HUMAN FIRE (not humidifier)

After a few years blogging with tumblr, HUMANFIRE has taken permanent residency at:

www.lbplayground.com/humanfire

I will never stop writing so come find me there!

Community feasts are common up here in Iqaluit. When there is public service announcement, there is no better way to entice an audience then with the words FREE FOOD! Lucky for me, the most recent feast happened on the day that I locked myself out of the house. Yup, a very severe and potentially deadly situation on a bone chilling arctic eve. A tragic situation turned into a perfect one; I was already hungry and tired and penniless. I could definitely use some free nourishment and entertainment, in the form of government propaganda... 

I trekked up the snowy hill and blustery winds to the high school. It was already packed and buzzing. People of all ages were excitedly lining up or already devouring overflowing plates. What an ingenious idea! I thought as I observed the hubbub. Chairs and tables had been set up and different families and friends were chatting away, children shoving chunks of food in their mouths rapidly. I don't normally see community Elders out and about here (I trip and almost die at least once a week on the ice and I have young, un-brittle bones) but it seemed like all of the Elders had found a way here tonight.

The main courses were being dished from big cardboard boxes, assembly-line-style. I couldn't make out what was being served from a distance; it looked like pink cubes of something...

Dig into raw, frozen caribou meet! 

"How many chunks do you want?" asked the assembly lady with a wink and grin. "Uh..." I hesitated, not wanting to show my apprehension for shoving cold, uncooked bits of a caribou into my empty stomach. But then again, I have eaten some interesting cuisine in my travels before. "I'll have a fist-full please...I mean a hoof-full"

My stomach wanted to leave the room as I looked ahead to the next few mystery boxes and wondered what would be placed on my plate. This was definitely an aspect of Inuit culture that I hadn't explored yet... 

Whale Sashimi

Next there was a choice between two: beluga or narwhal. With BBQ sauce? Medium-well done? Definitely not. I settled for beluga sashimi. Most surprises lay ahead and soon my plate was piled high. The Inuit definitely invented the no-carb diet long before Atkins; no wonder they were so fit back in the day.

Taha was quick to sink his teeth into the caribou jerky. I found it too gamey. Our Zimbabwean friend took pictures, laughing, though refusing to partake in any of the tasting and digesting.

Caribou meet, smoked arctic char, frozen raw arctic char, caribou jerky, beluga and bannock made my feast complete.

I watched even the littlest kids mowing down their whale, gnawing on the skin, and then getting up for seconds and thirds. But as I picked up the rubbery, blubbery piece and held it to my lips, breathing in the under-the-sea aroma, I whispered thank you, yes thank you, Baby Beluga, hero of the Raffi song, but who died in vain because I just couldn't stomach that baby piece of beluga for the life of me of. Yup, as I gave it a cowardly lick for the photo op, I realized that I will always be a li'l white city girl, unable to swallow sea mammals...without the help of a frying pan and some sweet n' sour sauce. I politely had a bit of the rest, then passed the plate off to someone else to give it a proper barrial. I only went back for seconds of bannock, similar to a scone or tea biscuit, something my ancestors would have eaten in their bonnets on the MayFlower, sailing beside the whales. 

Nowadays the modern arctic diet revolves around waiting for planes to deliver expensive goods from around the globe. Inuk kids crave sugary soda and the per capita intake of potato chips is high. These community feasts highlight that although our lifestyles have changed and reflect different norms, our paletts still remember what foods our ancestors needed to survive. There are no fruits veggies up here, just what we find hidden under ice and snow. I hope this environment and culture exists long enough for my great-great-great-great-and-then-some grandchildren to  happily request raw narwhal...or at least narwhal flavoured scones. 

I recently moved to Iqaluit, Nunavut. Besides the frigid temperatures, I had no idea what was beyond that dot on the map on Baffin Island, way up in Canada's North. I landed here with no job, no map and no snowmobile, just a teensy milligram of hope that somehow I could build something (even an igloo would do) that would shelter me, and help me navigate this confusing world one step at a time. Despite the beautiful pictures I've posting, and the eclectic situations I've been describing, I'm not going to lie but the move up here has been, at times, anything but postcard-worthy. I donned my fur hood faster than I knew quite what I was getting into, and forgetting what I was leaving behind. 

Nunavut is a complex place and Iqaluit is quickly becoming a hot spot for recents grads from all over, newcomers to Canada, misfits hoping to change their lives, and the Inuit, who are still struggling to find a way to survive amidst this rapidly changing social landscape. It's confusing to come and then exist in an environment as unique as this. Because of the blustery winds and blizzards that can instantly over take even the sunniest and tranquil of moments, neighbours retreat to their houses, hiding valuable survival secrets and much-needed smiles from new comers. You won't find very many tips on the internet. This is a word-of-mouth community, however, I am discovering that many social groups are segregated. While everyone makes eye contact and smiles when passing on the snowy streets, finding a birds with your feathers, or an inclusive posse is about is straightforward as distinguishing the fronzen Bay from the tundra, from the road to the snowmobile path; I still can't tell the difference between them: all are icy and covered in snow, and then more snow, and then some. March and April are the worst months for blizzards and snow fall so I know it ain't getting any easier. 

The winds are picking up...

No one who is moving up here is expecting easy. I am lucky to have my favourite-person-ever already up here. For many Canadians newly living in Iqaluit, life is a constant a mind battle; they are counting down the days until they go back "down South". They don't, and say, they will never consider this place home. It's not the weather, but the melting pot of segregation and obstacles that are not being smoothed over (despite all the money the government is throwing at them) that is getting to them. I can't begin to image what this territory, this city, these communities will look like even ten years down the road. But now that I am here, added to the pot, the bubbling cultural mixture, I can't ignore what I am experiencing... I might have to be here for a while more. The arctic either gets into you, and seeps into your bones...or it shatters them. 

The main reason why my bones haven't broken (yet) is because chocolate milk is very reasonably priced here, and because I've been singing my bones (heart and soul) strong with the Nakasuk Elementary School choir kids, and the Iqaluit Community Choir. Yup, I'm an Arctic Glee girl now, because singing is singing wherever I go. Whether you can read music or not, the notes are the same and choirs are always looking for people to hit those high notes (or come close enough). Just when I was wondering if I would be stuck out in the social cold of this community, binders full of sheet music were thrust into my mitts. All I had to to do was open my mouth an belt it all out. No one cares where I am from, how good my voice is, just that I am here now. My friends are now older gals, retired, teachers or government workers, who, like me, were once wandering the empty streets aimlessly. They recognize the diversity means adversity here, but getting together and singing in Inuktitut and whatever language our sheet music reads, they are beating all that negativity by trying to remember why we all came up here in the first place. I am sandwiched between the grade 2 choir, teaching me to grow up again in an arctic setting, and the adults, helping me to integrate here, but also appreciate the difficulties that exist around me; sad, difficult songs are often the most beautiful.

Getting ready for the show!

On Friday night, all the choirs in Iqaluit congregated at Nakasuk school to perform a collection of songs together on one stage. We had an amazing guest conductor, Lori Dollof, who visited from Toronto for the week and taught each choir a different piece of the songs we'd be performing. Practising was tricky; we sounded weak and lacked the right rhythm and melody that the other choirs would be bringing. I was worried we might not be able to pull it together. However, when everyone finally came together to sing, it was like assembling a magnetized, mismatched puzzle; we somehow fell into place. I stood behind my little choir kids on stage, watching them look out at the audience, waving to their parents. We sang in English, French and Inuktitut. We were all dressed in traditional amounties (not RCMP outfits as I first thought when I heard the word) and for the first time in a long time, I felt proud to be a part of something; I actually felt optimistic. As we sang, two community elders came out and lit the quilliq, a traditional oil lamp filled with seal blubber. Polar Man, the local hero, commented from the audience that he felt like he was in a scene from a movie. 

Very candid choir shot, oops.

The last song was Jack Layton's letter, "To Young Canadians" reminding us to be loving, hopeful and optimistic. Never before have I been so overcome with emotion and inspiration. Not because I was singing those words, not because I was a part of something, but because through somehow finding love and hope in a place where people had told me there wasn't any, or what was left of it was dwindling, but by finding it, a sense of excitement was reverberating through my bones. And that feeling didn't go out with with the qulliq; it is continuing to flicker, gently but steadily. 

Elders lighting the Qulliq

Jack Layton, you have not only left behind a powerful legacy but your words are continuing to inspire young, and ancient, Canadians. 

Nunavut, you are full of surprises and I am ready for what you have in store for all of us.

So Canada, join your local choir. No, I'm kidding. But don't forget that no matter where you are, the road is going to be difficult, if it isn't already. You might not be surrounded by ice and darkness, but you are resting upon a complex history and an uncertain time. Connect with those around you. Since our environment has a prediction of DOOM, it's never too late try something new and make it sound beautiful! Arctic are not, we are kinda all in this together, yo!

HALLO FROM NUNAVUT! ᐊᐃᓐᖓᐃ! 

"BB, where have you gone?" "BB, post more pics please!" "BB, have you stopped writing?" "Have you disappeared into the Great White North?"

Hold your caribou, people! I'm not, and can't, go anywhere, so I am still right here, in sunny Iqaluit; It's hard to even go a few steps with these steep snow banks and my snowmobile boots (my future sled dog team is still in its puppy phase). I would never stop writing, and every moment here is postcard-worthy so I never stop snapping. But with only 10GB of bandwidth a month, I'm going to have to get used to being a savvy internet saver. Netflix and Youtube are too wasteful up here...unless you want dial-up speeds and site time-outs to be your norm. For the last few weeks, I closed my laptop and stared up at the sky. I'd rather be outside, almost frozen watching as another psychedelic sunset is replaced by the rockin' ripples of the Northern Lights, than sitting inside getting frozen out of Facebook. Conservation is the word of the North and applies to internet just as much as it does to my expensive grocery store snacks. 

My walk "downtown" as the sun goes down. 

My first month here has been an adjustment; everything I need is on one little street. No subways. No long commutes. No saying "it's too far", because nothing ever will be. I make tea and meals at home. No Starbucks. No decisions between sushi or thai. Though every Wednesday is Wing Night; $12.50 for 50 chicken wings at the Legion. There is even a put-on-your-own-sauce-stand with 6 different options! OMG! Taha and I have already learned the hard way that Toronto folks should NOT apply their own sauce: Our ratios are all wrong (let's just say my fingers are permanently sticky)...

My daily exercise through High Park has been replaced by the Elliptical at the swanky Frobisher Hotel up the hill. Workout rooms and I have never been friends, but if I am going to keep off the blubber, I will just have to get used to bouncing up and down on a machine while watching reality shows like "Four Weddings" and "The View" (my only link to the Southern world...and I don't know to change the channel).

Iqaluit is a diverse place, but at its heart lies the beautiful Inuit culture. Inuktitut is still commonly used, yet with more and more new residents calling Nunavut home, I am worried that the ancient, pure traditions that created this territory may be lost in these rapid changes and developments. It hurts me to know that moving here, being unable to speak the language, being ignorant about the history, yet still able to build my life the way I want it, that I am also contributing to the problem. I am confused about where to start, who to talk to and how to start learning. My walks around town as an observer helped me realize I needed to do something more...

The Northern Lights are exceptionally exceptional in March.

I started volunteering at Nakasuk Elementary School: Four hundred kids from K-5 from all different backgrounds, though at least half are Inuk. At first I went in after school and led choir practices. The school is putting on a 1960's-themed musical in May so all of a sudden I was expected to teach six-year-olds what lyrics like "tripped out on peace, tripped out on love" mean. They are a energetic bunch who just can't sit in one place. I hate having to tell them to "be still like trees" when I just want to dance with them! "There are no trees in Nunavut!" They yell back and keep on rocking out.

But the choir gave me my first intro to Inuktitut. As well as learning fake-hippie songs, the children taught me how to sing "Twinkle Twinkle" and "Frere Jacques" in their language: "Ullu Ullu Ulluriaq" and "Nukakuuluk". The choir had its first performance, and I had to be right in front, conducting their Inuktitut songs. Not only did I have to learn fast, but the kids laugh at the fact that they have to sing louder and stronger to mask my terrible pronunciation. Win-win!

 As soon as I started teaching choir and helping with the  "Everything's Groovy" performance, I got hired as a Student Support Assistant (SSA) at the school. This has to be the best job I have ever had; I visit all the different classrooms and help the kids with special needs, or those who have fallen behind. I get to be in the Inuktitut Emersion classrooms where I have no idea what is going on, but just copy what the kids are doing; hand gestures and funny faces are a universal language I have mastered, from Ghana to the arctic. In the Kindergarten classrooms I never stop moving and get covered with paint or pictures of polar bears. In the grade 5 classroom, I realize I need to brush up on my fractions and long division because they ask me, wise Madame Bibi, to help them with everything!

On yard duty, I play soccer on the ice rink (to think less than a six months ago I was learning to play football in a dusty field in West Africa!), or capture the flag, running over the mounds of snow. Instead of tag, we play Qalupalik. It's based on the Inuit legend that grandparents tell their grandchildren in hopes they would stay on shore when the ice is melting. In the game someone is "it" or Qalupalik and has to run around and try and capture the other children and bring them to his/her hidden hiding spot. The other children try and run away, or rescue the victims before they are captured themselves. One third grade Inuk girl told me there is nothing worse than getting caught by a Qalupalik. The kids caught me right away.

Being an SSA, the days go by quickly. I am either playing outside, playing in the class, or chatting with the Elders in the staff room. I love the education system here: It is a melting pot of the Canadian curriculum and Inuit customs and culture. The community Elders work with each grade in the school a few times a week and teach them Inuktitut folktales, proverbs, and stories about Frobisher Bay from way back when they were struggling to keep their land. The Elders are sassy Inuk ladies, with wrinkles so deep and pronounced that they look like they were carved delicately into their faces. I enjoy our staffroom chats. They always ask me about my travels. "Have you ever seen a snake? Ay-Ah!" They gasp. They tell me I must learn to stitch and sew my own parka and seal skin boots. "Every woman must know how to make her own clothes. Never rely on someone else to clothe you".

I can't get enough of romping out on Frobisher Bay, on the way to Apex. I am glad the Qalupalik are safely stowed under the ice!

I never ever considered being a teacher or going into an education-related field, but standing up for "O Canada" being sung in Inuktitut, helping the students write stories about caribou hunting expeditions, and colouring in pictures of snowmobiles is giving me the 101 on life in Nunavut. I am learning all the basics by teaching the littlest Nunavumiut, getting lessons from the Elders...and going out for Friday night dinners with the faculty. I'm catching up on the gossip and learning that in this town, everyone knows everyone. And being an SSA, I am now getting to know everyone's kids!

Bear cub? No, husky pup! Awwww!

My future husky team dream! After work, Taha and I paid a visit to a coworker's eleven three-week-old husky pups. Tempting, but there is not shortage of pets up here so we'll have to wait until we have a house, and can afford to buy the hundreds of pounds of arctic char it costs to feed this almost-wolves!

Art in epic proportions. When you're bored, try carving a whale skeleton!

I gave myself 4 months to get my passport renewed, taxes filed (for the past four years), do all that grown-up stuff …and serve the remaining lattes and coffees I had left in me…before getting-away again. Choosing a destination is a difficult decision especially if you are as indecisive as I most definitely am. My heart was pulling me back to Ghana: hot sun, reuniting with my friends and “family”, and continuing my days strolling the sandy streets, just where I had left off (and yes, spending heaps of time sitting up in the baobab tree).

            But my hand was having none of it, literally: My mouse clicked on a flight bound to Nunavut: looks like my feet were headed for Canada’s arctic! Sometimes the last minute decisions are the most drastic…and most fantastic. It was actually a lucky thing too because Passport Canada somehow sent my updated documents to Quebec… ?! (Yeah Passport Authority,I guess my French name is confusing...NOT!). So I’m stuck within national boundaries and hoping my passport can catch me waaaaaay up north! It’ ironic that even though this country is so vast that I could cover kilometers and time zones and never see a border line, yet I am always so focused on crossing continents... So,  maybe this is a sign that after all my international adventures, I should turn down the travel heat and embrace our coldest territory…

Yes, I know Iqaluit is cold. Frozen. Ice Ice baby. Ice ice BB, you can feel free to call me. “You definitely like extremes! A few months ago you were just shy of the desert. Now you are just shy of the arctic circle!” Oh people! Yes, I am glad you know how to use your Weather Apps. But if you know me you’ll know that I am never shy around ANYTHING! (Well… maybe Justin Bieber *blushes *) Anyway, if there is one thing I am learning from my nomadic expeditions around the globe, it’s that experience is all relative, and each situation must be handled contextually.

UNDIES IN GHANA = SNOW SUIT IN NUNAVUT

CONCLUSION: NO SUCH THING AS EXTREME TEMPERATURES.

In a few years, after we warm the Earth a bit more, then it will be contextually appropriate to wear undies while jet skiing on Frobisher Bay.

My parka is thick and hearty: designed for movie stars to keep warm between takes when on location in frigid climates, and it goes all the  way down to my dinosaur-snowmobiles boots. When trudging around “downtown” Iqaluit, I feel like one of the those swanky, stiff Yorkville ladies: sleeping-bag-coat forces me upright, walking delicately and, because of my fur-trimmed hood, I can’t see where I’m gong unless I swivel my entire body…or I just trust that everyone will move aside for me, like the Southern Bell I am. If I drop something…well, I’ll just pick it up in a few months, when I can wear a more bendable outfit. Yup, going for evening strolls around here is definitely going to take some getting used to. Or a seeing-eye-dog-sled-team for these dark evenings.

But actually, I have never been warmer. I remember the last few winters I was running as fast I could between subway and school, or watching my fingers narrowly avoid frost bite, biking frantically down Bloor street on a mitten-less Saturday night. Yup, Southern folk survive winter by praying to the Snow Gods to keep it all in…and then we’re always offended and sad when winter comes on, full force! How dare you dampen my freshly ironed hair!? Not in Nunavut! Send the blizzards here, we are ready! Our bulky mittens are part of the style, and the snowmobiles are already revved up…and if the weather gets too demonic, then well, we’ll take a Snow Day…or five; because here that’s not dramatic.*sigh *

            I was supposed to land in Iqaluit on Groundhog Day. But in true Groundhog Day tradition, my plane turned around due to bad weather. The old Inuk man who had been dozing next to me the entire ride looked up as we touched down, back in the capital city and exclaimed “This doesn’t look like the arctic! Did I get on the wrong flight?!” I filled him in on the situation and he grumbled something about wimpy pilots not able to handle a few measly snowflakes, and then skulked back onto the frozen tarmac. The next morning, I checked in all of my food-filled packs again, and re-boarded the plane. This time, it didn’t see any shadows and I landed safely at the little yellow light-house looking airport on the tundra.  Home sweet igloo.

            Just kidding. There are no igloos here (except the ones constructed by expert Inuk children, just for fun).  There are plenty husky dogs running out on icy Frobisher Bay, and kite boarders, surfing far off into the afternoon orange-pink glow. I walk past laughing infants, snow-suited up like chubby lobsters and climbing the snowdrifts, with toy cars and trucks. Women have colourful coats and big hoods, that shield the babies on their backs from the piercing wind. All road signs are written in English and Inuktitut and I stop and study the swirly shapes and symbols. This is my country, yet it still feels very distant to anything I have experienced within this nation’s boundaries.

            In fact, this place feels more to me like…Ghana (minus 80 degrees and all of the tree)! Even though I am staying in the capital, there are only 7000 people here, so it feels like a cross between a village and city; the government is here, there are important buildings and landmarks…but even after a few days I am recognizing faces and walking back and forth past the same small businesses and schools. There are no liquor stores, and only a few little eateries, a walk-thru Tim Hortons…and finally a place with: zero Starbucks! But as I learned in Africa, sharing is caring!: Potlucks are fashionable in Iqaluit. In fact, I have never, ever eaten better!

Welcome to Iqaluit BB (awww...chocolate peanut better exists up here!)

          I loaded my bags so full of spices, protein bars, oil, and basically something from every bin at Bulk Barn. “You are going to starve up there!” “BB, you will never see fresh fruit or veggies again!” “If you don’t starve or get scurvy, it means you are broke from spending all your money on good food items!”. I gotta admit, all this advice from you Southerners was totally freaking me out! Visions of my future self with thinning hair, a macaroni-and-cheese belly, greenish teeth and wax-paper skin, was limping around in my imagination…would I perish in the arctic?! Would my mature granola-vegan/Asian-fusioned/Ethiopian-foodie pallet be able to stomach freeze-dried potatoes and seal blubber?! I decided to risk it.

            Living in the Great White North is the best kept secret. Up here people wonder why anyone would want to live anywhere else. Especially since THE FOOD IS JUST THE SAME AS BACK HOME…just a tab more expensive. And when I lived in Toronto, I shopped at Whole Foods therefore to me THE FOOD IS EXACTLY THE SAME AS BACK HOME. Here are some of the meals I made/shared this week: tacos, BB sandwiches, butter chicken, BACON, ribs, greek yogurt and granola, fruit salad, BACON, humus and pita…and chili and cornbread baked into each other!!! Everyday I’ve enjoyed an avocado, spinach and kiwis...and a least one piece of BACON! I haven’t even needed to dip into my supply of whale and caribou in the freezer. Ha! You get what you get here, and if you can’t find it one day, it will be there the next…and if it’s still not there, someone else, who just happens to be an amazing cook, else will give it to you! Not bad, huh? 

Uh-oh! Looks like I had to learn to bake...fast-fast! Mmmm, apple-cranberry crisp!

I have had a leisurely first-week here being “Fun-Employed”. I walked into the main elementary school (which looks more like the Super Dome) and asked what sort of credentials I’d need to possibly work at the school. They asked me if I’d be willing to teach full-time, please please please please! So apparently I am now an elementary school teacher…that’s a different direction from working at the restaurant bar or minding the dentists’ office. I know so many friends back in Toronto who are working unpaid overtime or volunteering in classrooms and working service jobs while trying to get into teacher’s college, and then struggling to get a job afterwards. Yet in the arctic, the children need teachers and are craving a stable learning environment (I hope I can provide that...hahaha). People, there are very, very well-paying job up here, just sayin’…

The Elementary School Super Dome (Scooper Dome)

            I have only been here a week and already I have noticed those who are not Nunavut natives, are referred to as “Southerners”. I came from “down south” and I’ll probably head “down south” this summer and then head back from “down south” again when the school year starts in September. At first I thought it was funny, especially those “Southerners” who have been here only a months and are adopting that lingo too. However, being up here I am suddenly very aware that I am from Toronto and that I grew up near Harbord/Christie, in a mismatched neighbourhood of world’s most multi-cultural city; that is special to me. And for the first time ever, I am reluctant to lump those details into the general direction of down south. Yes, we are living in a city up North…but it relation to Grise Fiords, Canada’s most Northern community, Iqaluit is technically pretty south (once again, it's all relative, duh!) I do want to learn about this place for other perspectives, but I cannot forget the one with which I came: it’s a mixture of more than just “South”; it’s an entire compass, and I’m not sure which of my narratives has been more influenced by which place…my city in Iceland, that little town in Northern Ghana, going to university in Siena…oh, too-too plenty places, too-too plenty people I have met! I’m already very aware of my sensitive white skin and rosy cheeks, prone to frostbite. Why burden ourselves with direction too?

I just can't get enough of this Frobisher Bay view.

I AM HERE. This point at which I am now determines the direction in which I am looking, and my relationship with all other points will change depending on where I stand. A point on a map has given me a direction to follow, but the more points I cross, the more east becomes west, south becomes north and suddenly my compass isn’t even a compass at all, but just a needle in water, floating around; governed by an invisible force that I don't really understand. Therefore, I should stop checking my coordinates, and just learn to coordinate with the stars. At this time of year, they shine like fire diamonds.

Check out Taha and my first episode of our Arctic Adventure series:

Airplanes are fantasical contraptions. I am no astrophysicist, jet enthusiast or angel, but I have spent enough time in, around, and looking at planes to realize that it’s almost unbelievable to do what an airplane does. Most of my life has been centered around air so although it’s good for somethings, I wouldn’t trust it to hold my groceries…*crash, thud, spill*… yet somehow, with the right metal gismos, perfect practice of Bernoulli’s Principle, and a team of genius eccentrics, our exhaled breaths can support not just my groceries, but my cat, obese neighbours and more, from Point A to Point X, Y, Z , and next time won’t you fly with me? Yes, airplanes have not just changed our minds, but obviously, the way societies functions. Would that Chinese man with the delicious stir-fry be serving you on Friday Date Night without the invention of the airplane? Would that pleasant Indian man have efficiently performed your grandma’s spleen surgery without the invention of the airplane? Well, possibly: If they had been patient enough to endure the boat ride over, and smart enough to take Vitamin C pills (as not to die of scurvy). Boats are also 100% not safe and will sink 100% of the time, in evidence to Titanic, the greatest boat movie of our time, and encompasses 100% of the boat travel movies I have seen.

This diagram is a brief explanation of Bernoulli’s principle brought to in part by someone else’s research, time and photo.

Airplanes have changed my life too. Not only do they fuel my travel addiction, but they also inspired the greatest movie of our time Airplane. What would our film industry and society be without such lines as: “Surely, you can’t be serious! “I am serious…and don’t call me Shirley!”.

Otto, the world’s best inflatable pilot

But seriously, although airplanes are almost perfect, the airplane industry surely isn’t. Airlines should listen to my (and I am speaking on behalf of the general population here: the Chinese food makers, Indian doctors and comedic film stars) complaints and address my concerns for the betterment of airplane passengers now hovering in skies everywhere.

List of Complaints/Constructive Criticisms/COME ON PEOPLE, GET REAL!!!:

Cup size:

Really? We can put giant pods of metal in the air, but you can even give me a bigger cup for my water?! I am a little person and even I feel like Gulliver in Liliputian Land when I am served my Cabernet Sauvignon or tomato juice. Once I get to the point where I am thirsty enough to dry up more than the Sahara we are flying over, I am treated like a greedy overweight meat-bag if I request even a dollop more water. Look airlines, I know I’m an economical backpacker, but not everything has be travel-sized for my convenience! Might I suggest a re-usable baby bottles or drink dispensers on every seat? I read an article that revealed that $70 000/year could be saved by simply cutting one olive out each mini-meal. My question is, where are these airlines buying these fancy-pants, designer olives? Ever heard of Honest Ed’s?!

Barbie and Skipper paddling pools? NO! This is what is expected to sustain me for 12 bloody hours.

2. Carry-On

I understand that wanting to commit a crime against humanity using an airplane is incredibly appealing to some people, but depriving me of my pink swiss army knife, Justin Bieber singing toothbrush and plastic safety tweezers is not the way to go. Any pilot, stewardess and air captain who has a phobia of small metal objects or can be taken out with a mildly sharp object should not be walking outside, let alone maneuvering on a giant metal object full of jagged surfaces. Instead of airports running a blatantly unfair security (more like robbery) system, they should instead use the saved olive money and enroll are their staff in:

SKY SAFETY 101: HOW TO DEFEND YOURSELF AND CREW AGAINST MILDLY SHARP/METAL OBJECTS

I know I would feel way more secure and perhaps even choose an airline over another that's staff is not courageous enough to disarm someone with shifty-eyes and using a can-opener. Even better, an attendant who’s trained to, not only fight said can-opening tyrant, but also be able to distinguish if this is a potential hijacker or just a hungry olive-craving passenger with a blinking impediment. Let the carry-on, be carried on!

3. Blonde is the New Beard

Who is more likely to commit an act of terrorism using an airplane? That robed, bearded man declaring his hookah pipe? Or that suburban toe-headed couple who forgot to declare their bottles of bourbon because they were too busy "smiling" at each other? Definitely the latter. It makes me uneasy that racial profiling still exists, especially with focus on targeting robed, bearded men, women and children. If I were to hijack a plane (which I wouldn’t because I have an Arts degree so I will very soon find success on a stable career path), I would definitely dye my hair blonde, wear a trendy track suit and adopt little blonde mini-mes and SUV strollers. Therefore if anyone is going to be “randomly” checked, it should be these line-texting plastic-people who have so many pink luggage sets, and are soaked in so much perfume, that they likely could be equipped with enough ammunition and toxic gasses to bring down an entire aircraft. Plus, a life of Vogue subscription, non-fat lattes, and cardio-fit-aerobic-yoga-lates is enough to make anyone want to commandeer the aircraft (you know, more social media attention than just booking through Expedia)! DOOM!

On my return home from my West African summer I was stopped at every security check point I went through. The machines beeped wildly and detected suspicious activity coming from my intricately woven head. It turns out the Ghanaian market-brand hair in my braids was not airplane friendly. They let me on anyway, but I felt a pang of sympathy for all those Laquishas, Aishas and M’Dawnas of the world who get stopped, prodded and have their silky, fake locks manhandled on every flight.

“Mommy says I’m beautiful” ”I’m so excited to land safely in America!”

4. Seating Change

When you purchase your airplane tickets, you should be required to fill out a short personality, lifestyle and basic habits survey before seats are assigned. Imagine how enjoyable your flight would be if you were sandwiched between two potential BFFs who have the same weak bladder, insomnia, and desire to watch “Sex and the City Movie” over and over for the entire duration? I think it would be beneficial to place all the people who don’t like to eat their jello beside all the people who crave extra airplane dessert. Likewise the people who want to have a heated political debate can sit with the screaming newborns. Not only is it logical to place like-minded, like-bladdered people together, it is also beneficial for society: think about how many new business ideas would be tossed around, or marriages that could be set up. 12 hours? That’s like 4 first dates right there! If you are flying to Vegas, you might as well head straight to that Elvis chapel you’ve both been dreaming of…

Better yet: NO SEATING! Just a giant open space where passengers can pitch tents, set up folding chairs, play Twister or gaze at the ceiling (which conveniently turns into a planetarium after dinner, in which people have to fight and forage for). I would love to jump rope while in flight, or have a hula-hoop-off.

5. Themed Staff

If the inflight move is “Batman” I want to be served by Cat Women. If we are watching “Lord of the Rings” there damn well better be an un-racially-profiled bearded, robed men bringing me my quiche.

For over a year I would pass by a mysterious, creepy old house in a pretty rough, “criminally colourful” neighbourhood in Toronto. I was usually on my way home from work, or pit-stopping at the bank so I never bothered to take a second glance at this particular sketchy old house; in fact, I tend to rush through this area so as not to attract any crazies (or “zombie people” as I lovingly refer to them). However, last year I burned my foot quite badly and during the two months that I was a third-degree cripple I required daily bandage changes. The foot healing clinic was in this familiar area. I was not in the least bit excited about having to venture back to Zombie Town, especially with my limited mobility. Luckily, I have great friends who acted as my supportive guide dogs and encouraged me to all my appointments. At first I would take cabs, but once my burn-victim-stipend ran dry I was forced to hobble and take the TTC like a common hobo. As my Musketeer friend Madison and I were gimping down to the clinic, we passed that creepy old house and this time we were slow enough to see for ourselves what lurked behind the creaking porch and mouldy paint job…

*mystical noises*

PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA

We were really excited about PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA and tried to rally a few friends to visit her, you know, for kicks. But then my foot healed and we forgot all about our mystical healer.

Over a year and a trip halfway around the world later, my other Musketeer friend Trish and I found ourselves at a crossroads: we were standing at a busy intersection. We had also been contemplating what lay ahead for us in the next phase of our lives. Luckily, we were right across the street from PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA! Actually that morning I had woken up knowing I was going to see PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA. I don’t know how, but I just knew…and then there we were, right there! Mystical!

We knocked on PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA’s door. A few moments later, it opened. I was definitely expecting a busty lady in a trashy pirate costume, tottering on heels and flouncing around with a high-pitched Southern Belle accent. PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA in reality, was the complete opposite: tiny, and beautifully delicate, hidden under a soft blouse and adorned with an Evil Eye necklace; she looked weary and had a stern expression, as though she had just be arguing with some finicky spirits. Bingo.

PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA told us to come back in ten minutes. We went and ate grapes across the street. They were delicious and reasonably priced.

Once we had crammed back in PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA’s work room, she mystically explained the services she offered: palm reading, Tarot cards and peering into our futures with her crystal ball. Her voice was tired, and she spoke with an edgy Bronx accent. For $30 each we chose the Tarot cards; that’s roughly the same price as popcorn and a movie these days! What a great date idea: “Is the girl I’m dating the right person for me?” “No, but you would be better suited to her sister!” “Gee, thanks PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA!” Haha. Kidding.

And that’s not quite what happened. Trish left while I got my reading done (too much energy confuses the mystical-spiritual-vibrating energy). PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA asked me to shuffle the cards and make two wishes. Babies were screaming bloodiest murder from behind the walls. As I wished, PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA left the room. As I muddled the cards around on the table, PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA yelled distantly “SHUT UP OR MUMMY WON’T BE ABLE TO CONCENTRATE ON THE LADY’S ENERGY!!!”. As I slowly piled the cards up neatly, I heard the wailing quieten down slightly and felt PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA slip back into the room. I wish and wished as I cut the deck and PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA sat down in front of me and began turning over the cards…

Yup, the first five or six all involved DEATH and cards that featured corpses or jagged, bloody objects stabbing violently. That couldn’t be good. Though she didn’t seem to phased by it. After about eight cards she paused for a long time, looking me up and down. She open her mouth, and then closed it; I had stumped PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA. Hesitantly, she told me that I wasn’t from here (Toronto). But that I was from...Iceland. She asked me if that made sense to me. I nodded vigorously, grinning. Damn, PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA was off to a good start.

The Reading gained momentum after that; PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA flipped over each card one by one and would immediately explain, in detail, something true about my life. She must have been stalking me on Facebook while she was reprimanding her kids! But then I remembered I had given her a fake name…

Highlights from my Reading:

I’m Icelandic

I had been on many trips and recently to Africa (though my hair is braided so intricately it looks like it was done with orphan hands so that could have tipped her off)

I am very creative and I will write many things (duh!)

A tall, blonde man loves me (Oh la la!)

I will be sad if I stay in this city (Too many corporate coffee shops?!)

An older man hurt my feelings a few years ago and I still have repressed anger (DAMMIT: Jian Ghomeshi)

I will achieve great success in 2.5 years. (So basically I can coast until 2014, sweet!)

The only obstacle standing in my way is myself. (Dammit, stupid id and superego!)

That I should get a giant beeswax candle and some Frankensense so that she can looked into my Repressed Issues.

Someone might have put a curse on me at some point. (But that can also be checked with the beeswax candle accessories).

PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA and I talked for over an hour. She went through every card in detail, and correctly “guessed” my two wishes and wanted to see pictures of all the people she had described to me during the reading. “Yup, he’s the one!” she’d say when I bhttp://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ghb6eDopW8Irought out my iPhone. Or: “She’s more beautiful than the spirits described!”

I left feeling buzzed, like the heavy invisible backpack of unnecessary crap I had been carrying for a looooong time, was suddenly lifted; yet faster than I could realize that I had been carrying so much baggage around with me, a new, yet different pack was added to me so I couldn’t even enjoy the feeling of momentary freedom. But at least I’m now aware I’m loaded with…something…

*mystical noises*

Do I believe in the powers of PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA? As I sat with my legs crossed on Trish’s comfy duvet, we talked in detail about our eery experience. The more we talked and thought, the more the puzzle become clearer. That puzzle is me and you, so if PSYCHIC HEALER GEORGIA can make those little pieces connect in a slightly more efficient way, then here’s to you Ms. Georgia, and thank you. Now, off I go on my next adventure!

I am so lucky to have you as a friend.

Love Always,

While celebrating ‘Merican Thanksgiving in Fort Niagara with my best friend Yma, we decide to do a little creation of our own. After playing this song a million times we just had to record it! Here it is…almost live from USA USA:

November is officially the month for growth, hair growth. Oh, Movember. Traditionally for bros, donning their mos for Prostate cancer awareness/research. Yet this year, sisters can join Movember too: by uniting with their bros and growing unibrows. Ladies, I am inviting you to Unibrovember.

Why grow a unibrow?

Tired of pulling and plucking? I know I am. Ever wonder why those little hairs grow between the eyes...there must be a reason...?! And like all little unploughed seedlings, they deserve a chance to grow. For too long us women have been pressured into polishing our faces and preserving our perfect double brows. Now is the time to try going solo. Forget waking up early to wax; now you can sleep in a condition that brow to the max. By donning the furry onesie, you're making a statement: that a hairy face is an option for brothers and sister.

Won't people think I'm a dirty hippie or butch lesbian or in a Frida Kahlo costume?

Definitely. You will feel so free, duh! (Frida, get it?! haha) Free to challenge social norms, break boundaries, and show that unibrows are for hippies, lesbians, artists, plus business tycoons, accountants, attorneys, and your mom.

How should I take care of my unibrow?

Water. Sunlight. Reading it stories. Watching the Discovery Channel. Daily brushing. My Little Pony brand makes perfectly sized unibrow combs.

How should I respond to the increased attention and question my unibrow will generate?

By growing this brow, you are a real trend-setter and community leader. With this new power and quiet confidence, you are bound to be noticed and admired. Don't get too full of yourself. Yes you will be very attractive to the opposite, and same sex, but just remember to take it slow, and be respectful to those who aren't fortunate enough/brave enough to sport a unibrow.

Some men feel like I am taking Movember away from the Mo Bros. Is this true?

Boys and men started Movember to raise money for Prostate Cancer, and awareness about the disease. Women have always stood by and supported. Now it's time for all staches and brows to work together, not only for prostates, but for a bigger cause: the right for mos and hoes to stand united together in November for whatever (either for Unibrovember or Movember or any other member for that matter). 

When should I do away with my unibrow?

In the face of winter, why would you ever want your top-of-nose to be cold again? You wouldn't. Just keep going and happy growing!

Day 5: little growth, a few short hairs around the left brow. Hopefully Vitamin E will help. 

UNIBROVEMBER: BROWS UNITED AS ONE.