Saint Nicholas and The Kindness of Strangers

Dated: 31 Dec 2014

Since we’re all in the throes of readers’ fatigue with trite and preachy New Year updates, I’ll just share an anecdote and Changing, by soulful, raspy Paloma Faith and Sigma, my anthem for 2015. 

The song is about freeing ourselves, not necessarily from untenable relationships or situations, but prisons we build inside our minds. How can you expect to see a better view when you look at life through the same old broken picture frame…

Recently a friend moved out of town and I’m trying to dispose of some furniture she’s left behind. On Christmas Eve, while helping another one move an item he’d just bought down to his car, I locked myself out of the duplex. The attendant at the Laundromat next door tells me the landlord is sometimes found conducting his daily business at the local Starbucks; the equivalent of a mafia don’s favourite watering hole. The barista, an Asian guy with immaculate hair and pronounced vowels, is sympathetic to my predicament. While I wait awkwardly, ill-clad in gym gear and Wellies, he leaves a voicemail for the landlord and offers me a hot chocolate; I evidently look in dire need of one.

On a whim I go back and wait on the sidewalk, unsure of my plan. While my beverage is still hot, I hear descending footsteps from inside and inch closer to the door. ‘I’m Sarah from across the hall. I think we’ve met before,’ says my saviour. I had assumed no one was home, and hadn’t even thought to ring the bell! I tell her she’s my Christmas miracle; I mean it. Duly flattered, she waits for me to retrieve my phone and record her number. Her boyfriend grows impatient, visibly languishing under the weight of the packages he’s unwisely offered to carry; Christmas is also about fulfilling one’s duties…

Last night, I was back to meet Jess, who’s buying a pair of Ikea Kallax shelf cubes I posted online a few days prior. I am concerned when the drawers can’t be removed, but we decide to carry it downstairs anyway. 70 lbs would seem manageable, but the staircase is precarious, steep, and narrow in this turn of the century row house. The drawers keep sliding open and hitting the walls and my gloved hands can’t get a firm grip; as long as I don’t drop it on her foot I’m golden, I grit my teeth in grim determination. We finally make it down, only to find the thing doesn’t fit either the trunk or the doors of her Mazda. I suppose the Japanese only design cars for flat packed furniture. Two words before you try this at home, possums—Allen Wrench.

So we’re a couple of hapless rookie furniture movers freezing on the sidewalk when a young couple walking their Boxer approaches us. ‘D’you need help with that?’ the man asks. People may find it hard to believe but this is quite commonplace in downtown Toronto; equally commonplace is to thank profusely but politely decline, which I do. ‘You guys are sweet, but thanks anyway. Happy New Year!’

Ten minutes later, Jess is still methodically contemplating her options while I’m just dreading carrying the damn thing back upstairs. The couple reappears, on their way back from the landlord’s Starbucks. They are wearing matching jaunty Christmas hats to go with their red coffee cups; I reach to pet the pup, they call him Mason. Picture of perfection—ugh. Jess has decided to return the next day with her parents’ SUV. ‘OK then I’ll just carry this back up for you,’ the man offers. He is hardly waiflike, perhaps even stocky under the pouffy jacket, but I am skeptical and uneasy with the imposition. ‘Can you manage all by yourself?’ I step forward. ‘Oh yes I can. I am a powerlifter.’ Jess and I couldn’t have been more incredulous if we’d encountered a unicorn, ‘Do those truly exist, and could you be one of them?’ He hoists the shelf up exerting as much effort as I would with the cardboard box these came in, while the girlfriend participates with an emphatic ‘yeah baby’ with every couple of stairs he conquers.

I’m overcome with relief and struggle with words to thank him. ‘I’m Coco; sorry I know we’re just strangers, but I’m going to hug you.’ The sensation is not unlike the first sip of hot chocolate on a frigid day, I allow, even as his lucky lady waits downstairs. ‘Hey Coco, I’m Nick. We’re not strangers,’ he hugs me back and we ceased to be; ‘we’re neighbours.’ Saint Nick.

I love how this object, this piece of furniture has connected two people like ships that pass in the night. Jess has just moved from Vancouver, where my friend now lives. Perhaps she is meant to have them. They are black with accent drawers of the truest red. In a well-lit, lived-in room, vital and warm with friends’ laughter and merriment, they had looked cheerful, but in their abandoned state appear indecent and grossly out of place, like a clown’s make-up when the circus is done, and sadness resides again in each wrinkle and crease of his face. I feel Jess will give them a loving home, make them shine again.

Speaking of sadness, for the past ten days I’ve felt a general despondency, as though I’m losing something precious and try as I might, can’t hold on. But maybe there’s a silver lining I can’t yet see and something has been gained in the balance, however fleeting: a learning experience, minimal wisdom, a snatch of song lyrics at the very least. Finally, the lyrics to Changing:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ghotwCMPk2s

A wondrous 2015 to you, friends. May it be all you wish it to be, and more. 

REVIEW - SHORT FILM

FROST

All things leave a mark on this world…only a hunter who follows these marks will have the means to provide for his family…

In the sparse, unforgiving landscape of the Arctic tundra, we find impressionable Naya, her father Atanaq, who adheres to the code of the brave hunter, and mother who gently schools her in the ways of their ancient people. One unusually harsh winter, starvation looms over them inevitably like an ominous cloud.

As a self-imposed rite of passage, Naya determines to face her fear of the unknown and gain status of bona fide hunter, worthy of her father’s pride. She ventures into a hostile new world, where a lurking predatory opponent may prove more formidable than hunger and cold.

What will it take for Naya to triumph? And what mark will that encounter leave on her, transforming her forever?

The setting is post apocalyptic, but themes are inherently human and universal in this charming coming of age story. Richly textured, and replete with cleverly used metaphor, the story uses fantastical elements to explore the importance of preserving the lessons of the past while looking to the future.

Emily Piggford is delightful as the protagonist. Oscar Hsu delivers a constrained performance as the stoic hunter, ably assisted by Lara Daans, who plays the mother with subtle gravitas.

Shot in HD, the stunning visuals and special effects deserve a special mention; the portrayal of the arctic terrain is breathtaking, and imbued with a menacing presence.

Writer / Director: Jeremy Ball

Producer: Lauren Grant

EP: Canadian Film Centre (CFC) Toronto

Circa 2011, Hollywood, CA

Oh to be a fly on the wall during any meeting between Jason Statham and his agent…

Agent: Thanks for coming in Mr Statham!

JS: All right?

Agent: Jason, so have you had a chance to read that script I sent?

JS: Eh?

Agent: It’s called Parker. I had it dropped off three weeks ago…

JS: Ah not yet mate, sorry.

Agent: (Skims over notes) It’s a Robin Hood-like character. An essentially moral man forced into thievery by cruel circumstance.  Compelling dichotomy between his values and his chosen profession. They’re talking to JLo for the female lead; we might even convince Nick Nolte to play a less creepy version of himself. As if! Never mind…

JS: (Scratches chiseled jaw) Mmm. I’m trying to put my finger on how this bloke’s different from the guys I play in The Transporter or The Expendables or The Italian Job, or...

Agent: Well, he’s different, but deep down he’s the same really.

JS: I thought we woz past that typecasting horsecrap mate.  

Agent: It’s called being true to yourself! That’s the beauty of it! It’ll be like a 12-week vacation in Palm Beach!

JS: Well that’s crackin’ innit?  Sign ‘er up Guv’nor!

Decaying Splendour

Cuba's architectural legacy spans five centuries of different architectural styles, from Spanish colonial to baroque, from art nouveau to modern. In the city, beaux art clubs and casinos stand side by side with art deco skyscrapers and cinemas; in the suburbs, Spanish style villas and modernist houses share the same street. The once colourful frescoes are faded, the paint is peeling, but the beauty and elegance of this cosmopolitan city is timeless.

In 1511 Diego Velasquez landed on Guantanamo Bay and set about establishing a command centre in the new colony. His house in Santiago is the oldest in the Americas. The artisans he brought from Spain had learnt to paint frescoes from Italy, and Muslim influence in 16^th century south of Spain was very much in evidence in the architectural style. Fervent Catholicism was expressed in the construction of numerous cathedrals, churches, and convents, where French gothic spires mixed with lavish details of baroque.

Terracotta and glazed tiles were used to decorate exteriors and floors, Moorish arches adopted, and locally available materials like dark timber were added to create a tropical feel. The mujédar carpenters, skilled boat makers, built the high ceilings with close fitting wood pieces and mahogany beams to resemble the upturned hull of a boat. This provided some respite from the heat.

The Spanish style villas were suited to the tropical weather; the arches allowed plenty of ventilation and inner courtyards with abundant foliage created a tropical sanctum. The Cuban ‘flavour’ essentially combined the Moorish and European, absorbing various styles but adapting them to suit their own materials and colours. In colonial Havana, the predominant colours are white, pale yellow and the azure ‘Havana blue’. The inspiration came from the colours they saw all around them white (sand), pale yellow, (sun) azure blue (sea). In the graceful mansions in the Vedado district of Havana, the fine lines of neoclassical mix effortlessly with tropical flair, as stained glass windows soften the glare of the sun and add a Cuban aesthetic. The pastel coloured art deco tiles perform the dual function of a bold, graphic design element, and give a cooling effect.

During the art nouveau period of the 1890s, Cuba was the richest Spanish colony. An offshoot of the movement in Paris saw countless homes and buildings combine the daintiness of art nouveau, with Cuban elements like mahogany banisters or balcony details in wrought iron. High ceilings and whitewashed walls remained a popular feature.

During the first decades of 20^th century, Cuba was under the influence of US money and fashions, and Hollywood stars were regulars at Havana’s many hotels. The Hotel Nacional is an example of mixing it up Cuba style as art deco, neoclassic and neocolonial styles come together effortlessly and the 19^th century Hotel Inglaterre combines a neoclassical exterior with Moorish interior. The Gran Teatro follows the same example, with art nouveau and baroque styles. The HQ is long gone, but the Bacardi palace with its streamlined, solid art deco lines is still a recognizable building in Havana.

The postmodernism of 50s saw the dawn of socialism in Cuba. The trend is seen in the shamelessly utilitarian apartment and office blocks of Havana, built by Castro's microbrigades to combat housing shortages.

Varadero's white sand and coral reef, and more close proximity to US made it the ideal location for a holiday destination. Before the present day tourist hotels and resorts, it was a summer escape in the 20s for US magnates, who built old homes and bought up large tracts of land. Some seaside homes still remain with wood siding and wraparound verandahs, where a couple of rocking chairs await those looking for respite from the heat, and while away long afternoons.

In Cuba's outlying towns and rural areas, you catch glimpses of little pieces of history here and there in architectural features. Peasant dwellings are still modeled after earliest Indian structures with thatched roofs; Camagüey was razed in the 1660s by the freebooter Captain Henry Morgan (yep the guy on the rum bottle) and was later reconstructed as a complex maze of streets to thwart future attacks. The cobblestones used to pave Trinidad streets were originally ballast from Spanish ships, that left laden with sugar.

Ravages of the elements and decades of neglect have left these architectural treasures in a sad state of disrepair. Fortunately, there are some aggressive restoration projects underway largely funded by the Spanish government. Some Cubans express concerns over this restoration by development, turning old buildings into museums, but they are preserved for several more generations of Cubans to enjoy.

Brief Timeline-Architectural styles in Cuba

1525 Spanish colonial

1600 Baroque

1650 Rocco1750 Neoclassical

1812 Moorish revival

1865 Beaux arts

1890 Art nouveau / Colonial revival

1915 Modernism

1925 Art deco

1930 Streamline moderne

1950 Post modernism

Snapshot Havana

The humidity hits you as you step out from the rarified, air-conditioned confines of the plane, the heat dances off the tarmac, playing tricks on your eyes. But by the time you make your way past the tense sea of olive green uniforms in the lobby, you’re already in a blissed out ‘island state of mind’.

In 1492 when Columbus stumbled onto Cuban shores looking for India’s fabled treasures, he called it the most beautiful land he’d ever seen. Five hundred years later, life here is still a party and the world's invited. Beaches, resorts and hotels are teeming with new age saviours; western tourists with American greenbacks in their Tommy Bahama shirts, who will pay any price for a piece of Cubanidad-Cuba is for sale. The need for tourist dollars has reduced Cuba to just another Caribbean island, a tempting yet tired cliché of sun, sand and surf, but my experience begins right here in Havana as a java jolt of countless colors, sights, and sounds awakes me from a gray black winter slumber.

Founded in 1514, San Cristobal de la Habana was a docking port for Cortes’ ships returning to Spain with Montezuma’s gold. (He found no gold in Cuba, but when Columbus planted some sugarcane seedlings, he had no idea of the far-reaching effects. Sugar remains inextricably linked to Cuba’s destiny—a gift from a fickle mythical god that became a curse as centuries of slavery and colonization followed.) Today the fortified El Morro castle, one of Havana’s oldest landmarks, is a grim reminder of pirate sackings. Along the Malecón, images become anecdotal snippets in your mind: waves crash playfully over the seawall, drenching promenading Havanans, friends sit down to an impromptu game of dominoes, two guys carry a 1950s candy pink fridge down a narrow street and an amigo stops to say hi, and lend a hand; a couple of kids with defiant body art check out what’s hot in the music world on their radios.

Havana means nights drinking crisp mojitos at Hemingway's favourite bar Bodeguita, waiting for a literary revelation, and watching the shimmering Tropicana showgirls dance splendorous whirlwinds. Memories of a rat race life are insignificant, distant, dissipating into the ethers with the soothing smoke from an exquisite Cohiba. Summer evenings are long, spent under a vast, free sky of the bluest blue, listening to the warm sea caress the beach in hushed whispers, right before sleep comes easily, abundant, in a purple cloak. You agree with Columbus.

Cuba’s warm, passionate people amply express their spirit in sensual song lyrics, and their traditional son music. This is a country with a song in its body, the most dance prone society in the world. At a local El Rapido restaurant, revelers spill out on the streets, dancing to the music coming from within; I have to get into the rhythm of this place to feel its soul. People are friendly and share their worldviews or talk baseball over a cup of strong coffee or a stiff shot of rum. They are optimistic and resilient, feet firmly rooted in the past, and eyes toward a hopeful future.

The impressive Hotel Nacional overlooking the Malecón pays iconic homage to Havana’s colourful past when Americans just went south to drink and Prohibition era high rollers with big cars and bigger lifestyles frolicked here on the beaches. For Hollywood royalty, hippie child brides of statesmen, pioneering gangsters of dubious distinction, and suicidal novelists of genius, this was the mecca.

¡Hasta la Victoria siempre! (Ever onwards towards Victory)

¡Venceremos! (We shall overcome)

¡Socialismo ou muerte! (Socialism or death)

Revolution for Cubans is more than an intense looking guy on a t-shirt. The incendiary nationalist graffiti on Havana’s streets tries to give hope to a people who have lived through forty years of trying economic conditions. Combined with the breakup of USSR and the trade embargo, these are difficult times, making tourism an economic necessity. The pace of life is leisurely but waiting is a way of life here. People wait at food stores, for the bus, to pay the bill. Progress is like the sputtering 70s Ladas. The promise of the final victory is now wearing old, but they carry on, with hope towards the elusive Victoria.

Images of Che abound all over Cuba, most prominently the steel and glass sculpture on the façade of the Ministry of the Interior building. It is based on one of the most iconic images of our time that captured the revolutionary zeitgeist. Alberto Korda, a photographer for LA Revolucion took the picture in 1960. Years later, the Italian publisher Giangiacomo Feltrinelli stopped in Cuba on the way back from Bolivia, where he had heard that Che's capture and execution was imminent. Korda refused payment for the print since his visitor was ‘a friend of the Revolution’. Within days Che had achieved instant mythical stature in death; millions of reproductions later all over the world, Korda never received as cent as he was ‘not averse to its reproduction…to propagate…the cause of social justice throughout the world’. Castro had a different take on the issue, describing the protection of intellectual property as imperialistic ‘bullshit’.

The world's eyes are once again on Cuba. Will a post Castro Cuba remain communist? Is Cuba at the brink of another revolution? This time the Cubans are poised to determine their own future.

Fast Facts: Area: 110,860km; Pop: 11,382,820; GDP (PPP): $3900; Literacy: 97%; Main crops, sugar, tobacco, citrus; Main cities: Havana, Santiago, Camagüey, Holguin; Currency: peso, convertible peso: Religion: (85% Roman Catholicism); Govt: socialist republic. (source: CIA World Factbook)

An old poem I found in a long forgotten file

Phone Manners

Called you

after a lapse of several months

Typically, you say this time I have

disrupted your viewing

of a Val Kilmer movie

(The Saint? The Ghost and the Darkness?)

or does it matter?

Rudely reminded

Why

I'd stopped calling

In the first place

Hotel California—To all fellow James Thurber fans

I usually sleep dreamlessly, but it was quite balmy last night. In a resultant nightmare, I almost checked into the hotel from The Shining.

If you know me, you'll also know it's entirely possible I'd booked a room without checking the rates. I go to collect my keys, and the severe looking concierge tells me it's $530 for the night. I emit a feeble acknowledgement, stealing a quick glance in the mirror behind her to check if I look as incredulous as I actually am. (To clarify, I'm not on holiday, but thought it would be fun to check into a hotel somewhere for a lark, a mini getaway.) 'Let me just get my bag.' I approach the bellman cart slowly to buy time; still in two minds, I open my wallet—my Visa Avion is gone. (Ahem, now would have been a good time to redeem those points...). Luckily, a pillar obstructs the trolley from the concierge's view, and as she starts talking to another guest, I grab my belongings (yes two suitcases for one night) and make a dash for the side exit. Even in this dire circumstance, I cut a ridiculous figure wrestling two bags and an oversized purse, but at this moment I can ill afford to pretend to be Grace Kelly.

As the twisted illogic of dreamland would have it, either all taxis seem to be occupied and going in the wrong direction, or there's a most ghastly hailstorm out, but following a series of incidents of increasing jeopardy, I find myself back at the hotel. I'm probably here to retrieve something. I dread leaving personal effects behind in public places, and of late have developed a nervous habit of double-checking subway seats, my gym locker, cash registers at stores, the compartment in my bag that houses my keys...

Out of the corner of her eye, the concierge spots a flash of my sea green vinyl suitcase, (I am the owner of such an item, yes) and springs into action, warning me as she strides purposefully across the lobby that now the said room is $880! I suppose they're overbooked—is this the busiest day of the year for you? Are you hosting The Annual Convention of (and For) Disturbed Sleepers (TACoDS)? ‘Disturbed’ referring to the sleep and not the sleeper, of course.

The woman does not follow me out of the building and across the street. She stands in the entranceway, mumbling something about not having a choice but to call the authorities. I am overcome by a sinking feeling reminiscent of the Thelma and Louise ending that this is it, the point of no return, the moment we defy all odds and take control of our destiny…

Well, not quite as memorable and iconic, but I vaguely remember wondering just as I came to, how I would look in my mug shot—and whether I'd be charged under the amended section 252 of the criminal code for 'failure to remain at the scene and check into a hotel room'.