Okay, we’re back in St. Louis, after a long (but mostly interesting and beautiful) drive back from our family vacation in Toronto. The house looks the same, although the grass was pretty high and the pool pump was sucking air because the water level had dropped during the 110 degree Fahrenheit days. The street still looks the same. The neighbours still look the same. The garbage guy came on Monday, just the same as always.
But something has changed. Something is different.
This week, since being back in St. Louis, I have seen at least a dozen Vespa scooters. The last time I saw a motorized scooter was in Brussels where it seems that every high school student owns one. Beware of driving right before school starts and in the early afternoon, when school is out, when thousands of teens are zipping in and out of traffic, doubling up on the tiny seats and shouting back and forth to each other, clutching cell phones and school bags. Scooters are extremely practical in a city like Brussels, where parking spots are few and far between, gas is expensive and roads are crowded.
My first exposure to Vespa scooters, however, was in Rome many years ago. There, in that ancient city, amid the ruins and the dusty heat, there is a constant buzz, like a distant swarm of bees, broken occasionally by the roar of a nearby engine revving up. It is the sound of Rome. It is the sound of its people, of which I think several hundred thousand must own scooters! Most of the drivers are impossibly gorgeous young Italian men and women, expertly navigating roundabouts at breakneck speed, swerving around tourists who struggle to signal, read a map (argue) and drive at the same time. Somehow, they just make it all look so darn glamorous. The girls would hitch up there pencil-thin skirts and straddle the bikes, while the model-handsome boys would nearly always have a nonchalant girlfriend hitching a ride.
But, in St. Louis, the riders seem ... well, how should I say this ... they seem ... uh ... a little larger than the Belgian and Italian riders I’ve seen. Also, they are ... oh dear, how should I say this ... definitely not teenagers, if you know what I mean? So, what’s with the scooters? I was so curious that I searched VESPA+St. Louis online and, guess what? There are two stores! The photos on the site show handsome, young men and women either posing beside a shiny new bike, or sitting astride a bike, laughing with other riders in the sun, in some idyllic place.
I searched every photo to find the type of rider I’ve seen in St. Louis, but I could not find one. I did not find the older lady in grey sweatpants and a Land’s End windbreaker hunched over the handlebars leaving the grocery store. I did not see the six-foot-plus bald guy, whose wide buttocks engulfed the tiny scooter seat. I did not see the wannabee biker guy with his dog riding in the side car. Who are these people and why on earth did they buy a scooter?
Is it a new kind of toy here in the Land o’ SUV? We certainly do not have the same traffic congestion and parking issues as in crowded European capitals, although to be fair, there are some folks who would like to reduce gas consumption here. The VespaUSA website shows several models, advertising that “reducing traffic congestion and saving fuel never looked so good”. In Europe, the Vespa is not a toy. It remains an inexpensive and practical means of transportation – the impetus for its invention in 1946 in war-torn, poverty-stricken Italy.
To be honest, I can’t think of any practical reasons to own a scooter. I move two children to and from school and various sports programs and buy more groceries than could possibly fit into its storage compartment. I can, however, think of several fun reasons to own one! I feel myself falling under its spell. I already feel the wind in my hair. I’m thinking of the colour I like. I’m already relishing telling friends how little gas I use! I’m picturing how Italian I’ll look. Young? Well, let’s not push it – ha!
Monday, July 26, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
Bridging the Gap
Good news: I played my first real game of bridge last week. Bridge ... you know ... the card game...? Hey, I can hear you laughing! Do you think I can’t hear you?
Yes, yes, I play bridge! I took lessons at the local recreation centre, at the persuasion of my friend, Veronica, who retired early from pharmacy and is anxious to keep the old grey cells alive, if you know what I mean. At first, I resisted because I thought bridge was an older person’s game. In fact, my mother plays every week and raves about it. She’s always after me to learn how to play.
Previously, I resisted learning because it seemed complicated and I didn’t have the time (or interest) necessary to concentrate on the rules of the game. Not too long ago, I was playing endless games of “Go Fish” and “Hungry Hippo” with my kids, so my capacity for learning a complicated card game was significantly diminished. More importantly, I didn’t know anyone else who played – except my mother, her best friend and the best friend’s 97-year old mother. Need I say more?
But, I’m in a new place ... an alien place ... and things are different. Lots of people who have not yet collected old age security play. Indeed, lots of middle-aged people play and, whether I like it or not, I somehow became middle-aged. I actually fit the vague demographic category I so smugly scorned as being the right age to play bridge. Besides, it turns out that bridge is popular even among young students at universities in the USA.
Let’s just say that, when Veronica asked if I would take bridge lessons, I’m sorry now to say that I was less than enthusiastic. I may even have laughed. But, she rallied and I joined in. I was a bit late for the first class, so I slid into the only available seat at the card table near the door, beside a tiny, white-haired lady in a wheelchair and across from an older gentlemen with pale wisps of hair that shot out in various directions and thick red suspenders holding up trousers several sizes too large for his shrunken waist. I groaned.
Yes, I groaned, but I shouldn’t have. For they, like the rest of the members of the class, turned out to be intelligent, fun folks, who were looking to learn a social card game. They were ... well ... just like me. Is it not human nature to interact? To seek out similarly-minded people with whom to form networks ... social links? Bridge is ... well ... it’s a bridge over a gap. It’s a bridge that reaches from one person to another. It’s a game played with a partner against another pair.
During the game, it’s quiet as the players count cards and plot moves to earn the most points. But in between games, while cards are being shuffled and dealt, it’s noisy as friends pick up threads and ask about a daughter’s wedding, a son’s graduation, or a recent vacation. It’s a time for partners to make quick eye contact and roll their eyes at the quiet, tight argument that broke out between a husband and wife about an Ace that should or should not have been played. Not my style, but you play against all kinds.
We’re lucky because two of the other women in the class are around the same age as Veronica and me. They are interested in playing regularly with us. They have known each other for years and years. They are smart. They love cards. They love to laugh.
The gap just got smaller.
Yes, yes, I play bridge! I took lessons at the local recreation centre, at the persuasion of my friend, Veronica, who retired early from pharmacy and is anxious to keep the old grey cells alive, if you know what I mean. At first, I resisted because I thought bridge was an older person’s game. In fact, my mother plays every week and raves about it. She’s always after me to learn how to play.
Previously, I resisted learning because it seemed complicated and I didn’t have the time (or interest) necessary to concentrate on the rules of the game. Not too long ago, I was playing endless games of “Go Fish” and “Hungry Hippo” with my kids, so my capacity for learning a complicated card game was significantly diminished. More importantly, I didn’t know anyone else who played – except my mother, her best friend and the best friend’s 97-year old mother. Need I say more?
But, I’m in a new place ... an alien place ... and things are different. Lots of people who have not yet collected old age security play. Indeed, lots of middle-aged people play and, whether I like it or not, I somehow became middle-aged. I actually fit the vague demographic category I so smugly scorned as being the right age to play bridge. Besides, it turns out that bridge is popular even among young students at universities in the USA.
Let’s just say that, when Veronica asked if I would take bridge lessons, I’m sorry now to say that I was less than enthusiastic. I may even have laughed. But, she rallied and I joined in. I was a bit late for the first class, so I slid into the only available seat at the card table near the door, beside a tiny, white-haired lady in a wheelchair and across from an older gentlemen with pale wisps of hair that shot out in various directions and thick red suspenders holding up trousers several sizes too large for his shrunken waist. I groaned.
Yes, I groaned, but I shouldn’t have. For they, like the rest of the members of the class, turned out to be intelligent, fun folks, who were looking to learn a social card game. They were ... well ... just like me. Is it not human nature to interact? To seek out similarly-minded people with whom to form networks ... social links? Bridge is ... well ... it’s a bridge over a gap. It’s a bridge that reaches from one person to another. It’s a game played with a partner against another pair.
During the game, it’s quiet as the players count cards and plot moves to earn the most points. But in between games, while cards are being shuffled and dealt, it’s noisy as friends pick up threads and ask about a daughter’s wedding, a son’s graduation, or a recent vacation. It’s a time for partners to make quick eye contact and roll their eyes at the quiet, tight argument that broke out between a husband and wife about an Ace that should or should not have been played. Not my style, but you play against all kinds.
We’re lucky because two of the other women in the class are around the same age as Veronica and me. They are interested in playing regularly with us. They have known each other for years and years. They are smart. They love cards. They love to laugh.
The gap just got smaller.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Goodbye Mississippi!
I love a road trip. I don’t know why really but I think, in my heart, I must be a wanderer. I don’t actually like to drive; I just like to sit there and look out the window, taking in the views as they flash by. Sometimes, my kids are doing the same thing and, from the back seat, they’ll shout out if they see a hawk reeling in the sky overhead or pretty horses in the fields. My husband, who is usually driving, reads signs aloud (“PRISON NEARBY. DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS”) and licence plates from far away (“Nebraska – have we seen that one yet?”).
I like watching the landscape change. A couple of days ago, I had ample opportunity for this peaceful pastime, as we made the 15-hour drive from St. Louis in Missouri up to the shores of Lake Huron in Canada, where we are now. Before leaving, we studied the map and booked an overnight stop but, in this age of GP systems and online map resources, we are lazier now than we used to be about planning routes.
We told the kids that they would be in four different states in the same day. We laughed at their surprise when we left the first one – Missouri – within 15 minutes of settling in the car, which was loaded with several suitcases, tons of toys and games, a portable DVD player, an i-Pod and the puppy. As we crossed over the majestic, hypnotic, muddy waters of the Mississippi River, whose swollen banks still flood surrounding land from the spring runoff, we looked ahead to the endless, rich, flat farmlands of the land of Lincoln.
By mid-morning, we were in Indiana through which my husband – a sports and pop-culture junkie – entertained us by listing off the names of famous athletes from the big-name colleges and old rock stars from small, nearly-forgotten towns that dot the landscape. We ate lunch in a place called Brazil – for what reason I don’t know – not the stop, I mean, but the name. Why is it called Brazil? Regardless of the origin of its name, the Brazil Grill served up delicious five dollar hamburgers and steaming grilled cheese sandwiches with lots of thick fries and bottomless sodas.
By early evening, we had passed through Fort Wayne, one of the region’s oldest settlements on what had originally been indigenous lands, into the state of Michigan. Immediately, the land started to rise and fall, rounding out softly with low hills, tall trees, and hundreds of small, deep, dark blue lakes. The air cooled. I breathed deeply. The dog pranced and frisked and sniffed the air, rolling frequently on the blankets of thick green grass around our hotel in Lansing. A stunning sunset tucked us in for the night, as Fourth-of-July fireworks echoed from town.
The next morning, the feeling of anticipation was strong as we lined up to enter Canada, behind half a mile of cars, camper caravans and boats tugged on trailers. From Port Huron/ Sarnia to Collingwood, we shared the driving, weaving east, then north, then east, then north, over and over again on remote county side roads. As much as I love a road trip and believe that the journey can be as great as the destination itself, I was happy to haul my squished bottom out of the car and park it on our deck with a cold glass of white wine that my visiting mother had ready for me!
A gentle breeze is blowing now, although it’s very hot, even by Ontario summer standards. Even the birds are quiet, conserving their energy for nightfall, when they can feast on fat mosquitoes and other juicy tidbits. The geese and swans have half-grown babies trailing after them but I haven’t yet seen the giant white crane that fishes quietly in the protected wetlands behind our place. There’s not even a ripple out on Lake Huron, where summer storms can whip up massive steel grey waves that crash the rocky shoreline. It’s lush and green and smells like wildflowers.
It’s good to be home.
I like watching the landscape change. A couple of days ago, I had ample opportunity for this peaceful pastime, as we made the 15-hour drive from St. Louis in Missouri up to the shores of Lake Huron in Canada, where we are now. Before leaving, we studied the map and booked an overnight stop but, in this age of GP systems and online map resources, we are lazier now than we used to be about planning routes.
We told the kids that they would be in four different states in the same day. We laughed at their surprise when we left the first one – Missouri – within 15 minutes of settling in the car, which was loaded with several suitcases, tons of toys and games, a portable DVD player, an i-Pod and the puppy. As we crossed over the majestic, hypnotic, muddy waters of the Mississippi River, whose swollen banks still flood surrounding land from the spring runoff, we looked ahead to the endless, rich, flat farmlands of the land of Lincoln.
By mid-morning, we were in Indiana through which my husband – a sports and pop-culture junkie – entertained us by listing off the names of famous athletes from the big-name colleges and old rock stars from small, nearly-forgotten towns that dot the landscape. We ate lunch in a place called Brazil – for what reason I don’t know – not the stop, I mean, but the name. Why is it called Brazil? Regardless of the origin of its name, the Brazil Grill served up delicious five dollar hamburgers and steaming grilled cheese sandwiches with lots of thick fries and bottomless sodas.
By early evening, we had passed through Fort Wayne, one of the region’s oldest settlements on what had originally been indigenous lands, into the state of Michigan. Immediately, the land started to rise and fall, rounding out softly with low hills, tall trees, and hundreds of small, deep, dark blue lakes. The air cooled. I breathed deeply. The dog pranced and frisked and sniffed the air, rolling frequently on the blankets of thick green grass around our hotel in Lansing. A stunning sunset tucked us in for the night, as Fourth-of-July fireworks echoed from town.
The next morning, the feeling of anticipation was strong as we lined up to enter Canada, behind half a mile of cars, camper caravans and boats tugged on trailers. From Port Huron/ Sarnia to Collingwood, we shared the driving, weaving east, then north, then east, then north, over and over again on remote county side roads. As much as I love a road trip and believe that the journey can be as great as the destination itself, I was happy to haul my squished bottom out of the car and park it on our deck with a cold glass of white wine that my visiting mother had ready for me!
A gentle breeze is blowing now, although it’s very hot, even by Ontario summer standards. Even the birds are quiet, conserving their energy for nightfall, when they can feast on fat mosquitoes and other juicy tidbits. The geese and swans have half-grown babies trailing after them but I haven’t yet seen the giant white crane that fishes quietly in the protected wetlands behind our place. There’s not even a ripple out on Lake Huron, where summer storms can whip up massive steel grey waves that crash the rocky shoreline. It’s lush and green and smells like wildflowers.
It’s good to be home.
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