first day, new job, new crew

Today is the first day my best friend returns to work. For reasons beyond her control she has been off work for 6 years and with the same one day at a time determination that she faced every single one of those challenging days, she forges ahead despite obstacles that continue.

We met 16 years ago on her first day at a job that we refer to fondly today as “the golden years.” She joined our cast of characters from diverse work backgrounds who by stroke of luck, genuinely liked each other, got along and despite a competitive environment, supported one other and had a lot of fun.

There was Gregory, immaculately turned out in his perfectly pressed shirts, and ubiquitous silver briefcase that carried his daytimer, cell phone and lip balm. Feisty Andrea who kept everyone in line and offered anyone who would listen intimate details of her life. Irrepressible Derek, the young upstart who exasperated and endeared with his guile and farm-raised exuberance.

Lovely Christine, so very French, she exuded a radiant, happy aura. She and my best friend, as tall and gangly Perry said, epitomized the true meaning of a “lady”. The ladies inspired our most well-behaved selves to come forward. Perry was as tall as Blaine was short — they had 20 years between them and the same penchant for heavy-metal and a crumpled appearance.

There were others who came and went, but this was our crew for 2 happy years.

Our manager April, a petite, soft-spoken but spunky readhead possessed a unique blend of fussy schoolmistress and “let the chips fall where they may” style of leadership. She had the knack for hiring people with chemistry that clicked. Once she provided us with clear direction and incentive from which we were to exceed her expectations, we were given the autonomy to develop our own niche. Within this framework, we thrived, learned to trust each other in a short amount of time, and had each other’s back.

When April moved on 2 years later, our group slowly dispersed under a new brand of management: a navy-suited, cropped-hair, scarlet-lipsticked dynamo, the staccato of her heels sending our group to flee in all directions.

What I hope for my friend is for a sliver of those elusive golden years to shine on her work days ahead.

ITALY: love it or leave it (DOXA film)

This is my second year of choosing films of a “lighter” nature at the DOXA Film Festival and my first pick for 2012 ITALY: love it or leave it did not disappoint.

It helps that the narrators and subjects–filmmaker/life-partner duo Luca Ragazzi and Gustav Hofer–are easy on the eyes, smart, compelling and funny.

It helps that Luca Ragazzi in his charming Italian self was at the screening in person to give viewers an intro and an après film Q&A.

It was a visual, cultural and informative feast to join the bickering but loving duo in their quest to learn the “true” Italy before making a difficult decision. Ragazzi wants to stay in Italy while Hofer (of German ancestry) makes a case for moving to Berlin.

They lead us through the beauty and history of Rome and Venice, the vistas of Lake Como, the bounty of Italian food, more importantly, Italians’ standards and passion for food, all unarguably catalysts that bring international visitors to descend, generational landowners and citizens to stay, and Berlusconi loyalists to declare undying support.

What takes the film beyond a pleasant travelogue is that the couple didn’t turn away from uncovering the unsightly stories of national and regional struggles with leadership, unemployment, immigration, organized crime, and waste disposal.

The witty narration and banter, use of clever animation as segue, and light touch in presenting the truth didn’t leave one feeling hopeless in a bottomless pit of despair.

This viewer is most appreciative and hopes that this sold out DOXA film returns to delight and enlighten Vancouver audiences again.

Midnight in Barcelona

Our motley crew huddled in a brightly lit bar filled with Barcelona locals sipping 2 for 1 mojitos. The two birthday boys — my husband and his good friend Trent, were ready to celebrate a serendipitous night in Barcelona. Trent’s posse included a London transplant from Vancouver named Anton, resplendent in a splashy printed shirt and shaved head, and a cool cat named Colin sporting head-to-toe black, a furtive grin and chill disposition.

Mojito glasses soon engulfed our table as Anton worked tirelessly on his relationship with our waitress. Anticipating a descent of the room’s buzz, we contemplated what our next move would be. Trent suggested a techno club on La Rambla, the main street in Barcelona flanked by clubs and flamenco bars. It was around midnight when we stumbled out onto a quiet street with a row of buildings on one side, the water on the other.

“Check out this wall,” Anton yelled out. We looked up at rows of intricately carved finials in varying shades of gold installed to the very top of what used to be garage door.

“Race you to the top,” Anton yelled again.

Don’t do it, said the little voice in my head, as I watched my foot hoist up on the first finial. My hand was reaching for the top finial when I heard a whistle blow, followed by an incoherent flow of Spanish. Five heads turned to look at a policewoman standing a few feet away with a bored but resolute expression.

Anton jumped quickly to the ground, sidled up to her and said, “Apologiso! Touristo!” gesturing wildly at himself and at me, frozen mid-air on the finials. I could hear the guys snickering on the sidewalk.

“Si, si,” she said motioning for me to come down. With a wag of her finger, she walked away.

Hysterics and re-enactments ensued until we reached the club where relentless techno swept away all thought and magnified the effect of our mojito buzz.

We awoke the next day to monstrous headaches and a buzz on the cell phone. It was a text from Trent. “Last night was MONEY. Apologiso. Touristo.”

Andina and food carts in Portlandia

Our foursome was out of sorts. The guys were dying to go to Irish pub Kell’s where a basement cigar room beckoned. I needed a cultural shift, preferably of a Latin variety, more specifically to Andina, the Peruvian restaurant that came highly recommended by a friend. Game and opting to stay comfy in her lululemons, my cousin in-law’s wife Michelle followed me to Portland’s free downtown tram to head to what our hotel concierge described as “if a visitor has only one night in Portland, this is the restaurant I send them to.” I needed no further prodding. That we would make it to their happy hour was icing on the proverbial cake.

The tapas menu had me at the “Cebiche” selection. I ordered a Mixto Chorrillano of mussels, scallops, octopus and fish and happily recalled my introduction to ceviche in Mexico 20 years ago. She in turn shared a story of her first road trip from Vancouver to Tijuana as I restrained from devouring all of her Mixta Nikkei – a potato, spicy tuna and crab salad topped with crispy breaded prawn. She chose a delicious happy hour Pinot Grigio while I polished off a tumbler of Acaipirinha – cachaça with limes and sugar topped off a with a splash of purple açaí puree. This went down rather quickly, so I turned to Pinot Grigio for our second round while we nibbled on freshly baked bread dipped into a trio of mango, tomatillo verde and a third I can’t remember I was so fixated on the other two.

Diners sat back against jewel toned upholstery as white plates of the most beautifully presented food landed on tables around us. In the haze of convivial din, lively music and gorgeous food, I wanted to stay forever. Or at least delay the time til we had to meet the guys.

We prolonged our stay with an order of dessert as the guys began a flurry of texts on a meeting time for dinner (oops, we forgot about that). We settled on “a tiered semi-freddo of velvety lucuma and espresso mousses, chocolate ganache and crushed coca nib meringue with espresso shortbread.” Lucuma (thanks to their free wi-fi) is a Peruvian sub-tropical fruit, native to their Andean region. Everything about this light concoction with the bittersweet ‘nibs’ was a delight, right down to the crispy shortbread and edible flower.

I couldn’t resist one of their handmade Peruvian truffles for my husband – I chose the Loreto, passionfruit and apricots in milk chocolate. It served as peace offering for our delayed exit from Andina’s to join them for a steak dinner at Jake’s Grill, where Michelle and I poked at our salads.

Back at home, I find myself reading Andina’s menu now and again. Mochika’s Peruvian Cafe on West 5th and El Inka Deli in Burnaby are the extent of Peruvian dining in Vancouver.

Andina’s would be my top reason to return to Portlandia and one of the best restaurant experiences I’ve had anywhere. Sampling every one of the block long line-up of food carts would be the other reason. The Vietnamese pho cart was my go-to for a mid-day snack.

VFW Fall/Winter 2012: Byron Abad and Megan Mackenzie Jones

Vancouverites in their sartorial best gathered for VFW12′s 2nd night featuring LaSalle College International’s current students followed by 3 seasoned designers.

LaSalle’s Byron Abad’s 2nd term collection “Synikal” accomplished 2 fashion feats – making argyle look sexy and designing a sheer gown into a structural, edgy, wearable piece.

Megan Mackenzie Jones obliged once again with a spellbinding production styled with her signature wings, antlers and tantric choreography. She opened with a lilac number scattered with flowers, a sweet intro to her “dark, fatal seduction” pieces skillfully presented by her hand-picked models.

Vancouver Fashion Week Fall/Winter 2012 – Opening Gala, Opus Hotel

At first, the opening gala of Vancouver Fashion Week at Opus Hotel promised to be the frenzied chaos of galas past. Once we squeezed past the pink-carpet mayhem and were ensconced at a little table in the lounge, we were able to sip, nibble, and view the spectacle that the event delivered.

The crowd parted for two designer-creations, one in black, the other in white. Wings draped and ballooned the front skirt of the little white dress that surprised from every angle. Ruched, maribou-trimmed and cinched with white lace, the gown in black failed to upstage the dramatics of its model.

Guests can always be counted on to present their own definition of style. A best-friend duo incorporated the high/low trend with stripe and turquoise blocking accessorized with classic quilted Chanel bags. An alabaster-skinned brunette in tribal print maxi topped with a faux fur & leather cap and shrug finished her Siberian winter look with scarlet lips, liquid liner and a loaded attitude.

The boys didn’t disappoint – body skimming suits, tailored leather pants, a bow tie or two, “I just threw this on” chambray shirts and fabulous haircuts, long and short.

A few ensembles were to be admired for their fearlessness. A Marilyn-bobbed blonde in floral shift and scarf ensemble was particularly defiant. The persistence of short, tight-fitting satin dresses was baffling. My parking expired before my party date’s hissing threw us into a fashion gala quagmire.

Chinatown’s Chinese Cultural Centre gives new runway backdrop in the next 5 days for the likes of the fabulous Megan Mackenzie-Jones, Project Runway Canada’s Sunny Fong and international labels such as Brazil’s SODDI and UK’s AngelEye.

a mother’s watch

I looked down at my phone and saw that my brother had called twice. I glanced at my watch, saw that it was 8:17 am and called him. He picked up immediately and I said, “I saw you called twice, is everything ok?”

“Anne gave birth to a baby boy at 2:40 am this morning. I drove her to the hospital at 2 am.” I exhaled slowly and looked around the coffee shop. A series of questions tumbled out “What does he weigh? How is Anne doing? Have you picked a name? Who’s taking care of the twins?”

One of two black men in impeccably-fitted camel-hair coats ordering at the counter began to gyrate wildly and sing out in a rich baritone “Gooood mooooorrrrnniiing!!!”

The Saturday morning two days later, we awoke early to drive to Abbotsford. When we left the gray drizzle on the highway and entered my brother’s home, his 4-year old twins greeted us in pink tutus, tights and long sleeved t’s, bouncing a pink balloon on the pale yellow walls.

“Do you want to show them your messy room?” my brother prodded. Green painters tape tacked the girls’ latest drawings scattered across the pink walls above their trundle beds.

Later, we tiptoed to the master bedroom to meet Colin Marcus, his green striped mitts peeking from a tight swaddle. I bent down to inhale and listen to his rapid breathing, amazed that a being can be so tiny. On the ledge by the side of the bed, I see a photo of my brother, the cutest 3-year old in the world I told my husband. “With the biggest left ear,” my brother said.

We talked about how quick the labour was with Colin. My brother recalled Anne’s epidural ordeal with the twins, how the doctor punctured the needle in the wrong place and her entire lower half froze bringing on an emergency C-section and a low supply of breast-milk the first few days. Colin is a beneficiary of colostrum, the “first milk” that contains antibodies to protect the newborn against disease.

A week ago, I had a dream about our Nanay (“mother” in Tagalog). She was talkative, her voice as calm and more authoritative than I remembered. She said they were treating her well and that she was doing well in her job.  In fact, she said, she had had several promotions since she arrived.  It was good to see her, it had been a few years since the last dream.

Remade in Cuba

A tanned, scraggly, smiling remake of my husband returned home from a 10-day sojourn in the Miramar district of Havana, Cuba. A good friend who shares his love of cigars, the country and its people introduced him to his personal brand of Cuban travel. First, a rented house found by his Cuban friend Sergio. Next, a suitcase full of frozen Canadian steaks and sausages, balsamic reductions and cooking utensils. Last, a chock full of gifts for Sergio’s entire family.

My husband was quick to embrace his friend’s tried-and-trues. Sergio accompanied them everywhere, took them to the market to buy fresh farm eggs and vegetables. In return he was given access to a Canadian-organized cigar conference of events (many Cubans don’t smoke cigars). He joined them in their steak or sausage dinners and one night, he transformed freshly caught fish into breaded fishsticks.

They didn’t eat in every night. The tide of change happening in Cuba has seen the opening of more paladars (restaurants in private homes) which they explored under Sergio’s guidance. One of the best paladars we dined at last visit was now ‘just okay’. The fate of a paladar’s popularity is akin to that of our fickle restaurant world, though reasons behind it are entirely different.

Miramar is a district of embassy mansions a 15 minute taxi ride from the core of Havana. A couple of blocks off the manicured boulevards, their rented home was surrounded by local subsistence. The yard had no swimming pool and when they were hot, they took a taxi to the beach for a swim.

Both bedrooms had their own bathrooms. The open veranda held Cuban rocking chairs for each to claim from which to smoke endless cigars on. There was no slotted time for breakfast, lunch or dinner. His friend loves to cook and when he needed a break, Sergio or my husband took over ktichen duty. Evenings alternated between cigar festival events and live jazz perfomances in the neighborhood or Vedado district.

It wasn’t all rosy. His friend came down with a cold and couldn’t bring himself to smoke cigars the last 4 days. An old achilles tendon injury of my husband’s was revived. The culprit – a result of pushing the rocking chair back one too many times.

The morning after he returned, I reached into our cupboard for a bag of Cuban Serrano beans that he had brought home. The strong, nutty aroma filled our kitchen as I turned the grinder on for our morning coffee. Rain tapped rhythmically against the glass patio doors. “Is it me or is it warm in here?” my husband asked. I hadn’t turned the gas fireplace on. “You’re right,” I said, “It does feel warmer today.”

Jonathan Livingston Seagull and his girl

It was a cold, blustery day and our jaunt around Stanley Park had turned my bare hands blue and my best friend’s legs to tree stumps. Our seaside chat was running the customary gamut of fluffy (Angelina Jolie’s right-legged fiasco at the Oscars) to the unburdening of life travails. Her shocking reveal of a recent foray into bird-watching (she lives on Salt Spring Island) was suddenly diverted by a girl sitting on the seawall ledge, her hand outstretched to a seagull nibbling from her hand.

“I’ve been feeding him for a year,” the girl said to my friend. “He’s missing one web foot. He seems to know when I’m coming on my bike and waits for me on the ledge. I call him Jonathan Livingston Seagull.” Jonathan stood unmoving from his perch a few feet away as we looked on. I asked if I could take a picture of her and Jonathan and she hesitated, then acquiesced. “I’ll shoot it from behind you,” I promised.

As we began to walk away the girl said, “Don’t you just love birds.”

“They are pretty amazing,” my friend replied. “I just began watching them myself.”

a weapon of mass destruction

It was a thousand page science fiction book I gave my husband for Christmas. We were convinced someone was about to break into our casa room in Trinidad, Cuba and our only weapon of defense was a thick paperback. In stage whisper, he gestured how we would respond if someone burst through the balcony doors. I was to tap the plastic touch- tone lamp on my bedside table and he would hurl the book at the invader’s head. I would then tear for the door, run down the stairs into the street and call for help.

It had seemed like a good idea to get off our tour bus to explore Trinidad further. It was exciting to make that snap decision after asking a lady at the bus station how we would reach our final destination in Varadero. Then we asked if she could recommend a casa nearby. A few seconds after she uttered a few words into a telephone, we were rolling our suitcases over bumpy cobblestones to a storefront a few blocks away laden with crocheted linens, dresses and purses. The lady of the casa above the store was not returning from Havana til very late and we were to make ourselves at home. The shop clerk handed us our keys and led us up a curved staircase.

The far wall of our room had wooden double doors that led to an open balcony and a view of backyards, balconies and verandas of our neighbors. The Spanish colonial architecture in old Trinidad is well preserved but it was the vibrant energy and dominant Afro-Cuban population that intrigued me. The shadows that beckoned us to a paladar (restaurant in a private home) through dimly lit streets added to the mystery though I felt somewhat relieved to be seated in a bright and lively courtyard for our meal. I glanced around at tourists tucking into lobster, grilled fish and chicken, looking very happy and I relaxed.

After dinner, we saw a live jazz band at the square before retiring to our casa for the night. A half-hour after locking up both sets of doors and turning the lights out, we heard the front doors open downstairs. Muffled conversation followed and after awhile silence. An hour later, we heard a noise outside our balcony followed by footsteps which led us to our master plan of defense. We stared into the dark until we couldn’t and awoke to the crowing of a rooster and the sun beaming through the wooden shutters.

A woman was setting the balcony table for breakfast and smiled. We were convinced in the wee hours that we were pawns of a scheme involving the lady at the bus station who was in cahoots with the casa owner to rob us blind. We washed up, took our seats outside and greeted our diminutive hostess. In the beautiful Caribbean sun she talked about her day trip to Havana and I could see how tired she was. She brought plates of scrambled eggs, toast, papaya and guava, cheese, custard and poured strong Cuban coffee with warmed milk and sugar.

As we made our way out into the bustling street, my purse filled with crocheted linens, I looked back at the door above the stairs and smiled. Our custom was to leave behind a gift to the casa and this time, we were happy to bequeath our most dangerous possession.