So we're going to Cuba, and we're not taking any electronics.

The last time I was in Cuba was a hundred years ago, before the Special Period, and certainly well before smart phones and ubiquitous wifi (which is not so ubiquitous in Cuba anyway).  I was about 12 years old, and I survived. Imagine!

So now I have two 12-year-olds who are virtually connected most if not all of the time.  Given Cuba's limited (emerging?) connectivity and our short time (one week) there, we've decided it's best if we just go digitally naked for the week.  In an age where one's personal digital devices is not only one's phone and wifi connection, but also one's map, alarm clock and camera, among other things, it's a pretty significant decision.

​That being said, I'm not about to give up the opportunity to document our experiences, despite not having a camera or the ability to blog or post to Instagram in real time.  I've made a lovely little workbook for the kids and for me to journal our adventures...

Truth be told, when I shared this little gem with Alex and Simon, it went over like a lead balloon.

"But we're supposed to be on VACATION!", Simon lamented.  

He was particularly unimpressed with the suggested learning goal and success criteria I had noted on the inside cover.  Their 7-year-old selves would have loved it, but their adolescent selves were not so easily bamboozled by fancy fonts and bold borders on clean, white printer paper.

Alex, at least, succumbed to the colourful cardstock and little sticky note tickets I introduced to sweeten the deal, and even got into the spirit of crafting his little workbook, posing obediently for a photo.

Simon was not so easily swayed, and the activist in him continued to protest in any way he could; three guesses which of the three booklets below is his!

For all his groaning and complaining, though, I know he's excited about the trip, and I'm willing to bet my bottom CUC that he'll jump on board within 24 hours of our 4 a.m. airport arrival on Friday and get on with the journal-ling.  (In between swimming in the pool and the ocean, that is!)

#TeacherMomAF

P.S. Want to make your own travel journal for your kids or a student in your class who will be away?  Download the word doc below, and customize the text to suit your needs.  If you want to take it to the next level, arrange the pages so that you can print back to back and have a self contained booklet!

​Our friend is in Washington.

Almost lost this friendship, we did, after the Trump election...

An ex-pat American, this friend is politically liberal, but the Trump election tried the best of them, it did. Many a liberal, especially (though not exclusively) of the white, straight, able-bodied male persuasion was challenged to understand the mindset of the very people they professed to support, stretched to come to terms with what it really means to be an ally.  

I know our friendship was not the only one tried at this time.  The media was full of stories of lost or shaky friendships as a result of this particular election.

Eventually we had dinner.  And a conversation.  And as our straight, white, able-bodied friend noted that while he supported LGBTQ rights, he would probably not wear the "Teaching with Pride" rainbow t-shirt I had given him last summer out and about (because he just "didn't want to bother answering people's questions"), he began to see that those of us who can't leave our proverbial t-shirts at home (because it's who we are in our sex, gender, skin colour, sexuality, physical ability, etc.) are sick to our stomachs with fear and disgust over the apparent mainstreaming of racism, homophobia and generalized bigotry that this election has shone a spotlight on.

Our friend started to see how those of us who were suddenly and forcefully being re-oppressed might feel a little impatient with those alleged allies who still didn't "get it".

What to do?

Our friend wondered what he should do to demonstrate his sincere support, and offered to make a donation to the Women's March, to help support those who needed to pay for travel expenses and lodging while there.

His thinking reminded me of a song by 1980's Christian pop icon Keith Green, who himself was fed up with people always sending money instead of acting themselves, and who insisted that Jesus Commands us to Go!

The Women's March is for Everyone

At first, our friend didn't understand that he could and should go to the march in Washington.  Surely a straight white guy like him didn't belong there, he insisted.  But in time, we convinced him that his presence would be very much welcomed and needed.

Yes, he was only one person, but so was every other individual person who was going to  ultimately make up the more than half a million people that formed the Washington crowd (plus millions at sister marches and rallies all over the world)!

Yes he was a man, but women and children needed to see men who were not misogynistic pigs supporting them, and their mothers, and their sisters.  Ditto for the "but I'm not black/gay/disabled" arguments.

Besides, we told him, it would be a great chance to him to reconnect with a long lost cousin and meet an internet friend from the Chess server who lived in the area.

And so, with a little more convincing (and considerable paper chasing -- it turned out his American passport had long expired, and his current Canadian passport was of little value in crossing the border), the old man finally bought an overpriced, last minute airline ticket and got going to his Motherland.

Those of us who stayed behind rallied together and got the man a pink pussy hat to take with him on his adventures.  It's the least we could do.

First, a Little Sightseeing

Eager to get first-hand accounts of the happenings, we sent along strict instructions for our friend to update us with regular texts and photos.

He did not disappoint.

Arriving the day before the inauguration, he wandered about Washington, taking photos and sending his observations like a good little tourist...

​First came  an excited text and photo of the recently completed National Museum of African American History and Culture, behind which there was apparently "some tall pointy thing" to be seen.

Then this photo and caption:

Our friend was also excited to discover that he was not the only man wearing a pink hat, as the next text proclaimed that he had just "spotted a guy walking north along 17th St wearing a pussy hat"!

Following this came a series of three photos...

Saturday morning came photos and commentary about the journey to the march.

We the People

Soon after this, the text texts stopped, ​save for a quick observation that "thousands of people are wearing pussy hats".  Indeed, both the photos that followed, and an Internet search on the Women's March revealed an encouraging sea of pink.

In attendance at the march were many celebrities, including Angela Davis, Michael Moore, and of course, Gloria Steinem.  As the latter urged towards the end of her 10-minute call to action, "Make sure you introduce yourselves to each other and decide what we're gonna do tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow."

These marches were only the beginning of the revolution.

​I'm glad you were there, Rick!

​So, I went to plastic surgeon for the first time today… No, I'm not having a nose job or breast augmentation done. I wanted an educated opinion on the progress of my burn, which is three months and two days old today, and my GP thought this would be a better referral than the burn clinic at Sunnybrook.

I'm not particularly concerned about the cosmetics of my slow healing burn; it's more the incessant itching and ongoing redness in a few remaining patches that I've been feeling worried about these past months. 

I have to confess, I held some bias against plastic surgeons; I just assumed that all they dealt with was cosmetic surgery, or that at least mostly that was what their work encompassed. As it turns out, they actually know quite a lot about skin, and about burns in particular, go figure!

For the first time since the day I poured hot water all over myself like an idiot at the office, I actually felt like I was talking to someone who knew what they were talking about.  Instead of desperately searching the Internet for answers, I was able to have an informed conversation with someone in the know.

Granted, the surgeon himself was rather a handsome man (all natural?  I didn't ask!), but he really knew his stuff, as did his student doctor.  I was able to ask my million questions with confidence, and have my fears alleviated in under an hour, all courtesy of OHIP!

The itchiness, it turns out, is unfortunately quite common with deeper burns, and can last six months or more.  It's one of the biggest challenges for burn victims, after the emotional stuff. An antihistamine was recommended. 

The good news is that all my self-care and witch-doctoring in the early months seems to have paid off, and my wound was continuing to "heal well", according to both student and resident. The reason for the dryness, apparently, is that oil secretion glands were damaged.  These take some time to heal.  Use creme, they said.  Any kinds, they said.  Bio-oil is good, they said.  Massage helps too, they said.  press hard.

The best news?  I can go swimming in Cuba next week.  Ocean and pool!  Just keep it out of the sun, they told me.

​I already knew that.

A constant battle this year is my indecisiveness about the most effective and efficient way to commute to and from work.  Although I’m living and working within the same public transit system now (TTC) whereas last year I had to take two systems (TTC and MiWay) to work, I am finding my commute more frustrating than ever.

I know many people blog about the horrors of public transit, so my tale of woe is not a new one, but I do feel compelled to add my voice to the milieu.

Car-free by choice since 2013, I get around largely by public transit or bicycle, supplemented by the occasional rental car or Uber (pool, where possible).

Benefits of Public Transit

In theory, I love to ride the bus or subway: Not having to fight (or pay) for parking downtown affords me the freedom to read the paper in the morning on my way to work, often while enjoying a leisurely breakfast on the go.

My current commute consists of a 16-minute bus ride from Lakeshore to the subway, a 20-minute subway ride downtown, and a 10-minute walk down Bay St to Wellesley.

In theory.

Not all Roses

I blogged earlier this fall about the horrors of the Toronto Transit System, which I had not ridden with any regularity for some years until this this past fall.

The new normal in Toronto now seems to feature crammed busses and streetcars, delayed trains, rude operators and fellow passengers… the latter in particular drive me bonkers, especially on days when I can’t get a seat, and have to spend the better part of my commute pressed up against strangers I am not particular interested in snuggling with preceding or following a long day of work.

(Not) the King of Bedside Manner

One driver in particular stands out recently… notoriously underserved by public transit, our busses in the west end are often jam-packed during the morning ride to the subway.

On one such bus the week before last, the driver had apparently decided he’d had enough with people not moving back of their own volition: After a few rude barks at us to indicate that he was not moving the bus until everyone was behind the white line, he simply stopped communicating altogether.

Several passengers who tried to get on at stops after mine were glared down when the driver stopped the bus and opened the door, or were told flat out that there wasn’t any room on the bus, when they attempted to climb the steps anyway.

One poor gal had to guess why the bus wasn’t moving after she got on (I and a few of my fellow passengers explained that the driver was -- albeit not the king of bedside manner -- well within his safety rights to wait until everyone was behind the white line and out of his line of sight before moving the bus forward).  She then squished as far back as she could and made herself skinny so the guy could drive on.  

He thanked her for her efforts by yelling at her for having not yet paid her fare, which in the stress and uncertainty of being able to board at all, she had not yet gotten around to.

I considered myself lucky on that trip for living so close to the end (start) of the line; at subsequent stops, Mr. Crankypants just kept driving through, leaving large swaths of morning commuters shivering, stranded and confused on the cold sidewalk as a full but not unsurmountable bus drove right on by.

This sort of nonsense sometimes prompts me to pursue alternate routes, such as the Queen Streetcar for example.

An Unlikely Apology

Riding the 501 Streetcar is a fascinating study in humanity. If you were a writer looking for inspiration to compose a memoir about the human condition, an hour spent on this route, pretty much any time of day, any day of the year, would not disappoint.  And you wouldn’t even need to look out the window to find fodder for your work!

From randomly raving lunatics to obnoxious, beer-swillers dispensing uninvited advice, to inconsiderate idiots who crank their music way too high (or don’t use headphones at all), it’s never a dull moment on the Queen Streetcar if you’re looking for irritation, that’s for sure.

But the scene I became enmeshed in last month while desperately seeking an alternative route to the crowded subway ride home was of a genre I’d not experienced before.

It started with some bulky-looking fellow complaining generally about people’s cell phone use, and their unwillingness to engage with one another, preferring instead to succumb to the tiny screen in their hands.

Now, while in theory I may share this dude’s opinion, in fact, it is none of his (or my) business what people do while riding public transit, so long as they are not imposing on someone else's rights.  Certainly they are entitled to their relative privacy, and have no obligation to engage with strangers if they don’t want to.  

So, when the guy’s general commentary became personal, I chose to get involved.

The perpetrator attempted to engage a woman nearby who was minding her own business, just texting on her personal device. When she ignored his unwanted advances, our uncouth friend continued to beleaguer her, shouting, “hey, you!” rather obnoxiously.

​By now, several people had begun to shift uncomfortably in their seats; the poor "offender" with the cell phone was doing her best to ignore the guy and continue her texting.

At this point the guy said loudly, “Hey, bitch!"

When no one came to her rescue, I leaned sideways over my fellow passenger and seatmate, turned to the guy, and firmly told him, “Okay, you know what?  That’s enough, you need to stop!”, to which he replied, “What’s your problem? I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to this bitch”, and gestured towards the bitch with the phone.

With adrenaline coursing through my veins (perhaps more out of anger that no one else was standing up to this jerk, than that he was a jerk in the first place), I stood up and retorted that the word he was choosing to use was offensive, and that -- as a woman -- I was not interested in hearing any more of this sort of nonsense from him, and that he needed to stop immediately, thank you, and sat back down.

When Stupidhead retorted that no one else seemed to be bothered by his language, since no one else had said anything, another woman commented loudly that she didn’t like it either, and had wanted to say something earlier, but hadn't been sure what to say.

The neanderthal then quieted down, but a few stops later approached me as though he were going to attack, and I felt my heart pounding in my throat in a way that only the prey approached by the predator can understand.  As it turned out, though, he was getting off the streetcar, and wanted to apologize!

“Eh, thanks, eh?” He mumbled to me, “Figures not a single man said anything.  Had to be a woman!  Thanks for speaking up.”  He further muttered, and wished me happy holidays before disembarking!!!

After the intitial incredulity passed, I rolled my eyes and turned to see how the gal with the cell phone was faring, but -- determined to survive the ordeal with her personal dignity intact -- she had done a great job throughout the whole affair of just isolating herself from everything and everyone around her.  But I did make eye contact with another woman across the aisle, who just shook her head in disbelief.

Like I said, never a dull moment on the 501 Queencar.

Old, Tired and Run Down

Although that heading could describe me, in fact I selected it to summarize our city’s once-great public transit system, which is another con of commuting by public transit in Toronto.

Views like the one captured in the photo below are not uncommon on the TTC; leaking ceilings, ripped out floor tiles and/or giant sections of walls -- not to make things bigger, better or newer by design, but to manage critical conditions and various stages of disrepair, apparently in the moment, as they happen…

I often compare our first world system to the “antique” and also over-crowded but very affordable public transit system we experienced some years ago in South America and laugh ironically to myself when I realise theirs was better!

I cannot begin to count the number of times I've had to text my partner and/or kids to advise that Mommy would be home late -- yet again -- due to some sort of subway delay.

The aging, mechanically questionable, run-down system, combined with the equally questionable folks who seem to make up an inordinate percentage of the ridership (we didn't even get into any great detail on my favorite topic: Jerks who insist on blasting their pop music too loudly!), and the daily delays make me constantly on the quest for an alternative method of getting to work.

One such way has been my bicycle.

In order to protect my co-workers from my post-workout stench, I bring a change of clothes on mornings when I ride in, and supplement my sink wash up in the office washroom with baby wipes and deodorant power from Lush.

Inspiration Along the Way...

Another reason I enjoy riding in to work is that I get to see a lot of things the average car or subway-dweller misses due to speed or being underground. 

One of the things I love most about my morning ride in, when I do it, is the sunrises.  My Instagram acct will attest to the fact that I am frequently mesmerized by the pastel rainbow enroute downtown, especially along the waterfront during the first half of my commute.

Sunrises aside, however, there are art installations (both human-created and naturally occurring) and lots of wildlife.  I also like to feel the breeze on my face as I cycle, so long as it isn't too strong!

But...

Speaking of strong breezes, sometimes the headwind can be so powerful, it doubles my commute time (yes, I am old, and fat and slow to begin with; strong wind from the north east is not helpful in the morning!)

The main downfalls to biking for me are never having a chance to just sit around and read the paper, and being "stuck" when I am sick (case in point; I got a virus of some sort just as the holidays started, and have not felt well enough to bike since then!)  I'm also not crazy about the bike locker in my building, which is in a dark corner of the parking garage, and adds 10 minutes to my morning commute.

Ultimately, there is no one way for me; I'll enjoy reading and relaxing on public transit while raging inside about the guy two seats over who insists on watching a video without headphones and becomes aggressive with I politely by firmly ask him to turn off the volume (even though I am well within my rights to do so, according to section 3.23 of the TTC bylaws), and eventually become so fed up that I will ride to work the next morning on my bike, but then be desperate for a chance to sit and read the paper and eat a bag of cheezies in peace, so will leave my bike locked up at work and ride the subway home and get frustrated with the constant delays over the next few days, so will end up back on my bike for a bit... and so it goes.