ST. JOHN'S, NEWFOUNDLAND
November 29th, 2004
Hey kids. Sorry I haven't been writing regularly.....I know you all enjoy having your email accounts clogged up with my gigantic messages just as much as you love all that spam telling you your penis isn't big enough. So HERE IS WHAT I'VE BEEN DOING! YAY! Christ I'm tired; maybe the occasional YAY! will keep me on my toes.
Finally did some touristy-type stuff - a friend from Halifax is in town on business and he borrowed the company cube van so that we could go for a drive to Cape Spear and just around in general. So we did the local tour of whatever roads you can fit a frickin' cube van down. "As you can see, that's the heart of Quidi Vidi Village down there, but.....ah, fuck it." Cape Spear is real purty-like. It is , of course, the easternmost point in North America, and there are lighthouses and ocean and rocks and stuff, and, best of all, a creepy old semi-underground battery you can wander around. Halifax David took an official tourist pic of me sitting by the Cape Spear sign so I could prove I'd been there.......but the bummer part is that you can see that if you hopped a fence and clambered out on the slippery rocks you could get even further east. And kill yourself! All right! Now that would be a photo!
Other adventures: okay, now, nobody freak out, but, yeah, I went hiking along Signal Hill trail in the middle of the night. It was three a.m. and I couldn't sleep (normal), threw on a coat of Nicole's and went out and threw some stuff in the mailbox (still not so weird), and ended up out until eight in the morning (what?!). It was a beautiful warm breezy night, with an almost summer smell in the air, and I just started wandering on an impromptu walk. Went down to the harbour (briefly considered stowing away on a ship - you never know, maybe I could get back to Mexico - for free!), and then ended up gravitating towards Signal Hill again. In the back of my head was the fact that I'd been told that night that sunrise on Signal Hill is an experience not to be missed (I had, of course, scoffed, "Me? Sunrise?! Pah!".....and here I was.)
Really an amazingly warm and lovely night. I trekked up the roads on the side of the hill and then into the parks boundary and along the side of the hill, sticking to the trail and staying close to the side so I wouldn't, you know, plummet to a painful death on the rocks below. I had to open my jacket and my sweater after a time because I was hot - honestly, St. John's rocks! It is WAY warmer here than it was in Halifax. There was no way I was going to find my way to the stairs that go up the side to the top of the hill in the moonlight - it was far too dark - so I just curled up on a nice soft bed of moss on the rocky promontory that juts out into the ocean underneath the hill. (I hate trying to describe this....go and look at tourist pics on the web if I don't make sense.) And THAT's when it got really bloody windy. I didn't even have a hat - I'd been going to the mailbox, remember - and no scarf, no watch, no water, no phone, no anything (hee hee). So needless to say, I didn't manage to fall asleep out there, but I didn't freeze either; I had my awesome warm waterproof boots on (the ones I hated, but now love!) and Nicole's coat kicks my coat's ass. I managed to pull my sweater up over my ears enough to ensure that I would still have ears in the morning. And I made a rudimentary lathe out of some grass and a rubber band - just like I learned on McGyver! Why did I need a lathe? You tell me.
Morning approaches and the sky is beginning to lighten, so I run like hell along the path and up the eighteen million steps to the top of the hill so I can look out from up on high. And I get to the top....and the sky is getting lighter...and lighter...and lighter......and the sun is completely covered by clouds. Nuthin. It came all the way up, and I didn't see it for EVEN ONE SECOND. But the sky was a stunning study in shades of.....grey. God dammit. And I'm thinking that a drink of water would be a good idea right now, and cursing my lack of preparation. I run around Cabot Tower looking for a water fountain - no dice, so I give up and decide to hop one of the low stone walls around the tower and sit in the grass for a bit before heading home - and in doing so, I nearly sprain my ankle on a BOTTLE OF WATER lying in the grass. SEALED. True North brand, from Newfoundland. I guess it had just dropped out of someone's bag or something. Either that or it's a service provided by Newfoundland parks: bottles of water and first aid kits randomly strewn around for idiot tourists.
Time comes to move on, and I jump back over the wall - and hear ziiiiiip! I've broken the zipper on the borrowed red jacket. So picture me on top of a huge hill, in the searing, screaming wind, fighting with a zipper and cursing the complete lack of a sunrise. Damn you, nature! Damn you, technology! I shake my fist at both of you! I didn't manage to fix it (until yesterday, when Nicole was on her way home from Ottawa), but it wasn't all that cold.....and it didn't start to rain until I was almost home. I AM LISA, FROM THE LAND OF SERENDIP. BOW TO ME. And I know it's silly to go hiking by yourself in the dark, but to any of you who have protective feelings toward me: I already did it. Ha ha ha. And I am fine. (And I promise never ever to do it again.)
I still hadn't caught up on that lost sleep when the time came for a proper urban adventure. Dancing! Dancing! Lots of dancing! Another night on the town with Nicole's crazy friend Pat, and this time some of his gang, who have names like Tiffany! and Krista Sue! And who freaked out when they found out that I am TWENTY NINE, which makes me, apparently, the oldest living human being they have ever seen. Anyway, that was a blast - we danced at a place that has no name but that everyone calls "the bar above Peddlers", because.....well....it's above Peddlers. And ended up at a silly after hours dance club called "Liquid Ice". Ooooooh, how cool. I am so old. What I did love, and I think this is because this town is so small, is that there is no self-imposed social segregation in the way there can be in Toronto. The gay bar is the straight bar is the everybody bar. Everyone dances together! (Except the cripples. They can get their own damn bar.)
I have seen four black people in St. John's. And I can't prove that two weren't just the same dude on two separate occasions.
Went home, couldn't sleep, then up for brunch with Crazy Charlie, and then to the Santa Claus parade! So, yeah, if you're wondering where Santa is, we've got him in Newfoundland. He's down to the pub, gettin' loaded and kissin' cod. The parade was fun. Thank God I don't get hangovers, cause boy, those cadet bands were givin' it all they got. And then some.
Oh yeah, it's been decided (by Halifax David, and cute Newfoundland Nick, and me): Halifax boys. St. John's girls. For general hotness, I mean. There are obviously exceptions. But in Halifax, everybody dresses the same - and on the guys, the lumpy sweaters and the baggy jeans and messy hair are just adorable. They manage to be scruffy and stubbly, but still look clean. But it takes a particular kind of girl to really elevate the lumpy sweater look. (And the stubble? Yi.) In St. John's, the girls are kinda funky and cool (witness Underhay), wheras the guys, a lot of them, are just so much grease. The boys said theyd been out with some female friends, and the local "skeets" kept approaching, and using the ever irresistible opening line "dance or wha'?" I dunno.....maybe it works for them sometimes.
Anyway, I'm about to get kicked out of this bookstore....so this is the last you'll hear from me. (I'm about to hop a cargo boat to......somewhere.) Nicole is home as of last night, so I'm out of here! One more day - I'm recording some voice-over stuff tomorrow, before I go (how to get a gig in Newfoundland: answer the phone) and then back to T.O. Wednesday a.m. See some of you there.
Love Love Love,
Leese Leese Leese
can't stop the rock
THE ROCK (no, i don't mean the wrestler)
ST. JOHN'S, NEWFOUNDLAND
November 13th, 2004
HELLOOOOOooo TORONTO! (And Halifax, and Montreal, and Ottawa, and Niagara-on-the-Lake, and Calgary and Vancouver, and what have you.) I hope you are all well and feelin' fine and fancy. This finds me slightly chilled (in both the temperature and groovy temperament senses of the word) In St. John's. Which rocks. Newfoundland, so far: I dig it, man. It is coooo.
First of all, I guess I should confirm and/or spread the news: no, i'm not going back to the Shaw Festival next year. Yes, I will be in T.O. No, it is not the end of the world. Yes, I'm doing that show at Passe Muraille. No, I don't have an apartment yet. So, YES, if you hear of one (for Feb-ish) let me know. Now everyone can stop sending me hinty messages about what my offer is for next year (is that what all that hinting and winking in your email was about, Madden? - I couldn't figure it out for the life of me). And sorry, Mr. Schurmann, but you'll have to get some other sucker to write SNAG skits for you.....okay, I'll give it some thought, but I expect cash for that type of thing from now on.
Anyway, nobody who knows me well should be too surprised; as you all know, I am not very talented AND I'm notoriously difficult to work with. I'm just surprised that I flew under the radar for so long! My only real contribution to the company was shakin' my booty rather well at dance parties. And I'm told I'm still welcome to do that. (Collective sigh of relief.) Anyway, don't cry for me, Argentina. Or St. Catharines.
On with the show (this is it)....
Had a great final week in Halifax. Stayed a little longer (and a little longer and a little longer...) and didn't go until I'd caught some bands at the Halifax Pop Explosion. "How cute", you say? How cute, indeed. Some good stuff. Quite dug controller.controller (Oakey did not). Arcade Fire, who were THE HOT BIG THING are not really my style - I wish the eighties would go back where they came from, and curl up and die already - but they do put on a HELL of a live show. My favourite though, was an adorable little outfit from P.E.I called Two Hours Traffic. Pop personified: they were young, and cute, and had screaming girl fans (from Ottawa!) and everything. I even got to flirt with one of the boys in the band, who was cute as a puppy, and just as young. Spent the rest of the night hanging with boring old Oakey and boring old Daryl Cloran and boring old Matt McFadzean and old boring C. David Johnson (who are doing Three In the Back, Two Up My Bum at Neptune). Oh, I helped with the strike of the show in the space before them, so I was officially involved in two Halifax shows during my vacation. Gosh, I'm useful.
St. John's is little and pretty and smells good. One of the finer smelling places in Canada, as far as I'm concerned. It seems there's always a nice fire going somewhere, and the air is crisp and clean and oceanic. And, yeah, people are nice. Damned nice. They follow me everywhere, dashing garlands in my path and singing songs of love and peace and harmony. I woke this morning to the strains of a Catholic boys choir serenading me with "What's so funny 'bout peace love and understanding?" underneath my bedroom window. Annoying, really. I threw a shoe at them and told them to fuck off. I mean, it's nice to feel welcome and everything.....but you gotta draw the line somewhere. I'm from Scarborough, for god's sake.
I'm currently over at Charlie Tomlinson's house using his computer to send this off. He's Jessica Lowry's friend and worked with her on her production of Jewel (sorry Jess, I missed you by about two days!), and some of you know him from his teaching days at U of A and from other places, and he is officially my third Newfoundland friend! I can't count Nicole, cause she's not actually here, though I am getting warm friendly vibes sleeping in her bed. Sometimes a little too friendly, in fact. ("Hey, lay off me, vibes! This ain't that type o' party!")
Charlie and I met up last night and had a rip roarin' ridiculously decadent time. We celebrated your birthday in grand style, you'll be happy to know, Mom, moving from drinks at the good aul' Ship Inn to dinner at one a them real fancy-ass places (Ruby's, i think? Jeanie's? Somebody's, anyway....) for a way too expensive dinner, all the way from champagne to creme brulee. Ahhhhh, creme brulee. Happy birthday, Mama. I done ya proud.
My other St. John's friends (so far), I met up on scenic Signal Hill, where they actually live. (It's like its own little village up there, and quite wonderful. I was wandering around up on the hill (Beautiful! Spectacular! Astounding! I am not, for once, being ironic!) and met Denys and Ulricha out walking their dog, Lupin. They invited me for tea, and made sure to reiterate the invitation several times, so that I would know they weren't just being polite. So I wandered off for another couple of hours (Amazing! Breathtaking! One of the most gorgeous places I've ever been!) and then had to climb back up to their house from where I'd landed myself. I huffed and I puffed....
Of course, I wasn't entirely sure I'd find the house as they'd kind of gestured vaguely and told me to "look for the house with the curvy drainpipe" - maybe they were trying to ditch me after all - but I did. And we had a lovely chat, and I felt very proud of myself for resisting my snooty Toronto instincts and actually showing up. Ulricha (who is a cool lady who works in a dive shop) has gone to Germany now to visit family. So now I'm down to two friends. But Denys has invited me up to their cottage in Brigus (on the other side of Placentia Bay) if the weather is good and he decides to do a day trip there. Dogs and cottages - yay!
It's a funny thing (and I've encountered it before), but the nicest, most friendly people in the world will never hesitate to tell me how much they hate Toronto. Or how much they hated it in the four hours they spent there one afternoon on their way through... I know that Toronto is the place all Canadians love to hate, and I don't expect everyone to dig it by any means, but....well, that's just a little rude, isn't it, considering I've just told them it's my hometown? I just can't imagine people doing that to people from anywhere else ("Moosejaw? Hated it."). It's like they feel a personal obligation to knock me down a peg, let me know that my city ain't so hot. But, hey, I never said it was the centre of the universe. I'm the centre of the universe, everyone knows that. And I'm in St. John's!
Anyway, my babies, I'm off for more windy rocky goodness! (I brought the good weather here, by the way - it had apparently been nothing but rain 'til I arrived, and it was really mild my first few days.)
Oh, and for those of you (Michael) who want to know, I have thus far avoided all kissing of fish. And i think there might be a statute of limitations on getting screeched in. By the time Nicole gets here, it'll be too late for her to make me do it; i'll have successfully flown under the Newfie radar long enough that they'll have to let me slide. That's my theory, anyway. But what do I know, I'm from Scarborough.
Lots of love from me and The Rock (and yes, I mean the wrestler),
Lisa
haliPHAT
HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA
Oct 30th, 2004
Hola amigos y amigas!
Writing you from tropical Nova Scotia, where I am working on my tan and practicing my Spanish with the lovely locals (take that, Jamie Burnett.... you big Chilean looozer!).
Yes, my loves, I have arrived safely, soundly, and have in fact been here for a week but been too lazy to touch base with almost all of you..... sign of good leisure time - couldn't possibly type a word. Things are laid back and cool here, as usual.... I'm doing my best to fit in, but I own only one toque and not a single pair of hand-knit Acadian socks (Oakey has around fifty, I think.) Also, nobody here but me (and the occasional sad little goth girl) seems to have black hair. I feel conspicuously like a South American exchange student amidst all this wool and freckle and sandy hair....I went to see The Motorcyle Diaries the other day (worth seeing...and my boyfriend Gael is quite good in it) and felt like hugging the group of Spanish-speaking Latin-Americans in the crowd. ("Hermanos! Hermanas! You look....like me!") But I digress. What else is new?
Those of you who don't know what the hell I'm on about, I'm here visiting Christine Oakey, who is a Shawfest friend, until Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday or so (decisions, decisions) and then on to St. John's, Newfoundland for a month or so to laze around in the empty home of Nicole Underhay (another Camp Shaw buddy). Ahhhhh......unemployment. I mean vacation, vacation, dammit! I actually meant to do this! Newfoundland in November.....what was I thinking, you ask? I'll get back to you on that.
The train ride here was lovely.... I do recommend a big ol' long distance rail trip to those who have the time. Scenic and peaceful and all that. And I did the single bedroom thing (a tiny little berth about the size of my foot) which is great for someone like me who doesn't always feel like small talk....and who wants to stay up till 3am and sleep until I feel like it. Turning out the lights and watching the moonlit countryside slide by was absolutely serenely beautiful..... and there really is something about watching all of that track lay itself out before you that's conducive to taking stock, to considering where you've been and where you're heading (in the grand sense, I mean) and THINKING ABOUT LIFE in general. Also, I took some good pictures of my feet. Oh, and no intrigues on the train, Alison, unless you count THE MYSTERY OF THE INCREDIBLY DRUNKEN MAN. How did he get so impressively loaded? An hour into the train ride? How did the poor staff put up with him? And why, Inspector, wouldn't he SHUT THE FUCK UP? Again, lovin' the private berth.
Halifax has been ideal thus far. Oakey went into tech on her show (The Fighting Days, by Wendy Lill, celebrated playwright and Member of Parliament) just after I got here, so we haven't been able to hang out a ton (although we did spend Sunday in P.E.I. - hooray!). That means I've had a lot of time on my own to wander around, which is always fine by me. Since I was here last year, I don't feel a lot of pressure to do toooristy things, having already hit some of those; so I can just walk and explore and window shop and read and catch up on movies. And see some plays. And eat and drink. Oh, and work out - one week 'trial' membership at the Y: zero dollars. Ass of steel: priceless.
Shawfolk, circa 2001: had drinks with Joe Wynne the other day, who is great and about to release an album with his band, Aide de Camp. He told me the name of it, but it was something eminently forgettable. Obviously. I suggested something much catchier, of course.....which I have since also forgotten. And Sharry (Sherry? Shari? Shit.) Smith is in Oakey's show, and is wonderful, both in the play and otherwise. Good show. Went to the opening, and even did some unwitting schmooze. Oh yeah - I helped out when they were rerecording a sound cue the other day, so for the next three weeks in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, you can hear me yelling at a World War One conscription rally. (Look at me! I'm a big actor!)
Went for a long stroll through Point Pleasant Park yesterday, where I've never been (okay, Mom, maybe as a kid, but I don't remember that). It must be quite strange there for people who knew it pre-hurricane. It seemed quite strange to me. But still very beautiful of course, and an amazing way to spend a perfect sunny, blue-skied unemployed day. Staring out at the water seems to be a universal pasttime; you see people doing it all over the world. What are we all looking for out there? Anyway, I'm very good at it, and Point Pleasant is an ideal place for it. Another day of walking around and being quiet and reflective, which is actually what I am, believe it or not, when I'm not busy being so damn noisy. Any big revelations so far? Perhaps. Ask me about it some time. I did meet one person in the park, but that was creepy, heavy breathing guy (hobbies: pushups, stalking and staring), who thought I was "very eenterestink yunk lady". Which I am. I made it a point to be pleasant.
On the way there, I found myself on a side street, desperately needing to pee, so I invaded the campus of St. Mary's University (established 248 BC - God, I love the Maritimes....so old!) in search of a toilet. I was afraid that I wouldn't fit in with all the students (where were my sweatpants?!), but I had locked doors opened for me, directions given.... it reminded me of a time when Dean Carter and I, a year and two out of theatre school respectively, found ourselves wandering onto the U of T campus during frosh week. We were feeling at sea having no new exciting purpose to our lives in September after fifteen years of back-to-school, and were delighted that we not only blended in, but were given free stuff just for being there. I briefly considered sneaking back regularly for free lectures, but as it turned out, I wasn't really interested in free knowledge. Just free pizza.
Anyway, I'm off, dearies.... big day tomorrow running around screaming in the Museum of Natural History with Xine, and then off to see The Syringa Tree (starring Carmen Grant) at Neptune.... and then a tickle trunk hallowe'en party!
Do you love the fact that my stoopid mass email from stoopid Nova Scotia is longer than emails you get from people who are in Europe or Africa? Or do you hate it with all your heart and soul? 'Cuz that's okay, too. Either way, get used to it. It may be a long cold month in St. John's.
Happy Halifaxowe'en!
Love,
Leese
a vacation within a vacation
SAN BLAS, MEXICO
March 21st, 2004
That's right, relaxing in Mazatlán was just getting to be too much for me, so now I'm relaxing in San Blas instead.
San Blas is a sweet laidback little town a few hundred kilometres south of Mazatlán (northwest of Guadalajara), to which I came primarily to check out the jungle boat tours....but it's also probably good that I got out of Mazatlán before I murdered the dog across the street.
Took a bus (two, actually) yesterday. There's no direct route, so I had to take a bus past here to Tepíc, and then backtrack north again on another bus. Nine hours. To a town two hundred and ninety kilometres away. Yeah. You do the math.
Intercity buses here are quite the experience. (As are Mazatlán city buses - I'm three for three getting lost on those - but that's another story.) And the experience seems to be mostly about...eating. The bus stops anywhere people are selling anything edible - which is, well, everywhere - and vendors get on the bus and walk up and down the aisle selling grilled corn, tamales, cookies, cakes, raw veggies to snack on, whatever. We also stopped at a roadside rest stop for a meal. The driver said we were stopping for half an hour but it was almost an hour before we got going again. Thank God I took the comfy air conditioned bus - because then.....
Traffic was backed up, and we stopped for about half an hour and waited and wondered what was going on. Finally our young upstart bus driver (he actually looked like you incognito, brother-in-law Sam...similar features but with these crazy gigantic sideburns) decided he'd waited long enough, and passed the convoy of backed up vehicles. driving on the wrong side of a skinny hillside road, squeezing up close to the rocks to let oncoming traffic pass, other drivers pointing at us, shaking their fists, shouting....
I counted sixty pulled-over cars until we got to the cop at the front of the line....who gave our driver a good dressing down and, after another quarter hour or so, waved us through. Two tractor trailers had collided coming around a corner. The cab of the one going in our direction was pretty banged up on the driver's side....and the whole truck looked like it had come dangerously close to getting knocked clean off the hillside. Of course, our driver then sped like a maniac for the next little while to make up time, which was especially disconcerting considering the proliferation of roadside headstones for all the people who've been killed along that way.
All in all a very eventful trip...with an interesting side effect; I got off that seven-hour bus ride understanding Spanish about a million times better. Just being surrounded by locals for that long, everything started to get clearer. At first I thought it was just that they were getting tired and therefore slowing down - and that's partly true, but it seems to be still working! Today I was an absolute champion at Spanish - until my lack of sleep last night caught up with me and I became a moron.
I'm staying in this adorable cheap little hotel a block away from everything, in the cutest, most bizarrely multicoloured room. Very comfortable....I think I was only awake all night because of the imaginary bugs. This town is famous for its supposed epidemic of jejenes, a type of vicious biting sand fly that is so small you can't even see it. Jejenes are one link down the local food chain from shrimp, but apparently the shrimp have been so horribly overfished (overshrimped?) here that nothing is eating the jejenes. I'd been warned, I'd read, I'd read some more....and I haven't been bitten. Even once. Either these flies have gotten way more publicity than they deserve....or I'm just not very tasty. (Also I've been using this repellent that I picked up in Mazatlán which smells absolutely heavenly.) Just the idea of these things, though, was enough to make me feel like I was getting bitten all the time, and I tossed and turned most of the night. Did learn that the word for "bugs" here is "bichos", which I just love because it sounds so much like "bitches", and that seems awfully fitting...as in, "Dem bitches is really bad today." "Dem bitches done bit me all over."
The boat ride upriver into the jungle was quite beautiful. And I did get to see some real live crocodiles, though when I went swimming at the end, not even one attacked me. More evidence that I'm not very tasty?
Back to Mazatlán tomorrow - hopefully not nine hours this time. Fly to Mexico City on Tuesday and then heading back to y'all bitches on Wednesday.
Oh - here's a thought:
On the bus, there was an inflight movie. That's not important. But before the main feature was this ad from the Mexican board of tourism that was like a cheesy music video showing things to see all over the country - with an accompanying cheesy song (with English subtitles) telling you where to go, so to speak. And the refrain was this:
This is how Mexico feels,
This is how Mexico feels,
Like lips on your skin. (oh my!)
This is how Mexico enfolds you,
This is how Mexico tastes,
This is how you wear Mexico on your skin.
(Why Mexico, I never knew you cared!) The "oh my" is mine. But the rest of the lyrics are for real. And I'm thinking that staid old Canada could take a cue here - what do you think?
This is how Canada feels,
Like somebody sucking you off
Behind the arena.
Like a cold beer and a hard cock;
This is how Canada tastes.
Okay, so maybe I've been alone with the crocodiles too long. But think about it.
Adios por ahora, my bunnies,
Lisa
are you there god? it's me in mexico.
MAZATLAN, MEXICO
March 11th, 2004
Hey my little Canadian monkeys. What's a happenin'? All continues well here in Mazatlán....
You'll be happy to know that I can now settle that age old debate. Once and for all:
School suks! Yes, everywhere! School, in fact, sucks even more in a place like this, when you know you could be at the beach instead, tanning yer ass instead of conjugating verbos.
I now hold a diploma from the Reallyreallyinsanelyridiculouslyfastschoolof spanish, which I attended all last week. It was quite tough, but I'm really glad I did it. Halfway through the week, I was losing my mind a bit: four hours of private instruction each day (with teachers who don't speak english, so you know it's gonna be intense) plus three or four hours of homework each night. And the homework would be stuff like: go home and review everything you learned today, plus teach yourself the past tenses of -ar, -ir and -er verbs, and memorize a hundred new words. Then the next day, we'd spend about a minute going over that, and MOVE ON! It was nuts. It was great at the beginning, but as my brain became a messy jumble of new, half-digested information, I just wanted to scream "I don´t need to know all the spelling exceptions for the third person forms of -ir verbs in the preterite tense! I don´t care!" I am quite happy to bumble around speaking in only the present tense all the time. I mean, me talk pretty one day, but for now...
Besides, I think talking only in the present tense would be good for me as an actor, you know? An exercise in living in the moment. Anyway, it was all good in the end: on the last day of class (which I had actually considered skipping, I was dreading it so), I realized, mid-rant, that I was able to express, in spanish, that I didn´t understand anything, that the homework was too complicated, that I got the exercises while I was doing them, but forgot everything afterward....
I couldn't complain like that a couple of weeks ago! I'll be ranting and raving all over Mexico in no time, you watch me.
So far, in spanish, these are a few of my favourite things:
If you are embarassed, don't say you are embarazado. That would make you not embarassed (well, maybe) but pregnant.
To be constipado is to have a cold.
Food can be caliente (hot), but if you're hot, say "tengo calor". "Estoy caliente" means "I´m horny".
In spanish, there is no separate way to say "I want" and "I love". They are both quiero. So you can't possibly tell someone you want them ("Te quiero") without saying you love them. Interesting. I'm sure this has caused more than one misunderstanding over the years. ( When are these crazy Mexicans gonna get it together?)
So...life since my big long school term....
Good....and lazy. Very lazy. It hasn't exactly been one long siesta, but uhipe q+´0o´kp ñan lkaakuhoiaiapdwqqñl´´ohjoihoipphjohoaewqrdzgfr xgdhgt8 9769uyoi'80u0pijpo324ñlkñ{
Sorry...fell asleep on the keyboard for a minute there.
Lots of reading, eating, snoozing, walking around. A couple of movies. You´ll love this, Xine - I have seen the Cold Mountain trailer twice since I've been here...and I'm sure I will again. I thought you were out of my life, Cold Mountain! Last time, I decided to make a game of it and see how much of it I had memorized. I didn't do too badly. But I think a group of locals sitting nearby thought I was nuts when they saw me mouthing "Mah last thread of cuhrage is to wait" and emoting along with Zellwegger's weather report. I'm sure the ads for the DVD will be on TV nonstop when I get home. Kill me now.
No, wait! Don't kill me yet! I've got reading to do! So far: The Navigator of New York, Invisible Monsters, Ooh Ah Oh Wilderness (thought I should read this little skit I'm going to be doing), Man and Superman (ditto), Lolita, and yes, Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret?. Let me explain. Yes, I have read Are You There God before (they won't let you buy your first bra until you write a test on it). But Kimwun and I recently had the brilliant idea of starting an adolescent book of the month club, in which we reread all those stupid books we loved as prepubescents ( Judy Bloom, Gordon Korman - God I had such a crush on Bruno. Or was it Boots?- etc.), starting with Margaret. The real beauty of it is that you can read these little books in an afternoon - wasting as little of your time as possible, allowing you to continue reading whatever else you're reading. who's in?
The really weird thing was that I read Margaret while between books one and two of Lolita (an old favourite that I'm paying a visit to). And they got a bit mixed up in my drowsy mind. Leaving me with something like Are you there, God? It's me, Lolita. By Judy Nabokov. A very weird book. Who's the villain, anyway? Humbert Humbert....or that catty little shrew Nancy Wheeler? Actually, it was really difficult taking Margaret's problems seriously while poor little Lo was getting banged across America. Who cares if you haven't gotten your stupid period yet and don't know what stupid religion you are?! Lolita's takin' it three times a day, for chrissake!! One day, when I finally decide to go to university, I'll write a brilliant paper comparing the two. Wait a minute, no I won't: yooniversity suks!
Speaking of little kids, I love this internet place, because it's the converted front room of a family home....and there is always this adorable little girl (about three) wandering in and visiting. The other day she was trying to hide the family puppy ( a cute little poodly thing) under my desk. Today she's slightly obsessed with my tattoo. Very cute.
Oh (Gregg, you needn't read this bit) - my friend Gregg sent me an email in really bad spanish, courtesy of one of those translation websites. Don't do it. But the great thing was that he then had it translate everything back into english, with mostly hilarious results, and the truly wonderful discovery that "Hello Ms. Lisa" ended up as "hello smooth señorita". So, with a slight adjustment, I have finally found my superhero name, and would appreciate if you'd all address me from now on as: Señorita Smooth.
And another favourite thing:
In Mexico, it is customary to sign off a letter, even one to the most casual acquaintance with un beso (a kiss) / besos or...
Un abrazo (a hug),
Lisa
(Except for the "Lisa" part. That's not so customary.)
¡hola babayyys!
MAZATLAN, MEXICO
March 1st, 2004
I'll try to keep this brief....
Cuz I've got HOMEWORK!!!!
That's right, boys and girls, today was little Lisa's first day of school. Taking a Spanish class all this week, four hours a day, plus an optional hour of pronunciation practise every morning. I think I can only afford one week, unfortunately, but that's a good start. Of course, the most difficult thing for me will probably be having to be there at 8:30 every morning. It's at the Centro de Idiomas ("language centre", obviously, though this dumb old - well meaning, very nice - broad from Ottawa had actually told me it was the CENTRE OF IDIOMS. Like something from Star Wars.
So excited.... I actually went out and bought notebooks and pencils.(And I have these awesome new erasable gel pens that I got at Zellers before I left home, they are sooo cool.... yes, okay, fine, I´m a nerd, but they really are the greatest thing since sliced bread (which is overrated anyway). Resisted the temptation (thus far) to use this as an excuse to buy a whole new wardrobe of kicky mexican clothes. ("I am not blowing my money, I'm back to school shopping.")
This school teaches group classes, but I ended up being the only one in my group. (Is it on my file wherever I go; does not play well with others?). Luck of the draw, I guess. It makes class a bit more daunting, because it's always me on the hotseat....but I also don't have to wait around for other people, who are inevitably not as bright as I am, to catch up to my level of brilliance.
Mornings are with Gloria, who is awesome, and very tough. I sat in on one of her classes last Friday, and was a little afraid I'd get her, but was also amazed at what she had taught to a bunch of beginners in the course of a week. The afternoon is conversation class with Ana, who today seemed distinctly unimpressed by me and my pathetic lack of vocabulary until the end of the class, when she asked me where I had studied Spanish before, and I told her that I hadn't. Anywhere. She was properly impressed, the natural order of the universe was restored, et cetera.
And you were right, Mom, it happens quickly. I'm up to talking like a retarded five year old already. I'll be jabbering away like one of these crazy Mexicans in no time. Now if only I could understand what they were saying...
Mel, you can tell I've been staring at Spanish too much...I've forgotten how to speak English. When Nicole emailed me that your address was agalnamedmel@hotmail, I stared at it for minutes wondering what in God's name an agal na med mel was. Idiot. (Me, not you.)
I guess I'm getting rather tanned, because the tourists all think I'm a local. It gives me a great ability to fly under the radar here: the Mexicans can tell I'm a tourist, the Americans think I'm Mexican, everybody leaves me alone. I was at a restaurant yesterday (on the Malecón, watching the sun set over the ocean, enjoying the most incredible seafood soup IN THE WORLD - God, I love this town) and this American guy walking by noticed my book sitting on the table (Invisible Monsters, by Chuck Palahniuk). He asked, in Spanish, if he could see it. I said (also in Spanish) sure, and he looked at it for a few seconds, then blinked and said, still in Spanish, "but you´re reading this in English!" I told him that I was Canadian. He had a heart attack. Turns out his wife, over at his table, is from Toronto. Small world.
After leaving that place (following some dumb girly drinks and plenty of entertainment courtesy of the singing bartender, crooning along with a mixed tape someone donated to the place in 1984 - "Welcome to dee hotel caleeeforneea....we aben´t ads that speereeet here seence nineteens sitchty nine"), I went over to the sea wall to meet... the potsmoking reggae-playing surfboard-toting young Mazatlecos!!!!
Wait, I can explain. Last week, on the beach, I met this twenty-two year old surfer dude, Diego, and ended up hanging at the beach all afternoon with him and this little orphan kid Luis Angel. (Okay, you won't believe this, but just now I had to interrupt typing because suddenly Diego was here standing behind me. And I've been trying to avoid this guy...!) Anyway, before he got kind of annoying, he was kind of cool, and speaks pretty good English, and it was nice to actually be able to talk to somebody. Although it was just as cool to hang out with the kid, just pointing and speaking crap Spanish and smimming and running around.
So, the other night, on my way to the singing bartender, I ran into this guy on the street and he invited me to go out with him and his gang, some of whom play in the reggae band with which he plays guitar. As it turn out, we aren't going anywhere because he can't get the car. Who the hell was I hanging out with here? We were just going to sit around on the sea wall. Oh, and it was at least half an hour before any of his friends arrived. I suspect a plot. (But hey, it was a plot that landed me under the moon and the stars watching the waves while a cute guy played a guitar and sang songs to me in Spanish. There have been worse plots.) By the way, the waves are sometimes fluorescent blue in the moonlight. Apparently this isn't usually the case, but this is one of those years that the plankton that cause it are in abundance. Beautiful.
Anyway, when the friends did arrive, it dawned on me pretty soon that Diego, at twenty-two, is the elder statesman of this crowd. So I'm sitting around at the roadside, drinking booze out of a paper bag with a bunch of sixteen year-olds who don't speak English, and my Spanish is kind of terrible. It was just weird. And I'll tell you, nothing like a bit of substance abuse to send the old (or rather, new) foreign language skills down the tubes. Combine a slight case of paranoia with that, and with being the old person around a bunch of teenagers and...well...I didn't stick around too long. Paranoid moment number two: how do I get out of here, (A) without letting this guy walk me home, and (B) without making him look like an ass in front of his friends? (It all worked out in the end.)
Had my first Mexican theatre experience the other day, at the absolutely stunning historic Teatro Angela Peralta, which is a block away from my place. An all-ages contemporary dance piece about street kids. A little uneven, but the design was amazing, with some beautiful puppets and great scenic painting, and some real moments of stage magic. Pretty cool.
Oh, and I did watch the stupid Oscars. I thought this might be my year of escape (Damn you, Andy Bunker! They keep pulling me back in!) but there I was watching them in my room, with loud spanish dubbing. I could barely decipher any of it, the spanish being loud enough to obscure the english, and the english loud enough to muddle the spanish, not that I would have gotten most of that anyway. But there I sat, like a sucker, checking off my ballot and wishing I could figure out more of Sean Penn's speech. Something about penguins....? Anyway, I hope you knew to enter LOTR for screenplay and makeup for me, Andy. Those are the ones I forgot - and other from that, I did pretty damn good.
I think, Gregg, that I'd have a pretty good shot at winning the Miss Skeptical Tourist pageant. Nobody does the cynical smile and wave quite like me. But what would I wear for the ironic evening gown component? I'm afraid all the clothes I packed are a bit too earnest.
Speaking of earnest (yes, I am, in fact, QUEEN OF THE SEGUE!!!), have a great first read this week, David and Evan, and Whittaker. I can't believe you guys are starting rehearsal already...but those poor Pygmalion buggers have been there for, like, six months.
OTHER PEE ESSES:
Barb: Right on, amazing face healer! Keep it up!
Brian, and Nancy, and Doug H., and anybody else who is sick - get well. I am blowing healing pacific breezes your way.
Gregg: You win the prize for best definition of bad humour. May none afflict you. (Or I'll have you leeched.)
Xine: Do not despair. And kick that guy's butt. An actor is just an asshole waiting to happen. We must be stopped. Hi to Robbin and Dave. Keep well. More later.
Madboy: No purple polar bears yet. But I think I ate a giant guinea pig for dinner tonight.
Love to toute la gang. Y:
¡Hasta mañana, manzana!*
¡Hasta pronto, tonto!
In a while, crocodile,
Lisa.
* See you, tommorow, apple!
See you soon, idiot! (!!!!)
mexico: the sequel
MAZATLAN, MEXICO
Wed, 25 Feb 2004
Okay...
First of all, to everyone who replied to my last email by calling me a bitch, or a brat, or telling me to go fuck myself:
Ha ha suckers!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm still here and you're still not!
To everyone else: I love you dearly.
Carnaval just ended, and things are getting back to normal. Where do I begin? It was basically an entire week of noise. Oh the noise noise noise NOISE! (They banged their gardinkers, they tinked their who-tinkers....) Seriously, I was starting to feel a bit grinchy towards the end, truth be told - but you'll understand when I tell you about the music...more on that later.
The whole town was swarmed with people - tourists come from all over Mexico for this thing. (Not to mention all the Americans and goddamned pesky Canadians.) Stages were built all over the place, though apparently less than last year, when there were so many stages that nobody could distinguish the band they were trying to listen to from all the other stuff going on. People complained, so they scaled it back a bit. The Malecon was packed with people all the time, and huge groups of military police were everywhere, which was disconcerting at first, but I got used to it. Plazuela Machado, the plaza a block away from where I'm staying, was nuts a lot of the time too. Workers spent the week previous to Carnaval building up the four streets surrounding the square plaza in the centre with planks of wood, to make everything the same height and the plaza that much bigger, so that all of the restaurants on the square could put out huge patio cafés, taquerias, bars, etc. The bandstand in the centre always had somebody playing. Things wouldn't die down until six every morning, and by then the daytime people would be up and going about their noisy days.
Day one was the "burning of bad humour", which I had mistakenly thought was going to be a ritual in which everyone burned some personal token of negativity in a big bonfire. But, as it turns out, the town chooses (I don't know who votes on this) one big representative of "mal humor", and burns it. So this year, burned in effigy, was....Arnold Shwarzenegger. I AM NOT JOKING. Unfortunately, I didn't know about this until it was too late, so I didn't get a picture of the burning Ahnold. Damn. By the way, what the hell is "bad humour" anyway? Somebody?
That night, also, was the fireworks battle. This is a reenactment of a battle in which the French tried to take Mazatlán, in the mid-nineteenth century, and were defeated. A ship representing the French comes within view of all the spectators lining the sea wall, shooting off fireworks from its deck, and another ship closer to shore, represents Mazatlán, and fires back. More fireworks join in from the beach, everybody goes nuts, you get the picture. I was watching all this from the roof of a house on the corner of the Malecón, so had a great view. Sam, an old expat American guy, had invited a whole bunch of people to watch from his roof. I went along with my innkeeper, Tony, and soon realized that I was one of about six people present who were under sixty. I shouldn't have been surprised, as the expat community is by and large made up of retirees, and I didn't expect to meet a lot of young travellers here.
Anyway, I was happy to meet the other five, two guys in their forties and their kids, and quickly latched onto them for the evening. (The Under Sixty Six, taking the town by storm!) We took off from the party for awhile and made our way down into the crowds. Entering the Malecón, we had to buy tickets and then go through a crowd of military police, as usual. But we couldn´t figure out at first why I alone was getting pulled out of line and waved to the other side of the street. Did I look that suspicious? The cops then explained that it was women on one side, men on the other. I breezed through, a female officer looking through my bag, and then noticed that, on the other side of the street, the guys were getting frisked on their way in by a long line of tough-looking male cops. (That's right, Kelli, they frisk-ed them.) They wouldn't let me in that line, though I begged and begged...
After fighting the crowds with these folks for an hour or two, taking pictures, the kids buying everything that lit up or made noise or was edible (or all three - woo hoo!) that they could get their hands on, we went back up to the roof in time for the fireworks. Which were great. The ones on the beach were really close to the spectators, and now and again one would go off a little too low, and people would scatter, screaming, trying to avoid being set on fire. There's no such thing as civil liability here, either. ("You lost your eye to a firecracker? Sucker. Now pay your taxes.")
The kids wanted to know what exactly the battle was about, and when one of the dads came up with some vague information about the French, the kids wanted to know what exactly the French wanted Mazatlán for. Nobody knew, exactly, so we started making jokes about it actually being the French Canadians, who had run out of beer and were on a cerveza raid. The kids started saying things like "I think the French Canadians are winning!" and I would shout "vive la Québec!" when the French side put on an impressive display. It only ocurred to me afterwards that the kids may not have been fully aware that it was a joke. There may be a couple of kids, now back at school in San Fran, sharing their knowledge about Quebec's invasion of Mexico. Oops. Remind me never to have children.
On the way home, I was commenting to Tony how strange it was that nobody here seems to smoke weed. (Anyone from Toronto, try to imagine Caribana without the smell of it in the air.) He said that it's very private here, but that a lot of people do, sometimes the people you'd least expect...and then he brought me a joint before I went to bed that night!
After that, parades, parades, parades. It's basically, I'm told, the same parade (i.e. the same floats), making their way back and forth every day. They take their beauty queens very seriously here...there are posters of the contestants all over town, as if they're running for office. I happened to be up at the baseball stadium a few days ago, looking for info on the baseball season ( I just missed it) when the big Carnaval Queen Pageant was about to happen inside. There was a huge line-up to buy tickets. I know I'm here to take in the local life, and briefly considered going in, but then I thought, do I really have to sit through a beauty pageant to make my trip complete? I went to the aquarium instead.
Anyway, the parade was full of beauty queens, including visiting ones from Texas and creepy little child ones. (There's a child carnival queen pageant, too, also very serious.) One float in the parade I went to was covered in these creepy little queens, all tarted up, and waving and blowing kisses...in...slooowww.... mmmotionnn. I was terrified. Felt a bit better when, on a float a bit later, there were similarly tarted up kids, but they were throwing rolls of streamers at the crowd as if they were trying to kill us. Right on, girls! Get angry! Work those pitching arms!
The music here is so horrible. so horrible. Okay, Irv, remember I told you about Banda music? (Shudder.) Whoever wrote that it was like country music was on crack. It's actually based in polka, a remnant of a time of german occupation here. Layered on top of the oom-pa-pah-ing tuba and accordion are a few drums and AS MANY BRASS INSTRUMENTS AS CAN BE FOUND, playing a bad version of a more typically Mexican sound.
It's just awful. Nobody listens to each other, they all just play as loudly as they possibly can...
I had the misfortune of having a huge banda Sinaloaense (so called because this is the official regional music of Sinaloa state, and Mazatlan in particular) stall in front of me for a long time in the parade. I wanted to kill myself. All the little kids around me started to cry. Nobody could hear them because the music was so loud. One little girl was covering her ears and had tears streaming down her face. Nobody seemed to enjoy it, except for the guys in the band. (It did look like fun to play.) There was some applause at the end, either because people were glad that they were moving on, or, I suspect, out of some civic duty to appreciate their hometown's musical claim to fame. Lonely Planet says "be sure to catch a rousing banda Sinaloaense while in Mazatlan". I say, Lonely Planet, be sure to KISS MY ASS. Other popular music includes stupid latin pop ( the big song right now is called La Gorilla, features lots of grunting and has an accompanying stupid dance in which the participants pretend to be apes), and techno. Thank god carnaval is over.
Well, I'm off. Barbecue back at the ranch tonight. Thanks to those who have written me (bitter or not). Keep it up. It's great to hear from you.
Leese
this is me in Mexico
MAZATLAN, MEXICO
Friday, February 20, 2004
This is me in Mexico. Colour me happy.
I like me in Mexico. I'm relaxed, I'm warm (I'm relaxed because I'm warm), I don't have to talk to anybody (unless I feel like it, dammit), I'm eating well, resting well...and I look fantastic! (Okay, don't drink the water in mexico, but wash your hair in it as much as possible - from my forthcoming series of travel books Lovely Planet: How to look good all over the world.) Things are pretty damn sweet right now. If I don't show up for rehearsal at Shaw on March 30th, somebody tell Jackie why. She'll understand.
Got here on Monday...just realized that I should probably drop a line to let y'all know that I am alive and well...well.
Mazatlan is pretty awesome. I get the joy (oh, joy) of being five short blocks away from the beach, without having to live on a boring resort. I am right in the middle of town, in el centro (the historic district), which is a very vibrant, happening neighbourhood, not too touristy, and where the language of choice is - gasp! - Spanish! Been doing lots of wandering around, gawking at everything, just enjoying the sights, the sounds, the much welcome change. Trekked up to el faro (the lighthouse) the other day, which is apparently the world's second highest lighthouse after Gibraltar's. Anyone who thinks the stairs up to Len and Kendra's are bad, this would blow your mind. (Or kill you. Yeah, more likely kill you.)
Did hit the beach for the first time yesterday, all you sunseekers will be happy to know. The one nearest me, which is definitely not a tourist beach...a lot of families, little kids playing soccer (sorry, futbol) in the shallows, a couple of guys practising their hitting with a tennis ball and a big piece of driftwood . (Beisbol is bigger here than in most of Mexico.) Burying your boyfriend in sand seems to be a popular pasttime...I saw lots of this, including one guy who was buried up to his neck and fast asleep, with a little baby (not buried) asleep on a blanket next to him. Cutest thing I ever saw. I wish I'd gotten a picture, but I didn't want to risk disturbing them. Plus, I didn't know where mama bear was, and I'd have felt strange if she'd caught me. ("Just look at the cute little Mexicans, wouldja Maude?") Actually got a bit burned in a few places - okay, laugh, but don't you wish you had my problems?
Wandered up to the Zona Dorada (the golden zone), last night. This is the crazy touristy part of town. confirmed my suspicions that I would hate it. The walk there is through a somewhat seedy rundown area that reminded me of Niagara Falls. (You know, that disgusting part that makes you want to puke?) I kept going till I got to where it started to be a bit ritzier ( a little like Vegas, I imagine - or the shinier part of Niagara Falls: you know, the other part that makes you want to puke?) Very happy to be where I am instead.
Whoever said it - I think it was you, Josh - you were right. I'ma need a bigger stick. But I've never felt unsafe, and the come ons crack me up, in part because they're so blatant and absurd. There's the standard stuff (what's your name, come over here kind of stuff - boooorrriiiing) but some of the (usually older) guys, probably because I'm a tourist and they realize that words are lost on me, just resort to looking me up and down and making weird grunty growly noises. I can't help it, it makes me laugh. I'm forever walking away trying to keep a straight face. Did have a decent talk (in English) with a Mexican-American guy I met while walking the Malecon (the road that winds along the sea) last night. He actually wanted to talk about religion and politics et cetera, but then he kept throwing in things like "But you know how you'll really learn about religion? Have sex with me! No, no, just kidding....but seriously, ha ha, I live right over there..."! Very smooth, Carlos.
Speaking of smooth, did you know that that's what "Lisa" translates into in Spanish? Okay, it can also mean flat, but smooth sounds slightly more flattering, don't you think? Learning a little Spanish every day. Every time I'm about to go out, I study up on new things I might need to say or want to try out that day. Then I come home and look in my dictionary to figure out how close I came to actually saying what I was trying for. The tiny distinctions are everything - I just found out that what I had thought was an all purpose "sorry", lo siento, is usually reserved for occasions like "I'm sorry your wife and child were run over by that bus". So, in Cuba last year, I may have been going around saying things like "My condolences, my Spanish isn't very good." I have discovered a favourite bartender, at Jazzbar (the local jazz bar - go figure), Hugo, who serves food and drinks and teaches Spanish at the same time. Every time he brings something, he explains patiently what it is called in Spanish. Soon I will be an expert on the names of booze, food and cutlery. It is a bit frustrating being reduced to the linguistic state of a three year-old ("I want this. I want that. How are you. I am fine."), but I have to get over wanting to know everything instantly. Where is that program from the Matrix when you need it? Plug me in.
Anyway, I didn't plan to write a book, but there it is. I'm off to the market now to buy all the things that I couldn't carry and/or pronounce yesterday. By the way, the produce...oh ma gad! I've never felt this way about an avocado before. (Me, making love to my avocado: "I swear I've never had it like this.") Must have avocados...must get more mangos. You probably won't get many more of these emails (is that a collective sigh of relief I hear?)...I mean, how many times do you really need to hear " Learned another word today. Read another book. Tan one shade deeper."? However, Carnaval starts tonight, so if I can't contain my excitement about that, I'll soon be here, typing away. Write me and let me know what's happening in all your places.
Un abrazo,
Lisa
