I’m afraid that I will be absent from blogging for the rest of the week. My grandmother passed away on the weekend after a very quick battle with brain cancer and I will be heading off to England for the funeral.

I’m sorry that so few of you ever knew my grandmother, although I grew up far from her and the rest of my extended family she taught me some very special lessons that I would like to share with you here.

1. Ghosts do exist: My grandmother used to tell me stories about the ghosts that she’d seen and it seemed to me the most excitingly terrifying thing. I remember forcing myself to walk up to the commons at night, in the pitch black of the English moors I felt sure that ghosts would abound. I would only look back every ten steps so that I didn’t scare off any ghosts who might be shyly sneaking up from behind. I would listen very carefully although I had no idea what I was listening for.

But I never met a ghost on my nightly walks and I think I know why. I think I was looking too hard, I think that I was waiting so hard for what I imagined the experience to be like that I missed the real thing. I wished I had asked my grandmother how she had managed to see her ghosts. I can only imagine that, unlike me, she wasn’t blinded by expectations. That she took each experience, in ghosts and in life, for exactly what it was, no pre-conceived notions, no expectations, just enjoyment at the gifts she was given.

2. Nobody’s perfect: My grandmother wasn’t a perfect person. She had a tendency to see herself as the victim and always took the most casual disagreements to heart. I loved that about her. I loved that she was real, that she had real faults and imperfect emotions. She taught me, by being a great but imperfect person, that it was ok for me to be imperfect too. She taught me that it’s ok to be grumpy in the morning or lazy in the afternoon as long as you’re always ready to step up to the plate. She taught me that it’s ok to make mistakes as long as you share your love. As long as you’re always there with a hug and forgiveness in your heart, it’s ok to be human.

Snooty old women

Favorite Breeds: anything small, fluffy, and white
Most Hated Breeds: mutts and puppies (both are far too uncivilized all bouncy and undignified, why have you seen the way they sniff each other….positively indecent)
Personalities: The dogs and the old women both tend to be snarky and snappy and it is best to steer clear of such abrasive personalities
Distinguishing Characteristics: These dog owners typically take their dogs to the groomers once a week and will throw a blue fit if some riffraff dog gets dirt or mud on their precious darlings
Jaime’s experience: conversation between two snooty old women
“Oh look we’re wearing the same scarf.”
“Ah yes, Hermes Classic Selection.”
“Do you have one for your dog.”
“Well I did but she apparently didn’t like the colour…she ate it.”
“Oh my.”

Drug Dealers (not the hard-drug type, the pot type)

Favorite Breeds: big, mean, and preferably ugly
Most Hated Breeds: snooty old women
Personalities: Both dog and owner tend to look tough but, at least in Montreal, below the surface…well let’s just say the dogs are giant softies
Distinguishing Characteristics: Dingy backpacks and walks with frequent stops at houses displaying posters of Che Guevara
Jaime’s experience: “Meeka stop bullying that dog. I’m terribly sorry sir she’s usually very submissive.”
“Oh, that’s ok, Rocky always gets beaten up by dogs half his size.”

College Students

Favorite Breeds: whatever happened to look especially cute at the SPCA that day
Most Hated Breeds: how could anybody hate these cuties their all so cute
Personalities: laid back, poorly trained
Distinguishing Characteristics: in Montreal these owners are distinguishable by their unique walking style: the dogs will be off the leash and the owners will walk with a constant head swivel, like a bobble-head, keenly watching for police handing out tickets for dogs who are off the leash
Jaime’s experience: “Ok guys, my friend was walking her dog the other day and you know the trick we use, lying about our name and address when the cops stop us for having the dogs off the leash. Well she did that but then the cop followed her home to make sure she wasn’t lying.”

Those Who Really Wanted a Baby but Got a Dog Instead (usually first-timers)

Favorite Breeds: here’s where I’ve seen the most instances of people getting dogs that resemble themselves…ok people they’re dogs, they might look like you when they’re sitting on the couch but what about when they’re rolling in horse poo…yep that’s right, they’re dogs not people
Most Hated Breeds: anything stronger/cuter/smarter than their precious darling
Personalities: two words…over-protective. The first time variety of these owners will panic when some other dog plays too rough with their little baby, they will lecture the owner of any dog that steals their poor little baby’s stick / ball and fawn over how oh so cute it is when they’re darling steals it back.
Distinguishing Characteristics: these owners spend most of their walks bent over double making sure that their baby’s paws are ok, that their baby isn’t sniffing anything nasty, that there are no bees buzzing around their baby’s head
Jaime’s experience: “Excuse me but I don’t think that my dog likes your dog.” “Really they seem to be playing really well together.” “No, you see my dog keeps running away from your dog.” “Well that’s because they’re playing chase.” “Well don’t you think that my dog should have a turn doing the chasing.” “Ummmmm…”

Ok I’ll admit, the pervious pale skirt post painted a very pretty picture of adventurous young me taking on the world. But the impression is false and the kind comments unwarranted…while it was glamorous and fun, for me Morocco was also very lonely.

I arrived late at night and was dropped off by a stranger in front of a large dark building within the confines of a walled community. After pounding on the door for five minutes the first tear slipped down my cheek. An old man eventually let me in and led me to a dark room at the end of a very long hallway. I was later to learn that there were in fact three other people staying in the building (which had about twenty rooms) but I was the only woman and, as such, I was kept as far as possible from everyone else. I rarely saw the other three people. There were no common areas and we never passed in the hall. They may as well have been ghosts, haunting me with the hopeless teasing of companionship that could never be realized.

In the small town I was living in I couldn’t go out at night, the kind old groundskeeper wouldn’t let me be that reckless. And besides, where would I go? As an unaccompanied, unattached woman, most doors were closed to me, for my own best interest of course.

Instead I would spend every evening sitting alone in that room playing a marble game I had bought for Bert. I would lie on the bed, jumping marbles, one over the other, not daring to glance out the window at the people purposely marching by down below. They all had somewhere to go, a close knit family waiting for them at home, so intently, I concentrated on the board, trying to get down to that last marble, but I never did win.

To make matters worse, there was a community swimming pool just behind the ‘clubhouse’. Every evening the sounds of children playing would waft into my room and on the third day I grabbed my bathing suit and headed down to join the fun.

Before I even dropped my towel, a very concerned matriarch informed me gently that women were only aloud in the pool between 11am and 2pm, times during which I was at work. The kind old groundskeeper who managed the pool, sympathetic to my plight, said that he would wait an hour after the closing of the pool before putting the chemicals in. This would allow me, when the heat got too much, to sneak down to the Olympic sized pool and float in the water…alone. With my head under the water I would listen to the muffled sounds of children playing, families calling to each other, animals exploring the fading light. I wasn’t a part of that world, with his kind gift, the groundsekeeper reminded me of that every day.

Yes people would pick me up in the morning when they saw me on the street, but sometimes a car would stop and the driver would ask,

“Jaime, where are you going?”
“To work.” I would answer.
“But today is a holiday, the office is closed didn’t anyone tell you.”

Nobody ever told me, they would just assume that somebody else was taking care of me. In a very conservative farming town of more than 3,000 I was alone.

On the weekends I would travel wherever the train would take me so that I could be amongst other strangers. I would pass through quickly so that I was never there when the strangers who had been so kind to me one day, forgot me the next. I would disguise myself amongst the tourists so as not to be alone, so that I could be neatly slotted into a definition, so that I could belong to a group.

One morning the sun broke through my loneliness. The wife of the director of my office found out I was living alone and, sensing a kindred spirit she moved me out that night. One moment I was sitting on my bed, counting the remaining days of loneliness, the next I was being hustled into a guest bedroom, lovingly done up with stuffed animals and frilly pink sheets by two teenage girls, as lonely as I in a town full of people.

I had many great discussions with the women of that household. Women who had been whisked away from their family in the more liberal capital city and transplanted to this small town in the north. Women who, because of the position of their father / husband, were expected to be respectable always, who were treated well in the market and then forgotten by the pool the next day.

So you see, I am not brave and adventurous. I don’t dive into any situation and immediately find myself swimming. I can’t embrace a brand new place without feeling fear. I think it’s so kind of you all to think so highly of me, but there are two sides to every story and this is the other side of me.

Episode 2: Oh what a night

The year is 2001, the news tells us the world is not the same since September 11th, yet in Monterrey, Mexico red lights are still a suggestion, green salsa is still more spicy than red salsa, and ‘bike path’ actually means ‘dump your appliances here’.

Bert and I are well into our teaching stint having discovered a lot about ourselves and still more about the lifestyles of Monterrey’s elite (yes, having cosmetic surgery is an appropriate excuse for missing an exam). And despite all logic, despite all our wishes to the contrary, every once in a while we would crave Americana…we should have known.

That morning started as any other. We went to our respective classes, I expounded on the finer points of Oedipus Rex, Bert partially differentiated whatever it is that one differentiates but in our minds, one thought ‘thank god it’s Friday’. Indeed that very night we were planning dinner at TGIF.

Off we set in our 1989 Nissan Sentra (the economy model with only one side-view mirror) puttering along the roads on Monterrey:

‘Oops Bert, I think that was our turning’
‘No problem I’ll just pull a huey’ (huey is Bert speak for u-ey)
‘Bert why are those guys waving at us?’
‘I don’t know Jaime, I’ll pull over and find out.’
‘Um Bert, I think they’re cops…oh hey I guess that big sign means ‘no u-turns’”

Enter Bert…stage left…trying to make friends with the police man, joking (in very halting Spanish) about how next time he shouldn’t stop because they couldn’t catch him on foot…the translation apparently came out as a threat. But you don’t have my license plate on file so you’d never find me…apparently the explanation didn’t come out right either.

Enter Jaime…stage right…I’ve seen this on tv, we have to bribe the cops. Jaime, never the most subtle of creatures, pulls out her purse and starts counting money in plain sight, waving it around for all of Monterrey to see. Turns out you’re not supposed to do it that way! The poor distraught police man hurriedly shoves me back in the car and hands me a little black folder. Is this my ticket…hmm it appears to be empty…why is the cop rolling his eyes at me…should I give it back…he doesn’t appear to want it…Ohhhhhhh now I get it, in goes the money, out goes the folder. And with Bert finally convincing the Monterrey Police that no, he wasn’t intending to lead them all on a high speed chase through the local kindergarten playground, we head on our way.

There it is, TGIF! We pull in to the parking lot and jump out of the car. We race into the restaurant and are told…
‘You didn’t enter right, could you please go out and come back in again.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Can you please come in again.’
‘I’m sorry did we use the wrong door?’
‘No but we weren’t ready for you.’
‘Oh are you not open yet?’
‘We’re open but we’re filming a commercial and you’re a good couple for the welcome scene. Do you think maybe you could walk in more slowly this time and maybe hold hands.’

So there you have it, bet you didn’t know that Bert and I are actually stars in a local Mexican television commercial for a huge American chain.

Anyway, the night is starting to seem weird when all of a sudden all these girls in Finlandia (yes the vodka) tube tops come jogging in…It’s Finlandia night! Here have a t-shirt and a hat, and a couple of hand towels. Now if you don’t mind could you pose with the Finlandia girls, it will make a great picture for our promotional flyer. Ummm, ok. Thanks for the free stuff.

Bribing cops, TGIF commercial, Finlandia girls, wow what a night. But wait…what’s that sound…an announcer: ‘tonight is the Monterrey regional finals of the Mexican bar-tending competition’.

So there we were, dressed in Finlandia paraphernalia, eating our cheeseburgers and fries amongst a backdrop of flashing mixers, flying shots, and sliding glasses, while being serenaded by the Finlandia girls who I’m sure were just too shy to ask for the autographs of the new stars of the very, very, very small screen.

And as Bert started the car at the end of the evening, the slightly newer than 1989 radio sputtered once before tuning in to the crooning sound of…Oh what a night, late December back in ’63…

After my dear friend Rachel (see side bar - Brown Bread Ice Cream) listed me amongst an interesting array of politically motivated writers I felt the need to produce something fantastically poignant. The problem is, as a Caucasian girl living in Canada I haven’t had many poignant moments, except when I travel…ah ha, here I go…the travels of the pale skirt (skirt cause I’m a girl, pale because I am seriously British by complexion).

Part 1. Morocco

Morocco is a country of contrasts with landscapes varying from endless sand dunes set against a bright blue sea, to flowering mountains full of crisp, moist air. Likewise the experiences of a pale skirt vary from place to place

(note to reader, when the wind picks up in said sand dunes, which it does quite often because of said blue sea, run or you’ll be cleaning sand out of your ears for three months)

In the big cities: the pale skirt is just one of many people pounding the pavement, way too busy to take notice of anything or anyone. Here the pale skirt is treated as a client in a restaurant, as a fare in a taxi, and as a speed bump if she’s not careful enough crossing the road.

On the train: the pale skirt is simultaneously an object of curiosity and pity. “A pale skirt all by herself, why the poor dear must feel so alone, or else she’s insane. Perhaps we should keep the children away from her, but alas no, we cannot bear her suffering, let’s take her in.” Yes, like a wounded bird pale skirt always got on the train alone and got off with someone taking her in hand, spending a whole day showing pale skirt their city, taking her to the school where their children study, then sending her on her way with a full stomach and a fuller heart.

In the small towns where pale skirt doesn’t live: pale skirt must be American, therefore stupid. Ah yes, the number of times pale skirt was treated to the whole, ‘don’t I get a kiss goodbye, it’s the way we do things in Morocco’, ‘come sit closer, women and men always sit close in Morocco’, ‘I’m giving you a good deal by only charging you $5 for the apple, that’s very cheap for Morocco.’. Admitedly, the small towns that pale skirt visited for work were off the beaten path so the whole pale skirt’s a tourist and very lost thing is pretty understandable. But I wasn’t a tourist (although sometimes I was lost) so the, ‘Morocco way’ spiel got very old, very fast.

In the small town pale skirt calls home: pale skirt stands out, she is the only pale skirt and the town is small. Everybody knows her name and try as she might she never gets to walk to work. For everyone knows where pale skirt works and before she walks two blocks somebody stops to pick her up and drive her in…even if it means kicking someone else out of the car or turning around and driving back the way they came. Pale skirt is expected to be the perfect guest in her home town, she is far from home and alone, she must be very brave, very smart, very adventurous…pale skirt is very humble in her home town because she can never be the flowing ball-gown they think she is…she’s just a pale skirt after all.