Shoulders

Toronto's BADBADNOTGOOD recently played at Vancouver's Venue and they were good. Really good. We (me, Tameem and our mate Lou) were somewhat prepped to be older than the crowd - average age of the band their audience: 22.

It reminded me of my sister and her husband (mid-late thirties: prime age) recently going to a hip hop show in NZ and the girls in the crowd being stoked for her because of how tall her man is; "Woohoo! they cheered. "You can get on his shoulders!!!"


Jack's place

A woman in her late-thirties walks into Mediterranean Specialty Foods on Vancouver's Commercial Drive and confidently places a glass jar on the counter that houses the olives and cheese. Fill it up, her face says, with the happy composure of an environmentally conscious East Van resident. She has brought her own transportation for the olives and cheese, to avoid those problematic plastic containers.

"Please, take that off," says Jack, the Palestinian deli owner, who has been in the business of selling Middle Eastern and Mediterranean delicacies and staples in this city for over 30 years. "It's glass," he says. Meaning the counter. "It can chip."

Jack's baklava, which is made inhouse, disappears as soon as it's presented on large metal trays. His basturma rivals any good pastrami and his sudjuk is beloved by local non-pork eaters. In the next life though, he says, "it'll be drugs and guns," because there's no money in this business. 

The woman huffs, removing her jar along with her smile. "You know," she pouts, annoyed, but not annoyed enough to leave without her goat feta. "There are about a hundred people in this community who would shop here if your attitude was different. They talk about you. You're losing customers because of the way you treat people."

"Yes, yes, yes," says Jack. "It's true I am all of these things, but how many exactly?" he continues. 

"About a hundred," she replies, confident in this number and her position.

"Well, now it's a hundred and one," he says. "Out you go," flicking his hand towards the door."

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What lazy people do all day

"Hey mum, you know what lazy people do all day?" my four-year-old daughter asked me, in the early hours of yesterday morning. Standing behind me in the bathroom, on her little white stool, while I brushed my teeth.

I turned around to face her. She's not seriously about to call me I'm lazy is she? I thought. My face somewhere between shocked and scowling. Lazy "every day"? Four years into the grinding sleeptax of having her and her one-year-old sister, who was sleeping because they now swap off who gets up at 5am and demands a banana and then a book and then full breakfast and who goes back to bed. 

 She looked so casual at that moment and amused. Everything but picking her teeth.

"What!" I said. More than asked her. "What are you talking about?"

"They stand around looking at themselves naked in the mirror to see if they're getting fat," she said. 

"I've got to watch what I say around that kid," my husband said later that evening. 

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t-a-r-q-u-i-n

Two sisters trod to school through a hilly paddock on Auckland’s West Coast: the younger following in her older sister’s muddy gumboot prints, trying to stay steady on the narrow path that was cut by the sheep and baked rigid by the sun.

“D-I-S-A-P-P-E-A-R-E-D” the older sister chanted loudly, her chestnut ponytail swinging across her back, conviction in every step.

“D-i-s-s-a-p-p-e-a-r-e-d” the younger one repeated, in a smaller voice. 

“No, one s and two ps,” said the older. “That’s all you have to remember.” As if, that's all you have to ever remember in life.

Lean, in her skivvy, with track pants shoved into her boots, at that moment the older sister seemed the wisest, most worldly character the younger had ever known.

Past the pond, with its driftwood boats that the girls regularly shot across the water with enough horsepower to wet their boots and pants: “d-i-s-a-p-p-e-a-r-e-d,” the younger corrected her herself. "What luck to be born alongside her," she thought. Still does think.

The hospital for sick music parts

“This is a hospital for sick music parts,” I said to my daughter, as we squatted on the curb outside Vancouver’s Backline music repairs. Musicians running in and out with wounded instruments tucked up under their arms like pet rabbits: Can you save it? How much?”

“Yeah,” joked a guy behind me. “That’s exactly what it is. But it’s an American hospital – no coverage – so it’s all out of your pocket.”

He was perfectly dressed as a musician: shoulder length dark hair, a white t-shirt with sleeveless jean jacket, sunglass and cigarettes. Maybe tattoos? But gentle ones.

He was a nice guy. Even complimented our coats. I feel sorry for musicians. All the ego and the clothes and the competition and the shit money.

Not so long ago I heard BC band Yukon Blonde being interviewed on CBC Radio and after the host had pumped them full of compliments on how well they’re doing – breakthrough band, Juno nomination etc - he then went on to focus on how little they’re paid to do it. Grinding it in like rock salt. “Yes,” they confirmed. The pay is shit. The pay is shit. At this point in the interview they seemed to lose steam and admitted they held down other jobs to get by.

Recently a friend played in a line-up with Yukon Blonde and an extended member of my friend’s band went up to one of their players. “I know you!” she said. “You don’t know me,” he replied.  So the conversation ended there. Until later in the evening when she remembered how she knew him. “I do know you!” she said. "You’re the busser at the Foundation!” Vegan nachos etc.

“All the people buying groceries at Buy Low, are going to hear your shit,” said my local barrister, wearing the other Vancouver band uniform - pro cyclist. Tight, rolled shorts, t-shirt, peak cap and that jangle of keys or whatever it is that they clip onto their waistbands. Something to fix a tire maybe, or get into their apartments?

“This guy is curating a show for two nights of experimental music,” he went on. Referring to a community event being organized at Vancouver’s low-cost Kingsgate Mall: $2 shops; budget groceries; functional work ware etc. “There’s a lot of room for me to do whatever I want. I can’t wait,” he added.

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Magazines in bathrooms

Reading material in the bathroom says something about the household: relaxed. Growing up my parents always had a small wicker basket beside the toilet with a collection of New Age magazines and occasionally a Reader’s Digest in it. Somewhere along the way the basket disappeared along with its reading material and enquiring after it now seems a bit gauche. Grimy, like heading into the bathroom with a book, or the newspaper as my dad used to, it’s an act that carries with it some shame, or at the very least does away with any mystique. Are you planning on getting comfy in there? And it may be my imagination but I always found those toilet magazines eventually take on the smell of poo.

My best friend is a very relaxed person. She has interior design magazines in her toilet and at one time a vision board with a female soccer player on it wearing red and white shorts. She now owns two restaurants. Her magazines encourage you to relax in her bathroom as in her lounge as in her restaurants, if you are a relaxed person.

The first time my husband introduced a magazine into our bathroom it appeared on top of the toilet like a curious and entirely foreign object. I stared at it and all the things it implied: someone getting comfortable. How would he feel if I suddenly got really into reading on the toilet? His woman, busy with a book in the bathroom.

I think he chose that first magazine strategically. It was a copy of The New Yorker, so, classy, right? High literature on the bog. Then copies of New York magazine appeared and Adbusters etc. How could I argue? Some of those covers are really good!

It didn’t take long before local newspapers appeared and then music mags, but by this stage we were in the swing of it. Cleaning them into the bin would be an act of aggression and uptightness that might warrant a “I didn’t get to read that one? There was an article…” etc.

So now I feminize the space by putting the best looking magazine on top of the pile when girl friends come over. Dudes don’t care, but they of course do the thing that magazines in bathrooms encourage and I don’t want to think about: sit there lingering for longer than necessary, with poo.

Shhhhhhh!

“Shhhhh!” said a woman in the row behind me at the movies last night. Sat forward in her chair with a finger pressed to her bright pink lips: “Shhhh! Shhhh! Shhhh!” The finger then traveled forward and wagged side to side in a hypnotic “no no no”. Rhythmic, like a metronome. “No talking,” she continued. “This is a movie!” Satisfied, she pushed back into her chair and glanced at her three female friends. Job done.

“But it’s the previews!” I said. First to her and then to my friend, Yifat, who I had been chatting to and laughing with (modestly), while we waited for Wes Anderson’s latest film, The Grand Budapest Hotel, to begin. I thought chatting during previews was allowed? Actually, I thought a lot of stuff was allowed during previews, like last minute dashes for snacks or the bathroom – a window for latecomers. The film is also in its 14th week, so getting tickets and finding seats in Vancouver’s half-empty Park theatre had been easy.

I wondered when the evening would get easy and fun for the shusher? She was already with friends. Doesn’t an evening out typically get fun when you meet up, say in the lobby or over a glass of wine, food or coffee beforehand? Does the movie officially have to begin before the relaxation does on movie nights? Or I guess in this woman’s case the previews, as long as everyone else is silent. How badly did this woman need The Grand Budapest Hotel to be good? What if it was crap? 

I was reminded of the last time I upset a cinema goer in Vancouver, while out on a Friday night with my husband at Burrard Street's Fifth Avenue Cinema. I can’t remember what we saw, but this time it was a question of personal space.

Again, it was not packed, but it was a Friday evening so people were out. We chose aisle seats in a row that had one other couple in it; they were stationed in the middle. The woman turned her head and looked at us as we sat down. Her expression was blank and then she got up. "Excuse me," she said is a hushed but exasperated tone. She squeezed between our legs and the chair backs in front and escaped. While she was gone a group of three arrived and asked to sit beside us. "Sure," we said and stood to let them in. When the woman returned carrying a bucket of popcorn and drinks she took one look at our chain of five people that linked all the way up with her and partner's seats. "Well," she said, slightly louder this time. “Looks like we picked the most popular row in the theatre!”

Mike

Eight-months pregnant and living with my in-laws I stumble down to the kitchen at 6am to get ready for my temporary office job. My husband and I spent the first year of our marriage in Cairo and when we arrived back in Vancouver four months pregnant we figured it would take us about a month to find jobs and our own place to live. This transition period bled out like red ink that knows no borders and doesn't respect lines. Kind of like egypt. A line between you and me, say, between us and chaos. A two-year-old with a coloring book.

"Becks!" boomed my Egyptian father-in-law, Mike (Ismael Barakat), because the volume of his voice also knew no boundaries and he cared little to modify it to suit the time of day or night or three am: "MA-SALAAM!!" The ringer on full volume for the hard of hearing. It was suggested that I was a light sleeper. It's amazing what you'll accept in a moment.

"Is that your lunch?" he asked from the kitchen stool where he sat dressed in his customary stripped "pidge", slippers and a house coat. His cigars, which he loved and smoked freely in smoking countries like Egypt, seemed so noticeably absent when he was in Canada it spoke of his out-of-placeness.

"Yes," I said, cramming my stack of tupperware containers into a plastic shopping bag. Finding space on the bench amongst his pita, feta and cold cuts. Only ever staying with parents do you find yourself using that amount of tupperware.

"You eat like that you're going to get fat!" he bellowed.

It was quite an education marrying a half-Egyptian, half-Italian man, who was born and raised in Vancouver and then living near his dad in Cairo:

"Dad!" Tameem said to Mike as he appeared unannounced at our apartment door for the third time in as many days. This time I had barely made the streak from our bedroom to the shower before the helpful Boab clicked open our front door with his ring of keys. "Dad, you have to call first," my husband said.

"I have to make an appointment now to see my own son" Mike boomed down the phone to my mother-in-law.

She must have said something to calm him and help him see reason as the next day when he reappeared he gave us a customary call from the lobby. "I'm coming up!" he shouted.

Born and raised in Alexandria and Cairo, Mike was a unique mix of Egyptian grandeur and the street: he was raised in grandeur but preferred the street. At the finest fish restaurants along the nile he ordered fish and chips and he seemed most content winding through the inner-city streets of Babalouk on foot. He liked the street cats, with their bung eyes and constant hunger and often took us to restaurants where they joined you. He liked to back-in-forth with the surly fruit vendors and the countless young men selling cheap electronics. I liked to watch the grubby men in the open air street cafes who drank tea and smoked their faces off and laughed so hard a leg would come up as a hand came down to slap a neighbor's thigh.

Last year Mike had a terrible car accident in Cairo which confined him to a hospital bed. Tameem recently flew to sit with him and watch countless hours of Arabic television.

"I don't like these sons a bitches," Mike said, indicating to the Arabic film playing. "They beat their women and smoke in bed."

I've not known anyone quite like you Mike and we're really going to miss you (Ismael, dad, grandpa Cairo).

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slouchy crown

Everyone together and round the table and Nigel's made duck fat potatoes. They are better tasting than regular roast potatoes and crispier because of the fat in which they're fried. Mum kept some of this duck fat in the fridge and I imagine it looks a lot like lard, only not whitish in colour. Maybe brown or a murky grey? The colour of an oily pond with little bits of shit and feathers floating on the surface... In any case, they taste great. 

Nigel's from Manchester and he's getting married to my sister Milly in February and it's comforting to know she's going to eat good potatoes for the rest of her life. Technically these two are already married, as they're just back from a couple of years in Qatar, where if you want to set up like man and wife (apartment, washing machine etc) you actually have to be. So technically they stopped into a downtown Auckland registry office with a couple of borrowed rings and witnesses and signed it up before the flew off to the Gulf but now they're back and it's time for the ceremony. The Mancunians are boarding planes and somewhere in the Coromandel a forest clearing is getting ready for 100 people.

"Becks," says my dad. "C'mon Becks." Indicating towards the Christmas cracker party hat he's squeezed onto his head. Too small, I thought, like a tight yellow bandage. "Yeah mum," Little t joins in, genuinely. "Aren't you going to put on your hat?" Now there's the danger of disappointing the kid and teaching her to worry about what other people think all in one  teachable moment.

"I like a slouchy crown," I say.

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