Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

Last night I watched a documentary called 'Gypsy Child Thieves' on CBC's The Passionate Eye. It provided a raw glimpse into the lives of gypsy children manipulated into petty crime in Europe while examining the larger scale organized criminal influence that fuels it. Parts of the exposé reminded me of odd situations I've found myself in while traveling, including having a 3-year-old boy try to pickpocket me in Chengdu, China. My initial reaction, upon feeling someone slide their hand into the back pocket on my jeans, was anger; I immediately turned around to confront the perpetrator. My next reaction was shock that the thief appeared to be barely out of diapers. Walking away somewhat saddened, somewhat wiser, it was my first introduction to the seedy underworld of child exploitation, the scale of which most Westerners will never comprehend.

The first (and only) time I encountered an actual gypsy was in London, England. A full day of sightseeing left me hungry and weak. With visions of beer-battered pub haddock dancing around in my head, it was unfortunate that the first place I encountered selling anything edible (barely) was a hot dog stand. Pork, ick. But I couldn't wait; my stomach needed to be silenced. Under Big Ben's shadow, I waited in line while studying the visual differences between a fifty pence and 10 pence coin. A figure saddled up to my right. Cloaked in traditional Eastern Bloc garb, it was a teenage girl, approximately 17-years-old, who's heavy, aged gaze belied an otherwise youthful appearance. "Please" she begged. Her hands extended within mere centimeters of my face. "Pleeeeeeeaaaaaasssssseeee". I felt horrible, but I couldn't. I wouldn't. The exchange went on for the next several minutes, another gypsy tugging at my purse on the left. The harassment escalated. Was a hot dog really worth it? Upon retrospect, no. Good lord, no! Sternly/loudly telling them likewise, the gypsy on the right took her hands away and stood stoicly, her eyes penetrating my soul. Before disappearing into the night, she muttered something in a language I didn't recognize. A curse perhaps? An ancient spell of damnation? That hot dog did end up giving me heartburn.

To watch 'Gypsy Child Thieves', click here and learn that the money you think is aiding children may be funding the most garishly ostentatious architecture on earth.

Whoomp! Here it is:


It was a crazy Saturday night. Some would say epic. The evening began with a simple herb-and-garlic chicken dinner finished with a slice of pumpkin pie, a treat I granted myself after spending daylight running around the city completing errands that were beginning to take on a life of their own. Post-meal at 8:00pm, I was exhausted but it was still too early for anyone under the age of 75 to go to bed. Choosing to mentally rest by watching mentally vacant 'America's Next Top Model', I pondered which contestant would land the coveted cover of Girls and Corpses Magazine. Containing my yawns was futile though and I eventually decided to just embrace the fact that my autobiography would never be a bestseller. My joints ached. Slumber called. But first, my canine companion needed to do some, ahem, "business". This is when my evening took an unexpected turn. 

Downtown Saskatoon is typically a quiet place on any given evening, but on this night the sound of music wafting through the air piqued my interest. It seemed to be coming from the general direction of the historic Bessborough Hotel. Heading towards it on the TransCanada Trail, I was soon met with a visual that I will not soon forget: hundreds, né THOUSANDS, of people marching towards me whilst chanting "Whoomp! There It Is". I was bewildered. I was scared. I was intrigued. Common sense would have had me head home to the comforts of Tyra Banks' forehead, but like a gullible rat following the Pied Piper, I joined the fray. 

Besides a questionable taste of music, the only collective theme of this gathering was the omnipresence of Canadian flags. I later discovered that this gathering was a cross-country tour called the decentralized dance party and that the only requirements are to a) show up and b) wear your national pride. According to the website, the event was supposed to be alcohol-free but the number of people passed out in the grass surely wasn't from strenuously performing the macarena en masse. Wavy Gravy circa Woodstock would have probably been more lucid than half the people there.

Monty, sensing trouble, became scared by all the drunk girls wanting to pet him. I, sensing trouble, became scared by all the drunk guys wanting to pet me. And so we watched from a distance under cloak of darkness as the revelers brought the rave to University Bridge. Monty eventually found the perfect spot to have a bowel movement; as did a gaggle of girls trading modesty for convenience. It was a crazy Saturday night. But then it was time for sleep.

 

Italian Tri-Colour Cookies

I came. I saw. I baked. But I did not conquer, as evidenced by the final product for my first "from scratch" initiative. There are no marks for presentation (damn food colouring! The batter was pink and green, I swear); however, they are pretty good. Not Eaton's Department Store-level good, but good considering my skill level. Baked with love, care and a whole lotta butter, my parents will be proud when they get to taste test them on Thanksgiving. At any rate, after this many years I'm sure they've learned how to hide their grimace well.

BONUS: I also now know what almond paste looks like! To think of all the time I spent in the Colgate aisle searching for it:

La Dolce Ordinario

I lost Pee Boy. The third most iconic symbol of Japan (next to Geishas and that mountain in all the paintings), Pee Boy gracefully hung on my keychain, adding a touch of class to the lint and miscellaneous coins at the bottom of my purse. And now he's gone. My lucky charm. Lost in translation. Lost in narration. I weep. Pee Boy was the greatest souvenir I've ever known. 

I noticed he was AWOL as I stood in line at Wal-Mart for what seemed like days, foolishly shopping for unnecessities while their anniversary sale was underway. Playing with my keys seemed more intellectually stimulating than paying heed to the tabloid headlines touting Heidi Montag's latest surgery and also doubled as a welcome diversion from staring at the butt crack of the person in front of me. Unfortunately, it wasn't the first moon I witnessed that afternoon. *shudder* Pants are a requirement to shop at most establishments; it's a damn shame that underwear can't be added to the list. Momentarily questioning my cheapness frugality, I later determined that saving 50 cents on toothpaste was, indeed, worth the torture.

Also in my shopping cart was a pan. A baking pan. I am teaching myself to bake thanks to a few internet recipes and a somewhat shaky confidence that what I create will actually be edible. A less ambitious amateur chef might choose to make muffins or some variation of bland biscuit, but not I. Diving headfirst into this new pursuit, I have decided that my first creation will be Italian tri-colored cookies, which actually aren't cookies but rather a small pink-yellow-green cake separated by layers of raspberry jam and smothered in dark chocolate. I have fond memories of my mother taking me to Eaton's in downtown Winnipeg in order to pick up a few as a treat. They were always so delicious...but pricey. Definitely not a regular indulgence but rather a treat to be savored on special occasions. The special occasion now is that I'm 30 and barely know how to boil an egg. Swan dive. No floaties. Next up: fried fugu. If only I still had my lucky charm. 

Running Back to Saskatoon

It's an endless drive. The drive from Saskatoon to Winnipeg. Right when you think you are closing in on your final destination, the expanse of nothingness continues. Through Chamberlain, through Moosomin. Through towns with a population of 8.4. My iPod kept recycling Make Me Wanna Die as if reading my mind. But the extra long drive was nothing compared to the torture I faced in the 'Peg. The city didn't take our break-up well and decided to kick my ass upon my return.

I arrived early in the evening on August 27 with luggage, a wee dog and a growling stomach. Saskatoon is a great city, but it's got NOTHING on Winnipeg in terms of quality and variety of restaurants. Before departing, I made a list of all the places I wanted to revisit during my whirlwind week. Near the top of the list was Santa Lucia Pizza. After denying myself food all day, I made haste to the phone to order a pepperoni pie. Memories of their sweet, tangy sauce and ooey-gooey cheese made me salivate in anticipation. But after biting into a piece, I noticed something was different. Perhaps it was new management trying to rework a classic in their own vision. Or maybe it could all be blamed on the economy and yet another business attempting to increase their profits by decreasing quality of materials. In any event, this pizza did not live up to their usually high standards. The pepperoni had a weird flavor to it. The sauce lost it's bite. The ooey-gooey cheese was still there, but could not save it. I still devoured the whole thing in record time, but it was strictly out of pity. At this point, I was so hungry I was eyeing the cardboard box.

I awoke the next morning to a gut-ache and a flat tire. A bummer for sure, but part of me was just happy to see my vehicle in the same spot I parked it in (Winnipeg is the car-theft capital of Canada). After making a pit stop at the mechanic, I went for a walk with the two dogs downtown. This is not the first choice most pet-owners would make but Monty is already an urban pooch and Reggie is just happy to be taken anywhere. I wanted to "rediscover" the area of which I had spent a good portion of my adult life (albeit within regular work hours). I wanted to try seeing the beauty in a place that is considered so very, very ugly. Slowly meandering down the streets I once tried to flee, I realized that the downtown core is actually quite awe-inspiring. Every alley tells a story. Every block standing as a monument to Winnipeg's rise, fall and death at the hands of indifference. I made my way through the Exchange towards Higgins and then back around to Canada's most famous intersection of Portage and Main. Yes, vagrants were encountered. Yes, there were weird smells emanating from some of the abandoned buildings. I don't think I would live there, but if I still called the city home, I would definitely make more of an effort to appreciate its core (before the moon rises at least).

The trek through the concrete jungle definitely made me work up a healthy appetite thus my culinary adventure continued with a visit to Palatal Mongolian Grill (my favorite restaurant). As I debated what toppings to include in my stir-fry (and what sauce would exotically compliment them), I momentarily forgot that successful walking involves putting one foot in front of the other. Left, right, left, right...eons of evolution promise that this should be second-nature by now. All those years of dyeing my hair blonde, however, must have had a strange osmosis effect. Or at least that's what I tell myself as I nurse a broken toe and a bruised kneecap that is blacker than Cruella deVil's heart. Stir-fry was ace though (as always).

The remainder of the week was spent hiking through two of my favorite parks (La Barriere and Bird's Hill), getting stuck in traffic, having my faith in humanity depleted, having my faith in humanity restored. My mother made a turkey dinner with all the trimmings that should tie me over until Christmas (mmmmmm mmmmm) and I also had one more pizza, this time from Mr. B's (the best in all of Canada, I guarantee). It was a return to my former life and all the joys and stresses that accompany it. Nearing day four though, I realized why I had wanted a change. Needed a change. I started to miss Saskatoon, where people still say 'hello' to each other while out for a walk rather than clutching their purses (and pearls). Where you can drive from one end of town to the other in 20 minutes flat. Where my newest favorite food resides (Super Donair). My stomach growling again, I hit the highway for the endless drive back.

Although it always seems faster when heading home.

Manitoba gallery has been added here.  

*Facepalm*

As heard on CBC Evening News at 5:00pm on Monday, August 16 (in relation to this story): 

"Police wouldn't say what was in the explosives, but a quick internet search turned up hundreds of recipes. All you need is this (holds plastic bottle up) and a few common household items."

I hear tomorrow's newscast will feature an enlightening segment on how to get away with murder. 

Saskatoon Ex: An Odyssey

The thing I miss most about summer in Winnipeg is attending the Red River Ex with friends. If there's one event that signals the start of summer (besides the infestation of mosquitos), it's this traveling carnival of rickety rides and arterie-clogging half-foods. In short, it's a week of awesomeness. Therefore when I heard the Saskatoon version was rolling into town, I knew I had to attend. And so it was written. 

The Saskatoon Ex is located at Prairieland Park, an area with ample space for amusement rides, food concessions and $10 ring toss throws. There is also lots of room for parking...when the Ex isn't on. The lot was near capacity when I arrived, the only available stalls would have been tight with a Mini Cooper. Can't say the bus would have been a better option though: transit information was nonexistent on the official website and at $2.75 each way would have been costlier per head than carpooling. Seeing as my vehicle has become a punching bag of sorts since I moved out here, I eventually threw caution to the wind and squeezed into a spot Austin Powers-style.

The Saskatoon Ex remains a relatively wholesome family event where octogenarians can safely bump shoulders with brooding teenagers feebly trying to hide their excitement. Bingo is played. Corn dogs consumed. It felt somewhat quaint, definitely devoid of the sleeze that permeates the air of the Winnipeg version. The first attraction I headed for - as always - was the Superdogs show (or, should I say, "The President's Choice Superdogs"...they are definitely getting their sponsorship dollar's worth from the announcer). The dogs always seem so keen to showcase their skill and endurance, however, this video frame may belie their perceived submission:

Someday, Rover, you will be master and she will be begging for Scoobie Snacks. Someday.

Also, props to President's Choice for funding the most amazing inflatable mascot I have ever seen. Look at that authoritative pose:

The dogs put on a great performance, made greater by the fact that they finally retired playing "Who Let The Dogs Out?" as an interlude. Another canine-themed show at the Saskatoon Ex was Dock Dogs. Since the batteries for my camera went dead about 10 minutes after I arrived, I unfortunately have no pictures. Trust though, that the border collies involved were more deserving of being on the mainstage than Stereos (*shudder*). If that band is qualified to receive tax-payer funded financial assistance to pursue their musical ambitions, then I would like to announce that I will soon retire from advertising to become a glam-rock yodeler.    

A friend of mine from high school left one summer to become a carnie and was never seen again. True story. I thought of this while strolling through the midway. The sun was setting. The garbage cans had shifty eyes:

The only thing scarier that that was the concession selling deep-fried cheesecake. DEEP. FRIED. CHEESECAKE. Holy shit! Surely, it's a less painful suicide than jumping off a balcony but imagine how your thighs would look? Leaving behind a good-looking corpse is important; you never know, that handsome mortician just might be single. Other tightrope walks over the valley of death included the shark encounter and riding the zipper before popping a Maalox. The Saskatoon Ex: for the adventurous at heart and of stomach. 

Til we meet again in 2011...

Update:

Photo galleries have been updated with new images from my latest excursion to Western Canada. Explore here.