A Tale of Two Cities

I've been doing a lot of thinking this week. Last week's rant on stupidity drew some interesting comments, and I was particularly struck by Diana's comment on my being too hard on Alberta. I'll admit that it did strike me at the time that I should balance it with tales of Montreal's stupidities, but it is hard to top an example like re-electing Ralph Klein again and again and again. At the same rate, Montreal has it's fair share of head spinning idiocies. And all this got me thinking, once again, about Canadian identity. I'm a confused Canadian. Where is home? I've called Montreal home as many times as I've called Calgary home. But before we get to that, I feel that I should introduce these two cities. Montreal and Calgary are so very different, and I love them both in different ways. It's time the two cities met once and for all to examine their differences, and perhaps even their similarities...

Round 1: River

Calgary- Downtown from the Stampede Grounds
Montreal, meet Calgary. The Calgary Tower was once the tallest free standing structure in the world, but then Toronto heard that Calgary had something they didn't. The CN tower went up soon after. Although they call this body of water the Bow River, Calgary, it is time you learnt that it should in fact be called a stream.

Old Montreal from somewhere in the middle of the St Laurence River
Calgary, meet Montreal. The silver topped roof is the Marche Bonsecours, that dates way back to the days of the fur trade. This Calgary, is a river. Complete with some kind of tug boat looking thing in the St Laurent.

Round 2: Mountain

Lake Louise, Alberta
Montreal, I would like to introduce you to mountains. I'm sorry to inform you that Mount Royal does not count, and a t-bar does not a mountain make. As a general rule, if you can take a bus to the top, it is not a mountain.

Montreal- The famous cross on Mount Royal
Calgary, it is clear you don't have a cross at the top of your mountain lit up with thousands of little light bulbs. And even if you did, would it glow purple when the pope died? No, no it wouldn't.

Round 3: Cultural Events

Calgary Stampede- "The Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth"
I was never big on the Stampede, or not on the cowboy events anyway. The best thing about the Stampede is that business slows to a crawl for ten days. Offices don't expect too much work to get done, because most of those days are spent drinking. And eating those little donuts... mmm... those little donuts... The best part of Stampede week is trying to scam as many free breakfasts as you can.

Montreal 's Annual Jazz Fest
Where else in Canada can an unemployed, broke student be entertained for two straight weeks by over 500 free shows from all over the world?

Round 4: Seasons

Calgary -Chinook Arch
Topping the list of things I miss most about Calgary. Chinooks - which are responsible for the occasional 20c day in February. And seeing the sunset over the mountains, not the Ville Marie expressway.

Montreal- Tire d'erable
Given the fact that Montreal is plunged into freezing cold for six months of the year, they have been forced to find ways to enjoy it. The best part about winter are the trips to the Cabane a Sucre- where you're stuffed full of fattening foods and then finish it all off with the tire d'erable. Boiling maple syrup is poured over snow, and you roll it onto a stick and make a big sucker. Mmmm... tire d'erable....

Round 5: Drive-Ins

Calgary- Peter's Drive-In
Number 1 destination for Calgarian teenagers skipping school. Mmmm... Peter's... located conveniently close to the old drive-in.

Montreal- Orange Julep
Peter's might win for best burger, but the Julep wins for architecture- doesn't everyone want to eat at a giant orange?

Round 6: Hockey

Calgary: The Red Mile
As the 2004 hockey season drew to a close, Calgarians flooded 17th Ave SW in an effort to show the country that they didn't always leave downtown after 5pm. The Flames made it to the semi-finals, which as far as I can remember had not happened since they won the Stanley Cup in 1989.

Montreal: Richard Riots
Montrealers are passionate about hockey. So passionate that riots have insued in the streets of Montreal for wins, loses, and even discipline of players. The 1955 hockey season saw the rise of tensions involving the suspension of Rocket Richard. Though Montrealers fill the streets excitedly after wins, there has not been much cause to celebrate their success since 1993.

Round 7: Licence Plate

Alberta licence plate
I'm sure wild roses are beautiful, but I don't think roses when I think Alberta. Perhaps they should try Rat-Free Country instead. Or Move Here and We'll Send You Cheques!

Quebec licence plate
Ask ten people from Quebec what 'Je me souviens' refers to, and they'll all give you a different answer. I recently read that it is part of a French poem that begins, Je me souviens, que ne sous le lys, je crois sous la rose (I remember, born under the lily, raised under the rose).

Round 8: Premier vs Premier Ministre

Albertan Premier Ralph Klein
Stupid is as stupid does. Charming, isn't he?

Premier Ministre du Quebec- Jean Charest
Coincidentally, there is no French word for Premier, so Jean Charest is the Prime Minister of Quebec. I expect Jean Charest will be not remembered for leading the Liberals to a victory in Quebec for the first time in nearly thirty years. Instead, he will be remembered as the man who ensured it would be another thirty years before they were re-elected. And for driving a record number of Anglophones to vote for the coke-head running the Parti Quebecois. Among his ever-so well thought out changes, he cut 100 million dollars from the student loans and bursaries program- an act which led to student strikes across the province.

Round 9: Beer

Calgary- Big Rock & Molson Canadian
Beer is an important part of any Canadian province. My memories of Big Rock products are a little hazy, but at least you can buy Canadian beer in Alberta.

Quebec: Boreale & Molson Export
Mmm... Boreale Doree... I wonder what my chances are of finding Boreale Doree in Korea? I guess the Molson family didn't want to provoke anyone, so Canadian beer is widely referred to as Export in Quebec, and that's just no good.

Round 10: Relaxation

Kananaskis Country, Alberta
Winter, spring, summer or fall Calgarians head out to the mountains to rest on week-ends. Personally, I'm not so into the winter camping, but there's nothing better than snowboarding in a t-shirt during a chinook.

Montreal- Sunday Tam-tams
Out with the old and in with the new. Montrealers used to flock to Churches on Sundays, but now young and old, English and French, drunk and sober- everyone meets at the base of the mountain to relax, dance, play football and listen to the drums.

That's it for introductions. Montreal has met Calgary, and Calgary has met Montreal. I have recently been accused of being hard on Alberta, but let's face it- Alberta can take it. I moved to Calgary at nine years old, and have few memories of Grande Prairie (5 hours north of Edmonton). As I remember it, my brothers and I experienced culture shock in moving to the big city. Our first trip to South Center was one I'll never forget. My brothers, never having seen as escalator before, thought it was part of an amusement park and spent a good half hour riding it up and down. In Calgary, everything seemed so far away, and I wondered why trips to the doctor no longer included West Edmonton Mall. When we'd lived in Grande Prairie, we would have to make the trip to Edmonton to see specialists, which happened often enough with my bad feet and Tyler's epilepsy. But when we moved to Calgary, the trips to Edmonton came to a sudden stop. Calgary had swimming pools with waves and a Stampede that my parents never really got into, and thus neither did I. Up until I was fourteen, my Calgary was restricted to the SW. Everything I needed to do and all the people I knew could be visited without venturing across the river to the North. I had heard tales of horrible drug busts, murders and muggings in the NE. At fifteen, when I started high school at Bishop Carroll, my Calgary was forced to include some of these far off areas. I suddenly had friends who lived in Bowness and Forest Lawn. I soon discovered downtown Calgary, which had largely been a mystery until that year. I soon became an expert on all things downtown, a natural meeting place when your friends are scattered across a sprawling city. I discovered the little shops of Stephen Avenue, the cafes of Kensington and the diversity of 17th Ave. I enjoyed discovering Calgary, but quickly enough, things would start to get to me. My friends and I soon realized that Calgary Transit sucked. And it still does. None of us had ridiculously early curfews, but Calgary Transit did it's part to impose one on us. I wanted a car, needed a car- and it was the first sign of frustrations to come. My first apartment was close to my parents houses, in the relative safety of SW Calgary. I had signed the lease for the first apartment I saw, fearful of this housing crises I had heard so much about. After that year, I moved downtown and I loved it. I felt at home. There was nowhere I couldn't rollerblade and I didn't need a bus pass. By this time, I had been scooping popcorn under the alias of Phelixx for over a year (an alias acquired both to maintain my sanity and to provoke my boss who was forever subject to my rants about the inhumanity of being forced to wear a name tag). I was living with two IMAXers + one of their boyfriend's, + one of my creepy ex-boyfriends, and all was well for a time. Then things changed. Things became heated with my roomates, even disturbing if you will. Proof of their sexual escapades was evident throughout the house. The house swayed ever so slightly at night, accompanied by loud banging noises from above. The bathroom we shared played host to mysteries I wished I had never discovered. Our arrangement lasted one month and soon one IMAXer + boyfriend moved out of the house, and they were replaced by one 'Rageful Scott'. Suddenly it seemed we had an open door policy at the house, and people began to approach me at the bar, asking if they lived with me. And usually they did. In any case, I was well established downtown at this point and I had started hanging out with the infamous Rob. So Rob and I got an apartment and moved in together- downtown of course. We had our spots- the Night Gallery, Vicious Circle and VanGogh's among the favourites. I left Calgary shortly there after, and when I go back, things just aren't the same. Maybe this is why I feel some resentment towards Calgary. The Night Gallery, the Republik, VanGogh's, the Loose Moose Theatre, even the IMAX have shut down. For me, Calgary is not Calgary without the Night Gallery. And of course, we've gotten older. People have moved away, gotten married, had kids. But my Calgary just isn't the same. I feel out of place when I'm back. A city I knew so well has changed so much. Highways have been moved, new train stations built. Communities I've never heard of have sprung up on what used to be the outskirts of the city, but now seems relatively close to downtown. Aspen Estates, Cougar Ridge, Clear Water Point- these are not part of my Calgary. The train line for my Calgary only goes as far south as Anderson and as far north as Brentwood. Though Dalhousie exists in my Calgary, there is no train station there. I resent the fact that Calgary has grown and changed so much. I wonder what right it has. I've met two people here in Korea who had recently lived in Calgary, and both of them lived in communities I had never heard of. This is not my Calgary. It's hard to feel at home in a city that has shut down everything you loved about it. But it goes deeper than the infrastruture, it affects the way we think and the way we live. But I'll get to that.

In order for me to see how Calgary no longer fit, I needed some distance. Montreal to Calgary was a pretty safe distance, so there I went. And again, within my own country, I experienced culture shock. I spoke the language and I had visited Montreal before, but this was different. Everything was different. There was an air to the city that I had never felt in a western Canadian city. Being the sort of person who strives to keep her life as difficult as possible, this move was no exception. I arrived in Montreal and began acting in a show at the Fringe Festival. I had it all planned out. I was living with the producer of the show, who I had met during my time at the University of Calgary. I was staying on his couch, and would sublet his room for the summer when he went to Ireland the following week. But of course, it didn't unfold this way. There was a very complicated falling out when his craziness got us booted from the festival and the entire cast blacklisted. The Montreal Gazette covered the story with great interest and soon I received an email from my friend Kenny informing me that a google search of my name had turned up some interesting material. Crazy man had taken the show to the internet and had set up sites slandering his actors for not supporting his insanities. He emailed my professors at Concordia to warn them about me. He began stalking us. By my third day in Montreal, I moved in with the director of the show, who I had known only three days. I failed to put my parents' minds at ease when I called them both asking for legal advise, less than a week into my stay in Montreal. The follow-up on their advise was even more shocking. As I placed the first of many calls to the Montreal police, the receptionist asked me what my call was concerning. I started to explain, but she interrupted and said, "Car Stories? Ooooh, hold the line." They had dedicated an officer to dealing with the Car Stories ordeal. To make a long story a little shorter, I had a quick and painful introduction to Montreal and the theatre community. I pressed on, if for no other reason than the fact that I was broke and couldn't afford a plane ticket home. I was applying for jobs, but having trouble securing one. On my resume, I had indicated that I had worked in Calgary, and without fail, I would see people cast aside my resume after asking me about my time in Calgary. Though I had just completed the interview in French without a problem, I was being told that if I was from Calgary it was impossible I would speak French well enough to work in Montreal. So I experimented. The name on my resume was altered to Stephanie Bogue and all references to Calgary were removed. Lone behold, I got the first job I applied for. But there were other issues. As bad as the housing crisis was (and continues to be) in Calgary, it's still nothing compared to trying to find an apartment after Moving Day. To be fair, I had been warned about this Montreal phenomenon, but it was simply the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard and I refused to believe it was true. Having now experience four Moving Days, I assure you- the tradition lives on. After weeks of calling and having no luck finding an apartment, I finally had the chance to see one in St-Henri. The landlord was in the middle of renovations (renovations that would never be completed), but I had no choice. I was starting school in five days and had nowhere to live. I spent the better part of this year argueing with the landlord, who had removed the bathroom sink and took two months to put it back. He also felt that doors were superfluous and had removed most of them with little consideration for the fact I was living with two men. The time I wasn't spending fighting my landlord, I was is the student loans centre. Both Concordia and the Quebec Government are infamous for their love of red tape, so you can just imagine the combination of the two of them. It was a nightmare. At last the school year ended and I took to the streets to find a job. And had horrible luck at it that summer. But all was not lost, I had taken on two new roomates, Fajer and Lucas, both actors at Concordia, and it was looking like it would be an interesting year. A few weeks following my first Moving Day experience, Fajer introduced me to Fred. I still haven't forgiven him. Montreal changed for me after that. I had people to lean on and help me out. Fred stood by me and helped me out at every turn. Fajer and Lucas helped out as well- listening to my rants and feeding me. Were it not for the three of them, it would have been another year of 99 cent pizza.

My introduction to the two cities was as different as they are and says alot about each of them. With the economic boom in Alberta, I had never wanted for a job. I thought it was the same anywhere. The idea of struggling to find a job was so foreign to me, I was in complete shock when I arrived in Montreal. But it's easier to be a broke and struggling student in Montreal. You can walk everywhere you need to go. There are resources set up at the University to help you. Many people are in the same situation as you. In Calgary it's hard to struggle. You are surrounded by money- it oozes out from all around you and many have lost touch with what it means to have it, or not to have it. Because rent is still quite expensive in Calgary and a car is a necessity, not a luxury, many of my friends stayed at home until they completed their University, or after. Nothing wrong with that, of course- and sometimes I wonder if I would have done the same had I seen the road that lay ahead. But University is a different experience if you're not worried about making 20$ last two weeks. Or wondering when and if your student loans will come through. Most students in Montreal have come from other parts of the country, or the world. Few students live at home during their education, so many understand money troubles. Concordia provides a hot free vegan lunch every day, for anyone who shows up. The student centre provides emergency loans on a regular basis. These services are necessary in Montreal, but unheard of in Calgary. Because students in Calgary stay at home for school, they graduate largely debt-free. Tuition is not the expensive part, really- it's the living expenses. And so Calgarians get a bit of a head start- graduate debt free, save some money and then buy a condo, or a car. Montrealers graduate and get a break for six months before they start paying back their students loans. I wouldn't trade the experiences I've had and the things that I've learned, but it is difficult all the same. There is nothing that makes you feel as though you're losing the money game like a trip to Calgary. The issue of money is a big one, but again, it goes deeper than that. Values. Montreal used to be the business centre of Canada. It was home to many head offices and all was well. But along came the infamous Bill 101, and things changed. Business left, people left and now Montreal's biggest industries are the sex trade and telemarketing. It's easy to shake your head and wonder why they would make such a sacrifice, but I think it's admirable. Culture over cash. Montreal has culture, and Calgary has cash. Montreal could have had the cash, but didn't want to lose it's culture. It had different values. Complain as we might about the state of affairs in Montreal, fact is it wouldn't be such a great city without the culture. That's what makes it Montreal. Calgary is still such a young city. Perhaps in years to come values will be examined and things will eventually change. Calgary is a beautiful city, but I would love to see a play that is not supported by big business. I want to see the re-opening of the world famous Loose Moose theatre before I could ever call Calgary home. How could a city let their most famous artistic contribution close down because they couldn't afford the rent in their over-priced neighbourhood, that they helped revive?

For all the pros and cons of both cities, my ideal home rests somewhere in between (no, not Winnipeg). I need the culture of Montreal alongside the Rockies. I need to hear English, French, Arabic, Spanish, Korean, Greek and Russian when I wander the streets, but I want to pay Alberta tax. I want to hear Church bells when I leave my apartment, but I want to see the mountains on my way to work. I want to buy my beer at the depanneur, but after 11pm I want to call dial-a-bottle. I want to get frequent buyer points on the pot that's delivered to my door, but I don't want to buy from the Hells' Angels. I want to spend more than a week a year with my friends in Calgary, but I don't want to be subject to the manners (or lack there of) of the average Calgarian man. I want to enjoy the freedom of being young, but I don't want to be judged because I don't have a car, a career, a condo or kids. I don't want my tax money to support the operation of the Office de la Langue Francaise, I want it to go to health care so we don't have to wait six months for an MRI to be performed in the hallway of a crowded hospital. I don't want to marry a woman, but I don't want to live in a province that believes it's wrong. I don't want to have children, and I don't want to live in a province that still believes encouraging women to reproduce will eventually lead to the separation of Quebec. I want to speak French in Calgary without being called a separatist. My national holiday is Canada Day and I don't want to spend it moving.

Meditations on Stupidity

Most of us intelligent, slightly bitter people, are quick to point fingers at the dummies that surround us. Some of you will probably admit to this upfront. Good for you, no one likes a dummy. Others among us, however, pride ourselves on being non-judgemental. We choose to forget the times we’ve uttered these insulting words, either at the top of our lungs or under our breath. But let’s face it, sometimes it’s well deserved. It’s an epidemic, it’s contagious, and we’re surrounded. On the streets, in our cars, at our jobs. What gives me the right to declare our world full of idiots, you ask? Ten years of customer service, that’s what. I’ve earned the right. I’ve answered one too many stupid questions with a (nearly) straight face and refrained from slapping one too many customers. I’m not talking about school smarts, I’m talking common sense. Alberta, for instance, is overrun by idiots. Before you get offended- think about it. I am twenty-five years old, and I spent eighteen years of my life in Alberta – split between Grande Prairie and Calgary. I do not remember a time before Ralph Klein. I’m not one to believe that there is a direct correlation between education and intelligence, however… Ralph Klein dropped out of high school and went on to become a sports writer for Calgary’s sleazy tabloid paper. This wasn’t good enough for ol’ Ralph though. So he ran for mayor of Calgary, and then Premier of Alberta. All without a high school education. Were he intelligent, I might praise him on his accomplishments, but in fact it’s simply baffling. We know for a fact the man is a drunk who beats his wife. But Albertans smile proudly and say “Oh Ralph,” as though he were a five year old who spilled his milk again. Six years ago, Ralph walked into a homeless shelter, wasted, tossing money around and shouting at all who could hear that they should find jobs. But Albertans went back to the polls, and still they wanted more Ralph. Shortly after, Ralph was expelled from Athabasca University for plagiarism. The man responsible for raising my tuition year after year was expelled from University. Now doesn’t that just explain it. The man has a profound disrespect for education. Educated people in theory would make educated choices. And an educated choice would mean voting for anyone but Ralph. And then one fateful rainy day, Ralph was pied at the Stampede. Now most Canadian politicians have taken the cream pie as a right of passage and laughed it off. But not our friend Ralph. Assault charges filed, and his attacker spent time in jail. I’m proud to say that I went to high school with said attacker. Though shalt honour thy Premier. But I digress, it’s easy to point fingers at Alberta. There are enough Albertans sufficiently stupid to re-elect this man time and time again. Alberta is a place where stupidity runs rampant, or so it would seem. But let's be honest, there are plenty of other offenders. Take for instance, Alberta's big brother, our neighbours, the Americans. Ralph and George share a similar sort of questionable authority. And this got me thinking…

Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe, just maybe, it is in fact us who are the dumb ones? Maybe these so-called dummies are in fact incredibly intelligent, highly talented actors and they have us fooled. Maybe the tables are turned and they get together on Friday for post-work beers and have a good laugh about how we’re buying it. I’m beginning to believe that this is in fact the way the world works. There is simply no other explanation. As we confronted my boss this week about some points in our contract that he seems to have taken liberty with, I suppressed laughter. His ridiculous explanations and lame excuses were almost as pathetic as the stories a drunk teenager would try to feed his parents. But as it was revealed that we were considering accepting employment elsewhere, he feigned shock. Faked it so well, it seems that he momentarily fooled my partner teacher, Leslie. That is, until I pointed out that were he really scared, he would have jumped at the opportunity to give us what we were asking for. And I thought- maybe he’s had us fooled all along. In the past, his lame attempts to cover holes in the contract and his sketchy management of the school were attributed to his stupidity and lack of creativity. He is after all, an accountant- created in an enormous Samsung factory which spawns thousands upon thousands of identical Stewie Griffin-like number crunchers. He understands numbers, and on the surface his skills appear to end at this. But I’m beginning to wonder if we’ve sold him short. Maybe, just maybe- it's all part of a clever ruse to make us feel sorry for him. Perhaps it’s easier to play dumb so people get frustrated talking to you and eventually just give up altogether. Between his poor English and my embarrassingly limited Korean, we can barely communicate as it is. Throw in a façade of stupidity and I barely want to say hello for fear that it might lead to a painfully exhausting conversation. Like Reg, who sits in the corner of the office for moral support, but refuses to open his mouth as we question my boss as to why we are not getting the health insurance that was promised to us in our contracts.

Consider this idea. Maybe every idiot you’ve met in your life has just been playing with you to frustrate and annoy you beyond belief. Maybe it’s all about giving you a story for later. Maybe the world around us has been manipulated and we are in fact at the bottom of the intelligence scale. Maybe our Friday evening rants at the bar are set-ups, entertainment for the tables that surround us, as the dummies pat each other on the back and congratulate themselves on yet another successful week. Because let’s face it. Is it really possible for people to be this dumb?

Jehovah Takes on Buddha

Determined to take full advantage of our first long week-end since January, I decided to spend Buddha’s birthday exactly where I felt it should be spent So Friday morning, I boarded a bus and in two short hours was dropped off at the door of a Temple in Daejeon. Truthfully, the trip wasn’t so simple, but I won’t bore you with the details of my adventures in purchasing bus tickets. Suffice it to say that I mentally flipped through my very short Korean dictionary, but all that came out was upseyo (there is no) and boule (water). It did little to get me on the bus. I will say, however, that I had more leg room on the bus ride to Daejeon than I had on my crappy Air Canada flight here- for a fraction of the cost. The two hour trip cost me twenty dollars return, and left me questioning the ethics of charging 80$ return Montreal – Ottawa. It seems to me that transportation to the nation’s capital should be dirt cheap- if for no other reason than to spice up the mind- numbing nature of Ontario’s self-imposed 8pm curfew.

I arrived at the Temple to find children playing baseball in the lot out front. The Abbott presented me with roses and directed me towards the office. I breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of a coffee machine in the corner. The information packet had encourage me to leave my beer at home, which I can do. But three days without coffee seemed totally unreasonable and I was happy to see that no one would have to be subject to the consequences of 5am wake ups without coffee.

This particular Temple, I discovered, is far from traditional. Few elements of Asian culture are determined strictly by aesthetic or creativity, but in fact results from thousands of years of tradition and rich symbolism. The construction of temples are no exception. Jakwangsa, therefore is a bit of an enigma. Jakwangsa was built in 1969 and they sort of threw out the book when it came to temple design. It was a bit of a relief, in fact. As I downed my coffee, they began the tea ceremony. I had feared that my temple experience might begin with complicated details involving the tea ceremony. Turns out at Jakwangsa, it’s really quite simple; you drink it. I looked around the room. There was a Canadian girl from Toronto who was bragging to an Australian about her French. Appropriately, the Aussie didn’t particularly seem to care. He had just happened upon the temple after getting on a random bus in Seoul. He was excited that he could stay the night and that there was free food involved. The Torontonian quickly dropped the subject of her French skills when she heard I was from Montreal. There was a man from New York with his Korean girlfriend, and we would soon be joined by a family from Philadelphia. We drank our fill of teas and were then taken to the temple for an ‘Idiots Guide to Meditation’ course. And we did, yes. We did feel like idiots, and we did meditate- not altogether a far stretch from an actor’s warm-up so I felt strangely comfortable with it, even though it was all new to me. Dinner time. Korean Buddhist monks and nuns don’t eat meat, so what greeted us for dinner was rice and every type of kimchee under the sun. The family from Philadelphia filled their plates with rice and looked petrified of the kimchee and the red pepper paste that is used as salad dressing. Turns out their son, also an English teacher, met them at the airport and they immediately got on a bus to the Temple. A cruel trick I thought. They fled the temple after breakfast the next morning, realizing that there would be no variety in the food and they were subject to kimchee for the duration of their stay.

buddhas" src="http://media.livedigital.com/pictures/63/31/6331677be9e4f88dbbf3cbff14be7274_thumb.gif" width="150"> I had planned to do a lot of research on Buddhism before my stay at the temple… but being a procrastinator, I never got around to it. I have to admit that I knew little, and still know little of Buddhism. But I was shocked by how simplistic and logical it was. Just common sense, really. You are the only one who can make yourself happy, so here’s how. We had a question period with the Abbott and I was struck by how calm and peaceful he was. At the same rate, I noted how he took great pleasure in being mysterious in his answers. He reminded me of my movement professor, Phillipe Libert who would give vague explanations of exercises by saying that it was as though you were holding a small ‘Stroumph’ (Smurf) in your hand. This was his way of asking you to stop asking dumb questions. The Abbott was a very educated man. He was Korean, and had come to Buddhism while doing his PhD in Astronomy in the US. He also had a Master’s of Physics. In his words- when he heard about Buddhism, it just clicked so perfectly with physics, it all made sense. The following morning, we were awoken by the tapping of a wooden gong, followed by a bell, followed by yet another bell. I should say we should have been awoken by the traditional gongs and bells, but in truth it was the alarm on my cell phone that stirred us. Anyone who has lived with me would probably agree that no gentle tapping of a wooden gong, or a distant bell would wake me in the morning. Pre-dawn meditation, followed by breakfast. I dreamt of a greasy Canadian breakfast, but no such luck - kimchee and rice. Another meditation followed at noon, but the Americans and the Aussie were nowhere to be found. Too much meditation, or too much kimchee?

In the afternoon, I went to the hot springs with the Torontonian. She wasn’t so bad after a full day of meditation. Now here is a contradiction if ever you’ve seen one. Canadians have no problem wearing skimpy clothes at the first sign of heat (or even in some cases, in the freezing cold)- but standing in a change room in a Canadian gym or swimming pool and all around you, people are turn self consciously towards the walls. Some manage to change under their towels. Some pools even offer private change rooms. Koreans are exactly the opposite. Tank tops are only worn by ‘bad girls’ and short skirts have only just become acceptable attire. When mid-drift bearing shirts were all the rage in Canada, you can be sure the trend never reached Korea. Korean children are more embarrassed by their belly-buttons than any other part of their bodies. Put men and women in separate rooms, however, and anything goes. Bathing is a social ritual in Korea. The hot springs were completely naked and hundreds of women paraded around without the slightest display of self-consciousness. The hot springs themselves were a pretty incredible experience. For four dollars, you have access to the various pools- each set at a different temperature, with different herbs in the water. Two saunas, one normal and the other a jade sauna. I only lasted a minute there- I think I singed my nose hair just by breathing. On the way back to the change room, there are rest areas if you want to take a nap. There are hairdressers, pedicures, massages and body pumices available for an extra charge. Sometimes there are waiting rooms with TVs and movies. Saunas and hot springs are open twenty four hours a day- so that you can stop in on your way home from work- sleep there, and head off back to the office. You know there’s a problem with workaholics in your country when relaxation becomes so important that you pass up a night in your own bed.

Following my Sunday morning kimchee, I packed up my things and returned to Seoul. I was craving a hamburger and McDonald’s just wasn’t going to cut it. I made my way to Little America. I could smell it miles away, it was calling to me. My vegetarian days, it seems are long over. The challenge of Little America is that the streets are littered with crazies trying to convert you to every weird offshoot of Christianity. To get from the subway to your destination, you subscribe to an intense game of tag. There are survival strategies. Walk fast. Keep your head down- try to blend in with all the loud Americans that surround you, and above all- do not make eye contact. The biggest obstacle stands directly in front of the Burger King. Signs scattered about him reveal that he is quite concerned about the number 666. And he worries that we are all going to hell. He plays his guitar and sings at the top of his lungs. I’ve often wanted to take his picture, but I’m afraid that focusing his attention on me may result in being ‘tagged’. My quest to find the perfect burger drove me right past him with a huge crowd of equally white people. In Little America, no one stops to stare at blonds. Except creepy military men. As luck would have it, my destination was directly beside the Jehovah’s Witness headquarters (whatever they call it). I knew I should have taken the stairs, but I thought maybe, just maybe- my big headphones would keep me safe. But they failed me. No sooner had the doors closed when the woman next to me tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “Have you heard about Hellfire?” What a pleasant, creative way of introducing yourself. I smiled, trying to suppress laughter and took the brochure from her outstretched hand. I hoped that this feigned interest would make her feel that she had won. I glanced at the paper- the word Hellfire stared back at me, engulfed in flames. I suddenly felt as though I were in a cartoon episode. I was the stereotypical Fred Flintstone character, who had the angel on one shoulder, and the devil on the other. Only in this case, it was a smartly dressed Jehovah’s Witness (who in my mind, look the same as Mormons on a mission) on my right shoulder, and a peaceful golden Buddha on my left. The Jehovah’s Witness was spouting off gibberish and trying desperately to frighten me enough that I would concede and agree to come to a meeting. Buddha just sat there, eyes half closed, smiling. Which way would you go?

R.E.S.P.E.C.T

The summer I turned fifteen, I packed up my bags and dragged them out to the car. Dad let me drive once we hit the highway, and I jumped into the driver's seat. I was excited until I realized he was going to make me stop at every stop sign, even though the car was a standard... and one of those stop signs was at the top of a hill. We finally pulled into the driveway of Camp Chestermere, where I'd spend the next three weeks as a 'Counsellor in Training'. I wasn't there so much for the training, more for the three weeks of horseback riding and water-skiing, but of course that's not what I wrote on the application. I wonder if God is concerned with teenagers lying on their applications for Christian Camp. I also lied and said I went to Church every week. Although I must say that when I consider the group of people that I met at the camp that summer, I was surrounded by liars. Perhaps He'll accept my publicly coming clean as a confession and we can skip the whole booth thing. I didn't realize when I drove through that gate how much those three weeks were going to impact me. Not in any sort of spiritual sense, nor in maturity, really. More because I met my first two boyfriends within that three week period at that camp. Dave and Jon were widely known through my high school years as my 'on and off' boyfriends, although in reality this was true only of Dave. And in reality it lasted beyond high school. Jon was more of a reoccurring fling. With that summer ended the girly giggling about this boy or that, because something changed. Up until then, I could fight and tease a cute boy, but the concept of a date would never have occurred to me. I didn't think that far ahead. I never thought much past the punch in the arm.

But with that summer, everything changed. Starting that summer, I began to have songs associated with Dave and Jon. Everything became complicated, and as it turns out, would remain complicated until... well, it's still complicated. When we're kids, we pass by milestones and barely give them a second thought. I was excited about my first kiss, but didn't realize that it would haunt me years and years later. At the time it didn't even seem particularly memorable... for more reasons than one. When I moved out of my parents house, leaving behind all my toys, all my stuffed animals, report cards, treasures- I failed to see the symbolism in this act. Leaving behind childhood. Moving from my childhood bedroom with pink wallpaper to an empty apartment with white, white walls.

When I moved out of my parents' house at 18, I never stopped to consider what I might be sacrificing in favour of this Independence. I didn't think about the responsibility that would come with that decision. Not that I wasn't ready for it. I was disgustingly organized about paying all the bills the day they arrived in the mailbox. The fridge was always full... although granted the dishes often took a few hours when we finally got around to them. Point is, I failed to consider that when I signed the lease, I was leaving childhood behind. I had entered the world of bills, credit ratings and budgeting. It snuck up on me and I never realized it.

We never realize when we hit our milestones until after the fact. When I auditioned for Concordia, and found out I had been accepted, I returned to Calgary, packed my things and left a month later. No drawn out good-byes. I had been ready to leave Calgary for longer than I had realized. But I didn't consider that things would never again be the same. I wasn't just leaving behind the city that had grown too small. I was leaving my family, and twelve years worth of friends. Friends that I saw in and out of everyday would all be relegated to two weeks a year. That an after work beer with the IMAX crowd was out of the question. That when Thelma came back from Australia, she'd have fallen in love, and would eventually move there- putting us not only on opposite sides of the country, but on opposite sides of the world. Somehow it seemed that our four hour phone calls and nights at the Night Gallery would be impossible. And they are, unless we start dating a la Coree and accept blind dates only with doctors and members of the Samsung family. Our generation moves. And not from Calgary to Edmonton. We don't even consider that a move. You could easily spend three hours on Calgary transit, so the drive to Edmonton doesn't seem so bad. The reality of our generation is that we will travel the world to see our friends. Sometimes we find ourselves closer geographically when we're travelling than when we're home. Alex, my very first roommate who experienced with me the fear of dishes and the pains of our first apartment, moved to Vancouver while I was in Montreal. And now she lives in Japan. We'll see each other for the first time in five years here, in Korea.

If a rush to the suburbs and the sexual revolution characterized our parents generation, we will be the generation to see the world. Having grown up as we did, far from the memories of the Great Depression and the stories that our parents would have been subject to, we've been spoiled. It's been said that we will be the first generation to have a lower quality of life than our parents. And people think it's a shame, but I wonder what is meant by that. If anything, we're taking more care in our career choices, our love lives, our priorities. We don't want the white picket fence, we want six weeks vacation and a job that lets us travel. We are putting ourselves before our jobs, because we saw our parents live unhappily. Having grown up as we did though, in a country where few wanted for the necessities and most of us grew up with TV, CD players and at some point saw the introduction of the computer into our homes, it's easy for us to have a sense of entitlement. We have yet to fight our battles. Our parents saw the big revolution in our schools and work places. Women were no longer restricted to three career choices. Our mothers balanced a full work week and children. I grew up working hard in school and getting good marks. I knew one day I would go to University, the question was what would I do? I overheard an argument between Canadian and American students last year after the Student Strike that followed the 100 million dollars cuts to student loans by the provincial government. The American student didn't see a problem- he said education was a privilege. But this is simply not how we think in Canada. And that is what sets us apart. Education? Yes. Gay Marriage? Yes. Legalization of Pot? Yes. (Pre- Harper, anyway). I spent my years at Concordia frustrated that I was dealing with student loans. Frustrated that the government continued to screw me out of money and I had to work all the way through school while most of the theatre department had parents that gave them drinking money. Frustrated that as I ran off to work after class, my classmates treated me as though I wasn't taking school seriously. They complained about how it wasn't fair that students had to live 'like this'. They weren't referring to my situation, but rather to their own. Unfair that they had to budget their drinking money from their high rise apartments downtown, failing to understand that others weren't so lucky. It disgusted me. But here I am in Korea, and all of a sudden I'm the lucky one. The spoiled one. I earn twice as much as my Korean co-workers. My apartment is paid, and on top of it I don't have to subscribe to the rules of Korean hierarchy. I can challenge my boss, but they can't. I can refuse to attend a meeting or some work that he's delegated. I can decide, and do, that the catered lunch he provides is too cheap to be edible, while the Korean teachers have no choice but to eat it- because what would the kids think? In the end, he's older, he must be respected. I felt stuck during my years at Concordia. Reliant on student loans, that would come two months late, if at all. And it would be less than they promised. I took on extra shifts, and lost my student loans. Eight thousand dollars apparently is not only enough to live on, but enough to put five thousand aside for school, just in case you were wondering. As frustrated as I was, thankfully the situation was temporary. I look at the intelligent Korean women that surround me at work, and I can't help but feel like a spoiled brat. I was flown in and put up in a nice apartment (after fighting for it), only to be paid twice as much and treated like a queen in comparison. I've recently discovered that if you listen closely, you can actually hear the lonely marble rolling back and forth inside my boss's enormous football head. You have to listen closely though, it is after all, just a marble. As dim-witted as he is, it seems that he is smart enough to realize that if he ever spoke to me the way he does them, my bags would be packed and I'd be on the way to the airport. At the end of this year, I'll leave, return to Canada and tell everyone I had a fantastic experience in Korea. But these women are stuck in the hierarchy. And they're at the bottom. In the west, respect has to be earned. If an employer disrespects his employees, he'll see the consequences. But in Korea it seems unthinkable for the employer to be respectful. He demands it, but refuses to give it. The fact that my co-workers acknowledge the difference between our relationship to him and their own is a start. A full out revolution can't be far behind.