Tag Archives: Observations

 Pretentious Golf Balls and Wayward Golf Carts Make Golfing Fun!

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Last week, we decided to embark on a golfing day. Well, Hubby and friends decided, I just tagged along. I have never golfed before, so I was more involved with cart-driving, than the let’s-hit-the-little-white-ball-into-Neverland kinda of thing. Really, I was the fan/heckler that propelled them onto greatness. Without me, they would have felt lonely out there on that little tee box. Who wouldn’t want to hear the shouts of the one lowly fan, “YOU SUCK!” before they hit the ball?  They whacked that ball so hard I couldn’t see where it landed. I was not so skilled.

I tried a couple of shots, but I was lucky if the ball managed to roll a few inches ahead of me. I lined up in front of the ball, my hands positioned like they told me (once we figured left from right. That’s part of the challenge.) took aim and swung. All I got was air. I lined up again, only this time my club nudged the ball and it fell off the tee. Fuck. I put it back on the tee and tried again. WHACK. Two feet. I swear to God the ball refused to move. It rolled off the tee like, “Stop it lady, you aren’t worthy of my presence. Get back in the cart and stop embarrassing both of us.”  I hate golf.

Sign? What sign?

Once we figured out if I was a lefty or a righty, it was a bit better. And by better, I mean I hit the ball a few inches. It didn’t pathetically roll on the grass like a toddler and stare at me sadly, waiting for somebody to save it from being ridiculed by the other golf balls. It spun out in front and landed with a thud, and I was momentarily proud, until friends took their turn and showed me up with their prowess. HOW? How can you hit the ball? And so straight? What magic do you know that I don’t? There’s got to be a secret to this weird ability to hit a little stupid ball so far. Is it a special club? A secret swing? I know, its that glove you wear on the wrong hand, like a Michael Jackson accessory, that allows you to take better aim.

FORE! Magic…

Golf etiquette is a thing I’ve learned. Shut up while people take aim, but once they swing, it’s all hail the shouting and jeering. At least, that’s what I did. And we drove the cart right next to where the ball landed so we didn’t have to walk, like we can’t bring ourselves to hike a few feet in wet grass to get the little ball, so let’s ride around in the cart and find all the golf balls and point to them so we can hit them again. So supportive of your fellow golfers. “Here’s your ball and since it’s way back here, you can hit it first, loser.” Nice. “Oh, look your ball is in this dirt pit. Chuck it out while we watch and try not to laugh too hard when the dirt flies up and temporarily blinds you.”  “Oh, your ball landed in the trees? Just take another one and drop it inconspicuously in front of you.” It’s like you’re in the mafia and nobody saw nothin’ and nobody knows shit. Best. Game Ever.

 Searching out the balls was the best. I was tempted to ask if we could do donuts on the course, but I thought we might get banned from the place, so I kept quiet. I wouldn’t want Hubby and friends to get kicked out on my behalf. Hubby wouldn’t let me drive the cart too much due to the winding cart paths and many hills. I guess off-roading with golf carts is frowned upon. I would think if people were out and had a few drinks in them, a few wayward golf carts were probably abound. We had the first tee time of the day, so no drinking at 8:00am, kids, we are a right proper sport. At least wait until 8:30am. Probably a good thing we were sober, and Hubby drove. There were a few bridges, and I could see me tipping that cart into the water. It would be interesting watching the maintenance guys drag a cart from the creek while Hubby tried to defend my driving. “No, really, she just drives like that all the time. Sorry, ‘bout that.”

The golf cart I was allowed to only drive on the paths. Boring….

All in all, a great day. The weather cooperated with no wind and a good temp. We had a few rabbits watching from afar, but generally an empty course. Probably why they let me take a few shots. Nobody would see me roll the ball off the tee and they wouldn’t have to explain my presence. “Yeah, we had to bring her.” Like when your mom made you take your little sister to the park, and you had to explain to your friends, but you would rather have lost her to the monster in the woods.

Kinda like that.

I admired from afar…and heckled a little bit.

European Adventure Episode 4 –Italian Santa is Enshrined in a Random Church in Italy and I’m Not Sure I’ll Ever Recover

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                Our adventures didn’t end once we were off the ship. We had a couple of days in Rome before heading back home, so we were determined to make the most of them. Fully healed and recovered from my previous traumas, we stepped off the train in Rome and were instantly overwhelmed by traffic, noise, and people. Or at least I was overwhelmed. Not sure about the others. I could say who gives a shit if they were overwhelmed, it’s all me here, but I’m a much a better friend than that. Kinda.

                On that note, we got to the hotel, dumped our luggage, and started walking. I was a mere monkey on a string and followed the well-heeled travelers among us who assured me we were on our way to the Colosseum. The walk to the famed ragged stony structure was adventurous. The sun was beaming, the crowds were streaming, and we were sweating. All signs of a good walk to a major landmark in Rome. I was awed by the buildings and wanted to snap pics along the way, but the determination to strike one landmark off our list before lunch was strong. We walked and walked and when I thought we were finished, we walked some more. And then as quick as turning a corner, there it was in all it’s glory. Just standing there waiting for us. “It’s about time you guys showed up. It’s hot out here. I was wilting under this hot sun, you know. What took you so long? You stopped for pictures along the way, didn’t you? Rookie tourist mistake.” Only, all of that was in Italian and strongly telling me off with some spicy words thrown in for good measure.

The Colosseum in all it’s snarky hot glory

                We stood in awe, snapped a ton of pics, moved along to another part of the grounds and on our return walk realized The Boss had been in town the night before doing an outdoor concert. The stage was just coming down and we walked around the barriers and could imagine what it must have been like to attend a Bruce Springsteen concert in Rome under the stars with the Colosseum as a backdrop. There were rumoured sightings of him at a hotel which we staked out with the rest of the crowd because you know, when in Rome and all. But he was in hiding or simply wasn’t there and we moved on. We had stuff to see!

                The Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, Vatican Square, eating Gelato in the middle of an alley were all part of our treks; destinations we had planned to see and went searching for.

The Pantheon
The Trevi Fountain

But sometimes it’s the things you aren’t looking for, the things that present themselves in unusual ways, that are the most interesting and entertaining. And memorable. Like falling off a train or getting lost in a city or near misses from buses that make you appreciate the unusual, the inane and the unique. I think I bring that to the table most times. But not always. Things pop up or you stumble upon an interesting building or an old, abandoned arena or an apparent arbitrary church with no real tourist attraction other than it’s a beautiful church. And an Italian Santa happened to be ensconced in its walls in statue form, lying in state in some sort of weird shrine to Christmas. I guess they felt the nativity scene had been overdone and why not include Santa in our little church of wayward angels. I think it was a church dedicated to all the angels who weren’t as cool as Gabriel or Michael. Those whose jobs were a little less on the monumental-save-humanity scale, and more on the making-sure-the-trees-leaf-this-year scale.

An outside view of the church
Entrance to the church

                When walking into the church, there were crowds sauntering around, the doors wide open to welcome visitors. Frescos adorned the ceilings and statues along the walls. We followed the crowd, thinking this was a famous church with amazing architecture and stained glass. It was and as we descended deeper into it, there were what appeared to be altars at different areas of the church, all with the angels standing guard barely dressed and looking at their feet, or gazing skyward in a winsome I-wish-was-as-cool-as-the-angel-of-saving-the-universe. We couldn’t figure out what the name of the church was, but we did find a plaque on the outside of it.

The beautiful ceiling

               

One altar within the church we happened upon had a statue lying as if in a coffin, dressed in red with a white beard and elf-like shoes. SANTA! Could it be?! But why would a statue of Santa be here in some random church in Italy? An Italian Santa!

Affectionately named Santa Antonio

                Perhaps an artist decided that there were enough Baby Jesus statues adorning all the churches across Italy and he wanted to dedicate his Italian Santa statue as an homage to Christmas, or, to warn Christians the evil of Christmas.  I mean, what better way to honour Jesus and Christmas at the same time than a statue of the big guy honouring THE BIG GUY. Happy Birthday Jesus and Merry Christmas Heathens, here’s Santa Antonio. His last wish was to be dressed in red and immortalized in this church to remind you Christmas is hedonistic. And apparently, very dead. Enjoy yourselves, but remember Santa Antonio is here waiting for you to kneel at his statue and repent for all the presents you didn’t give your mother. Now, go over to the other side of the church and visit the Baby Jesus statue and wish him a Happy Birthday.

                We had difficulty recuperating following our discovery of Santa, but we decided to look around a bit more before we just up and left without so much as a Merry Christmas.

                *In truth, it appeared to be a beloved Cardinal, who must have dedicated his life to the religious teachings to his community. This was their way of honouring his memory. But I still love the Santa angle.

After doing a bit of searching, this translates to, “I will be favorable to you at Rome.” Meaning, When St. Ignatius had a vision of Jesus carrying the cross and saying this to him. He then started the Jesuits.

                See? Sometimes it’s the usual things that pop up in a trip that make it memorable. And despite our obvious delight at seeing Santa immortalized in a church, we remained as respectful as we could muster. The shoes, though!  We snapped some other pictures and said, “Ciao,” to Santa Antonio and took our leave.

                We were unable to get in to tour the Sistine Chapel or the Vatican, but I hear it is phenomenal. And, based on my assessment of the previous church, it may be better I go with a guide or someone more schooled in religious figures lest I twist a beloved Cardinal or Bishop or Pope into some strange version of a Christmas Elf or the Easter Bunny.

European Vacation Episode 2-Throw Mama from the Train

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            After the Barcelona incident, you would think I would be more aware of my surroundings; that I would consider my current abilities and limitations and act accordingly. No. No thought of how to best maneuver my way around cities and towns ever entered my brain. No thought to how I would manage possible stairs, trains, or hills. I followed the crowd to the slaughterhouse and reveled in it.

At some point in our travels, it was brought to my attention that when wandering in other countries or cities, nothing beats the train. We don’t have a train in Newfoundland, so train hopping isn’t a thing here. It’s an experience that we’re not used to. So, when we travelled to Europe, taking the train was an obvious option. Everybody takes the train. To save time while we were sightseeing, we would hop on a train to get to the next venue. It was a quick and convenient way to get from point A to point B without much hassle.  I had no idea they could be such a vindictive bitch.

Villefranche street
Walking to the train in Villefranche

            Our ship tendered to the town of Villefranche, where we took the train to Monte Carlo. It was a warm and sunny start to the day, and we were looking forward to seeing the casino and all the beauty of Monte Carlo. Casino Royale, anyone?  Catching the train was easy and we were in Monte Carlo in no time. We walked from the train and immediately fell into the preparations for the Monte Carlo Grand Prix. Barriers blocked the streets, and bleachers were erected all along the main routes and security personnel were directing tourists away from all of it.

            We strolled the city and really enjoyed the park and the casino. Lush gardens, perfect buildings reaching the skyline, and luxury yachts parked in the marina ready for the race. We stopped on the main street and ate pizza in a little restaurant after walking around town and enjoying all the sights.

Monte Carlo marina
Monte Carlo getting ready for the Grand Prix

            Now, all of this sounds fantastic. A lovely day, leisurely strolls, beer, and pizza for lunch, what could go wrong?  I am the one traveling, remember? No bikes, no difficult traversing up hill on a mountainous trail, no climbing twisting stairs, nothing remotely challenging or weirdly placed to have me confused or in an awkward state of anxiety. Nothing. Until we board the train to head back to Villefranche.

Pizza place
Casino

            The trains were crowded, and we stepped on and walked in closer to a door. We wanted to be able to make a quick exit when it stopped. Since our stop was one of many, we watched each one in preparation for our exit. The train approached our stop, and we were ready. With our hands on our bags and phones (mine was in my hand from picture taking), the train stopped. We waited by the door. Nothing happened. We waited a bit more. Nothing. Then we see another door behind us in the opposite direction further down the train. It was open and beckoning passengers to leave.  We only had a few seconds to get to it before the doors closed and the train moved on. We banned together and hurried down the train like Jason Bourne eluding the French police. Our whole vacation started playing out like a Bourne movie. Jumping trains, riding ferries, spotting heavily armed men guarding tourist spots. I was beginning to feel like a rogue spy, only I think their skill set is a little more advanced than mine. With more balance and less falling.

Catching the train from Monte Carlo

 We rushed, with me bringing up the rear. That was a big mistake. Never put the weakest link last, people. The best I could do was a quick walk. Which I did. I get to the doors. Hubby is holding one side, another man holding the other to prevent them from closing on me. A good thought, but the doors were assholes with sadistic tendencies and ignored the men completely.  Fuck chivalry, they needed to close. Move or be moved. They began closing at an alarming rate, pushing Hubby and kind sir out of the way without so much as an, “Oh mon, Dieu. Excusez moi.” I had to leap from the inside of the train to the platform, lest I be the severed body in a pathetic example of a magic show. My foot hit the pavement, and asshole doors hit me in the ass sending me dancing. It was like they couldn’t wait to get rid of the stupid Canadian tourist, so they were expelling me from their wonderful train. “Tres imbecile! You are not worthy of our magnificence!” And spit me out.

 I wobbled like a Weeble on a bender. I could see myself falling. My brain was fully processing how close my ass was to the pavement and the amount of pain it was going to cause. What it didn’t account for, was the precious new hip that needed to be guarded and protected like a little lamb among a pack of wolves. I crashed to the pavement, my hip stinging, and my swearing profound. I hadn’t noticed anyone around me until I felt a pair of hands beneath my arms. The swiftness of a perfect stranger hauling me off the ground, handing my scattered phone to a friend and dashing off into the afternoon sun had me dazed but grateful. Merci, Monsieur.

            I rushed to a bench and sat for few minutes. The shock of falling hadn’t fully set in and my main concern became my bright and shiny new hip. What damage had I done? I stood and measured the pain. I stretched the muscle in my leg. I walked it off like the clumsy Canadian I am. I was fine. It was fine. My dignity was more bruised than my titanium hip. It can withstand a little tumble from a diabolical snooty French train. For fuck’s sake, I didn’t just fall?! Again?! Hubby tutt-tutted and friends gathered in concern. I rubbed my leg and we moved on. Trains suck.

 “C’est un vrai connard!” Yeah, I said it. I Googled French swear words, what are you gonna do? Throw me from another train?  

We stopped at a nice spot overlooking the water and had drinks to help me recover from the traumatic train banishment.

The view that assisted in my recovery

Italian trains are more sophisticated and elegant than the haughty French trains, anyway. At least they didn’t throw me out on my ass. They just made me painfully aware of enormity of Rome and the insignificance of my presence on the planet.

Thanks, France for being an asshole. Thanks, Rome for making me question my existence. You two need to tone it down a bit so we clumsy Canadians can try to Jason Bourne our way across the continent. It would make for a more exciting adventure. And better stories than, “that time in France when I fell again, only this time off Satan’s train….”  

The Barcelona Bike Ride From Hell or How KJ Beat death

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It all started on a cool cloudy day in May. We boarded a flight in St. John’s heading to Barcelona, Spain. Our excitement overrode any sense of impending doom and we gleefully headed into the open sky with high expectations and a sprinkle of vacation bliss. Well, most of us. Hubby experienced heightened anxiety right up until the full flight took off and we could stretch out for the night. I guess his sense of impending doom is more advanced than the rest of us.

                Landing in Barcelona the following morning took some determination and willpower. Our urge to find the nearest bed was strong, but we knew if we gave into the temptation, our first day would be ruined. We fought the tiredness with the ambition of a Christmas shopper on Black Friday and made the most of our time in the Spanish city. We changed quickly and headed out into the sunshine for some exploring. And drinks.

                One would think that after so many years on this planet that I would have developed the basic skills needed for survival: keeping my head above water in case the ship I’m on decides to hit an iceberg, staying upright when traversing uneven terrain, slaying and cooking woodland creatures in case of a wanton plane crash or getting lost on a hike (the latter being more plausible). But no. No, I missed all the basic training everyone else seemed to get before hitting adulthood. No, Debbie I can’t hunt and kill wild game and pretty sure I don’t want to; I can’t skate or maintain my balance on slippery surfaces; I have a hard time with heights and pretty sure I can’t navigate my way through a forest with nothing but the sun and the gross moss on trees to guide me. I’d probably pick the poison ivy and bring it home as a centre piece. As for the childhood traumas around double Dutch, (I skinned out my face when I nose dived onto the pavement), swimming lessons (they told me I would never be a swimmer. I am, I love to swim. The only skill I have managed to maintain) and riding a ten-speed bicycle, I thought I had recovered adequately. Maybe not. I never managed to progress to the expert ten-speed guru that all kids my generation had become, which leads me to the first of my European debacles. The Tour De Barcelona. An e-bike event that sounds lovely on the outset. Winding our way through the streets of Barcelona, strolling through the parks on our way to Olympic Stadium, visiting the mountain to take in the panoramic views of the city. Ahhhh….NO. NOPE. More like a terror driven escapade that included playing chicken with oncoming traffic and a physical altercation with a chain-link fence. NOT RELAXING, PEOPLE.

                When the idea of an e-bike tour was first proposed, I thought, erroneously, that it would be a great way to experience the city. A leisurely ride taking in the sights, no stress, no dodging people, or buses, or fences…ugh. We ventured out to our meeting place at the bike shop the next day with our tour guide Mirko waiting there for us. He fit us for our bikes and my first thought was, “how hard can this be? I got this.” Until I didn’t. I fell within the first seconds of trying to pedal. By the time everyone had gone off on their merry way, I was still trying to gain my balance and my dignity. Both were shot. Since our guide was a nice understanding gentleman, he took me back to the shop to refit me with a bike better suited to my special needs. Fat tires, low to the ground and a seat that could fit three of me. There, that’s better. I began to pedal and after a few tries, I managed to not crash into anything so of course, let’s head out onto the busy streets of Barcelona! Sure, why not?! Dying sounds fun.

The bike shop and the lane leading to the bike shop
My special bike with the big seat and fat wheels beside the cool kids’ bikes.

       Barcelona has well-defined bike lanes that wind through all their streets. As beneficial as it sounds, for people like me, it remained terrifying. Traffic whizzed by on my right, scooters and bikes passed me on my left. I was bombarded by traffic on both sides of me and panic took over. I remained transfixed on my party ahead while concentrating heavily on staying upright. Hubby remained behind me lest I lose sight of everyone and end up lost. He was not wrong. He also consistently shouted instructions reminding me to, “pedal! Steer! Watch out for that bus!”  Yeah, that bus almost got me. I crashed into the flimsy barriers they have defining the bike lane from the road and a bus almost took me out. No wonder Hubby promised he would never follow me on bike tours, again. No worries, I think the next e-bike tour suggestion will be met a hard “no” and an alcohol induced rendition of Life in the Fast Lane. I landed on the barrier as he was shouting at me to, “get up!” Do you know how hard it is to hoist a bike from the ground while your leg is still ensconced on the other side of the metal frame while trying desperately to stay alive from all the cars, bikes and scooters careening at you? Gee, that was fun. Almost invigorating as I felt the bus breeze my face when it flew by.

                I managed to get back on the bike and willed myself to be calm. The self-talk was alive and well with me berating myself for not being able to do a simple task like ride a bike. I have a new appreciation for cyclists, and I promise to not give you the finger every time you cut me off when I’m driving my nice safe car. 

                We continued winding through the streets until we finally hit a section of wide road that led us through parkland. It was quieter and more conducive to my kind of riding. Nothing to crash into or avoid, and wide enough for even me to skirt around pedestrians. I was getting the hang of this. We stopped at an outdoor bar, where we bought water and parked our bikes. We didn’t need the alcohol to add to the whole, I’m-gonna-die-in-the-streets-of-Spain-on-a-fucking-bike thing going on. We crossed the street and headed into the funicular, a gondola ride to the top of the mountain to take in the views of the city. No bikes allowed. Thank, fuck.

The funicular ride to the castle

                After the ride, we headed back to the bikes and the thought struck me. I had to ride back to the bike shop, back through the busy streets and steady traffic. The thoughts of me having to dodge buses and bikes had me feeling stressed. My arms tensed and my hands were sweaty. As I was heading downhill on a dirt road out of the park, we were met with construction. I tried to slow down in the narrow passage between a fence and a dump truck but sped up instead. I had nowhere to go, and I panicked. I veered left and straight into the chain link fence. What was that?! My inability to maintain any sense of balance and direction was frustrating. I backed out of the fence, with the construction dudes looking at me questioningly. I half-smiled and said something like, “Who put that fence there?” and started again. It was a hill and I felt like I was careening to my death. Really, it was a little slope. An incline worthy of a slight speed bump. It was fine. I was fine. But I was still rattled.

I see you, Buddy! Stay in your lane! Ugh.

                Once I navigated my way out of the park, I took a deep breath and eyed the traffic. Fuck. It looked like the Grand Prix had descended upon the city. How am I going to ride my little special needs bike through that?!

I started again and maintained myself until we stopped to look at the cotton trees. Yes, cotton trees brought in for the Olympics. I was half listening, to be honest. I was still panicking over the traffic and my fatal attraction to speeding buses. We started again, only this time the way to the bike shop seemed shorter. We turned a corner, and we were back on the narrow cobblestone street of the shop. How did that happen? I didn’t die?! I didn’t get run over by a bus or suffer traumatic brain injury from getting sideswiped by a runaway scooter?! I had conquered the bike! I was victorious! I couldn’t get that bike away from me fast enough and gladly handed it back over to Mirko who I assured, “would never see me on any of those things again.”  I think he was as relieved as I was.  Virtually unscathed but traumatized, I survived the great Barcelona Bike Ride from Hell. I then went drinking.

The next episode will be my great escape from the hateful trains in France and how they wanted me dead. Or at the very least, maimed. Thanks, France.

 Yay me.

Views from atop the Museum of Natural Art
The relaxing park that led to my introduction to the chain link fence.

The Playoffs are Here, and I Couldn’t Be Happier…For You

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Hubby is beside himself with glee over the Leafs finally making it to round two of a playoff series. Too bad they disappointed him with a loss the first game against the Florida Panthers. If all of this is just words to you, I’m with you. I only know this shit because it radiates from my television screen and like osmosis, I have no choice but to absorb the content. Hockey has always been a part of our relationship. From back in the day when we lived in Toronto and would saunter on down to the Maple Leaf Gardens to see if we could get our hands on tickets for a game that evening, to now, a few years later (*cough, cough*) and a few provinces east, to watch his fave team hopefully make a bid for the elusive cup. Finally. After all this time. We have a deal that if the Toronto Maple Leafs ever made it to the Stanley Cup, we would be in Toronto to see that happen. Could it finally be happening? Should I get online and buy the plane tickets? I’ll have to dig out his Eddie O jersey. I’ll have to clean his Tavares jersey. I think he spilled beer on the front during a tense moment. He is crossing his fingers and toes but remains realistic. We have only yet begun to fight. Or something like that.

I would happily trot on down to the Big Smoke to watch a game or get caught up in the hoopla of a win, but watching game after game on the television, just isn’t the same for me. In person, it’s a different ball game…er, hockey game. It’s lively and entertaining. You can hear the skates on the ice and the sweariness of the players. You can cheer with the crowd and feel a part of the game. At home, I fall asleep after the first period.

As a Canadian, I’m failing at our national pastime. I hope I don’t get kicked out of the country or banned from participating in Canadian things. I’ll dress the dog in her hockey jersey and pretend to root for the team…when I’m awake. I’ll drink beer and say ‘eh. I’ll put little Canadian flags in my garden on July 1st and only buy Canadian maple syrup…and stuff. That should guarantee me a place in my country, even if I suck at hockey trivia, right?

If the Leafs manage to pull off some wins, maybe I’ll get more excited. If not for them, but for Hubby. After all, he has cheered for them for more than 32years and will continue to do so even if they suck. I’ve seen him swear at them and cheer for them. It can get pretty sweary and loud at our house during the playoffs. I hope he can see them finally win the big cup.

Let’s Go Leafs!

There. That should do it. They’re practically a shoo-in now!

You. Are. Welcome.  

Go Leafs Go! Mags cheers for anyone who gives her snacks.