Mornings

Creativity

The busier I get, the stronger the urge to be creative, and the harder it becomes to find time to create. The past couple of weeks I've been unable to stop thinking about writing, drawing, anything that involves the right brain more than the left. There are words scribbled on the back of receipts from time in waiting rooms, sketches of paramedic students who stood outside my window in anticipation of test results, and the desire to steal away from the city at dusk (once to mountains, now to farmland) to let my mind wander.

I need a structured outlet, and am going to attempt to write and draw a little every day. The former will probably be on this nearly forgotten blog, the latter can stay hidden in an unknown notebook.

Regret

Recently, in one of those conversations that I stumbled into while on my way somewhere else, someone told me proudly that she has no regrets about anything. I surprised her when I responded that I had many. But how else can I learn from my mistakes if I don't regret them? It's a painful, useful part of life.

A few months ago I was reminded of a decision I made my last year at Wellesley, one I wouldn't hesitate to exchange for its opposite if through some accident of time and space I were given the opportunity. For about ten years I've been involved with a couple of charitable organizations working to improve the lives of those affected by the accident at Chernobyl. These groups bring medical care to children, mostly in Belarus, who suffer from an alarmingly high rate of birth defects and cancer. In an already economically depressed country like Belarus, these kids have little chance of a decent life without external aid. Chernobyl Children International (CCI) is probably the most well-known and well-established of the charities dedicated to this cause. In 1993, the CCI founders produced their first documentary on the effects of the Chernobyl disaster, Black Wind, White Land: Living with Chernobyl. Ten years later, CCI announced the release of a second documentary, this time about the high rate of ventricular septal defect, nicknamed 'Chernobyl Heart', among children born in the Chernobyl region since the metldown. Chernobyl Heart went on to win an Academy Award, bringing international attention to CCI and the children of Belarus, western Russia, and northern Ukraine.

In the spring of 2004, I was nearing the end of my last year at Wellesley. Like most seniors, I spent the majority of my time in a mad rush to finish my studies and plan for my immediate post-baccalaureate future. It wasn't much of a surprise to open up my mailbox one morning and see, in addition to the usual bills and reminders from the college about graduation requirements, a letter from CCI. I was on their mailing list so I was used to the occasional newsletter, but it was the content of the thin envelope that was unexpected: an inivitation to a private screening of Chernobyl Heart at the United nations in Manhattan. The letter requested a prompt RSVP to ensure my security clearance was completed in time.

I immediately responded yes, but soon the the trip to New York looked less and less likely. My ancient Volvo was on its last legs (wheels, I suppose) and I wasn't excited about the possibility of ending up stranded on the side of the road somewhere in Connecticut. I considered the bus, but hanging around Port Authority in the middle of the night was not appealing either. At the time I didn't know anyone in the city I could stay with, nor could I (in my soon to be well-educated and completely unemployed state) afford a hotel. At last I made the decision not to go. I was disappointed, but I didn't see any way it could work.

A couple of days later, I was walking to my dorm from the parking lot after an evening out. I was just starting to cross the road when a car zoomed past, right in front of me. Something flew out of the driver's window, landing at my feet. I picked it up and saw that it was a map of Manhattan, which clearly showed the United Nations and its massive plaza between 1st Avenue and the East River Drive. I don't really believe in fate, or any explanation for strange and unlikely occurrences other than coincidence, but even I will admit it was eerie, and in that moment I felt colder than the early spring night could account for.



Even after this, I didn't go to Manhattan and so missed the screening of Chernobyl Heart. Periodically I've thought about this and felt the familiar sting of regret--if I could go back, I'd borrow a friend's car. Or see if there were any Wellesley alums in NYC who would let me sleep on their couch. Or or or...

It's certainly not the greatest regret in my life, but recently the event surfaced in my memory again, and I can't help but wonder what would have happened if I had gone. Who would I have met? Would I have made connections that could have changed the course of my career, my life? Perhaps it would have had no impact on my future at all. I'll never know, but I'll always remember the choice I made, and refer to it again when I think, "No, that's not possible..."

Vancouver

Eight weeks ago, not long after my last post on this blog, I spent a week visiting a few major Canadian cities for grad school interviews. The trip included just over 32 hours in Vancouver, a city I'd never visited but always felt familiar with after spending my formative years in the Pacific Northwest. It shared so many characteristics with Seattle and Portland that I constantly felt like I was just walking through a different neighbourhood in one of those cities.

I got a thrill seeing mountains again, first through the window of the plane and then again riding the (exceptionally convenient and pleasant) light rail downtown:


My hotel room gave me a view of the opposite, much taller hotel. But if I pressed my face to the window and peered right, I could see a blunt peak of the Coast Mountains, forested, dark in the rain-shadow, and hooked towards me like a half-bent finger. No beckoning needed: if I had ended up moving there, I'm sure I'd be headed for the mountains on my first free weekend.

The cherry trees were already blooming, while snow remained on the ground in Ottawa. I was overdressed and sweating from the time I arrived at the airport and stripped off my blazer as soon as I finished my interview.



I received many dinner recommendations but ended up going with a hole-in-the-wall Japanese restaurant where the servers barely spoke English and I recognized almost nothing on the menu (as well as a good deal of what was on my plate). It was a wise choice, and I happily strolled around for a while afterwards in the spitting rain to kill time before my red-eye back home.



Clever cups at the coffee shops I stopped at:



In the end, I won't be moving there, but I enjoyed my day and a bit on the strange and familiar west coast.

border

In the same vein as my previous post, before I ended up in Westmount Thursday before last I made a quick trip to Mile End. Not that I had the time--my train had arrived late thanks to debris on the tracks outside of Coteau, and I was due to meet a friend for brunch in the lower Plateau at 10--but I hadn't been to Cafe in Gamba in a few visits. Chief among my weaknesses might be an excessive fondness for high-end espresso, so I sought out a bus that would take me up Parc to Gamba's little spot north of Fairmount. As I've done a few times before, I missed the stop and ended up much further up Parc, around St-Viateur. Oh well, I can walk, even when it's -15 C. And walk I did, making excellent time as a consequence of wanting to get out of the cold as soon as possible.

Before I started to hoof it south (Montreal south, that is), however, I stopped to take the picture above. I like how the small restaurant Aux Lilas seems like it has been hastily stuck to the front corner of the older brick building behind it. It almost looks like a toy, bright lavender and tiny as it is.

I often say that I grew up in the country but the reality is that rural area was adjacent to a city afflicted with all the worst symptoms of suburban sprawl: strip malls, cookie-cutter housing developments, and the endless streets named after trees but with few of their eponyms in sight. Even the larger cities within a couple of hours drive suffered from the same sprawling characteristics of dull Western US cities. It's no a wonder to me, then, that I've always been attracted two unusual, eye-catching, and even quite strange examples of architecture.

The buildings of Philadelphia, West Philly near Penn especially, are awash in color. On streets with names like Pine and Hazel, with massive examples of their namesakes actually a part of the environment, row houses and old Victorians alike have been painted pink, bright green, and silver. A strange juxtaposition of beauty and the endemic violent crime in the area.

In Montréal this week, I was in Westmount for probably the first time other than driving down Sherbrooke on my way elsewhere. This small set of houses in the hyper-gentrified area of rue Victoria immediately recalled West Philly: