Sofa So Good

My father telephoned me from Germany after I'd told him that my fella was coming to visit.

"I'm worried that your sofa will damage your relationship."

Ah ... the sofa. Where to begin?

The sofa has been in my family since 1959. It was the first piece of furniture that my parents purchased in their new country. Of course it wasn't just any sofa, it was teak Danish modern with daring red fabric. The price my father paid still pains him today.

Dad: I paid $320 for that sofa. Back then $320 was a lot of money. You could go to Sedorski's and get three rooms completely furnished for $320 and they'd throw in free groceries. But Sedorski's wasn't good enough for your mother, we had to buy the most expensive sofa we could find. The guys at work gave me a hard time about that sofa for years.

tNb: It's a mere shadow of that fabulous sofa, Dad. It's quite ridiculous that I still haven't replaced it.

Dad: Well I don't think it would be reckless to buy a new one. After all, it wasn't so great. I found out 30 years later that your mother always hated that sofa.

It's always hard to say goodbye to family stuff but I did the math. $320 for 49 years seems like a pretty good deal.

So maybe Dad is right and it's time for a new sofa.

Slow Going ...

So many sentences feel like this today.



(Fabulous idea du jour, DarrenBarefoot. Sausage and legislation indeed.)

Would You Like to Know More ... ?

I've been sorting through piles of mail since returning from the last leg of the 2008 Beige-Free Tour. Most of the envelopes have faceless windows, many of the envelopes are addressed to 'Resident'. And all the addresses are typed using Arial, Times Roman or Bill Collector Font.

I was on my third coffee and getting closer to the bottom of the pile when something made me stop. The envelope size was standard, but ... a handwritten address!

I didn't immediately recognize the penmanship, it was the kind that could easily belong to any of a dozen friends. I barely glanced at the return address, it didn't look familiar but was only a few blocks away. Surely an old friend resurfaced? Or possibly an outraged distant neighbour? A secret admirer?! I tore open the envelope and grabbed at the entirely handwritten page inside. Obviously something personal and important!

By the time the enclosed pamphlet dropped to the floor I had barely read the second sentence ...

"I'm one of Jehovah's Witnesses and we are involved in a world-wide campaign to promote Bible education ..."

Wherever I Lay My Hat

Traveling always gets me thinking about 'home' and whether home is more about time than place. According to Wikipedia:

A home is a place of residence or refuge. It is usually a place where an individual or a family can rest in and be able to store personal property. Modern households contain sanitary facilities and a means of preparing food.

Well if the stack of bills on my desk is any indication, this Vancouver apartment is definitely my residence. It is also my refuge from life in the big city.

The mountains of clothing I can't bear to let go, the piles of books and papers that won't stop growing and the paltry collection of condiments in my refrigerator are the personal property I store here. My cat rests enough for the both of us.

The sanitary facilities are sparkling clean (thanks to the cleaner Esta hired before he moved out) and I'm told that my oven can be used as a means of preparing food.

According to all the facts, this is my home.

... So why do I feel so out of place here?

Minor League Optimist

In a few days I'll be returning to 'normal' life in Vancouver after several irresponsible and beige-free weeks in Sri Lanka. Last night my dreams were filled with stacks of unopened mail, expired insurance policies and incomplete tax returns. Thankfully I'm spending a few days with a handsome fella and a family of papersurfers who keep me laughing and distracted from the reality of going home.

However, even though I've left the lazy tropics I'm also no longer covered in Deet and I can brush my teeth with water from the tap. Always look on the bright side ...

Forgotten

There is one road through Arugam Bay and every day the same bicycles and tuktuks drive by. No one appears to have a purpose but everyone seems to have a destination.

It's been over three years since the 2004 tsunami but it's difficult to know how much of this desolation is a result of the disaster. There are signs of activity but the majority of tiny shops and guest houses remain closed. An underlying sense of quiet pervades the village. A few fishermen and their boats litter the beaches but most stay onshore. Tourists surface from time to time, mostly surfers in search of the mellow waves. Generally no one stays more than a day or two.

The people are gentle but unlike other parts of the island there is a constant flicker of distrust in their eyes. Local tension between the Muslim and Tamil populations is not obvious to most visitors but creates a sense of strange apprehension. The street is constantly patrolled by the military and soldiers' fingers never leave the trigger.

Our gin and tonics from last week have funded the hotel owner's ability to begin restoration of the upstairs floor. Unfortunately, daily power shortages inhibit most efforts to rebuild. Progress is slow.

Yet within this peculiar atmosphere there is a keen sense of life. The gardens are full of bright tropical blooms determined to grow among the abandoned ruins. A street merchant fills his hut with fresh fruit and chicken rotis. In the late afternoon the bay is filled with childrens' squeals of laughter while they learn to swim.

Recovery is still a struggle but hope for Arugam Bay should not be forgotten.