On cookies and crutch tips

Owing to the postal strike, I volunteered to bake some hazelnut shortbreads and take them to my Aunt Helle on behalf of my cousin Kristine. I had wanted to also take some to my Aunt Suzanne "Who is so Nice" but she was busy today. 

(Her demurral email was extremely kind making reference to a night when I gone to her and my uncle Donald's house at Margo's behest when Suzanne thought she was having a heart attack. I ended up staying the night to watch over Donald while she was being checked out at a hospital. In the end, it was determined she was "only" stressed out.)

Anyway, I booked a car from Communauto to make the delivery and used the opportunity to go out to Medicus, the big medical supply store on Sherbrooke Street East to see if they had good replacement crutch tips as the two previous pairs I had bought from pharmacies had worn out far too quickly. I found sturdier ones at the store. I double checked with a staff member that they were the right caliber, before waiting to pay for them. The cashier first asked if a member of the staff had helped me. I said that someone had, but all I had needed was confirmation of the size. I casually indicated person in question. He then came over and offered to install them. As my tips were quite worn, I accepted. I waited in a chair for a few minutes while he did the work. When he came back, I checked to see if the "crampons" still fitted over the tips. This was prompted by the fact that I had used them that morning as Montreal has just received ts first major snowfall of the winter. The new tips were slightly longer so the crampons need to be adjusted. The man cheerfully volunteered to do this, even though I could have do so myself, had I a screwdriver. He was so nice, I was tempted to go back to car to fetch him a hazelnut shortbread!

I gave Helle the cookies on my way back. She was impressed by my mobility, something that seemed more than it was as I had walked from the car to her door using only one crutch so as to have a hand free for the cookie tin. Her mobility seems to have gone down since I last saw her.

I ran another errand before returning the car. When I got home, I was surprised to see a box from Simons on my doorstep. This proved to be bicycle themed T-shirt that Kristine had ordered for me. I am going to have to weed my T-shirt drawer. No good deed goes unpunished. ;-)

On books and blood

*Legal disclaimer* The following entry discusses my work. The opinions mentioned herein do not represent the views of my employer. However, given the nature of said opinions, I doubt there will be trouble over it.

I was given the responsibility for ordering French books for adults yesterday. I must confess that the task seems a bit daunting. However, I think I will get used to it and certain aspects of the new assignment look fascinating.

As luck would have it, this week is the Salon du Livre de Montréal. So this morning, I went to scope out some new books for the Library at the Palais de Congrés. At the ticket counter, I was asked if I had a City of Montreal library card which would qualify me for free entry. I replied that I didn't but that I was a librarian working for a public library. The clerk then gave me a free ticket. (I don't know if this qualifies as a conflict of interest, so I will report this when I return to work tomorrow.)

I had thought that today (Thursday) would be quieter than on the weekend. Unfortunately, it was "Matinée scolaire" day so there were a large number of school kids, some of whom were running past me, which caused me to flinch for worry that they would step on my bad foot, as it was relatively unprotected owing to the fact that I had disassembled my left crutch in order to stow in my backpack so I might have a hand free to wield my iPhone and its barcode reader app.

There were a lot of books to consider. I mean a lot. Thanks to the aforementioned iPhone app, I was able to record seventy-odd barcodes which is far more than I would have written down without it. I am certain that some of the books will prove to be ones the Library has already purchased, while others will prove to unsuitable or simply unnecessary. However, the exercise gave me a mental picture of what is out there and gave me some ideas about how the collection might be developed in new directions within the strictures of the Library's acquisition policy. 

One interesting direction was suggested by the presence of a Korean book zone. The Library serves a growing Korean population and interest in Korean literature (in translation) might be spurred on by Han Kang being awarded this year's Nobel Prize for Literature. Another direction the collection might expand into would be the new "romantasy" genre (romance fantasy) that one vendor had a large table dedicated to. Unfortunately, the titles appeared to be mostly translations from English rather than original French works.

There was blood donor clinic set up on the ground floor of the Palais de Congrés. As I was leaving, I stopped by the front desk to thank the volunteers and employees of Héma-Québec, as well as a younger man who was about to give blood. I am alive today because of blood transfusions.

On winterizing the crutches

About a month ago, I was crossing a relatively busy street near my home after dark. The corner wasn't signal controlled but I felt reasonably secure crossing it, keeping my gaze looking towards on-coming traffic. Afterwards, I reasoned that given my relatively slow pace, I should improve my visibility to drivers by digging out my bag of reflective tape and using it on my crutches.

I didn't do so right away for the usual reasons of sloth and the lack of a pressing need. However, a few days later, Louise or Thomas posted a picture of their daughter Tessa going out trick-or-treating dressed in a largely black witch outfit. She was carrying a very traditional looking broomstick with a non-traditional lit-up, high visibility reflective strap attached to it. I commented favourably about that. Thomas, in his wonderful way, replied "It's a government requirement when flying in restricted airspace." I had very good chuckle over that. 

The picture also spurred me to actually find the bag of reflective tape and get to work on my crutches. I probably overdid it, but I have done worse things in my life.

Cut to this Monday, when the forecast for Tuesday included freezing rain in the morning. As I had an appointment with my GP to discuss and renew various prescriptions on Tuesday morning, I decided I would take steps to reduce my chances of a fall. On the way home, I went to a pharmacy where I bought flip down spikes for for my crutches. I like to think that my crutches are now ready for winter.

On the beginning of the end

Words fail me, so just watch this video taken on Thursday during my physio session.

 If I look serious, it is because I am trying not to cry.

On the rest of the trip

I have struggled to write this entry but things have been a bit weird for me.

I’m going to start with an expansion on what I said at the Celebration of Margo’s Life. As an agnostic Catholic at best, I had not wanted to pretend to be a Catholic pilgrim. Aside from having a hang up about lying, despite being a sceptic, I have a certain respect for those who genuinely believe. After arriving in Compostella, the three of us had visited the pilgrim office where our “pilgrim” passports were processed. The pilgrim office recognizes three types visitors: genuine Catholic Pilgrims, people who have done it for a mix of spiritual and touristic reasons and “pure” tourists. I firmly opted for the pure tourism certificate. Somehow, Margo, who officially renounced her Catholicism and Chris the Quaker, managed to get themselves talked into getting the semi-spiritual certificate.

Having read the account of how the bones of St James the Apostle ended up in the North West corner of Spain and being something of a sceptic, it would greatly surprise me if the bones that have been venerated there for over a millennia were actually those of Jesus’ companion. At best, they are those of a local person worthy of sainthood who became conflated with Saint James the Apostle. One of my jokes about it is that Saint James the Apothecary is constantly apologizing in heaven for the misunderstanding. I do believe that it is the same set of bones that has been worshipped for more than a millennia. That, in and of itself, makes them holy.

I’ll not protest scepticism as I am not sure of my faith. I do think that there is a place for scepticism but the Crypt of Santiago isn’t it!

I will also note that I wasn’t the only one wearing a kilt at the Celebration of Life. Margo’s son John was also so attired as was his son Arthur.

Louise was the last to speak. I am afraid that I had trouble hearing her as the microphone was a little too far away from her mouth. I think she was a bit distracted as she was simultaneously nursing Patrick!

Jonathan, Elliott’s twin brother was there assisting Tom, John’s father-in-law, with the tech side of things as the ceremony was being broadcast to friends and family in Europe and possibly elsewhere. The Mole later asked what Jonathan does for a living. I replied that I didn’t know. The Mole then suggested he might get a job at LeBaron’s in North Hatley if he was out of work. My response to the Mole was: “You’ve heard of the concept of sibling rivalry?” (I have since learnt that Jonathan is involved in keeping the BC government’s websites up and running.)

After the ceremony, the clocks of both St-Michael the Holy Mole and myself had wound down and as it would be couple of hours before the Reception, lunch was proposed. There was a failed attempt to go to the Oakridge Mall en masse, so we retreated to our downtown hotel. I suggested he and I go to the Indian Burgers Joint I had noticed near the hotel. In the course of a phone call while I was driving us back, the Mole invited my parents along. In hindsight, I think this was a bit of a mistake. The problem was that the offerings of the fast food joint were new to all of us, especially my Father who doesn’t remember the first thing about Indian food. The burgers were all vegetarian or even vegan in a traditional Indian way as in the beef patty was replaced with a patty made of beans or potatoes rather than a “beyond meat” pseudo meat patty. None of us being experts, we ordered on faith. At a certain level, our faith was betrayed as the staff didn’t seem have grasped the concept of fast food. It seemed to take forever for our orders to be completed The burgers were tasty, but I’m not sure I’m going back there.

As a side note, Michael later commented that their mango lassi used soft ice cream instead of yoghurt which prompted me to do a monologue as if I were an Indian apologizing for that by explaining that is how they do in his state in India which is admittedly a small state with barely five million people living in it.

I changed out of the kilt and went off to the reception with the Mole. There were quite a number of people there along with quite a spread of food and drink. There former included Rice Krispy squares courtesy of Louise, spurred by my joke on the subject. 

Among the people I spoke with, was T. from Canmore. He told me that he was planning on going to Santiago de Compostella using the bike Chris had ridden there! Said bike has a no-farting sticker that I had put on it during our trip in Spain! I found it interesting that the bicycle would revisit that pilgrimage destination, particularly as I had spoken about the trip at the ceremony.

I also spoke with a woman who introduced herself as “a Megan”. Apparently, she was one of several Megans in Margo and Chris’ life as well as one of the many waifs and strays they had housed over the years. Like many people, she thought my speech was very à apropos. I must confess that I thought it was better than some of the other speeches given, particularly the one following mine.

I was slightly disappointed that I didn’t get to interact much with Arthur, Tessa and Ruby. They were to busy playing with each other as well as other kids their age. They seemed to be having fun with some sort marble run game. It did my soul to see them happily play with each other.

All too soon, the Mole and I ran out of steam, and so we returned to the hotel.

The Mole returned to Montreal the next morning. I had lunch with Raymond whom I had met while biking across Saskatchewan. We caught up on news. He had been working in a garage that specialized in customizing cars, but had since become a disaster response planner for the Canadian Red Cross.

I then drove to North Vancouver to see Kristine and company. She had not gone the celebration of life owing to strained relations with both Margo and her brother who was at the event for no particular reason. Mummy joined us there. Kristine apologized for her driveway which she said was “deceptively steep”. I retorted that I was never deceived by her driveway: I always thought it was steep! Midnight was happy to see us, but then as a Labrador, he is programmed to be happy to meet people. I wish I had thought to bring him a bacon-based doggy treat!

We were treated to a trip to a nearby stable where the family’s horse was being ridden by one of Kristine’s daughters (I am no longer sure which one.) We got to meet and stroke the horse afterwards. There was a certain discussion of our horse riding pasts as Kristine, Mummy, Margo and I had all ridden and interacted with Aunt Lorna’s horses to varying degrees.

I had been under the impression that the tartan rental place opened at 9 AM. After checking out of the hotel on the Monday morning, I drove out the place only to discover that it only opened about an hour later. As my flight was at 11:30, I was in a bit of a pickle. I resolved the issue by trying an exterior door which opened to an atrium. I then tried the door of the shop itself, and found that it opened. My intrusion brought out a middle-aged woman who was a bit alarmed by my presence. I explained that I just wanted to drop off the kilt before my flight. As there was no need of a financial transaction to happen, she accepted the bag.

It took me a bit longer than I’d wished to get to the airport. Still, I wasn’t late. I dropped off my bag, bought a little something at the Vancouver Public Aquarium gift shop and went security. Someone at security arranged a cart to drive me to my gate. Pre-boarding was in process when I arrived. I walked up to a gate agent and said: “I believe I qualify for pre-boarding.” I was soon seated in a premium economy seat. I believe that it was my shortest airport transit that included a check-in. (My shortest airport experience was at Toronto’s Billy Bishop airport when I exited one Porter Dash-8 and walked over to board another one.)

When the plane arrived at the gate in Montreal, I waited until the bulk of the able-bodied passengers had exited the aircraft before getting up. I was, however, at the fore of the wave of disabled passengers as there were at least three attendants waiting with wheelchairs who eagerly offered me their services. I hope I was sufficiently polite in declining their services. As with my flight out of Montreal, the gate was sufficiently close to the exit that it wasn’t worth waiting for a cart.

On what I said at Margo's celebration of life

 I apologize for the delay, but here is what I said at Margo's celebration of life:

"My name is Daniel, large nephew of Margo, my adventure auntie.

I am here to offer up a pair of apologies which reveal something of my beloved aunt. The first apology is for wearing a kilt which is nae doone at Hieland funerals. However, this is a celebration of life and a kilt is the only remotely formal garment that I can wear over the fixation.

I also believe Margo would have appreciated it as she was fond of men in Highland wear. She once told me that shortly before her marriage, she heard that her Father, Grandpa, was proudly boasting to his friends about how he would be giving away two brides that summer as her cousin Jane had asked him to stand in for her late father. Now between Margo’s feminism and rebelliousness, she wasn’t at all keen on the idea of being “given away”. However, as Grandpa was getting on in years and had suffered the loss of his daughter Shelia earlier that year, she made a deal, mostly with herself. She said to him: “If you're going to give me away, you’ll have to wear your kilt with the Bonnie Prince Charlie jacket.” To hear her tell it, he hadn’t been planning on wearing his kilt but was quite happy to oblige her. And he looked very elegant doing so.

My second apology is for not having been wholly truthful with her when we were in Santiago de Compostela together. 

If I may digress, this was my first long distance bike trip and I had been apprehensive about it despite having been thoroughly organized into it by Margo. 

Cycle-touring has since become my favourite type of vacation. For many years, I had an ongoing project of crossing from sea to sea by bike in three-week sections as that the maximum length of time I could take off work.

Getting back to Margo, she, Chris and I had biked to Compostela from Seville following a pilgrimage route across Spain and a bit of Portugal. As the only even nominal Catholic of the group, I insisted that we be honest and say to anyone who asked that we were doing it as tourists, not pilgrims. We visited the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, said to be the resting place of Saint James the Apostle and at one time, number three on the Pope’s list of recommended pilgrimage destinations, after Jerusalem and Rome. I went down into the small crypt where the mortal remains of the Saint and a pair of his disciples were kept. 

A few minutes later, Margo came down and in a slightly too loud and strident voice asked me: “Do you think that anyone actually prays to Saint James here?”

I replied: “Yes, I know some do.” 

What I didn’t tell her was I knew that because I had just offered a rather skeptical but sincere silent prayer to the Saint."

On a long delayed lunch

Well, I’m in Vancouver. I got here through a combination of careful thought, mild indulgence and kindness.

I am tall to the point that even in normal times, I find airline seating on the cramped side. With my left leg unable to bend that much and having a large external fixation on it, economy class seating was right out, unless it was some form of extra legroom seating. Even then, well what with the crutches I felt claustrophobic just thinking about it. This was not helped by the flights I took last summer. The flights on Bearskin Airlines and the Learjet had claustrophobic elements to them.

When went to look for flights, I found that WestJet didn’t offer direct flights between Montreal and Vancouver which ruled it out as flying with them was both longer and more expensive than with Air Canada. I don’t understand why WestJet doesn’t offer flights between Canada’s second and third largest cities. It makes it harder for me to take them seriously. (Long after I booked with Air Canada, I found out that Porter Airlines now offers Montreal to Vancouver flights.)

Through judicious searching, I found some suitable flights on Air Canada that offered several things that I wanted. One of them was wide bodied jets to reduce the feeling of claustrophobia. They also offered premium economy seats, hence more space. In fact, my flight out was a mix of business class and premium economy as the seats were in what is business class on international flights but the service was only premium economy. It was a bit of an indulgence, but it helped me get here.

As it was, I had a few panic attacks both before and during the flight. I was quite nervous and a little fearful, starting with going through security. I really wasn’t sure what the procedures were for crutches or external fixations. However, it went reasonably smoothly and the security personnel seemed to know what they were up to. Once through security, I might have asked to be taken to my gate via an electric cart. However, my gate was so close to the security checkpoint that it was only twice as far to walk to the gate as to where the carts were parked. It would have taken far longer to find a driver and to sit down as I took me to walk to the gate.

At the gate, there were some flight attendants waiting around and two of them were sitting on a bench with a handicap sign on it. I nervously but politely asked them if they would let me sit down on the bench. They were happy to do so.

I think I was the first on board and a flight attendant stowed my crutches in a overhead bin while I pulled out the things I wanted on the flight from my carry-on bag. The business-class pod seat was very comfortable, though a little tricky to get in and out of with the fixation. It could also have done with an instruction card on how to use the various functions of the seat.

I watched a number of episodes of Disney+ TV series which Disney isn’t releasing on DVD, curse their eyes. I also needed to use the toilet a few times, a clear sign of nervousness. Thankfully, I was able to get there with the crutches, using the seats for support and balance. On one trip back to my seat, I realized that about a third of people in section were stretched out in sleeping positions rather than sitting up. It was a morning flight so maybe that was it.

People were very kind, both flight attendants and fellow passengers. When the plane go to the gate in Vancouver, a woman across the aisle from me retrieved my crutches from the overhead bin without me asking! I made a point of waiting until the able bodied passengers in my section had left before getting up to get my carry-on and stowing my gear.

At Vancouver Airport, I had to walk a certain distance before I could get my bearings and figured out where I was vis-à-vis baggage retrieval. By the time I had done that, it didn’t seem worth the effort to summon a cart. One of the perks of my ticket was that my bag was labelled priority, so it beat me to the luggage carousel. Admittedly, I gave it an advantage stopping to use the loo on the way.

I then set out to find the car rental place pulling my roller luggage with my left hand. This meant I was slow going down the ramp the rental level and a passing fellow traveller offered to help. I hope I was sufficiently polite in declining her offer.

There a bit of a snag at the rental place as when I arrived they didn’t have any cars ready: only SUVs. They offered them to me, but I insisted on a car as most of the time it would only me driving it and as I was going to the celebration of the life Margo, something of an environmentalist, I would very embarrassed if I showed up in anything larger than a Subaru Outback. The rental people had probably suffered more demanding customers. They checked their computers and found out that a Toyota Corolla was being sanitized and would be available in about ten minutes. So I waited.

As I driving away from the airport, I was pleased to see sensible bike paths beside the road. Going over the Arthur Laing bridge, there was a highly visible cyclist pedaling away. On the other side, I was waiting for the lights to change when the cyclist went past me. It made me feel glad.

My plan had been to find lunch on the way to Alma Street, but owning a miscalculation on my part, it only when I was approaching Dunbar Loop that a restaurant appeared. It was the Crepe Café. It had a sign at the door saying the daily special was butter chicken with naan bread which pleased me greatly. There were some workmen climbing down from some scaffolding outside the building. One of them went to open the door for me before I could protest. The butter chicken and naan bread really hit the spot.

Afterwards, I stopped by the house on Alma Street to check in with the family. Chris, John, Louise and Patrick were there along with Chris’ sister Carolyn. I got to cuddle little Patrick. He wasn’t too sure about me, but then, at his age, there is little he is sure about! His physique is what is known as “bien nourrie” in Quebec. He definitely is a cutie. I don’t remember where John and Louise’s spouses and other children were, except that they weren’t there. We chatted away. Louise talked about how Tessa was using the climbing wall in the basement. That triggered something that I had thought of in Vancouver airport. In the domestic wing, there is a wall meant to look like a sloping cliff. I had wondered how often people try to climb it. I mentioned this to assembled company. This prompted John to relate how he nearly gotten into trouble rappelling off a building in Victoria as the building next door housed a “hush-hush” branch of the Canadian Government!

I drove to my hotel downtown, checked in, parked the car, went to my room and had a well-deserved snooze. Afterwards, I had supper, then got in contact with various relatives. I then gave into the urge to go to bed even though it was barely past 8 PM.

I was awoken by a text message from the Montreal General at 6:30 AM. It was about confirming next week’s appointment. I had made arrangements with St-Michael the Holy Mole to have breakfast at around 7 AM, so it wasn’t that bad.

After breakfast, I had a shower, then tried to write down the directions to Tartantown in Port Coquitlam. While I was packing on Sunday, I found out that my kilt no longer fit me. A quick internet search brought to Tartantown’s website which listed them as willing to rent kilts. Their limited range of tartans included Black Watch which I considered an adequate substitute. So, I set off for the wilds of suburban Vancouver. I must confess I made a few wrong turns. I stopped at least three times to check Google Maps as I was unwilling to subscribe to Toyota’s navigation system. On one occasion, I had pulled into a tire store to check progress. I was startled when a man in a black suit tried to open the right rear door. It turned out that he thought I was his Uber ride!

Anyway, I got there safely in the end. It was a bit anti-climactic as an employee greeted me, took my waist measurement and then took an appropriate kilt off the rack. I tried it on and it fit, funnily enough.

I then indulged in something that I had been waiting to do for 1 year, 1 month and 1 day. That is, something I had wanted to do the day of the accident. I am a bit ashamed to admit it but I had lunch at Taco Bell. I have a weakness for Taco Bell that stretches back almost thirty years. There used to be a few in Montreal, but they ceased to operate at some point during Covid. I’d like to blame LeGoat and his language policies, but that might be a stretch.

I had supper this evening with the Mole at the Happy Noodle House. I must admit, I like the creative nature of restaurant names in Vancouver than in Montreal. For that matter, I find the multicultural qualities of Vancouver distinctly refreshing from Montreal’s rather eurocentric qualities.