determined). Oh, I suppose I’ll have to do something to support myself, too. I have a few ideas on the go related to the tourism industry, as well as a couple of potential internet applications. Of course, none of this precludes my taking online courses while I’m in Costa Rica, either, and I hope to find time for that as well.

In the meantime, I have some preparations to look after, and some tangible assets to dispose of. If you’re looking for anything, let me know.

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In yet another clever technique to avoid homework, I found a website – The Happy Planet Index – that calculates happiness as a co-relative of environmental footprint. In other words: which country’s citizens derive the highest amount of satisfaction at the lowest environmental cost. Canada, it seems, is ranked 111. The United States is 150. Pretty bad when you consider that they were ranked out of 178. Maybe the meaning of life isn’t designer fashion and plasma television after all?

This site also has an online survey with which idividuals can calculate their own personal index. Naturally, I gave it a shot. I know myself well enough to know that I would probably fall a bit short of the Canadian average, but I was still surprised at the result:

“Your personal Happy Planet Index (HPI) is 20.5, which is similar to that of Democratic Republic of the Congo.”

Well. Congo is ranked 175 (third from last). But at least I am ahead of Burundi, Swaziland and Zimbabwe. But it gets worse! Not only am I miserable, but according to the results I have a higher than average life expectancy – I’ll be miserable, longer!

It may be time for another midlife crisis. Perhaps I should start by relocating to a higher ranked country. Interestingly, Costa Rica is ranked third in the index. Hmmm.

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Remember when we were young and in school, and how they told us about how the future was likely to be? Space-age automobiles and the productivity of the computer age are two things that spring to mind.

Ha! Instead of sleek looking cars that look like they were invented on Mars, we end up with things like the Pontiac Aztek and the evil Hummer. And the productivity of the computer age and the paperless office? We generate more paper than ever – almost none of it recycled – and instead of laying about with our legs in states of atrophy while computers do our work for us, we’re sitting about in cubicles with our legs in states of atrophy as we put in more hours than ever, with no real sense of what we’re doing nor why.

And, as I sit here procrastinating over my homework once again, I have found yet another way of wasting time “being productive”. I’ve found another website – this one where one can register the books in one’s library and then meet other people with similar – or dissimilar – reading interests, read their reviews, uncover the anxieties hidden within their titles, and undoubtedly follow their profile link to ‘WhyILoveJesus.com” or ratemygenitals.com‘.

Anyway, it’s called LibraryThing.com Check it out – but keep an eye on the time.

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Good news!

If you’re tired of checking this site to see if I’ve finally posted something, relief has arrived. I’ve added a ‘mailing list’, so that you can now sign up to receive an e-mail if I add something new. Just follow the “Subscribe” link on the top menu bar to sign up.

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Now that I live in a house I am once again potentially exposed to canvassers of the sort that were unable to access my apartment building. The first one was on the day I was moving in. My friend Stephen and I were hauling my possessions out of the truck in front of the house when two local representatives of the Jehovah’s Witnesses stopped to say hello. As soon as I saw them coming I was wary, as I always am when someone approaches me on the street who is dressed up and carrying printed matter.

One of them said “Hello, do you live here?” I avoid lying, but I had no trouble saying “No” and carrying on, as technically I wouldn’t be living there for another hour. Stephen, who has lived in apartments most of his life and therefore has not adopted the passive-aggressive avoidance techniques that work so well in such situations, interrupted and said “Yes you do!”. Conveniently, one of my new roommates appeared in the doorway just then and I said “No I don’t – she does” and pointed at Pat (sorry Pat). I left it to her do deal with and soon they were gone.

The next ones were from Greenpeace, an organisation of which I am generally supportive, so I was somewhat polite to them. However, I still object to being pestered for advertising in my own home, so I got rid of them quickly too.

Yesterday, it was the Girl Guides, flogging cookies. I have much disdain for people who spend all their money on monster SUVs, plasma televisions and satellite dishes – and insist that the government cut their taxes – and then expect their neighbours and co-workers to cough up the dough to pay for their children’s recreational activities. That’s like me buying a truckload of chocolates so that I can sell them to raise money for a new bike. (Hmmm…)

However, I am a bit of a sucker for a cute little girl that meekly whispers “will you buy a cookie?” while staring at her shoes, her father standing off in the background, and I inevitably end up buying a box, or two (or all of them). What kind of father drags his kid away from My Little Pony on HD DVD TV and makes her beg strangers for money, most of which will end up going to a corporate baking conglomerate in New York anyway? Does ‘Social Services’ not have anything to say about this? Maybe they like instilling capitalist zeal in children in order to help keep them from dependency on tax dollars later.

Actually, speaking of Social Services and taxes, maybe the Ministry of Health should get involved. Have you read the back of a box of GG Cookies lately? Three “Chocolately Mint” cookies (manufactured by “Dare”) account for 38% of my recommended daily intake of trans-fatty acids (the DDT of the 21st century, if the news is any indication). I’ve put away most of a box of these cookies in the past 24 hours.

Are the Girl Guides trying to kill me? Could they not be selling Voortman cookies, a company at least committed to eliminating trans fats from their products? I wonder if it would be cheaper to have a child recreation tax in 2006 dollars than to pay for my triple bypass in 2025 dollars?

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One might think that sitting on a library chair in which the padding surely disintegrated decades before might have the effect of keeping one’s attention focused, but no. I finally dismembered my backpack, removing from its spine the foam insert that protects my back. It is now placed on my chair, where it protects my gluteus from further compression.

Speaking of focus, I am reading the “Summary of Key Concepts” for a chapter of my Biology textbook. I become aware that, despite the presence of dexedrine in my bloodstream, I am re-reading the same sentence over and over, like my needle is tripping on a scratch and bouncing back a groove, and I tell myself sternly to get focussed.

Shortly thereafter a siren is heard outside. Its volume increases as it comes nearer the college. I picture the ambulance screaming up the campus laneway and coming to a stop adjacent to the library. A woman is laying on the floor next to my desk, bleeding profusely. While waiting for the ambulance attendants I have removed my shirt and am using it to staunch the flow of blood. Finally the attendants arrive and I am congratulated for my fast thinking. I may have saved her life, they tell me.

She is taken away on a stretcher. The library is abuzz with chatter as I gather up my belongings and make my way to my locker in the gym. In order to reach the gym, I must cross the campus, bare-chested and my jeans covered in bloody smears. I try to look nonchalant. This will do nothing to mitigate my feelings of being the “odd man out” around here.

I can hear them talking. Young women of college age have little concern for how they affect others.

“Like, look at that old guy, Brittney. He’s soooo gross!”

“He’s in my Creative Writing class. You won’t believe this. He actually wrote a short story about, like, transsexuals.”

They stopped, turned to each other, and screamed.

My Holden Caulfield interlude having come to an end, I flick my needle ahead two grooves and resume my study of non-polar hydrogen bonds.

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I’m back in Vancouver now, but having failed to do so while travelling, I will briefly summarise the rest of the trip.

I managed to walk many kilometres in and around Quebec City which, having discovered in Montreal that my walking-specific shoes are not suitable for walking, resulted in rather sore arches. On the final two days I managed to spend some time in the parts of the city where the ‘real people’ live, but I also took a very long walk from the Plains of Abraham to the city limits, and back, which is largely pathways through the forest on the edge of the cliff.

In keeping with my tradition of photographing less obvious “attractions”, here is a concrete block of indeterminate purpose that I found oddly reminiscent of Arthur Erickson:

On the 28th of August I took the long train ride to Toronto, where I relaxed at the Leslieville home of Ben and Carol, and their three-month old son, Sam. Sam and I got along just fine, as he doesn’t cry much, drooled on me only once, and is committed to never calling me “Uncle Ed” – a title that conjures in my mind a beefy, hairy-knuckled lout with a plumbers crack (conveniently overlooking my own hairy knuckles). Here is a picture of Sam restraining me by the ear at Ontario Place:

One day I borrowed Ben’s bike and went downtown and was once again reminded that, despite the narrow streets and the presence of streetcar tracks, cycling is less harried than in Vancouver. There is a lot of traffic, but drivers are typically less aggressive.

I also managed to squeeze in a visit with Darren and Brian, who took time out from their packing (in preparation for their pending move to New Brunswick) to have dinner with me at their favourite pub, “The Feathers”, in the company of a few regulars that I also met last summer, inlcuding Annie, who is one of the exclusive eight readers of this blog. I was once again distracted from my vegetarian intentions by the fab Feathers “Steak Pie”. I try not to think about the fact that I have known Darren for 31 years (with a few interruptions), as it interferes with my self-image as a carefree young college student, though the grey hair in the photo above betrays that delusion. See you guys in Frederickton!

Ben and Carol then took me out to Ben’s family’s cottage, which is well situated on a quiet island in Georgian Bay. Unfortunately, the remnants of Hurricane Ernesto (which I have naturally been referring to as “Hurricane Che” ever since it blew across Cuba) meant it was rainy and cool, so I didn’t spend a lot of time swimming, but I did get one dip into this offshoot of Lake Huron, which I also swam in last summer.

Here’s the view from my room:

The rain was no bother to me really, as I quite enjoyed the Vancouver-like drizzle. Carol and I finished about seven crossword puzzles, and we played some ping-pong and ate large quantities of food. The members of Ben’s family were very friendly and welcoming without exception and I enjoyed their company. The meals were very social and full of lively discussion. I seldom respond well to spending much time in large groups, as I usually suffer from over-stimulation, but even in the company of five enthusiastic small children I was quite comfortable. It may be that I am mellowing with age, but I’m more inclined to credit them than myself.

But, vacation is over and now it’s time to go back to school. I’m actually quite looking forward to it.

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