Happy Holidays



  

Photos Copyright Shanon Mitchell



Rapa Nui - Easter Island

No, I´m not wasting my holiday in front of a computer.  I´m protecting my already-pink face from the midday sun.  We arrived a few days ago and are completely enchanted with this place.  We decided to stay a week....although most people give it only three days.  We´re glad we did, because there is so much to see, and it´s a paradise.  We rented a beat-up jeep-like vehicle called la Feroza.  We assume it means ¨The Ferocious One¨, but it could well be just one of those invented car names.  La Feroza is not a super smooth ride - truth be told I'm worried about bruising my spleen or compressing a disc - but it´s a four-wheel drive and high off the ground, which comes in very handy here.  Plus, La Feroza, she´s got personality. 

We´ve zoomed all over the island, often getting up before dawn to experience the sunrise in different locations, by the different ¨moais¨ (big heads...okay, that's probably not an accurate translation).  There are hawks everywhere, and wild and tame horses, which often just walk on the road....or, at times, gallop towards your car.  This morning, there were cows and horses on the beach at Anakena.  Can´t say I´ve ever seen cows frolicking on a beach before.

There is a burgeoning surf culture here and a great laid-back island vibe.  Here is a photo I took of a surfer.   I didn't realize until I zoomed in that he is wearing a loincloth as opposed to boardshorts and a rashie.   A loincloth surfer.  The loincloth surfers.  Another great name for a band.

As I write this, in a small internet place, which also sells Halloween costumes and hello Kitty earbuds, the radio is playing a Justin Bieber song.  Ah well.

The Rapa Nui people are friendly and kind...and helpful, as we found out when our battery died at a beach, early in the morning.  After waiting for a bit, a man on horseback tried to help, then a couple in a car came to see what was wrong and immediately went off to find one of their friends to help us out.  Before too long, three parks employees came and took our battery out, switched theirs in, started the car and then switched them back.  We were grateful to be on the road again....especially since I hadn´t had any coffee yet and the caffeine withdrawal was setting in.   I think La Feroza has forgiven us for treating her carelessly.

Perfect Fall Sunday

It was a perfect fall day.  I spent the early afternoon raking leaves and washing the front windows.  It's important to appreciate these last warm days....

...because in two or three months, it's going to look like this...

Crying my way around the world

Our trip to South America is fast approaching and I'm all giddy anticipation.  All the logistics have been smoothed out and we're into the fun prep:   reading up on the history, the people and the places, and planning potential excursions and activities.  Before trips, I always get butterflies from the excitement and nerves.  We're about to put ourselves out there in the world....away from home and the familiar, and towards new experiences.  The leap into the unknown;  that's what I love about travel.  Well, it's part of what I love about travel.  I also love the fridge magnets.  And the good coffee.

Over the years we've enjoyed some really great trips, filled with adventure and some misadventures.   I'm pretty consistent....I usually get sick or injured and I usually cry, out of fear, at some point during any given trip.  I've blubbered during a kayaking trip off the coast of New Zealand (I was misled;  the brochures showed glassy, smooth water, not whitecaps and whipping wind), I've sobbed on the back of a motorbike in Cappadoccia (It's not safe! My helmet doesn't fit! I'll end up a quadraplegic!), and I've cried while climbing the Harbour Bridge in Sydney (no explanation for that, other than the hideous "protective" coveralls they inflict upon the tourists).   I've suffered from heat exhaustion and a whack on the head in Turkey, a jellyfish sting in the Galapagos, and I've spent a 5-hour bus trip in the Andes quasi-delirious, writhing in pain and vomiting every twenty minutes from a mysterious, severe abdominal ailment . Ah yes, I love to travel.

I've only ended up in the hospital once.  That was after a sailing trip in Turkey.  I was putting on my swimsuit in our tiny cabin and Bill opened the door suddenly, hitting me on the side of the head.  I feared that I had fractured my skull - alarmist that I am - because I was dizzy in the days following.  It was actually heat exhaustion, so I was taken to a private clinic in Antalya.  They wanted to sedate me, given how upset I was, but Bill managed to convince them that the hysteria was normal for me.  After being re-hydrated, I calmed down, watched a couple of episodes of "Who's the Boss" dubbed in Turkish on the clinic tv, and soon was back in travel mode.
 
Our trip to Turkey also furnished us with many happy memories and stories.  During a hike through a gorge near Fethiye, I had trouble climbing up one of the little rock outcroppings, because it was slippery, with lots of water rushing over it.  Unbeknownst to me, a Turkish man behind me asked Bill's permission, using gestures, to put his hands on my butt and push me up.  And he did.  With no warning to me.  Hello!  

Since it was our first overseas trip together, it was our initial exposure to the "travel versions" of Bill and Shanon.  And I don't mean small and magnetic, like those sets of backgammon or checkers.   Bill is quieter when we're away from home; he's so blissed out all the time.  When I'm travelling, I'm a much less worried version of myself.  At home, I can be a bit neurotically fearful about things....like ordering pizza.  Go figure.  I have no problem ziplining and swimming with sharks, but ask me to pick up the phone and order a pizza and I'll beat a hasty retreat, heart beating too fast, palms sweaty.  Phone phobia.

What is it about travelling that emboldens me?  Does the relative anonymity let us step outside ourselves a bit...or a lot?  I find travel is transformational.  For me, it's about renewing faith....not in a god, but in oneself and in the world.   I look at it this way….when I travel I have to have faith in myself and know that I will make the most of the experience and that I can handle whatever comes my way.  I also must trust in the world and believe that people are mostly good and it's likely those are the ones I'll encounter. 

The more, the better

Sunday - Grey, misty, rainy, and a little cool; lots of soggy orange and red leaves on the shiny black pavement.  Cars swishing in the puddles as they pass.  No need for air conditioning any longer.  It's my favourite type of fall morning because the weather is miserable enough that I don't feel guilty about staying inside.  I enjoy the newspaper and my cup...huge mug, rather...of coffee and relax for the first part of the morning.  Then I'm startled out of my bubble of calm by the realization that the rental videos have to be returned very, very soon. To the store way, way downtown, where there will be no parking to be found on a brunchy Sunday morning.

This is the only decent video store we know, since our funky little neighbourhood store burned down.  Our new favourite has a good selection of  mainstream and "non-Hollywood" videos: foreign films, cult films, documentaries and British series; you get the picture.  Literally. (That would be a good name for a video store!)  Anyway, the guy who works there calls everyone "dude" whether it be a man or woman, senior or toddler.  He's in his late forties and I'm guessing he's not a skate boarder or a surfer from California....but maybe he is; I shouldn't be so quick to judge.  He does work in a cool video store, so I guess that gives him licence to "dude".  He's so cool, I want to impress him with my choice of dvd.  I often do not.  It could be my imagination, but he seemed rather let down when I chose "The Proposal".  Whatever, dude.

There was nothing remarkable about my little journey downtown….until I put a Green Day cd on.  It soundtracked my drive; in an instant, every mundane detail and moment sprang to life and became part of a real-time, living music video.  The seniors driving in front of me, the windshield wipers, the windows of stores and restaurants revealing the goings-on inside, the traffic signals.  I almost expected the grey day to switch to colour.  Since the opening lines of the first song that I played were  "Do you have the time, to listen to me whine, about nothing and everything all at once?", naturally I thought about this blog.  I'm trying to do some kind of post each weekend, but now it's Monday.  Still raining. 

At the store earlier, I picked up a magazine and added it to my little pile of groceries. It's a Canadian magazine, meant for women over 40. I find the title odd.  It's called "MORE".  It made me think: "More what?" More wrinkles? More health concerns? More chins? More stretchpants in the closet?   I have been feeling a little miffed lately at this whole ageing process.  I was looking so forward to being in my forties.  I told my friend Carolyn that we would start a "forty-tude" club. We'd celebrate our age with outrageous, colourful martinis and girls' weekends. We'd be daring; we'd embrace the decade to come.  She loved my optimism.  Hmmmm.  That was when she turned forty.  Then it happened to me.  After an amazing birthday weekend - a reunion of high school friends and current friends - it began: the descent into middle age. My warranty had run out, apparently.  My near vision started failing.  My sweet little baby tooth that had hung on since childhood had to be removed.  I really thought I'd have it forever.  As the doctor wrenched it out of my mouth, I felt as though he was yanking my youth away from me, too.  Now the little tooth - I call it "Chompy" - sits on my bathroom cabinet shelf alongside my ineffective contact lenses, my eye cream and my multivitamins.  Ew.  I know.  Throw that thing out.  Don't dwell upon things you cannot change.  Happily, something has helped me adjust my attitude towards getting older.  Recently, I was talking to someone who was turning fifty.  She actually said, with regard to the number, "The more, the better, eh?!"   It's so true.  The more years, the better.  Not the opposite.  The more, the better.   Maybe "MORE" isn't such a bad name for the magazine after all.

My buzzword legacy


I like playing with words.  In fact, I might have actually coined an expression myself.  It is a hairstyle-related expression....."bang-xiety".

bang-xiety (origin: “bangs” , as in the fringe of hair falling over one’s forehead, paired with “anxiety”).  Definition:  The feeling you experience when the hairdresser has gone drastically TOO short with your bangs.


A bang-xious moment caught on film

I am fairly familiar with this emotion and, while I know that in the grand scheme of things, this "issue" does not rate very highly in the category of "things to waste one's energy on", in the moment it can be intense and debilitating.  Anyway, no matter how clearly I explain to my stylist that my bangs CANNOT be shorter than eyebrow level, I sometimes leave the salon looking like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber or like a very round-faced Vulcan.  At least that’s how it feels when I’m in the throes of a bang-xiety attack.  Luckily, there are two treatments for bang-xiety:  admission to an Intensive Hair Unit or a decent hairband.

I’m still traumatized by the bangs I was sporting right before a holiday to Scotland.  I emerged from my appointment with an odd,  semi-circular set of bangs.  Less than flattering.  Now imagine that paired with some Montreal-purchased plaid pants that I thought would look mod and you’ve got the fashion disaster that was me roaming  the streets of Edinburgh.  I’d forgotten about the tartan/plaid/Scotland connection.  It turns out that the “uniform” for Scottish women over 60 includes plaid pants and a jacket very similar to the one I took on my travels.  At least they might have thought I was very young-looking for my age.

Which brings me to my next thought....why do people lie about their age, saying they’re younger than they are?   If I say I’m 29, people will look at me and think, “Man, she looks pretty old for a 29 year old”.   Their brains will be trying to reconcile my appearance with the age I’ve claimed and the end result will likely be negative.  If instead I lie about my age by adding 10 years, folks will be blown away by my relatively youthful looks.  End result: positive.  “Wow, you look fantastic! “   Just something to ponder.

Back to playing with words.  Sometimes I hear a word or phrase and I think "That would be a good name for a band". I enjoy it for a minute, then I go on with my day. I rarely remember them. One that has stuck with me for years, though, is "noodle puke". Classy, I know; one post in and I’ve used the word puke. I don’t remember where the term came up (ha ha), but it seemed like a great name for a punk band.

Come to think of it, you could interpret this expression a couple of ways.  Literally or....and I prefer this one....you could interpret "noodle" as meaning "brain", and "puke" in terms of "expression"...i.e. to travel from the inside, out.  You end up with "brain expression". An idea or thought expressed. Or "brainstorm". You know what?  I’m going to start using "noodle puke" and its various forms at work, in meetings. "Tom, let’s do some noodle-puking and see if we can’t lay the foundations of the new strategic plan."   I hope against all hope it catches on.  It could be my legacy.  Years from now, mid-level government workers could be holding "noodle-puking sessions" to come up with ideas for trimming the budget. 

Confessions of a middle-aged fan girl - What Crowded House Means to Me

Neil Finn of Crowded House, Ottawa 2010

When I told a friend that I had tickets to see both Crowded House in Montreal and the Police in Vancouver in the summer of 2007, he jokingly - and somewhat snidely - asked, "Do you only go to see 80s bands in concert? Do you ever go to hear new bands?" The answers were no and yes, of course, but I could see his point.

 I like hearing new bands and music, but what is different now is that I don't invest the time in getting to know a band and their music the way I did in the 80s. Those were the days of record players and cassettes and free time and boundless energy...and the ability to stay up until the wee hours listening to music. And we’d listen together, just a bunch of friends; it was an accepted social activity. On my own, I'd listen so intently to my records, play them over and over again, memorize every song. I'd pore over the lyrics and study the cover art. Music was more tactile then - if that makes sense; we were more engaged, physically, in the experience. We’d select the record from the stack, slide the vinyl disk smoothly from its soft plastic cover and place it ever-so-carefully on the turntable. We’d run the felt dustbrush over the surface, and set the needle down, waiting for that exquisite moment when the static crackle quieted and the needle reached the music-infused groove. And then we’d really listen.


Now we can load numerous songs or cds into our players, we can skip, delete, fast forward; we can cherry-pick the songs we want, without ever having to listen to an album straight through.


I'm guilty of that; I bought a Jason Mraz cd months ago and have yet to hear the whole thing. I haven’t made time to focus on the whole effort. Speaking of focus, I can no longer enjoy the cover art or liner notes either....unless I have my reading glasses and a good light source nearby; everything is too small. (Insert snort of laughter here).


It could also be because my taste in music has broadened that I can’t maintain that same intensity, even if I wanted to. I like to listen to lots of different music. My husband has made me a fan of Tom Waits (and I like to think I’ve made him one of Crowded House). I like Charlie Haden and Jimmy Cliff; classical music, ska and surf guitar. My latest discovery is violinist Sophie Solomon - look her up, if a mixture of klezmer, folk and pop intrigues you - and my nephew recently introduced me to German industrial metal band, Rammstein. Yikes.


If only there were enough time in the day to get acquainted with all of those artists to the same extent that I knew and know the music of Crowded House. They’re the ones that I’ve stuck with over the years. Since 1986, in fact, when the first notes of "Don't Dream It's Over" wafted to my ears for the first time from my clock radio in the darkness of my room in Victoria. I loved that song immediately, then the album, and thus began my relationship with Crowded House. I’ll never forget the concert they played in Victoria, in the summer of 1987 at the Royal Theatre and not just because they played a surprisingly good cover of Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” as an encore.


One very clear memory from that show is that during a break, the lights suddenly went up on the dark stage for just enough time for us to see the drummer, Paul Hester, standing there, naked. The lights went back down and delighted laughter and murmurs filled the theatre. Minutes later, the band returned to the stage, with Paul Hester nonchalantly buttoning up his shirt and saying "I just won $50 in a bet". He was known for his sense of humour, and what a great moment that was! That same night, I bumped into William, a friend from school and work. He was taking photographs at the concert and I was thrilled to see him; he was very clever and funny, in addition to being tall, handsome and popular, but a little dark and alternative, as well. It seemed that everyone either had a crush on him or wished they were him. That was one of the last times I saw William because these two concert memories share the same sad epilogue. Both Paul Hester and my friend William ended their own lives; William a few months after that concert and Paul Hester in 2005.


Fast forward to the present. All these years later, the world knows a lot more about depression and I, too, have more experience with grief and tragedy than I’d like. Happily, though, I also know more of joy, wonder and gratitude. And I’m still here on this earth. And so is Crowded House.  It’s 24 years later and I’ve recently seen two Crowded House concerts, in two different cities, in two provinces, in the space of three days. And I might see another in Vancouver in a couple of weeks. I know how that sounds, but hear me out and I guarantee you might not think I’m a fanatic.  Although the band has endured a break-up, lost Mr. Hester, and seen different members come and go, this latest iteration is solid and the shows in 2007 and those last month were as good, fun and exhilarating as that concert way back in the days of shoulder-padded, brightly-coloured 80s fashions. Lead singer Neil Finn is still in very fine voice.


I’ve seen other 80s favourites in the last decade or so and the experience has mostly been disappointing, though I’ve learned to manage my expectations somewhat. Sometimes it’s the venue: to see a formerly big name playing at an out-of-the-way casino or country fair seems to be a blow to their dignity. Sometimes it’s the musicians themselves: they’re ageing badly, they’re thicker around the middle (to be expected) and straining the seams of their too-small leather pants (to be avoided). Or their voices are raspier or weaker, whether due to age, misuse, rough living, or lack of practice. Or they try to act like they’re still 20 onstage, when they’re nearer to 50. Please no pelvic thrusts; you’ll slip a disc! And, lastly, they play the oldies, but have nothing new. It’s like they’ve given up. This only reminds us, the fans, that we’re getting older too. You can never go back to your glory days - yes, the ones you didn’t appreciate enough when you were living them.


But then there’s Crowded House, a band that has endured, overcome and morphed into a partly new, partly familiar, but still shiny, entity. They sound and look great and it’s clear they love what they’re doing. They’re pros: consummate showmen and musicians, without the rock star airs. This band shows literally no degradation over time and, bonus, they have loads of new material: two new cds in the last three years. How rare is that? (Well, I guess U2 does that, too, but Bono’s shades smack of rock star attitude...and didn’t he just put his back out?) For me, the perseverance of Crowded House provides this strange and wonderful link between the 22-year-old me and the 45-year-old version. Two very different worlds and perspectives, with this one great band in common. It’s like revisiting the old (young) me.


Experiencing Crowded House in concert again in 2007 - 20 years after that first Victoria concert - got me thinking about how music can have such a profound effect on our lives....and how strange that thought must be for the musicians themselves. I began to understand, too, that revisiting our past through music can be so rewarding and not just sadly nostalgic, and how rare it is to have something wonderful in your life remain constant and appealing, when so many things change, fade or disappear. It's the connection to that part of our lives when our love of music was intense and pure, as were we.


They say that if you write out a list of things you want to accomplish in your life, they’re more likely to happen. I’m starting to believe it, because I made a “life list” (sounds better than bucket list) in 2007 and number 8 on the list, after “photographing hippos in the wild” and before “hike the West Coast Trail with my family ”, I wrote “Meet Neil Finn”. Don’t ask me why. Astoundingly, a few months later I did in fact meet Mr. Finn and the rest of the band. ( I also had “Meet Colin Firth” on my list; nothing yet, but fingers crossed!) My husband and I had tickets to see Crowded House at the St. Denis Theatre in Montreal and, by coincidence, ended up staying at the same hotel as the band. My husband, ever-patient and wonderful, suggested that if I really wanted to meet the band, we could probably catch them on the way to the mid-afternoon sound check. I didn't pause to think about why I wanted to meet them. Or what I would say to them at such time, which became painfully obvious when I did in fact come face to face with them. My husband and I "staked out" the door between the lobby and the tour bus. It was more than a little pathetic; a lone middle-aged fan waiting hopefully by the door, pen in hand, camera at the ready. That weekend, the hotel was also home to many competitors in the Rogers Cup tennis tournament. Many hot young tennis stars breezed past us, but even Federer would have meant nothing to me, so intense was my focus on meeting Crowded House. Finally, one by one, the band members came out, dutifully signed my cd and posed for photos. They were kind and slightly amused, I think, by my presence.


Why do we want to actually meet our favourite celebrities? Maybe we believe that if we get close to them, some of their greatness or beauty or charisma will magically transfer over to us. We pose next to them like they’re the Taj Mahal or Niagara Falls. Look at how close I was to this amazing thing! Look at my brush with greatness!


When it happens, though, it’s more than slightly surreal. A clash of the familiar (celebrity to fan) and the unknown (fan to celebrity). It must be odd for a celebrity, especially a reluctant one, to be approached by strangers who feel as if they know them and actually do, in a sense. And, really, what can a fan/admirer possibly say, in the space of a minute or two, that hasn’t been said a thousand times before? How do you convey your appreciation for their effort, their creativity, their talent without coming across like a total dweeb or, worse, a psycho fan? And more importantly, how do you do that when the strange effects of celebrity and fame have tampered with your ability to speak and behave in a manner approximating normal.


Here’s how I did it....I blurted out the following inane comments, in a strangely strangled-sounding voice, using only simple sentence structure and little to no intonation:. "We're looking forward to the show" and "We're so glad you're touring again".  Then I stood for a photograph standing next to poor Mr. Finn, not looking at, nor interacting with, him. Then, without me saying anything at all witty or interesting, he was gone. And the show that night was wonderful. Of course. Then I saw them again last month, twice.


“Yeah, what’s with two concerts in three days?” you ask. “You truly are a fanatic.” Simple explanation: I bought tickets to the Montreal show before I found out they would be playing Ottawa, too. They were two very different shows, covering lots of songs between the two of them. The Montreal show, held at a music hall/night club, was filled with a lot of diehard fans, ones who were familiar with all the material, even the new stuff, whereas the show at the Ottawa Bluesfest attracted many who knew of Crowded House in the 80s. To hear the comments coming from those around me in the audience was fantastic. They were blown away by the energy and quality of the band. Example: "Holy f**k, these guys are so good, even after 20 years; that's a real testament to what a great band they are". I hope that show, and the many others on the tour, contribute to even greater success for Crowded House. They deserve it. I mean, these guys are good. So good I might even fly to Vancouver to see that concert at the end of August. After all, my brother does have an extra ticket and I would like to see my family and the mountains and the ocean again.


And if I had a chance to meet the band again, this is what I would say:

Thanks for continuing to make brilliant music, thanks for caring about your audience enough to put on really fantastic shows, thanks for being kind to your fans, and, last but not least, thanks for inspiring me to be creative. I’ve thought a lot lately about the notion of contributing something tangible to the world, so I’ve been trying to spend more time and energy on my passions: writing and photography. Seeing Crowded House again gave me the idea for this essay, so maybe number 8 on my life list was really meant to push me back into writing. Done!


One word of advice though, to Crowded House: if you don’t want your fans to feel old and doddery, don’t sell tea towels as concert merchandise again (as you did in 2007). Or, if you do, go the whole distance in an ironic way, by selling Crowded House tea cozies, Crowded House teacups, Crowded House tea balls, etc. These would go over very well in my home town of Victoria.


Epilogue:  I did go to the Vancouver concert....no tea towels in sight.
Post epilogue:  Just noticed they're selling tea towels for the latest tour on their merchandise website....