I am very stressed about the residential meditation “retreat” I’m doing this week. It started yesterday at 2 pm, didn’t end until close to 9 pm, and every day this week it runs from 7:00-8:30 am and 5:30-9:00 pm. Plus I’m one of three people responsible for providing a potluck dinner for the 15 participants tonight. The retreat ends next Saturday morning. I can’t make the grand finale because I have to do a presentation at a conference that morning. I’m one of the 33% of the population who fear public speaking more than death. Right after the conference I have to pick up a rental van, load it with several pieces of furniture and move them to Toronto. I’m also one of the 33% of the population who get more stressed at the thought of driving in Toronto than at the thought of dying.
We’re doing walking meditation as part of this retreat. Last night the weather was good, so a lot of people went to the parking lot to do their walking. I noticed a woman across the fence eyeing us with some alarm. In walking meditation you’re supposed to put all your attention on the feet and how they connect with the ground etc. etc. so people try and move very slowly. This tends to throw them off balance. So there we were, bodies lurching around the parking lot, blank expressions on our faces. I’m surprised the Kingston Police didn’t get a few hysterical calls about zombies in the area of Concession Street. On the other hand, we were in the Odd Fellows parking lot, so maybe people in the area are accustomed to witnessing strange behaviour there.
The type of meditation we are doing is Vipassana, or insight/mindfulness meditation. Over the weekend I went with some friends to a yoga B&B north of Kingston. On Saturday I got into a discussion with one of the other guests about his experience at a Vipassana retreat. It was one of Goenka’s retreats, a.k.a. Bootcamp Vipassana. The retreats usually last 10 days, and not only are you not supposed to communicate with anyone, but you also can’t eat after 12 pm, read, write, do yoga, or basically anything to pass the time. Peter thought the whole thing was very cult-like, and got into a heated debate about pre-Socratic philosophy with the retreat facilitator. I was impressed on two counts. First, since you’re not supposed to talk at all I was amazed at anyone being able to leap from silence to a rational argument about pre-Socratic philosophy. The most I would be capable of would be a befuddled observation about the weather. Second, I had never heard of pre-Socratic philosophy. I thought philosophy started with Socrates. Of course, just because something hasn’t yet been defined doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I’ve heard it said that there’s no term for “hot flash” in Japanese, so it must mean that Japanese women going through menopause don’t experience hot flashes. In one of the Inuit languages there are 50 different words for “snow”, or something along those lines. This supposedly indicates the importance of snow to the Inuit culture. My theory is that there is no word for “hot flash” in Japanese because they aren’t important to Japanese men. This is the country where, at least 20 years ago when I worked there, the women had to start work half an hour earlier than the men so that they could clean their desks for them.
I’m beginning to ramble, which sounds far too unfocused for a week that is supposed to be spent in a meditative state. I’m off to retreat into some chocolate…
Monday, April 28, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
United Nations declares 2008 International Year of the Potato
If someone were to ask me what three foods I would want if I were stranded on a desert isle, I would choose avocadoes, chocolate and pizza with pesto, feta cheese, sundried tomatoes, black olives, and pineapple. (Hopefully there would be the occasional shipwreck of an Indian vessel, so that I would be able to enjoy some naan, saag paneer, chana masala, tarka daal, dhosas, idli sambar and baigan bhartha as well.) And if there was a deep-fryer on the island I would sneak potatoes onto the list, since they are one of my favourite foods. I like to attribute this to genetics, given that my father's side of the family is Irish. This probably makes no sense from a scientific standpoint however (although my garden leprechaun disagrees). Even if food preferences are encoded in our DNA, potatoes were only introduced to Ireland in 1589 and I doubt the Irish would have evolved that quickly. Moose lumbered into Algonquin Park 11 thousand years ago but their population still hasn't evolved to the point of developing any resistance to the Brainworm parasite. If you believe all the jokes about the Irish* they wouldn't be able to do anything faster than a moose, or anything better than one for that matter (except possibly drink one under a log).
When potatoes were first introduced to Europe the populace shunned them. They were believed to cause leprosy, syphilis, scrofula, narcosis, sterility and rampant sexuality, although hopefully not all in the same person. Their poisonous reputation wasn’t helped by the banquet Queen Elizabeth I threw for some of the local gentry, which featured potatoes on the menu (perhaps, tiring of her virginal reputation, she was hoping for a postprandial orgy). Unfortunately, the cooks threw away the tubers and served the leaves and stems instead, which are poisonous. The tubers can be poisonous as well. If you notice any green under the skin it indicates the presence of solanine and chaconine, which are related to strychnine and almost as toxic. Potatoes probably spawned resentment as well as fear, due to the fact that bullies like Prussia’s King Frederick William ordered peasants to plant and eat them or he would have their noses lopped off.
Potatoes have come a long way from their misunderstood youth (admittedly a Eurocentric perspective – the Andean farmers had a great appreciation for the potato as far back as 7000 years ago). During the Klondike gold rush potatoes were worth their weight in gold because of their vitamin C content. Perhaps the Chinese labourers who helped build the Canadian Pacific Railway should have been given part of their meagre pay in potatoes, so that fewer of them would have died of scurvy. Today the potato is being hailed as the food of the future: they are nutritious, require relatively little land for cultivation and can withstand harsher climates than many other crops. Aside from their value as a foodstuff, they can be used as a peaceful weapon of resistance. One story has it that during the Soweto uprising in 1976 some youths painted a potato green and lobbed it at an armoured vehicle, causing everyone in the vehicle to leap out and flee. The youths then commandeered it. (Although potatoes are not a fruit, perhaps it would have been helpful if the South African police had studied Self-defense against Fresh Fruit as part of their training.)
Several years ago we did a family trip to Vancouver Island. In Tofino a number of people live on houseboats, since that’s the only local real estate that’s affordable for the average non-millionaire. I went on a kayaking trip one day and the guide mentioned that a friend of his had just moved his houseboat to the foot of a glacier. How wildly romantic, I remember thinking. Thoughts of wild romance and houseboats brought up memories of Dal Lake in Srinigar, Kashmir. At dawn the shikara would glide up and lure us from our red-velvetted Rajian splendour with promises of flowers, tea, jewellery and delectable Indian treats. We could do a similar thing in Tofino, I remarked to my younger nephew, who like me is a potatophile. We could get a boat, christen it The Spud Bucket, and sail around from houseboat to houseboat selling Belgian fries with gourmet dipping sauces (a nautical version of the divine Pommes Frites in New York).
Yet here I sit, still an unentrepreneurial landlubber, The Spud Bucket resting in the drydock of my dreams. But I have a bottle of vodka I keep in a drawer, ready to launch her when some irresistible sunset beckons…
* Two Irish hunters got a pilot to fly them to Canada to hunt moose. They managed to bag 6.
As they were loading the plane to return, the pilot said the plane could take only 4 moose.
The two lads objected strongly. "Last year we shot six. The pilot let us take them all and he had the same plane as yours." Reluctantly, the pilot gave in and all six were loaded.
However, even on full power, the little plane couldn't handle the load and went down.
Somehow and surrounded by the moose bodies, Paddy and Mick survived the crash. After Climbing out of the wreckage, Paddy asked Mick, "Any idea where we are?"
Mick replied, "I think we're pretty close to where we crashed last year."
When potatoes were first introduced to Europe the populace shunned them. They were believed to cause leprosy, syphilis, scrofula, narcosis, sterility and rampant sexuality, although hopefully not all in the same person. Their poisonous reputation wasn’t helped by the banquet Queen Elizabeth I threw for some of the local gentry, which featured potatoes on the menu (perhaps, tiring of her virginal reputation, she was hoping for a postprandial orgy). Unfortunately, the cooks threw away the tubers and served the leaves and stems instead, which are poisonous. The tubers can be poisonous as well. If you notice any green under the skin it indicates the presence of solanine and chaconine, which are related to strychnine and almost as toxic. Potatoes probably spawned resentment as well as fear, due to the fact that bullies like Prussia’s King Frederick William ordered peasants to plant and eat them or he would have their noses lopped off.
Potatoes have come a long way from their misunderstood youth (admittedly a Eurocentric perspective – the Andean farmers had a great appreciation for the potato as far back as 7000 years ago). During the Klondike gold rush potatoes were worth their weight in gold because of their vitamin C content. Perhaps the Chinese labourers who helped build the Canadian Pacific Railway should have been given part of their meagre pay in potatoes, so that fewer of them would have died of scurvy. Today the potato is being hailed as the food of the future: they are nutritious, require relatively little land for cultivation and can withstand harsher climates than many other crops. Aside from their value as a foodstuff, they can be used as a peaceful weapon of resistance. One story has it that during the Soweto uprising in 1976 some youths painted a potato green and lobbed it at an armoured vehicle, causing everyone in the vehicle to leap out and flee. The youths then commandeered it. (Although potatoes are not a fruit, perhaps it would have been helpful if the South African police had studied Self-defense against Fresh Fruit as part of their training.)
Several years ago we did a family trip to Vancouver Island. In Tofino a number of people live on houseboats, since that’s the only local real estate that’s affordable for the average non-millionaire. I went on a kayaking trip one day and the guide mentioned that a friend of his had just moved his houseboat to the foot of a glacier. How wildly romantic, I remember thinking. Thoughts of wild romance and houseboats brought up memories of Dal Lake in Srinigar, Kashmir. At dawn the shikara would glide up and lure us from our red-velvetted Rajian splendour with promises of flowers, tea, jewellery and delectable Indian treats. We could do a similar thing in Tofino, I remarked to my younger nephew, who like me is a potatophile. We could get a boat, christen it The Spud Bucket, and sail around from houseboat to houseboat selling Belgian fries with gourmet dipping sauces (a nautical version of the divine Pommes Frites in New York).
Yet here I sit, still an unentrepreneurial landlubber, The Spud Bucket resting in the drydock of my dreams. But I have a bottle of vodka I keep in a drawer, ready to launch her when some irresistible sunset beckons…
* Two Irish hunters got a pilot to fly them to Canada to hunt moose. They managed to bag 6.
As they were loading the plane to return, the pilot said the plane could take only 4 moose.
The two lads objected strongly. "Last year we shot six. The pilot let us take them all and he had the same plane as yours." Reluctantly, the pilot gave in and all six were loaded.
However, even on full power, the little plane couldn't handle the load and went down.
Somehow and surrounded by the moose bodies, Paddy and Mick survived the crash. After Climbing out of the wreckage, Paddy asked Mick, "Any idea where we are?"
Mick replied, "I think we're pretty close to where we crashed last year."
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Last one, I promise
I will end my joking spree with the only joke I have ever, in 47 years, been able to remember.
A rabbi has been performing circumcisions for years and saving the foreskins in a jar. The jar is finally full, and he decides to bring the foreskins to a tailor.
“Will you be able to stitch me something out of these?” he asks.
“Yes, no problem, come back in a week.”
The following week the rabbi returns to the tailor, who hands him a wallet.
“Is this all you were able to make out of all those foreskins?” asks the rabbi in disappointment.
“Aah, but this is a very special wallet” replies the tailor. “When you rub it it turns into a suitcase.”
A rabbi has been performing circumcisions for years and saving the foreskins in a jar. The jar is finally full, and he decides to bring the foreskins to a tailor.
“Will you be able to stitch me something out of these?” he asks.
“Yes, no problem, come back in a week.”
The following week the rabbi returns to the tailor, who hands him a wallet.
“Is this all you were able to make out of all those foreskins?” asks the rabbi in disappointment.
“Aah, but this is a very special wallet” replies the tailor. “When you rub it it turns into a suitcase.”
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
What's so funny?
They say that laughter is the best medicine. Like many pharmaceuticals however, there is the danger of overdosing. I once read about a man who died while watching Seinfeld: he laughed so much he had a stroke or a heart attack or aspirated a peanut or something like that. I almost died laughing when I heard this, although I'm sure the man's family was not amused. Laughing is highly infectious and often leads to decapitation or exploding intestines, although there are those who have a natural immunity to the bug. According to the dictates of natural selection then, unless we develop an effective vaccine the human race will eventually evolve into a dour lump, except in those places where The Origin of Species has been thrown on the burning book pile. Or maybe some dour lump, too impatient to wait for evolution, will devise a humourous eugenics plan involving this weapon of mass destruction (which, contrary to Dick Cheney's assertions, was hidden in Youtube, not Iraq).
Joking aside, laughter has been the subject of some serious research carried out by Dr. Richard Wiseman and The British Association for the Advancement of Science. They set out to find the funniest joke in the world. Here it is:
Joking aside, laughter has been the subject of some serious research carried out by Dr. Richard Wiseman and The British Association for the Advancement of Science. They set out to find the funniest joke in the world. Here it is:
Two hunters are out in the woods when one of them collapses. He doesn't seem to be breathing and his eyes are glazed. The other guy whips out his phone and calls the emergency services. He gasps, "My friend is dead! What can I do?". The operator says "Calm down. I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead." There is a silence, then a shot is heard. Back on the phone, the guy says "OK, now what?"
Thursday, April 10, 2008
That’s D-U-C-UCK
On my way to work the other day I passed two ducks swimming happily in a puddle. I don’t know much about birds -- as evidenced by the fact that I didn’t know that robins bark and whinny -- except that pigeons (in spite of their lovely cooing), starlings and Canada geese seem to be at the top of everyone’s ornithological hit list. (In my case I add loons, ever since one crazy as a loon loon popped up between me and shore and started flapping its wings wildly and thrusting its sharp beak at me. I was afraid I was going to go down in history as the first person to drown during a loon assault). If a pigeon, starling or Canada goose (or in my case, a loon) is crossing the road, they're a dead duck, so to speak. But people will stop traffic if it’s a duck. Ducks are almost universally loved, whether they’re gossiping on a riverbank, served up on a Peking platter, or taking on Elmer Fudd. What’s not to love about them? They have a daffily endearing quack* and waddle like little hausfraus moving determinedly to their next chore. Like dolphins they appear to be constantly grinning, although their little furrowed brows save them from looking like complete idiots. They’re not the brightest of creatures however (unlike Indigo Buntings, which are the border collies of the bird world). First, they are notoriously poor spellers. Second, they have no head for real estate. Last summer a duck chose to nest in a planter at the entrance to the liquor store (I hope they presented her with a bottle of Baby Duck when the eggs hatched). The store is surrounded by busy streets, and a constant stream of liquor lovers floats by. One website suggests making a lot of noise to get rid of ducks in your backyard. Based on the behaviour of Kingston's ducks, I think this is all wrong. I say if you have ducks in your backyard and you want them to move on, put in a zen garden. After meditating for a bit, the ducks will probably quack* “Screw this, I want to go where the action is” and waddle down to the liquor store to hang out there.
I had to smile when I passed those ducks swimming happily in the puddle. I probably looked like a complete idiot, in spite of my furrowed brow. I’m not the only one who finds ducks comical. This is what Wikipedia says about them:
And on that note:
A duck walks into a bar and asks "got any crackers?" bartender says no. Duck walks out. Duck walks in the next day and asks, "got any crackers?" bar tender says no. Duck walks out. Duck walks in the next day and asks got any crackers? Bartender says, "I told you yesterday and the day before that no! and if you ask that one more time I'll nail your beak shut!" Duck walks out. Duck comes back the next day and asks, "got any nails?" bartender says no. Duck says "good. Got any crackers?"
A man is driving a pick-up truck down the road with a bunch of ducks standing in the back. A police officer pulls over the driver and informs him that he is speeding and then asks him where he thinks he’s going with all those ducks. The driver says that he just doesn’t know what to do anymore. The officer says, “Look, there’s a zoo not far from there and that’s where you should be taking them. That will take care of your problem.” The man thanks the officer and drives off with his ducks. The next day the officer again sees the pick-up truck once again speeding down the road. This time, though, all the ducks in the back are standing there with sunglasses. The officer pulls over the driver over and says, “I thought I told you to take them to the zoo!” “I did that,” said the driver, “but now they want to go to the beach!”
*Whilst doing research for this post I learned that many ducks don’t quack, particularly if they live in Vermont, but up here in Canada they prefer quacking and tend to eschew other forms of communication such as barking, whinnying, whining and chortling.
I had to smile when I passed those ducks swimming happily in the puddle. I probably looked like a complete idiot, in spite of my furrowed brow. I’m not the only one who finds ducks comical. This is what Wikipedia says about them:
In 2002, psychologist Richard Wiseman and colleagues at the University of Hertfordshire (UK) finished a year-long LaughLab experiment, concluding that, of the animals in the world, the duck is the type that attracts the most humor and silliness; he said "If you're going to tell a joke involving an animal, make it a duck."
And on that note:
A duck walks into a bar and asks "got any crackers?" bartender says no. Duck walks out. Duck walks in the next day and asks, "got any crackers?" bar tender says no. Duck walks out. Duck walks in the next day and asks got any crackers? Bartender says, "I told you yesterday and the day before that no! and if you ask that one more time I'll nail your beak shut!" Duck walks out. Duck comes back the next day and asks, "got any nails?" bartender says no. Duck says "good. Got any crackers?"
A man is driving a pick-up truck down the road with a bunch of ducks standing in the back. A police officer pulls over the driver and informs him that he is speeding and then asks him where he thinks he’s going with all those ducks. The driver says that he just doesn’t know what to do anymore. The officer says, “Look, there’s a zoo not far from there and that’s where you should be taking them. That will take care of your problem.” The man thanks the officer and drives off with his ducks. The next day the officer again sees the pick-up truck once again speeding down the road. This time, though, all the ducks in the back are standing there with sunglasses. The officer pulls over the driver over and says, “I thought I told you to take them to the zoo!” “I did that,” said the driver, “but now they want to go to the beach!”
*Whilst doing research for this post I learned that many ducks don’t quack, particularly if they live in Vermont, but up here in Canada they prefer quacking and tend to eschew other forms of communication such as barking, whinnying, whining and chortling.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Mary Jane is dead
I have another problem, unrelated to my obsession with Lost. A friend is away for several months and asked me to go in once a week to water his two plants. When I got there yesterday one of them was brown and slumping. I realized that I must have forgotten to water them last week (so maybe this problem is related to Lost after all; I probably lost a week of my life watching Season 2). The problem is that they are pot plants, so I can't go to a nursery or the garden centre at Home Depot to replace the ailing one.
A few months ago my friend came for lunch and brought some brownies for dessert. I haven't been near any illicit drugs since my early twenties, or even many legal drugs for that matter. I was never one of those people who had a giggly, munchy kind of high. I remember my friend and I once bought a tube of Pillsbury chocolate chip cookie dough and made a giant marijuana cookie. I spent most of the night arguing with the wall and looking back over my shoulder to see if the giant rabbit was agreeing with me. This time round I started out feeling pretty good, then got more and more paranoid and began repeatedly asking if, then insisting that my friend was trying to poison me. That went on for hours, and ended with me throwing up (I'm wondering if cannabis and green tea share a common ingredient, because I once got violently ill from green tea as well.) He seemed to take it as a personal affront that a) I had not enjoyed myself and b) I had accused him of homicidal tendencies. He'll probably also take it as a personal affront that I killed one of his beloved plants. I wonder if I can get away with telling him to like, chill out man...
A few months ago my friend came for lunch and brought some brownies for dessert. I haven't been near any illicit drugs since my early twenties, or even many legal drugs for that matter. I was never one of those people who had a giggly, munchy kind of high. I remember my friend and I once bought a tube of Pillsbury chocolate chip cookie dough and made a giant marijuana cookie. I spent most of the night arguing with the wall and looking back over my shoulder to see if the giant rabbit was agreeing with me. This time round I started out feeling pretty good, then got more and more paranoid and began repeatedly asking if, then insisting that my friend was trying to poison me. That went on for hours, and ended with me throwing up (I'm wondering if cannabis and green tea share a common ingredient, because I once got violently ill from green tea as well.) He seemed to take it as a personal affront that a) I had not enjoyed myself and b) I had accused him of homicidal tendencies. He'll probably also take it as a personal affront that I killed one of his beloved plants. I wonder if I can get away with telling him to like, chill out man...
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Help! Someone get me off this damn island!
I have a problem. The problem is my dragonish but dear co-worker mm. Actually, the problem isn't her--it's her DVD collection. Up until two or three weeks ago I had never heard of Lost. Then one day mm comes into my office, holding Season One. Since that time I've made my way through what most of the normal world watched over a two-year period. One night I stayed up past midnight, then got up at 5:30 so I could watch two episodes before going to work. Last night I was supposed to meet a group of people for dinner. As soon as I got home from work I put on Lost, then decided to keep watching and didn't show up at the restaurant. How rude is that? (Don't bother responding, I already know the answer.) I've never done anything like that before. Plus, I missed the weird spectacle they were going to at Kingston's new Crock Centre (actually the K-Rock Centre, but predictably, it's known as the Crock instead. Not exactly the same, but when the Progressive Conservative and Reform Parties united to form the Canadian Conservative Reform Alliance, a journalist added “Party” to the name and dubbed them CCRAP. They soon changed their name to the Canadian Reform Conservative Alliance.)
The spectacle was advertised in this way: “They will blow you away with their amazing feats of strength and athletic prowess. Ripping whole telephone books in half, bending steel bars, blowing up hot water bottles til they burst, shattering stacks of concrete bricks, and other displays of power and might, leaves audiences breathless and screaming for more.” Where on earth am I ever going to get to see something like that again? Probably only if I crash on an otherworldly island where nobody knows what the hell is going on. So the next time I hear mm's siren song that begins with the lyrics “Would you like to borrow Season 1 of ...?” I'm going to plug my ears with beeswax.
The spectacle was advertised in this way: “They will blow you away with their amazing feats of strength and athletic prowess. Ripping whole telephone books in half, bending steel bars, blowing up hot water bottles til they burst, shattering stacks of concrete bricks, and other displays of power and might, leaves audiences breathless and screaming for more.” Where on earth am I ever going to get to see something like that again? Probably only if I crash on an otherworldly island where nobody knows what the hell is going on. So the next time I hear mm's siren song that begins with the lyrics “Would you like to borrow Season 1 of ...?” I'm going to plug my ears with beeswax.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Bridges
When you dream of bridges, supposedly it symbolizes the need to resolve something before you can move on with your life. Crossing bridges in the waking world can be just as challenging, particularly for those of us who suffer from vertigo. Sartre believed that vertigo is caused by a fear of jumping, not falling. Regardless of whether one is a vertiginous existentialist, every bridge crossing requires a leap of faith. Faith that the engineers have performed their calculations flawlessly, which isn't always the case. Think of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. The Tay Bridge. The Gawana Bridge. Some years ago I read an article about the Golden Gate Bridge. There was a design flaw in one batch of wires. They used them in the cables anyways, because such a large safety factor had been incorporated in the bridge's design that they thought they could get away with it. Perhaps every bridge building requires a leap of faith as well.
Kingston has a bridge that crosses the meeting place of Lake Ontario and the Cataraqui River. I like to stand on the bank of the Cataraqui where a Celtic cross commemorates the deaths – from malaria and work accidents – of close to 1000 Irish men who helped build the Rideau Canal (which starts at the other end of the river). From that point on the river there's a good view of the bascule bridge, which, according to Wikipedia, is “a moveable bridege with a counterweight that continuously balances the span, or "leaf," throughout the entire upward swing in providing clearance for boat traffic. Bascule is a French term for seesaw and balance, and bascule bridges operate along the same principle.” The bridge looks to me like a giant carivorous grasshopper, and I keep thinking that if I watch it for long enough, one day I'll catch it in the act of devouring a vehicle or two.
The bridge that I like to drive across starts in Mohawk territory (“Cheap smokes”) and crosses the Bay of Quinte, taking you to Prince Edward County. The county used to be known as the armpit of Trenton (itself a military base, and therefore far from being what Mrs. Slocombe would term elegantly appointed cleavage) but has left its Eliza Doolittle past behind, and is now a wine-growing region with a coastline that in places can fool you into thinking you're on the ocean. The bridge has a steep grade, so as you're slowing making your way up it you can't see the other side. You know that once you get to the top you'll probably see the expected downhill span, but still, there's a small and thrilling fear that perhaps a different scenario awaits. Like a parallel universe. Or maybe for some inexplicable reason, the other side of the bridge has vanished and it didn't make it into the news headlines.
Although bridges serve a practical purpose, not everybody wants them. A lot of islanders for example. When they first proposed building a bridge to Prince Edward Island there was lots of talk about how it would destroy whatever quality it is that makes an island an island. Reason prevailed over romanticism, and now the world's longest bridge over ice-covered waters (for five months of the year) leads to the island. The McCain Family can ship their potatoes more efficiently, and residents and tourists no longer have to wait for the plodding ferry service. Still, is an island with a bridge to it an island anymore, or is it an engineered peninsula? And where's the wild allure in that? You never hear anyone say that they want to run away to a desert peninsula. Why run when you can just hop in the car and drive there?
I'm of the mind that we shouldn't build bridges everywhere. Some things should remain out of easy reach.
Kingston has a bridge that crosses the meeting place of Lake Ontario and the Cataraqui River. I like to stand on the bank of the Cataraqui where a Celtic cross commemorates the deaths – from malaria and work accidents – of close to 1000 Irish men who helped build the Rideau Canal (which starts at the other end of the river). From that point on the river there's a good view of the bascule bridge, which, according to Wikipedia, is “a moveable bridege with a counterweight that continuously balances the span, or "leaf," throughout the entire upward swing in providing clearance for boat traffic. Bascule is a French term for seesaw and balance, and bascule bridges operate along the same principle.” The bridge looks to me like a giant carivorous grasshopper, and I keep thinking that if I watch it for long enough, one day I'll catch it in the act of devouring a vehicle or two.
The bridge that I like to drive across starts in Mohawk territory (“Cheap smokes”) and crosses the Bay of Quinte, taking you to Prince Edward County. The county used to be known as the armpit of Trenton (itself a military base, and therefore far from being what Mrs. Slocombe would term elegantly appointed cleavage) but has left its Eliza Doolittle past behind, and is now a wine-growing region with a coastline that in places can fool you into thinking you're on the ocean. The bridge has a steep grade, so as you're slowing making your way up it you can't see the other side. You know that once you get to the top you'll probably see the expected downhill span, but still, there's a small and thrilling fear that perhaps a different scenario awaits. Like a parallel universe. Or maybe for some inexplicable reason, the other side of the bridge has vanished and it didn't make it into the news headlines.
Although bridges serve a practical purpose, not everybody wants them. A lot of islanders for example. When they first proposed building a bridge to Prince Edward Island there was lots of talk about how it would destroy whatever quality it is that makes an island an island. Reason prevailed over romanticism, and now the world's longest bridge over ice-covered waters (for five months of the year) leads to the island. The McCain Family can ship their potatoes more efficiently, and residents and tourists no longer have to wait for the plodding ferry service. Still, is an island with a bridge to it an island anymore, or is it an engineered peninsula? And where's the wild allure in that? You never hear anyone say that they want to run away to a desert peninsula. Why run when you can just hop in the car and drive there?
I'm of the mind that we shouldn't build bridges everywhere. Some things should remain out of easy reach.
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