Mother Said There'd Be Days Like This

She also said ... things are never so bad they can't get worse.  Why are mothers always right? 

I have to say it wasn't the best day I've ever had.  It started out cheerfully enough with the complimentary breakfast at the hotel in Trois Riviere, Quebec.  It was the morning after our first day on the road to Newfoundland and Labrador.  

A most helpful lady gave Michael explicit instructions, in English by the way, on how to pour juice from the automatic dispensing machines.  I know, sounds crazy, doesn't it?  It's automatic!

        "First you pour a bit of the juice into your cup from the left side", it actually said apple, "it's concentrate you know so, you have to add the water from the right side".  The right side said orange but, okay, Michael thought.  "Believe me", the woman said, "I've already been through this and figured it all out".  So he followed her pointers perfectly and enjoyed a juice mixture of apple and orange.  Not to worry, it tasted okay and besides this was going to be a good day, wasn't it?

The earliest we can ever get out of a place in the morning is about ten.  This day we made it out by 10:30 to start the day-long drive to Fredericton, New Brunswick.  After loading the trunk we took off.  About a block from the hotel we heard something fall in the back.  On quick inspection Michael remarked the trunk had somehow come open.  He did have trouble, he said, getting it closed.  

"We better drive back to see if anything small might have fallen out".  We didn't see anything.  When he circled the car again to head in the direction of our day's destination his cup of coffee toppled from the dash and landed at his feet.  Luckily the lid was still on and stayed in place.  Whew, a close call.  I'm starting to feel a little tense.  

Later in the morning when we stopped, I re-arranged wet clothing Michael had draped over the luggage to dry.  

"Where's my bathing suit"?

"It's there", he said, "right beside your nightgown".  No bathing suit was ever found.  Did it escape when the trunk popped?  Damn!  The swim in a hotel pool at the end of a day sitting in the car was a must so, we stopped along the way for a replacement.  

As we got out of the car to shop for my new bathing suit I noticed the floor mat under my feet was making squishy noises.  My water bottle had fallen over and the lid had been loosened.  The entire contents had soaked into the mat.  Now, I was going into try on bathing suits in a mood that wasn't my usual one.  I was getting mighty irked, the tension was ramping up.

Is there anything that puts more fear and panic into the heart of a woman than trying on bathing suits ... in front of a three-way mirror AND under the unflattering glare of fluorescent lighting?  I looked in the mirror and the day was definitely looking really, really bad.  I reluctantly made my choice - a two piece ensemble.  Don't panic, it looks like a one piece when it's on.  

The lost bathing suit made me look about seven months along, as the ladies liked to say.  The new one?  Not so much.  I'd say I look full-term.  Double damn!  

At about this point on any given day when I'm travelling the ankles are starting to look pretty puffy.  This day was no exception.  If you get the idea a kind of depression was setting in, you'd be right.  Thank God the medication bag with the anti-depressants was still on board.  

Should I mention that I get restless legs on long drives?  Would it take you down as low as I was to go?  Remember the other thing mother said?  Things are never so bad they can't get worse.  Well, at dinner I was served chicken that wasn't quite cooked.  We sent it back and then I had to worry about whether they replaced the salad underneath or simply re-arranged it to make it look like it was new.  At this point I'm anxious to get into bed where, hopefully, I'd be safe from this day. 

We stopped by the car to get the rest of our things before returning to our room and VOILA!  Did you think I found my bathing suit?  WRONG!!!  My bag of shoes was missing.  

"It must have fallen out of the car when the trunk popped", his lordship said. 

Now my heart really sank as I realized I had only one pair of shoes, sandals that are not all that comfortable to boot.  I mentally went over what was in my shoe bag ... my Shrine Shoes, oh, no ... only my friend Susy will get this, she's to start a painting for us that includes those shoes.  Always one to try to find the positive I said, "Well, at least I took the photos for Susy before we left" ... but then do I really want a pair of shoes I no longer have in the painting?  Those shoes were darned expensive too.  Expensive?  My two pair of runners, now lost in that bag, were also expensive.  My new leopard crocs were the only bargain buy, but I love those funky shoes, I'm going to miss them.  My final thought, before my eyes teared up was about the extremely expensive orthotics that were still in my Shrine Shoes.  

With sick stomachs we went to our room for the night.  Did I mention Michael had forgotten to pack his underarm deodorant?  This day turned out to be quite the stinker.  I was glad it was over. 

The next morning my bowels told me that perhaps some of the uncooked chicken did get through.  Is this going to be the trip from hell, or what?  

If you've hung in through this lament you deserve some good news.  Michael called the first hotel we stayed in where the shoe bag escaped.  It was turned in, along with my bathing suit.  TA-DA!  Now we know where we will spend our last night.  And, yes, I've also done some shoe shopping to get me through the next two weeks.  

Saturday (June 28th) we catch the ferry for Newfoundland.  It's sure to be a better day.  Unless what mother said ...  

Do you remember we struggle to get an earlier start than ten?  We have to be out of here by nine in order to catch the ferry.  Maybe you'd better check back in to see how we made out.  



 

The Beaches and Kew Gardens

Before I was but the proverbial glimmer in the eye of my father The Beaches area of Toronto was important to my life.  Of particular interest for this piece is my fondness for Kew Beach and Gardens.  Both parents were born in Toronto and raised in this area of the city.    

Mum’s childhood home on Waverley Road backed onto the west side of Kew Gardens.  Mum’s mum, Nana Brigden, took advantage of their location and by engaging her entrepreneurial skills sold boiling water for the tea of those picnicking in the park. 

Many hours of both my parents’ childhood years would have been spent exploring the wonders of this park that remains beautiful and well-used to this day.  Our Dad, in his rebellious years … no, that’s not quite right.  Dad, to his dying day, was always a bit of a rebel perhaps I should re-word by saying in his youthful years … no, still not right.  Dad was always youthful.  Will you agree to accept when he was chronologically young?  At any rate he was often warned by the life guards about taking the top on his bathing suit down when sunning at the beachfront on Lake Ontario.  This act of male exposure was simply not allowed in the simpler times of the 20’s and a bit beyond. 

A prized possession of Mum’s came from her time playing with the Balmy Beach Tennis Club.  The beautiful silver candlesticks, won in tournament play, when turned upside down became candy dishes.  She liked to display them whenever, as she put it, “We were putting on the dog”.  That expression backfired on Mum one day when an eager six-year-old, me, was helping set the dinner table for company.  I asked about using the candlesticks on the table.  “Oh, yes”, Mum said, “we might as well put on the dog”.  Being the obedient child that I always was … pause here to reflect and wonder if she’s writing fiction … I ran upstairs to retrieve the china dog they had in their bedroom and placed it centre stage.  But I digress as I am wont to do. 

Meanwhile back in the park.  It appears Dad grew up on a street bordering the east side of Kew Gardens.  How many times have I heard stories about life on Lee Avenue and how poor they were?  “So, poor”, Dad would say, “we didn’t have a Christmas tree and so we stuck a house plant on a table.  It didn’t really matter”, he’d woefully add, “all we got anyway were books”.  Dad’s ‘soooo-poor’ stories always worked on his three girls.  He liked to cap off his tales of woe by telling his gullible girls all they had to eat one year for Christmas dinner was Bredden Pullet. 

“What’s that, Daddy?” we would ask with our innocent chins starting to wag.

“Well”, he’d say in his impish way, “you get a piece of bread, pull it apart and eat it”.  Dad was very successful in laying the ground work of compassion in me for the less fortunate.  Thanks Dad, good job!

The story goes that on Sunday mornings, Dad’s parents Grampa Turner and Granny, would set out from their Beaches home and once reaching the sidewalk one would head left and the other right.  Setting off in opposite directions Grampa Turner chose the path as set out by the Anglican Church and Granny was off with the Baptists. 

What I don’t know, and one of the reasons for setting my memories in ink, is exactly when and where my parents met … were they kids collecting chestnuts in the park?  I don’t know.  Did they spot each other as teenagers while soaking up the sun on the beach?  I don’t know.  Did he watch her play tennis when she won her cherished candlesticks?  I wish I knew. 

Whenever they met a good deal of their courtship would have been spent walking the boardwalk, playing on the beach, strolling the many dirt paths that wound their way through the park, watching baseball games at the ball diamond or paddling Smokey Joe, their much-loved canoe, along a calm shoreline.  A favourite photo from those days is of the happy couple, looking like movie stars, as they sun themselves on a beach blanket.

*****

I would have been rolled into my all-time favourite park during my first visit in my pram with two excited sisters clinging to the carriage handle.  Once entering the park south off Queen Street East, and a safe area was reached away from traffic, my siblings were set free to run among the many maples that add to the beauty and grandeur of Kew Gardens.

The first decade of my life from 1943 to ’53 was lived in The Beaches area of Toronto at 14 Rhyl Avenue.  One of my early visits to Kew Gardens on photographic record was for a snapshot session when Dad returned from his service in the Canadian Navy.  He is seen in this special photo in front of the monument on the Lee Avenue side of the park.  He’s dressed in his navy blues and has his three little girls in tow … Gina, six, Jacqueline, four and myself.  I was the youngest Turner child at the time and having just turned two barely reached the kneecap of his bell-bottomed trousers.

With two of my three sisters at the Brigden Reunion mentioned near the end of the story.  I'm sporting the dreaded Sienfeld look ... white runners with blue jeans.  

Although not at all a pleasant experience, one visit to Dr. Edmund’s office on the north-west corner of Kew Gardens, had me screaming my lungs out while the doctor came at my nose with tweezers.  I can still feel my mother’s strong, warm hands as they held my thrashing legs in place while the good doctor removed the orange crayon piece from up my nose.  I remember exactly where I was at that fateful moment and the panic I felt when the crayon slid out of reach.  My terror was only increased when I heard the doctor tell my Mum he’d have to push the elusive crayon up my nose and bring it down the other side.  Is that even possible?  How old is a child when they stick something up their nose?  Maybe three?  Maybe four?  After the frightful session Mum took me to the Monument Fountain at the park’s entrance to wash the tears away and to replace my lost fluids.  Her public-fountain-warning always accompanied this procedure … “For heaven’s sake Marlene, don’t touch your mouth on the metal”.    

My grade three class trekked the six or seven blocks to Kew Gardens on our monthly excursion to the Queen Street Library situated on north-east corner of the park.  The walk from Norway Public School on Kingston Road saw us passing near enough to our house that I often spotted my Mum out on the verandah.  She knew that we’d head off after recess and would stand ready to wave.  Oh, how my chest would swell with pride at the sight of her.    

Miss Martin, our clever teacher, allowed us some time in the park to work the fidgets out before … TA-DA … entering THE WORLD OF BOOKS.  Did my love of reading come from this time and place?  I think so.  I loved everything about the library, most especially the smell of paper.  In winter we sat in front of a crackling fire and felt our cold cheeks start to burn as they rosied up.  Watching the milk swirl into hot tea served to my teacher in a glass cup and saucer mesmerized me.  A souvenir glass mug I own, commemorating the 2010 Vancouver Olympics, brings back the memory and offers the same soothing satisfaction.  While our teacher sipped her cuppa the librarian, Miss Stock, would read a tale or two and then the big moment arrived.  We would choose our own enchanted story book.  The entire experience captured my wild imagination. 

When I matured another year or so I was allowed to take in Saturday matinees with my sisters at the Beach Theatre which was mere steps from the park.  On the walk from our home we passed two very special machines after we rounded the corner from Elmer Avenue onto Queen.  The first machine offered a choice between two Chiclets in a little pack of those perky pink and somewhat soapy tasting Thrills – all for only a penny.  Armed with the Thrill package we’d ask each other, “Would you like a Thrill?”  With a positive response we’d lift our skirt to show a little leg and say, “Well, have one!”  Silly, giggling girls!

The second machine not only weighed you for one cent but also told your fortune.  What a bargain.  Speaking of bargains the most I remember paying for a matinee, which normally offered a double-feature with the ongoing Superman serial sandwiched between, was twelve cents.  Can you imagine we also got a small gift with the price of admission?  Mostly I remember a collection of thin metal rulers that bent out of shape rather quickly.  Those movies also fed my growing desire for story-telling of all kinds.    

During summer vacation we spent day after day at the beach.  Dare I add without sunscreen?  We loved digging holes until we came to water and the walls would start to collapse.  Of course, building sand castles was high on the agenda.  We were not allowed to go swimming unless accompanied by a parent but waded in up to our knees collecting stones and rocks for our sand village was okay.  Lake Ontario was mighty cold.  So much so that when we came out our legs suffered tremendous pain.  It wasn’t until September the lake warmed up enough to immerse our entire body.  Even then it could be teeth chattering chilly.

*****

Over the years I’ve gone back from time to time.  When our daughter Emma, was just a baby, we returned for a photo op in front of the familiar war memorial.  Once again we returned in 2008, at my request, with our kids and grandkids for a special family portrait to commemorate my sixty-fifth birthday.  When all the shots had been taken my husband Michael opened a multitude of food containers for a delightful candlelit picnic at the boardwalk’s edge.     

In 2012 the Brigdens, my mother’s side of the family, gathered for a family reunion and yes, Kew Gardens and a walk on the boardwalk were all a part of our time together.  My mother’s youngest sister and only living sibling had many five-minute bursts of excitement when reminded a walk on The Beaches boardwalk was in her future.  Aunt Dorothy, then ninety-one, found the walk from Queen Street to the boardwalk proved to be enough.  After about twenty steps along the famous walk-way we enjoyed helping her scratch this moment from her ‘bucket list’ from a sitting positing on a park bench along the boardwalk’s edge.

Aunt Dorothy is where she belongs ... centre stage.

Aunt Dorothy recalled heart-warming stories about her time living next to the park.  I don’t suppose my heart will ever forget when she told us how it was her job to run to the ball diamond ahead of the family to save her mother’s favourite seats for the regular games of her older brother Jack.  She walked right to those seats when we arrived at the diamond.  She then bent her little girl’s head and told how she’d always wanted to play ball but lost her dream when Nana put her foot down.  “No daughter of mine is EVER going to play baseball”.  The sadness of a lost dream from so many decades ago was clearly evident in her voice and on her face.  A little kick at the dirt was almost expected as the little girl inside still grieved that loss.  Till this day my special aunt and God Mother never misses a Blue Jays game. 

One of my favourite ways, as a so-called adult, to enjoy a walk in the park, with its paved pathways where once dirt trails wound their way, is to wander with a latte purchased on Queen.  An empty park bench is always a welcome sight.  Perched there, filling my senses with the sights, sounds, smells and tastes of yesteryear calls to memory visions of Little Marlene.   

I watch in my mind’s eye as she runs and plays with her silly sisters on their way through for another glorious day at the beach. 

 

     

THE TALKING HEAD ... or ... Does Nora really want to know what goes on inside my head when I’m running late? ... or ... If we can land a man on the moon why can’t we have a sweater that doesn’t pill?

This story came from a writing workshop with Nora Zylstra-Savage.  She lives nearby so she kindly gives me a lift.  At this particular class Nora asked the group to "write about a time you were running late".  This story was fresh as I was under the gun trying to make it out of my house.  

And so we begin.  
I hate being late!  I was never late before we had kids.  How long is it since they flew the coop?  Almost twenty years?  Guess I can’t blame them any more. 
It really feels like the time is getting away on me.  My stomach knots.  
The clock in the dining room says I have plenty of time.  Which clock is it that’s fast?  This one, or the one in the bathroom? 
All I have to do is paint my face, surely there’s time for that.   
“Oh, My Darling?”  (Can you imagine, we call each other my darling?  It started as a joke when we heard an ‘affected’ couple use the expression.  It’s always a joke when we say it … I think … some how it stuck.)  “Will you call the OPP while I’m at Nora’s writing class?  Just ask how we go about obtaining a restraining order?  Can you also call Rogers to find out how to block our annoying caller?”
I rush to the bathroom.  I must empty my bladder … ET-CET-ER-A … and put on some makeup.  
Okay, so, I’m cleaning up after the ETCETERA and he bursts through the bathroom door, phone in hand.  He’s welcome in the bathroom anytime except a time like this … you know, after an etcetera.   
Oh great!  He’s called the police first.  It’s the OPP on the other end of the line.  I should be so lucky to have an OH, PEE-PEE, in peace.  Not when Michael’s on a mission. 
Thank God, he’s no techi, otherwise I’d have to worry he’s FaceTimed the cops.   
An “OH, PULLLEASE!” goes out to him from the throne.  He quickly covers the mouthpiece like that’s allowing me to retain my dignity.    
Damn!  What is it about making the calls “when I’m at Nora’s class” does he not understand?  
HELL-OOOOO?!!!!!  Can you not see what a mess I’m in?  Couldn’t you have made the calls after I’d left the premises?  God knows when Michael’s involved in a chore there are going to be questions. 
And here they come.  “What’s your sister’s birthdate?” 
He’s only supposed to be gathering info and he’s providing birthdays?  What on earth?
Can he not see the smoke pouring out of my ears.   
“Really?”  I force my voice to remain calm.  Through clenched teeth the month, the day and the year seethe through.  
My stomach ties another knot.  
I quickly wash my hands and reach for my makeup. 
“Oh! My! God! Who’s that wrinkle-faced bitch staring back at me?”    
Damn, is that another age spot starting to rear it’s ugly head?  I swear, I slap on mostly cover-up these days.  Pretty soon I won’t need foundation.  
Why does the damn bathroom clock always run fast?  Now I feel REALLY late.  
I charge out of the bathroom.  Oh, God!  Here he comes again.  He’s on my heels.  Great!  “What’s the number we want to block?”   
“Michael!  We have three phones and there’s a post-it on each one with the number.  We put them there to remind us not to answer when that number calls.”  
His glazed look says it all.  I jab my finger through air … point, point, point!  The light goes off!    
I shall not mention that I’m the only one to forgot to look at the post-it and landed myself in the worst phone call ever.  
Surely after thirty-nine years of marriage he can detect the impatience in my voice.  I wonder just how many times I’ve asked him NOT to ask questions when I’m preparing to leave the house.  God knows I need what’s left of my brain to FOCUS!
I drive my mood home with the icy stare.  His mouth opens to ask another question.  He takes in my demeanour and makes a hasty retreat.  FINALLY!  
The plants on the back porch vibrate when I stomp in to get my shoes.  I quickly glance out the window.  SHE’S HERE!  DAMN! 
I ram a foot into a shoe and lose my balance.
Does he enjoy continually creating an obstacle course in front of the shoe mat?  Honestly, if I had a dime …
No time to check a clock again. It’s probably wrong any way.  
I hastily tie my shoes, throw my jacket on, grab my purse (At least something’s going right.  How many times have I forgotten it lately?).  
I shout out a flustered GOODBYE!!??
I wind my scarf around my now sweaty neck and rush down the path.
Who am I kidding?  I can’t rush.  I wonder how long it’s been since I could run?
Oh, Great!  I forgot to tell him the toilet needs plunging.  He’ll figure it out soon enough.   
When did it rain?  The path is damp. At least it wasn’t snow.  Look at the holes in the grass.  The skunks must have been digging for grubs.  Well at least it’s a sign of spring.  It’s a wonder I didn’t smell them in the night.  Damn critters.
Watch yourself when you rush through the car port.  The thin one hangs a multitude of tools on the wall narrowing the path and making it somewhat harrowing for those of us who carry around … well … extras.
Whew, I managed to squeeze through without being impaled on anything.    
I wonder why I’m not losing weight yet.  Almost ten months of being gluten, dairy and soy free has to count for something, doesn’t it?  
I can see Nora now.  Why is Nora’s head bent?  Is she praying I won’t make us late?  I’m grateful she hasn’t started honking her horn.  
Finally!  I arrive.  I’m breathless.  I open the car door.  
She’s reading a novel.  
OH MY GOD! 
I hate being late.  

Part 4 of 4 - Blog Entry from China November 17, 2013

Greetings from The Seagull Hotel in Kunming, Yunnan Province

 

We checked into The Seagull Hotel four days ago and find it more relaxing to know we will not be travelling (other than short sight-seeing jaunts) until we leave for our trip home.

 

I promised in my last blog entry to tell you about our brushes with Chinese police.  Actually, it's not as bad as it sounds.  On the way to Leaping Tiger Gorge (north of Lijiang) our driver was stopped.  Apparently he had not purchased the appropriate piece of paper to give him permission to drive on that particular road.  We felt badly for him (and for us) as he made several stops on the way home to try to pay his fine.  He had no luck but, we do believe he was told by some police officers that he could mail the fee to the appropriate department. 

 

Our driver picked a restaurant on the way back for our lunch.  It was the most delicious lunch up until that time.  (Photo 1 shows our servers starting their lunch after having served our table).

 

Our friend Carrie told us that at one time only hikers could get in to view the Gorge.  Not true now.  The site has been designed for tourists.  The days of finding untouched beauty in China seem to be over.  The tourist has been considered at many, many sites.  (Photo 2 - the Gorge)

 

When we returned to our hotel that evening it was crawling with police.  They set up discussions at a table in the courtyard below our room.  This is where losing one's hearing pays off.  Michael said they spoke with the owners of the hotel well into the night.  When I go to bed I sleep on my better ear and cannot hear much at all.  Bliss, in this particular case.  Not so good however, if someone is shouting FIRE!  Which, by the way, they have not done ... Thank God!

 

Michael and I transferred to another hotel the next night abandoning Carrie to the hotel with the questionable reputation ... not to mention the filth and the noise of the children in the school - again coming from the courtyard.  We were happy to pay extra Yuan knowing everything was much cleaner and our room was larger.  In the 'police' hotel-from-hell, Michael had to sleep with a suitcase on his bed we were so cramped.  Another of my afflictions paid off, Restless Leg Syndrome.  I cannot sleep with anything so big and heavy on the bed, I would stub my toes when my legs start flinging about.  As you can tell, I'm a delight to travel with because of my multitude of idiosyncrasies.   

 

Lijiang could pretty much be re-named Pashminaland.  (Photo 3) Again, one must barter for a fair price.  I'm going to like the world much more when fixed pricing is established.  Bartering is really an unfriendly experience.  It immediately feels like one is trying to cheat the other.  Not a good way to establish a trusting relationship.  We were at lunch yesterday (Friday 16th) with an 80-year-old man (Photo 4 - with Kamran, the host of our luncheon) who hates the dishonesty of bartering so much he will only shop at Wal-mart.  Yes, there is a Wal-mart in Kunming AND, according to our lunch companion, the prices are honest and fixed.  We're considering an outing to Wal-mart.  Go figure!

 

Tonight (Saturday, 17th) after dinner we went for a walk and happened upon a church with the doors opened.  We went in and had a wonderfully uplifting twenty minutes or so.  There was a wonderful choir singing rousing Chinese hymns.  The members of the choir were in their twenties.  I can tell you they had the Spirit, with a capital 'S'.  There was one song we could sing along to because of one word Hallelujah! It reminded me of Baptist churches in the south.  Everyone was standing, clapping, swaying to the music and singing.  The only difference was these were Chinese people.  It was very moving and fun!  There was a cross at the front of the church and a picture of Christ so, it was Christian. 

 

A word about the Seagull Hotel.  It got its name because of the seagulls that winter-over on Green Lake which is across the road.  They return by the hundreds ... no, thousands ... and will be here until the spring when they once again head north.  The parks around Green Lake are filled with tourists and locals.  Kunming is a tourist city but, I can count on one hand the number of Westerners we have seen.  It is the Chinese tourists who visit here. 

 

The AMAX department store is nearby.  We walked through today and were stunned by the prices.  Not a bargain to be found.  A man's plaid shirt - $170 Cdn.  Lady's fairly plain shoes - $300+ Cdn.  When I was in China twenty years ago my friend, Tieshan, always said, "China is a developing country".  My observation would be that China has developed.  Michael agrees and we both say it won't be very long until China surpasses North America.  Hang onto your hats kids, the world is in for quite a ride.     

 

Love to all,

Marlene

P.S.  Michael just remarked about trying to find something in English on TV ... "You'd think they would be interested in learning English so they'd put in subtitles".  He watched a wonderful subtitled movie last night.  My response was, "Michael, maybe the rest of us will have to learn Chinese".  Something to think about. 

 

 

Part 3 of 4 - Blog Message from China - November 9, 2012

Internet connections are not reliable so, I'm not as regular with my Blog entries as I would like to be.  The following was written on my cell (ouch say my thumbs) while on a long bus ride from Dali to Lijiang.  This will catch you up to what we did and where we were a few days ago.

 

Day 9 (6th Nov) was spent visiting some Dali sites.  We started with a boat tour on the rather large Dali lake in a very large boat.

 

Our first stop was on the tiniest island with a Temple (photo 1).  Awaiting the hordes to come ashore was a multitude of food vendors hoping we would part with some of our Chinese change in exchange for something weird and wonderful ... on a stick! (photo 2)

 

Back on board we made our way to a second island.  It was somewhat larger but also was home to another Temple.  I'm sorry to say both trips to the temples required a steep climb up stone steps without hand rails.  This adventurer is not so adventurous when it comes to personal harm and/or injury to my very own body.

 

When one does not speak Mandarin one cannot shout out, "Help! Doctor!".  Actually we wanted to shout out those very words when Carrie scared the living daylights out of us.  Thankfully it all worked out fine with a happy ending but it was touch and go there for several minutes.

 

So, you might well ask, what happened?  Michael trotted off to find 'the head'.  He was gone longer than expected and this foreigner was left to fight off Chinese tourists to save his seat.  All was forgiven when he returned with lemon cookies.

 

The cookies were rather hard and dry but no problem.  Lemony was good enough for me.  Carrie was enjoying them, too.  She was telling me ... I don't remember what ... when suddenly she stopped mid-sentence.  I looked at her as her body was racked by coughing.  I soon realized she was choking on a hard bit of biscuit.  Her somewhat purple face was a good clue.

 

A few well-placed thumps on her back did nothing.  I yelled out, "Oh, my God!  She needs the Haimlick(sp?) maneuver".  Not one Chinese person moved.  They all just stared.  Remembering just how to make such moves in crisis mode has always worried me.  I made the appropriate fists and tried to help Carrie unload the crumby culprit.

 

Feeling I was not strong enough, I turned the purple patient over to Michael.  In the end I have no idea what worked but Carrie was once again breathing and her colour had faded to a deep scarlet.  Whew!

 

Here's the thing.  We had discussed a few nights earlier how to inform Carrie's sister, Mers, should something untoward befall Carrie, making her third visit to China ... shall we say, a more permanent stay.  "Oh", Carried had informed, "just tell her she can open the French doors".  The sisters share a cottage on The Bruce Peninsula and those doors separate their space. 

 

Fancying myself a bit of a writer, I thought a poem might be a good way to break the dreadful news.  Something short and sweet like, "Sister Mers, we ordered a hearse".  It was a good laugh until the choking started mere days later. 

 

If the catastrophic cookie had won the batle I would have re-written my ode to say ...

 

"Your sister, whose name starts with a 'C', has choked on a cookie and was buried at sea".  Ah, we laugh at it now but all three of us were scared out of our wits.  So sorry I didn't think to take photos to accompany the story. 

 

Meanwhile back to the tour.  We were dropped off at the top of the lake where our driver for the day waited to take us to two other sites which were both old cities. 

 

The first was filled with market stalls while the second had more interesting shops where I bought a couple of batic wall hangings.  I saw the sweetest Chinese faces selling their wares (photo 3).    

 

At the second old city we found a vendor making very interesting pizza in the most interesting way.  Carrie shared a delicious and crispy sweet version.  Yum!

 

We went for dinner at the home of a Baha'i family who have lived in Dali, right in the old town, for the last nine years.  The mother, Nicole, is originally from Chili.  Her husband, Faraz, is Iranian.  They have six children, four of which still live at home (photo 4).   

 

My contribution to the evening was to teach six people about Zentangle, an art form I learned last year.  It was a delight for me, as it appeared to be for the budding Zentangle artists. 

 

We had the most wonderful hotel in Dali with a sweet hotel manager, Faruk (an unusual name for a Chinese man).  He tells me his mother saw a movie with that name in it and that's how he got it.  Faruk reminded us of our son, Ben.  Need I add Faruk is also very handsome? (photo 5) 

 

Faruk had just moved to Dali a couple of weeks earlier.  His English was impeccable.  We thought it a good idea to link Faruk with Faraz to help him find his way in Dali.  Faruk and I also exchanged contact info.  I hope we keep in touch with this wonderful young man who was so very helpful.  

 

Our bus arrived in Lijiang so, here endeth this epistle.  Our day yesterday in Lijiang proved quite interesting.  There were two brushes with police.  I'll save that one for another blog.

 

Love and greetings from China!

Marlene (and Michael)