Achtung Baby (part V)

Deborah Clague May 16, 2014

There are no cheesy roadside attractions in Europe informing drivers that they've entered a new country. No official borders to cross (and thus no colourful stamps to add to a passport). It's easy to miss the small, generic continent-wide EU signage and thus one needs to be observant of a sudden change in the language. A shift in the written word. The easiest way to confirm that you've entered Germany for instance, is seeing the "Ausfahrt" sign everywhere. This was clearly a highlight for my father who strained to get a non-blurry photo of one as we drove the Autobahn at speeds exceeding 130km/hr (in the slow lane). If you can't bond with someone over laughing at a flatulence reference, the relationship is probably doomed.

It's hard to separate the Deutschland of today from the Deutschland of the relatively recent past. One overcast day, we visited the Helmstedt-Marienborn border crossing that once was a checkpoint into Eastern Germany. It was a proper creepy experience as we were the only ones exploring the decrepit structure in silence (including an abandoned morgue) while large "I See You" signs glared down on us from above. It certainly wasn't Disneyland.

But the Bavarian region could be mistaken for it.

Some of my greatest memories in life are from visiting Disney theme parks. They are truly magical places that can bring out the genuine wonderment of being a child in anyone at any age. My father has told me previously that HIS greatest memory in life was seeing my face light up the first time I saw Cinderella's castle at Walt Disney World. I was five, obsessed with the original Disney princesses and under the belief that one of them actually lived there. Fast forward to this trip in which we visited Neuschwanstein Castle, the original inspiration for many of Walt Disney's creations. Located in a picturesque setting nestled against the start of the Alps, the castle is actually not that old (construction was completed in 1892, although it is still unfinished). The interior and exterior however are straight out of a medieval fairytale. Photographs were not permitted inside, but my favourite room was an interior grotto complete with waterfall. King Ludwig lived large…until he was dubbed "mad" and died mysteriously at the age of 41.

Helmstedt-Marienborn East Germany border crossing

Items smuggled into Eastern Germany include Depeche Mode cassette tapes and LEGO toys.

Front entrance to Neuschewanstein Castle

XXX (part IV)

Deborah Clague May 11, 2014

We spent a few days on the west coast of The Netherlands fighting heavy tourist traffic in the tulip field region. We were lucky to be visiting when they were in full bloom. The rainbow of colour was a spectacular sight. We were also lucky to find available hotel rooms; most were booked solid. For this reason I regret not being able to stay in The Hague, one of the prettiest cities we drove through during our holiday. I hope to return one day.

My father seemed to enjoy the country as well, and slowly eased his disposition against Amsterdam. He had to. I used my iPad to book a hotel for two nights near the city and it was non-refundable.

This is the official flag for the city of Amsterdam. Also a good warning for the remaining content of this post. While it does have a rich history and culture, the city is known as the "sex and drugs capital of the world" for good reason: these people are open-minded to the point where I'm certain the word "shame" doesn't exist in Dutch dictionaries. I am by no means prudish but there were times when part of me felt I had stepped off a time machine from Victorian England, shocked and appalled by the wanton hedonism that carried virtually no consequence in this strange land.

The other part of me was envious.

One person I talked to, a well-dressed professional who claimed to be the accountant for a local football club, described it as such: "We respect our freedom. We enjoy our freedom."

I checked the weather before we left the hotel. It called for sunny skies and a high of 20 degrees celsius. There was no mention of the cloud of hashish smoke that permanently hangs over the city though or the residual high that one gets while strolling the streets. It is omnipresent. I kept overhearing other tourists (mostly English accents) comment on it as well. I always assumed stoners treated this place as a mecca because marijuana - and only marijuana - was decriminalized. Imagine my surprise at the number of shops openly selling all manner of narcotics. Noticeable by the red/white mushroom signage hanging over their doorways (which, to me, resembled Toad from Super Mario Bros.), these stores would have "menus" in the front windows advertising their wares, potency and any potential side effects. It was like no window shopping I'd ever seen before. Until we went to the Red Light District that is…

The cobblestone streets of Amsterdam, while beautiful, weren't helping my father at all. At one point, instead of farcical praying for the good lord to take him away, he wanted his picture taken with someone dressed up like the Grim Reaper. I refused but was relieved he hadn't lost his sense of humour, no matter how dark.

You have to possess a sense of humour when visiting here. It's too crazy a place to not laugh at things and situations you find yourself in. Behold my personal case study: I had a craving for Doritos one day and thus entered a general store selling all manner of respectable merchandise from gardening supplies to baby items to housewares. Spying a shelf packed with cookies through the corner of my eye, I assumed that potato chips would be in the general vicinity. I was well surprised when I got there to see sex toys located next to the Chips Ahoy. I'm not sure how the two correlate but viewed it as a missed marketing opportunity. Clearly they should have been placed next to the batteries.

Another missed marketing opportunity - why the hell aren't Doritos available in Amsterdam of all places?

It was only 5:00pm but it had been a long, tiring day and my dad was due for a nap. Before leaving however, we had to visit the infamous Red Light District. Seeing it in daylight offered a different perspective, the faces of all the other perverts loitering the area unobscured by low ambient lighting. I expected visitors to be older men (not sightseeing with their daughter) but most were roving packs of 20-something males, ear-to-ear grins plastered on their overly-enthusiastic faces. Despite being relatively early, the workers of the district were present in their windows attempting to entice passerby with the tiniest and sheerist of lingerie. Each venue seemed to have a different specialty; the one that stood out the most advertised something called "electro-sex", which immediately made me think of the movie Eurotrip. I overheard no screaming, but again - it was early

Coincidentally, walking through the Red Light District was the first time I didn't hear my father say "may the good lord take me". It was worth the trip after all.

Weird food dispensing machine in Amsterdam

McDonalds in Amsterdam…not to be confused with "coffee shops" in Amsterdam

Side effects: crying and screaming for up to 15 hours

Automobile and boat traffic go side-by-side

To view more images of Amsterdam, click here.

"May the Good Lord Take Me" (part III)

Deborah Clague May 9, 2014

My father's hip pain continued as we left Paris. His gait reminded me of my 85-year-old grandfather. Slow, uneasy. He would often state, half jokingly, "may the good lord take me". I hated hearing this but I was not in a position to judge. I was only watching cancer eat away at someone well before their time, not experiencing the physical, mental and emotional pain of having it firsthand. It was for this reason that I had an idea: it wasn't officially on our itinerary but I felt my father could use a diversion…to Amsterdam.

He had told me previously about my grandmother, Beatrice, and the pain she endured during her own battle with breast cancer. I was too young at the time to remember this but after his diagnosis last fall he wanted me to know the realities of this situation, that life wasn't always pretty and could get very, very ugly at a moment's notice.

My grandmother died on New Years Day, 1981, at the age of 50. During the final stages of her life, she was prescribed medical marijauna to ease her suffering. Despite this, my father has always been staunchly opposed to narcotics. I did feel however that this could perhaps be a better remedy for his ills than the oxycodene that was prescribed to him; a drug that has since taken a life of its own on the street market where it is often referred to as "hillbilly heroin". He wasn't receptive, but I had a few days (and a few countries) to persuade him to perhaps give alternatives a try.

If we got out of Paris first.

I have a tendency to write about foreign washrooms. It can be an icky subject but considering how much time we, as human beings, use them, I feel like I'm prepping/warning people as a gesture of good will. So here it is: do not under any circumstances use the washrooms at Montparnesse Train Station. Just pee your pants. Trust. Despite having enough first-hand knowledge to know better, I still expect that if I have to pay to use facilities that they will be (relatively) clean, contain at least one square of TP and have a water source to clean up with. Nope. You get that maybe 50% of the time in Europe. Even stranger are the urinals that are out in the open. No one needs to see that. Nothing - NOTHING - could top Montparnesse Train Station though. I'm sure there were germs and viruses in there not yet identified by science. Damn my love for iced tea.

We picked up our rental vehicle at Montparnesse Train Station on Sunday because the streets of Paris are relatively quiet then. Our drive within her boundaries was pretty stress-free but that all changed once we got on the Boulevard Périphérique. Bumper to bumper. Vehicles taking up multiple lanes. Those damn motorcycles that seem to come within millimetres of sideswiping everything in their unpredictable path. Despite having a GPS, we had no idea where we were going. We eventually were forced to turn off near Disneyland Paris and within a few hours made it to Belgium (coincidentally where my grandmother's side of the family is from).

Belgium is an interesting country in the sense that I know nothing about it beyond their ability to craft great beer and chocolate. Perhaps that's all the reputation they need. Achieving perfection in two of the world's favourite exports is quite the feat. We stayed overnight in a town named Mons which I've also never heard of, the vacancy sign on the IBIS being the main draw for our stopover. Mons has a large, beautiful public square wherein instead of a hot dog stand, there's a small trailer selling escargot and champagne. Posh. The next day we drove through Brussels and Antwerp. I'm none the wiser about the country after visiting these cities, but the nation is very pretty.

Soon enough we were in the Netherlands. Everytime I saw an Amsterdam sign, I dropped the hint that I wanted to go there. My father kept complaining about potential pickpockets, scams and "druggies", failing to to see the irony of where his life was heading. He carried a baggie full of medicine, at least three different prescriptions just for pain relief. Security at the airport didn't even question him; when he mentioned that he had cancer, they just looked on in pity. Everyday at some point, the refrain of "may the good lord take me" carried on.

Next: Amsterdam

Our rental car, a Renault Captur (I really liked it)

Do I Wanna Know?

Deborah Clague May 5, 2014

I love this song so much:

City of Light (part II)

Deborah Clague May 3, 2014

You cannot even begin to scratch the surface of Paris over the course of two days, but as that was the only time we had, a double-decker bus tour gave us the Coles Notes version. My father also appreciated it as it meant less walking on cobblestones and other uneven surfaces that were causing him severe hip pain. Our first stop was Notre-Dame Cathedral. I'm not sure why I'm so drawn this to place but there's something about it that makes me feel at peace. Perhaps it's the way the light reflects prismatic through the stained glass windows. Perhaps it's the creepy gargoyles. A service was underway when we entered. All was quiet. Before our trip, I visited the Notre Dame website and submitted a prayer request for my father. Part of me knows this is ultimately meaningless but my non-skeptical self was willing to try anything if even the most minute exertion of positive energy could somehow make him better.

After the walk-through, I took my father around back past lush pink cherry blossoms in full bloom to Pont de l'Archeveche, the most famous of Paris' many "love lock" bridges. Normally a rite of passage for couples young and old (of whom I question how many are still together), I instead wanted to use the opportunity to place two intertwined locks with mine and my father's name on it - a way to commemorate our adventure and leave a piece of ourselves forever in this great city:

Clague locks in the shadow of Notre Dame Cathedral.

Some consider this vandalism, a blight on the city's architecture. I suppose it ultimately is. Defacement can be interesting though. Artistic even.

Onward we visited the Conciergerie, once a former palace and then a revolution-era prison. It is known as the last residence of King Louis XVI and his wife Marie Antoinette before they were brought to the guillotine. It's interesting to me how France, in most instances, avoids mention of the darker aspects of its past; times that have changed the course of history and continue to influence social and political movements today. For example: how many people walking by it know the significance of Place de la Concorde? Or realize that the cobblestones they walk on here were once part of the Bastille? In contrast, England (their biggest rival) has made an economy out of morbid tourism. The London Dungeons even contain a ride, whizzing tourists past decaying fake corpses and plasticized vomit, all to "educate" people on the history of the Black Plague. The Conciergerie just contained replica prison cells, authentic personal items from Marie Antoinette's quarters, and a registry of everyone executed during the Revolution. I'm happy to report that no Clague was listed.

Art, culture, history…Paris has all of these in spades. And her citizens know it. There is a pride of place here that is often mistaken for arrogance. People know they are on a world stage and don't squander the opportunity to take the lead. Naturally beautiful and alluring Parisian women dress as if on their way to a photoshoot with Vogue, confidently walking the streets like a runway even when wearing second-hand thrift items (such as one twenty-something I sat next to on a subway to Montmarte that had the most original, compelling style I have ever laid eyes on). And then there are French men...

I'm not sure if French men are naturally more amorous than others or if it's some deep-felt urge to conquer over something like Napoleon, but Paris is definitely the city for single ladies. You will get hit on every day. Oftentimes with lines that would merit a sharp slap across the face in North America:

"Excuse me, do you have a cigarette?"

"No, I don't smoke."

"Where are you from?"

"Canada"

"May I make myself comfortable?" (points to adjacent empty seat in a room full of empty seats)

"I'm busy right now."

"I would still like to get comfortable."

In comparison, the last guy that asked me out in Saskatoon spent 20 minutes extolling the financial benefits of still living at home with his parents. And he didn't have a sexy accent. Clearly I need to move to France.

Cherry blossoms in bloom outside Notre-Dame Cathedral

One of the last portraits of Marie Antoinette, done during her stay at the Conciergerie.

Original rug from inside Marie Antoinette's prison cell at the Conciergerie

View of the Eiffel Tower from the Trocadéro

Your Occasional Monty

Deborah Clague May 1, 2014

Monty avec un béret:

City of Light (PART I)

Deborah Clague April 29, 2014

Our driver was waiting for us upon arrival at Charles de Gaulle. He was a jovial, rotund man displaying a hospitality that, at times, I've found is not as immediate in this part of the world. As he helped lift my suitcase into the trunk, I took a moment to soak in the adventure I was about to embark on - spending a month exploring Europe with my father, recently diagnosed with stage IV cancer. We had already seen a good portion of the world together and while I hoped that we would see more in the years to come, there was a bittersweetness to everything. As written about before, you can't escape the "white noise" of a loved one's cancer diagnosis; it is omnipresent at every moment in every situation, reminding you of the fleeting time you have on this planet and the importance of holding value to love above all.

Seven hours previous, I was in my home and snow-blanketed native land which was experiencing one of the coldest winters on record. Now I was in Paris, France, sitting at an almost tropical by comparison 20 degrees celsius. Our driver expertly navigated traffic while singing along to Gloria Estefan's "Rhythm Is Gonna Get You" (his favourite song, I presumed, as it was on repeat during the hour-long ride). As we inched closer and closer to the Seine, I could barely contain my excitement pointing out every iconic bit of architecture to my dad. "There's Sacre Couer!", "There's the Opera House!", "There's the Eiffel Tower!!!". No matter how many times I see it, there's something about that last one that continues to hold me in awe. Perhaps because it symbolizes that I am in the world's greatest city, a source of inspiration and enlightenment for some of the greatest minds in history, and that I have every bit as much potential as those who were before me.

Our hotel was located in Montparnesse, a neighbourhood known throughout history as a place where creative-types would congregate. I booked it, intrigued for this reason (Man Ray called Suite 37 his home at one time). I'm also a Left-Bank girl at heart. After dropping off our stuff in Room 57 - and eating my first purchase, an authentic French baguette - my father required rest so I ventured out alone to the Musee d'Orsay to see the Gustave Doré exhibit. I've become obsessed over the past while with the intricate illustrations for which he is known and was awestruck to see more of his original output, including sculpture and painting. It was also interesting to read about how vilified he was from critics back in the day, who felt his work was amateurish and lacked substance. I left rejuvenated, inspired…and overwhelmed. I now wanted to paint, sculpt and do intricate pen-and-ink drawings in addition to everything else I am filling my time with. It's hard to be a renaissance (wo)man without focus though. I know myself enough to know I won't change. Reading random shit on the internet with whatever spare time I have may not be fulfilling nor legacy building, but it is entertaining and lord knows I need the schadenfreude distraction. So much for that potential...

I walked back to the hotel, getting purposely lost for a bit in the Latin District and then not so purposely by turning the wrong way down one of Paris' famous narrow, curved side streets. You'd think that the Eiffel Tower or some other high landmark is visible at all times but they are not. Paris' seduction is deeper. It wants you to stroll and admire less superficial things.

On our balcony at the Lenox Montparnesse hotel in Paris.

Musee d'Orsay, formerly a train station.

Statuary outside the Musee D'Orsay in Paris

Narrow side street near the Latin Quarter in Paris

Booyah!

Deborah Clague April 24, 2014

Very proud to announce that my work has received two awards this month:

The "Let Them Eat Cake" poster I designed received a Merit award in the 2015 Graphis Poster Annual. Graphis publishes the world's most significant and influential works in the areas of design, advertising and photography (since 1944).

My colleagues, Tanya Turner, Tom Bartlett and I received a 2014 IABC Gold Quill Award of Excellence (Division 3: Category 33) for work on the 2014-2015 SIAST Student Recruitment Viewbook ("Go!"). This division of award honours marketing and communication elements that showcase technical skills such as editing, writing, design and multi-media production.

Natural One

Deborah Clague March 22, 2014

As a teenager, I would record songs off the radio onto cassette tape. Quality was always shite (especially if I couldn't manage to escape the commercials or the DJ's shrill voiceovers), however, it was more practical than throwing my allowance away on CDs every time an ear worm infested itself in me. The 90s were the era of the Macarena after all - although I'm proud to note that particular parasite never got to me.

This song in particular was one I always coveted. They would only play it after 10:00 pm during DJ Brian Cook's more "indie"-friendly set on Winnipeg's 92 CITI, a rock station clearly aiming for the record of playing the most Guns-n-Roses tracks in a single day (still). It took quick action to capture it. After I did, it became my teenage soundtrack for awhile. Great beat. Hasn't aged.

I eventually bought the CD:

What is a Polytechnic?: an infographic

Deborah Clague March 15, 2014

Saskatchewan is now home to a polytechnic. To aid with educating the public on SIAST's evolution to this post-secondary model, I designed the following infographic that details the transition and benefits for various stakeholder groups: