Down in Dahab

John's history lesson


On a clear day you can see Saudi Arabia from here. Dahab (pronounced DAhab quickly) is starting to work its magic on me. The pace here is very slow, a kind of 60’s laid back granola thing, and I can feel myself walking slower as I amble along the promenade. Egyptian time is more elastic than elsewhere and as we have a stretch of a whole five days in one place there doesn’t seem to be the need to hurry up and do something.
Which is why I’m not writing about the trip today.
Maybe tomorrow.

They met at a dance

Best education he's received so far...

Livin' on the banks of the Nile

Why walk when you can caloche?

Photo op!

The guys loved getting their picture taken, the women'd kill you.

The paint on those birds has lasted thousands of years. I'd like to see Benjamin Moore top that!

Back to the Nile

Stuck in the past or wave of the future?

Passing on the skill set

They even mummified Crocodiles



Edfu or Komombo...don't remember

In Constant Motion

Luka found a hiding place

The Party Train

Aswan Dam. Somewhat underwhelming.

Temple at Komombo

In the white haze of the Egyptian sun moments blend into days and memories evaporate as quickly as our time here. We’re now in Dahab on the Sinai peninsula where we get to chill for five more nights (well maybe not chill, we’re in Egypt) before returning to our lives in Wales. ‘Til now it’s been rush,rush as we moved from one site to another anxious to suck up all the history there was on offer.

A recap: we left Cardiff for a hotel near Heathrow airport and spent one night there, flew to Madrid next day where we spent another night as we had missed our connector to Cairo, flew to Cairo for one night and a ton ‘ sights before catching a train to Aswan, arrived Aswan for a whirlwind tour and then embarked on a cruise ship on the Nile, on The Nile for three nights and got off in Luxor to see their claims to fame, then onto a bus that broke down in a tiny town in the desert, eventually switched to another and arrived late late in Hurghada for a night in an all-inclusive and left early the next morning for an airport and our flight to Sharm El Sheikh where we were met by a Bedouin who drove a nice van and us to Dahab.

Not your typical lie-on-the-beach-in-Puerta Vallarta for eight days. But then it wasn’t meant to be. We’ve been on an adventure since leaving Vancouver and as frustrating and as exhausting as that can be, the only boring parts were the week we spent at an all-inclusive in Tunisia. Even the 12 hours we spent at one all-inclusive on the way here re-affirmed it’s not my preferred way of vacationing. Hated it. But I am tired and pleased we get to sit still for a few days.

OK, not exactly still, but in one place. We actually unpacked our bags last night for the first time. But I’ve got a ‘check’ dive in an hour to re-familiarize myself with the essential points of scuba diving and we have eight dives booked for the next five days. They say some of the best diving in the world is right here so I’m excited to experience diving again and scared shitless something will go wrong.

But that’s enough for today. Tomorrow I’ll write about the slower, cleaner Aswan and cruising on the Nile.I’m posting some pix with this of the train ride to Aswan and maybe a few of what we saw there. Later.

Training Night

Our camel expedition

“This is no tourist bus” .I looked around me at the threadbare seats, the bare metal floor and hanging wires, breathed in the exhaust fumes and said “No”.

At the moment the bus is moving slowly backwards which is odd because the engine’s off. It’s a big bus so probably not people power, they’ve likely enlisted a couple of donkeys. Maybe they want to get it up a rise so that they can get up some forward speed to jumpstart it. It’s not looking good; the fumes are starting to pile up and we’re switching from bus to oven quickly. I’m going to have to finish writing about this when it’s over.

We got on our train from Cairo and with the comandeering hand of the conductor, into our rooms. The internet describes them as “couchettes”, a small room whose seats fold into two bunkbeds by night. It felt so...forties. Back then it was an elegant form of travel with fancy foldout sink and the like. It even had piped muzak. But this train hasn’t had any maintainance since the forties and to say it’s a little shabby is being polite.

There’s two beds per room and there’s three of us so we had two rooms. What we hadn’t considered is that they’d book someone else in with me. He was a Kiwi who was as unhappy sharing his room as I was and tried several ploys to squeeze me out. I got the commandeer to straighten him out but now he’s a wounded bear who’s used to getting his own way. Fuck him.

Our meal was an airline affair washed down with a bottle of wine I’d bought at the corner store in Cardiff. The wine was the best part of the meal so with a pleasant buzz rounding out the rough edges, I found the conductor to have the beds brought down and looked for the club car as She tucked in Luka. The party was just starting. I found a table, opened the laptop and ordered a beer. I tried typing but the chap from Northumberland was feeling chatty and insisted on sharing his opinions on immigration (too much), national benefits (way too much) and the new restrictive smoking policies (bastards!). She saved me an hour later just as the Croatians were kicking their singsong into high gear.

Kiwi claimed the lower bunk in my absence so I carefully took my drunk self up the ladder and allowed the train to rock me to sleep. When I woke up the lower bunk was empty and the sun’s height indicated we’d be pulling into the station soon so I clambered down and knocked on Her door. No answer. I better get more info before I panic so I grab the ‘puter and head for the club car hoping to score a cuppa and orientation. I’d make a lousy Indian. It was only 6:45, three hours from the station and there was Kiwi who was suddenly quite chatty. Shit. No typing this AM either but I got to hear his views on the state of the world and how things would be better back home when they cut back on immigration and stopped giving money away. Guess he didn’t smoke.

She saved me again and we retreated to her room for brekkie; four types of bread separately sealed in plastic and a cup of instant. How very continental.

When we stepped off the train in Aswan our new guide was there and says “You’re an hour late”. What do you say to that? Maybe he thought I’d been dragging my feet along the ground to slow down the train in order to savour the moment. Gerges (we called him George) is a nice young man with limited people skills but an extensive knowledge of Egyptian history. His English knowledge was as extensive as his Egyptian history but his pronuciation was as limited as his people skills and he was an interesting companion for our tour of Aswan and three day cruise on the Nile. He informed us that it was 41 degrees (it was 10:30am) and were we ready to see the sights or did we want to drop our bags first?

The Desert up way too close

An Oasis?

Napolean actually cut off the nose to take back to France

The start of an interesting train ride

Hot, Dusty and Amazing

Where was I? The question I usually ask while travelling and opening my eyes for the first time of the day is, Where am I? This morning it was Cairo and we were slowly coming to our senses in Hotel Longchamps. Our phone rang, Deb glanced at the clock, announced it’s 8:00 and answered. The guide was in the hotel an hour early. Luka was fast asleep and our eviscerated luggage lay slackmouthed on the floor, contents strewn lewdly about the room. Shit. “I’ll tell him to come back in an hour”. She’s good at this.

The guide (an egyptologist dontcha know) and his driver were there to escort us about the major sights and deposit us at the train station at the end of the day. Fold, stuff, zip and we were ready for brekkie... if we could get Luka moving. “C’mon Luka, c’mon Luka, c’mon Luka...”

We spent the day with the guy, I should remember his name but I don’t. Hasmid? Aman? Anyway, he knew his stuff and between his cell calls gave us the a ton of mostly useless info; one fifth of the Egyptian GNP is from tourism, another fifth from the Suez canal fees, 70 million people, their own oil supply but no export... whatever. The first place he took us was Sakkara pyramid, the oldest building in the world, 5052 years old to be precise. It’s a ‘step’ pyramid with each of its six steps built by different people over generations. Now here’s something about pyramids I didn’t know; except for the “Great” pyramid, they’re solid, nuthin’ but rock. Beneath them are the tombs, the pyramids being oversized tombstones.

From there we were off to the ‘Red’ pyramid and while they were only a few k apart we had to pass through a few million people to get there. Travelling with a guide in an airconditioned cab insulates you from the world you’re visiting and honestly, I didn’t mind being insulated from the smell, dust and abject poverty we passed through. Thirty years ago I was a younger, nobler, more adventurous guy. Now, not so much but it felt odd, sort of like watching a travelog dvd which leaves you feeling informed but not enriched.

Red was bigger and newer (only 4,600 years or so) and we were able to climb the exterior as high as our faint hearts would allow and down into a shaft that forced us to duck walk for what felt like ever but was probably less than 100 meters. The thighs are still burning.

The Great pyramid was the highlight and like all tourist destinations was guarded by Kalishnikov-bearing soldiers. Unruly tourists require extreme measures and occasionally need machine gunning to keep the peace. So we peacefully beat back the voracious vendors as we made our way to the most impressive sight I’ve ever seen. Limited climbing on the exterior is allowed which was good because I have limited ability and significant acrophobia.

The climb into the interior was long, hard and steep but monkey Luka sprinted ahead benefitting from his minor stature. Were Egyptians three foot? Deep in the interior was The Room. Everything cool had been removed except for the empty sarcophagus. I paced off the room; six meters by twelve meters and I have no idea why I did. It’s one of those rooms where you just feel the need to stop. And be still. But I have trouble being still so I paced. What amazed me (beyond the multi thousand history I was encased in) was there was no-one in the room with me. Deb and Luka had moved on and no-one had replaced them. I had heard a woman crying and saying “No, No we have to go back!” behind me as we climbed the narrow passage (very narrow) to The Room so I guess claustrophobia doesn’t rank as high as acrophobia on my list of fears.

Next. Riding a camel seemed appropriate so we did. They said the best photo-ops were from the distance so with our guide’s assistance we hired two dromedaries and hopped on. Which in itself was no small feat and no doubt contributed to today’s thigh-burn. Some great pics but if the Arab leading our two camel parade asked “Everybody happy?” one more time I’d have beaten him to death with my water bottle.

The guide, what’s his name, wanted us to finish our tour with a visit to a papyrus shop and a perfume factory. Yuk. I’d been in the same clothes for two hot ‘n dusty days and needed cooling off. So we ixnayed his commission possibilities and got him to drop us at The Meridian hotel where for $100 we rented a room and a swimming pool for four hours. He was gracious and with a handshake promised the driver would return at seven to deliver us to the train station.

For the next four hours we luxuriated in the insulation between us and the real Egypt... and loved it. Shit, I’m fifty-one so I’m one part guilt and four parts “Oh yeah!”

Four hours later, washed and refreshed and with a suitcase full of new toiletries we climbed into the van. A new guide was in the van and stayed with us for the hour wait at the station. But I’ll have to write about sharing a sleeper car with a stranger later because on a cruise ship dinner hour is The Hour and that’s now.

Cairo. Ouch.

Twenty-one million people. Plus another four million ‘migrants’ that come and go on a daily basis and with very little in the way of infrastructure, it’s chaos. They tell me all the traffic lights are broken so intersections were no place for the faint of heart. Fleet-footed pedestrians scooted through the cars with a practiced dance though traffic often moved slow enough for the beggars and vendors to tap on the window. The lines on the road are considered decoration and entirely ignored by the drivers who drift from one opening to the next alerting one another with flashing headlights and blaring horns. Three lane roads hold five cars abreast at whatever speed traffic - which included donkey carts - would allow. The drive in from the Airport was the scariest of my life.

Cairo is the world’s seventh largest city according to our guide and like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It’s teeming with people, cars and animals so the senses are under constant assault. Traffic and its noise are 24/7 as is the smell of the detritus of a population too large to manage. The air is toxic with car fumes, animal fumes, cigarette smoke and rotting garbage causing burning lungs and eyes. Light brown dominates and I soon realize it’s the dust blown in off the dessert that gives the city its drab uniformity. Think Bladerunner with its outsize, flashing billboards towering over a populace frenetically trying to survive.

Our plane did, in fact, touch down in Cairo and we slipped through the airport with ease. The airport, like the city, was rundown and resembled a smalltown bus depot. Our driver was waiting with sign in hand and rescued me from the grasp of a competitor who grabbed me as I exited the gate. The ride that followed makes all amusement park seem tame and he deposited us in what appeared to be a derelict neighbourhood in the heart of Cairo. It’s called Zamalek and is actually an island in the Nile, home to some of the richest people in Cairo but you wouldn’t know it from the street.

With our baggage and driver we squeezed into the tiny, ancient elevator to the 6th floor which housed Hotel Longchamps. The same building housed several hotels and businesses on other floors but we were assured that Longchamps was particularly good. And it wasn’t bad. The room has forty year old furniture painted black but was clean and comfy and it had an airconditioner. We didn’t get in til after 11 and with a guide picking us up at 8 we barely had time to down half a bottle of wine before passing out.

A lots happened since I wrote those last 4 paragraphs. I’m going to have to write about our day in Cairo, the pyramids and our overnight train to Aswan later. We’re now in Aswan and we’ve boarded our ship which sails soon but I’m in a tiny internet cafe down some back alley and She’s tapping her foot outside. Luka’s got a nasty canker and soooo cranky so will have to tell you more, and share some amazing fotos, later.

Madrid Stopover

Well it wasn’t on the itinerary and initially pissed...me...off. But I got over it. When life serves you lemons....blah, blah, blah. The weather was sunny and cool, Piccasso was in town and the hotel was actually quite nice. Our stay, including meals with wine was covered by the airline as was internet connection and phone calls to Egypt. Deb told ‘em we were delayed and they said no problem, we won’t charge you for the room and we’ll see you tomorrow. Cool. Let’s go see Piccasso.

So it’s Easter Sunday and most stores were closed but the Museo Nacional was not only open, it was free. Cool again. The cab dropped us in front of the museum and as it had just opened there was no lineup. We strolled in and said a silent thank you to the French who were remodelling their museum in Paris where Piccasso’s stuff is usually kept. And there’s lots to see. Early stuff, sketch books, famous pieces; it’s all here. I love museums and could spend days strolling through, stopping in front of some pieces and just soaking them in but that’s tough with a seven year old. Even with the headphones on explaining what he’s seeing, after two hours he desperately needed to be outside.

While He and She explored the gift shop I found a Dali exhibiton. Could this get any cooler? The real thing, not pix in magazines, and right there in front of me. It occurred to me that if I could afford to hang one of these on my dining room wall it would be worth more than the house.

But the clock’s ticking and we didn’t want to miss our 2nd chance to fly to Cairo so it was back outside where we saw the line had grown blocks long. Shouldn’t have made me feel good but hey, cool again.

Another delicious meal and bottle of wine greeted our return to the hotel and I’m kinda wishing Madrid was our destination. But with a buzz in my head and food in my belly the bus for the airport was summoned and off we went, again.

Madrid airport is the second largest airport in Europe (after Heathrow) but nice. Half as many people, well marked directions and no lineups. For some reason we had to go to the main terminal to check our bags then get on a train for a ride to another terminal to find our departure gate but all went well. Assuming this plane touches down in Cairo.

Egypt? Day two...

She tells me she told me but I don’t know. Maybe she did. It’s Her style to think aloud, sorting what She’s been working on and my face probably looks attentive. It’s a learned behaviour where my inner and outer selves respond to their local stimuli. Outside someone’s talking and my head is nodding at all the right times, inside my thoughts are following their own train. And it is a logical, engaging process as one thought leads to another and rather than have my movie interrupted I say “uh huh”.

Which is probably when she told me our flight to Egypt had a connection in Madrid. We’re on our way there now, about an hour behind schedule so there’s a possibility we’ll miss the connector to Egypt. Shit, shit and more shit. She says it’s part of the adventure, I say it’s part of the pain.

The airport was its usual madness and Heathrow is one of the busiest, meanest airports in the world. It’s a humming city of stressed travellers anxiously watching the screens for their next move. It’s lining up for half an hour to buy a muffin and another twenty minutes for a magazine. It’s more people than seats, more planes than the runways and departure gates can handle. The low ceilings this low guy could touch add to the compressed, beehive feel of the place.

We’re flying Iberian airlines and oh, what a difference. So many of our flights recently have been Ryanair or some other discount airline that by necessity treats the passengers like cattle in order to offer them cheap flights. Luggage is considered a luxury as is legroom. There are no seats in the departure gate, just cattle organizers that channel the people towards the door. It opens and with elbows up it’s a mad dash for the plane to try and get 2 or 3 seats together (unless of course you’d paid extra to book actual seats).

Too weird. I wrote the last four paragraphs while on the plane and reflecting on the day to date. I’m now sitting in a hotel room in Madrid. I’m not supposed to be here. My fear that we’d miss our connector came true and my love of Iberia came to an end. I can’t blame them for the wind that delayed our departure but I can totally dislike them for their no eye contact/no concern (NENC). Easy enough for them to figure out that a couple of their passengers were connecting with other flights, easy enough to say “here’s what we’re going to do”. Didn’t happen.

What did happen was we were told to exit off the back of the plane as everyone else discharged front. Hmmm. They were mostly talking to those people going to Havana but three of us were going to Cairo and were were in the same terminal. OK, they knew we wouldn’t make our connection but what the fuck, we were off their plane and handed over. The back door people got on a bus and were carted off to a distant terminal from which Havana and Cairo and Auschwitz beckoned. But we only got NENC when we asked “where do we go now?” We found an info booth at the new terminal who gave us a gate number and we started running. The ningnong, motherfucker in a reflector jacket we found there shrugged indifference and pointed us in the wrong direction. We found the Iberia non-help desk and were told “that plane just left”. “Duh!”, I said and knew it was time to leave the area and leave Her to work her magic.

When I came back with a relieved bladder and mind, I found them in convivial conversation and directions to the Iberian customer service desk being explained. The non-help desk had provided boarding passes for the same flight tomorrow and had suggested we see the folks at he Iberian customer service desk for a voucher for a hotel for the night. They were back in the main terminal and three inquiries late we were on the train headed back to the main terminal. Deep breath. “I think he said second floor”. And there they were.

An aside here: the Madrid airport is a cavernous marbellized mausoleum that feels ten times the size of Heathrow but it’s empty. There were no lineups anywhere, not at the non-help desk, not at customer service, not anywhere. Weird.

With voucher for hotel and meals in hand and meager directions to the hotel transfer in our heads we headed for the exit. But I was feeling uneasy about our luggage. The two bags we’d checked in were supposed to magically arrive in Cairo with us but I’d been in the same clothes for two days and the wine was in our bags. We waited for fifteen minutes for our transfer when I said “Nah, we should find our bags. I’ve no faith they’ll find us”. So we trudged back into the terminal and started looking. We found a guy who pointed us to another guy who suggested we sneak back into the secure area and tell the security guard what we wanted. It worked.

We found another ‘help’ desk who said they could find the bags but it would be about 45 minutes and we’d have to check in two hours early to re-check the bags tomorrow. “Whatever” says I and we hunker down. Godblesshim the bags were out forty minutes later and we headed back to the transfer point only now there’s a ton ‘o people waiting...and waiting. No-one seemed to know when the bus was due. And it’s cold. And windy.

Ah well, we got here and since starting to write this new section (somewhere between “Didn’t happen” and “what did happen”) we’ve been for dinner (good food, 7-11 ambiance) and made plans to see the Picasso exhibit in downtown Madrid tomorrow. Life can take you anywhere...

Egypt... day one

We're off! As soon as I finish writing this I have to run upstairs, throw the last few items into our suitcases and throw the suitcases in the car. We're on our way to Egypt today for a 2 week adventure. I'll be posting pix and stories here as we go but being the lazyass writer that I am, don't hold your breath. Does lazyass come from laissez-faire? Hmmm.

Our Itinerary: we drive from here to a hotel near Heathrow where it's actually cheaper to spend a night and leave our car there for 2 weeks than it would have been to leave it at the longterm parking at the airport. Go figger. Tomorrow we'll feel the 30+ Egyptian heat in Cairo and it'll be a warm n' welcome change from wet n' windy Wales. Three days in Cairo will give us enough time to see the pyramids and cruise on a camel before we get on a cruise ship to see Egypt from the Nile. Deb would know better but I think the ship takes us to Luxor. Or is it Aswan? Hurghada? Anyways from there we somehow (bus?, boat?, plane?) get to Dahab, a resort town on the Red Sea that's famous for its scuba diving. We've booked eight dives so if I can find a cheap, disposable, underwater camera I'll be posting some pix of life under the Red Sea.

OK gotta go. Stay tuned...

Recovery

Waiting for Rachel to die was 21 years on a slow-roasting spit. The pain train was slowly heading for the cliff's edge and all the doors were locked. It was unavoidable and I wanted it to be over but that meant wanting my daughter to hurry up and die. Painful just to write because it crystallizes the fear-pain-guilt into tangible thought. Logically the time should have afforded me the opportunity to come to terms with it, to accept it so that when it happened I wouldn't lose myself with it. But logic and emotion are rare companions.

Losing a child is the most difficult emotional experience a human can suffer; no other loss comes close. You can lose a fortune or a limb but you can make more money or strap on a prosthesis but your child's not coming back. You've irretrievably lost a piece of your future. We live on both physically and metaphorically through our children so when they die before you part of you dies with them. But there is recovery.

So what did I do to recover from this extreme and chronic emotional pain? Just as an addict with years of clean time will always be an addict in recovery, someone who's suffered a devastating loss will always be dealing with the loss. Acceptance meant accepting that I wouldn't just 'get over it' and move on but there are things I was able to do to put life back in my life.

First: I wasn't passive about recovery. What happened sucks, it’s unfair and a ton of work I didn’t need and didn’t want but painfully waiting for life to regain balance is just painful waiting, not improvement. I had to be an agent for change in my own life because the quality of my life wouldn't improve unless I did something to make it improve. Patience is powerless against the dark forces of sadness that invade when you suffer a major loss. I had to be my own white knight.

So what’s a knight to do? I started by putting on my armour. It’s a metaphorical shell I knowingly put on to protect myself from harm and show the world I was ok. Wear it long enough and it melds with your skin, becoming a part of the new you. I call it fake it ‘til you make it, Freud called it a reaction formation. Freud’s version is a unconscious reaction to events that are opposite the expected reaction; you lose your job, you buy a new car. He called it an ego defense mechanism but considered it maladaptive and you do have to be careful with it. Dancing in the streets when your child dies is not only inappropriate, you’ll look crazy.

I had an instructor at school in whom I foolishly confided some of my losses. Talking about your losses and emotions is key to recovery but being prudent about who you share it with is essential. Sharing with someone who’s job is to judge you and has power over your life is stupid. Don’t be stupid. I'll be talking about who I shared with and the amount of help I received from others in another piece but share this now because I learned - the hard way - that not everyone wanted to help. This instructor saw my happy-go-lucky self in contrast to my losses and judged me unstable enough to warrant a warning letter; the first step in having me expelled from psychiatric nursing in spite of having the highest GPA in the class and having earned accolades from all my other instructors. It was a Patch Adams scenario and to her I was behaving in a manner inconsistent with my losses. But it served me well in my recovery and did not impair my judgment in clinical matters. She had her own issues.

If you want to be happy, be happy. Even if you don’t initially feel it - especially if you don’t feel it. If you fake it long enough your unconscious absorbs your behaviour and accepts it as reality. I wasn't being disrespectful to the person I lost (or while I was waiting to lose), I was creating a stable life for myself in the presence of huge destabilizing forces. I was rebalancing my life.

I had my armour on, now what? Sally forth. I'd made the decision to move ahead so I moved ahead. There were a number of activities I used and continue to use to help me deal with the grief and to continue with the analogy, they can be thought of as a knight’s weapons in the battle to regain equilibrium. I’ll describe them next time but remember this: it’s not easy but it all starts with the decision to be happy.

Luvin' London

Turned out it wasn’t a big deal - but only because we cheated. Leaving Leicester Square in London 45 minutes before our train was due to depart for Cardiff was reasonable and I’m a reasonable guy. The train left Paddington Station at 8:15 so we lingered with our wine ‘til 7:30 then jumped on the tube. The wrong tube. It took us one station away so backtracking was in order. Back one: “Which platform?”, “Number 2, sir”. Seems there’s two trains leaving from there, guess which one we got on. One more switch put us on the right train to Paddington but the clock was ticking. “I’ll take Luka and run for the bags, you find the platform and find us at platform 12”.

The doors opened and Luka and I ran and godblesshim he kept up. The baggage attendant was on the phone: “My train’s leaving!” as I waved the luggage tag. “That’s 19 pounds fifty, sir” and went to get the bags with a hop. I dropped twenty when he returned and didn’t look for change. Deb met us twenty feet from the door: “We missed it”, “What?!?” “It’s 8:16” “NOOOOOOOO!!!”

So we’re in Paddington, London miles and hours from home. Deb’s got to work in the morning, Luka’s got school and our tickets aren’t worth shit. It takes about ten minutes for all of this to sink in. I slowly regain my senses and walk to a ticket booth:” When’s the next train to Cardiff?” “9:15, sir”. “I missed my train. How much is a ticket?” “Did you buy it in advance?” “Yeah” “It’s not transferable, sorry, one adult is 56 pounds” “How much for two adults and one child?” “Do you have a rail card?” Well we know the answer to that one... “If you buy a card for 24 pounds, the total price will be 108 pounds”. Seven months after leaving Vancouver I’m still counting my money in dollars; this is a $275 hit for something I’ve already paid for.
Now I’m pissed.

“Well nobody checked my ticket when I came from Cardiff”, says Deb. But the trains in London have gates controlled by the tickets and you can’t get onto the platform without one. “Well maybe these’ll work”, says she but if they don’t we’re doubly screwed. The platform for departure isn’t announced ‘til a few minutes before the train leaves, maybe to foil the would-be sneakers. If the tickets we held didn’t let us onto the platform
there wouldn’t be enough time to buy fresh tix.

“What do you want to do?” “Let’s wait and try”

At 9:05 the screen announces platform 2 and we move with the crowd. Sumbitch it works! Now there’s just the guy on the train with the holepuncher and the washroom’s too small for three of us. I hide on my own. OK, not my proudest moment but when I return he’s gone and Deb’s still there. With a finger to her lips I’m advised not to say anything, he’s still in the vicinity. I’ll find out later why we’re getting a free trip home.

So we’ve been in London this weekend as it’s Commonwealth Day and the exchange teachers have been invited to celebrate with the Queen at Westminster Abby. Luka and I get to tag along with the other 999 hangers-on and as She parades past I get a glimpse of a pink bonnet between the heads. The ceremony, in keeping with the 33 year old tradition, is centered on the environment and is as magnificent as the setting. All the countries of the Commonwealth as well as all major religions are represented. All have something to say. Some, like the Maori’s and the African children, have something to sing.
The guy with the flute got me misty
(he was SO effing good!) and the sight of the Canadian flag made me proud.

I’d caught up with Deb n’ Luka at my cousin’s in Greenwich on Sunday as I’d had to work Saturday. She’d left on Friday. When we weren’t hanging with the Queen we took in the other sights like the British museum and Spitalfield market. This is our third time here and I’m a long way from bored. London is an amazing city with a treasure trove of artifacts the empire looted from around the world and brought home to show the citizens what they were doing with their tax dollars. The residue of those heady days are the ornate buildings (like the Abby) and as London’s a major source of commerce it has attracted millions of people.
It’s vibrant, sassy and expensive.

But not so expensive for us, not this time. The train tix we didn’t replace were bought on the cheap a month prior. We stayed gratis at Cousin Roisin’s (thanx guys!) who also provided food and companionship when we weren’t out and about. Museums are free. A one day pass on the tube (we used it a lot) was five pounds, Luka was free. A restaurant we recharged at was 35 pounds (‘bout $75) for dry chicken with fries and a steak salad. The only other major expense was getting our bags watched at the train station. They don’t have lockers anymore
(darn terrorists) so leaving a bag means having it x-rayed and held at a service that charges seven pounds per bag; we had three.

Ah well, I’m on this train for nuthin’ and will be home in a few minutes. Good, I’m beat and the wine we lingered on is wearing off.
I want to go to bed.


Loving London's look.

The Gherkin's ready for takeoff.

That's Freddy Mercury. I saw the musical "We Will Rock You" the last time we were in London and it was fantastic. No wonder it's still selling out after six years.

I think it's art.

The Rosetta stone

This is kinda creepy. This guy died over two thousand years ago. And he's still cold.

Big Boys Do Cry

It’s an odd phenomenon, feeling good about feeling bad. To some it’s a perverted masochistic trait where deviant pleasure is derived from pain inflicted by others. To others it’s a trait of Borderline personality disorder where someone harms themself to relieve anxiety or attract attention. Pain can be emotional or physical but I prefer the good cry over self-flagellation.

A good cry: an oxymoron? No, it feels good to cry, to let out the pent up emotion, to let your sadness stream down your face. Shakespeare called it sweet sorrow. At times the grief is so complete it controls more than your tear ducts. A powerful hand reaches inside, grabs your organs and squeezes. The only possible reaction is to curl up and moan. Remember to breathe, it’ll pass, just hang on. It ebbs and with a shake a broader perspective returns and with it a calm that comes with knowing you took it full on and survived. A pat on the back, a congratulatory nod to your survival skills and on to the next moment. It’s not unlike a comfy housecoat after a sauna and cold shower.

I’ve been crying daily for as long as I can remember. Wait. That’s not true; I remember not crying. I remember confidence and calm, energy and anger. I remember feeling I was at the helm of my ship, using the winds and controlling the rudder. And then life started to rush past me, tossing me in its wake and leaving me bobbing in a rough ocean with sails down. I began to doubt myself. Maybe I’m not capable, maybe I’m not lovable, maybe I don’t count. I thought about killing myself. It was the mid ‘80’s.

In psychiatry the suicide assessment is routine: “Any thoughts of harming yourself?” “How would you do it?” “Do you have the means? Intent?” Yes to any of the above would warrant further investigation and a contract that would require the would-be suicidee to promise to contact the interviewer prior to any self harm. Failing that assurance it’s off to the hospital but there was no-one to assess me because I told no-one.

A few years of daily musing made it feel normal. A form of entertainment that people indulged in like “what would I do if I won the lottery” or “what would people say at my funeral”. I thought everyone thought that way. I shared it with someone once and the look on her face told me I was wrong. “Hmmm”, I thought, “Thinking about hanging yourself with piano wire isn’t common...but it’s so damn comforting...” If things ever got soooo bad, I could always leave, punishing myself on the way out.

In psychiatry, clinical depression is viewed separately from situational depression. The clinical variety arrives for no apparent reason and hangs around for a long time. It’s thought to be caused by an excess amount of Serotonin, a neurotransmitter and it's an awful - but treatable - disease. Situational depression, on the other hand, is something we’ve all felt and is the subject of most country music tunes. The dog dies or your wife leaves and your life goes off kilter for a while. You walk under dark clouds for a bit but they start to thin out and eventually the new, more-interesting you goes about your business. The clinical variety is treated with medication, psychotherapy and in extreme cases, ECT (shock treatment), the situational is treated by the individual.

In the mid ‘80’s I left the business my father gave me and began selling real estate at which I was not immediately successful. The move was initiated by the company’s failing fortunes and a desire for change. My inability to sustain and grow the successful business Dad had given me cut into my self-esteem and the accompanying financial difficulties meant I lost my house. This change of fortune was difficult on the ex who packed up the kids and headed for greener pastures and with that I lost my identity.

So a couple of significant losses: my house, wife, kids, money, self-esteem. All still very situational but cumulative and becoming chronic. And the worst was yet to come.

At 9:05 AM, October 31st, 1981 I lifted my dead son out of his crib. He’d died sometime in the night, a victim of the statistic that one in 1000 babies die before their sixth month. There’s no apparent reason, they just die. We call it crib death because they die in their sleep but that’s all we know. I got angry, stopped believing in God but accepted the randomness and moved on. For a while things actually improved. We moved immediately and as business was still doing well we bought a house. And then we bought another one, just to rent out.

In retrospect, it may have been losing Nathan that planted the seed that life was not only unfair and random, it was going to be more difficult than I thought. I started seeing the business as too difficult and myself as incapable of withstanding the forces against me. Some were easily identified; my competitors, labour and material costs. Others were more ethereal; God?, The Universe?

On March 6th, 1984 Rachel was born. That’s her, 21 years later, in the picture at the top of this blog. She wasn’t healthy however, and having lost one we did everything we could to prevent it happening again. I remember driving out to a farm to buy goat’s milk because it was suggested she may be allergic to Mom’s/cow’s milk and formula. The doctors kept offering suggestions and running tests but it wasn’t until she was three months old that we got the diagnosis: cystic fibrosis. And twenty-one years of eulogy rehearsals began.

At 3AM, April 23rd, 2005 Rachel died. Years of grieving the inevitable came to an end and a lifetime of grieving the loss began. Tomorrow we’ll celebrate her birthday with sushi (her favourite food) and share stories of her life. If you have a story about Rae you’d like to share, please add your comment below; I’d love to hear it.

In my next piece I’m going to write about what those 21 years were like and more importantly, how I coped. There are strategies we can employ to help us through the worst life can present and I’m hopeful that what I learned and will share can be useful to others. I want to end here with this thought. The problem with something that feels good (like pain) is you can get stuck; ask anyone with an addiction. And I learned this:

Dreams can and do come true. So do nightmares.