Cuba can be an intoxicating place

January 23rd, 2008

Cuba can be an intoxicating place at times, and it isn’t merely the island’s seemingly endless supply of rum. The Republic of Cuba is the largest of the Caribbean tropical holiday islands, and its warm people, culture and customs draw from various sources. Tourism recently surpassed sugar as the country’s main source of income, and today the island attracts a staggering bouquet of people, from a lot more countries than you might think.

Thanks to a political grudge match that is now decades old, the island is still bereft of Americans, which in some small way puts everyone there at ease. It makes the island rather special, as if its visitors share a common bond. People who travel to Cuba go there to make friends, and some of those friendships can last for years. They use words like please, thank you, hello, good night, beer and tomorrow a lot; which gives everyone a sense that, if you stick to that short list, tomorrow can be a better day.

Probably the prettiest Cuban girl I met was Dixandra; the one with the engaging smile and sparkling black eyes, who opened up The Beer Corner each evening. She was the most fun to talk to as well, but no one ever sat too long at Beer Corner. It was just a stop at the crossroads, where people met on the way to someplace else. A little man from Falkirk was one of her best customers, and he liked to sit in her shade, listen to the radio, and read his book. He agreed with me entirely that Keith Moon was the greatest of all the rock drummers, and more than a little mad, as he put it. I decided he knew what he was talking about, after someone pulled the happy Scot from the pool during one of his nightly stumbles back to his room. The guy who moved the most water out of the pool was an intimidating and gentle natured hulk from Colchester, who was there to escape the fog so common to his English home. You picked up his hame immediately, after spotting the tattoo “Tubby” sprawled across his ample back. Particularly intriguing was the auctioneer from Calgary, who started every one of his conversations with a magic trick, moved on to hockey, then to golf, and finally launched into betty’s bitter brick of butter. It was as if he was using his visit to Cuba as a dress rehearsal for something. It was fun trying to talk with a woman who was taking a break from her grocery store in the hills near Labrador; where she makes her own soups, stews, salads and sauces. I was instantly aware of just how much high school French I had forgotten; but I didn’t feel too bad, because the folks from France couldn’t understand her either.

There were people there from near where you live, and people from where you used to live too. When they all get talking, you realize we are more connected than we think. The food and drink is just as diverse, and the staff gets in a hurry for no one; likely due to the heat, which does tend to relax a person. If you venture from town to town on the island, you can find a lot of different people, at a lot of different beer corners, each with their own charm. Cuba’s laid back paces, friendly faces and bare-bones lifestyle is indeed intoxicating—and yes, so is all that rum.

Climbing up the spout again

January 16th, 2008

The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout. Down came the rain and washed the spider out. Out came the sun and dried up all the rain, and The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again.

Last week’s warm spell had me humming that old rhyme, and smiling, because it suddenly dawned on me that a January thaw essentially cuts the winter in half. When it began raining last week, it was like a halftime show at the big game, even if no one had their nipples out like Janet Jackson tried a couple years ago at the Super Bowl.

The rain gave everyone a chance to stretch, shake out any lingering holiday kinks, and reset the thermostat. A good thaw is a lot like starting winter all over again, except the sun is a little warmer, and the end is just a little closer. Spring seems that much more attainable once all the snow disappears, even if it is only for a few days. Rain also tends to wash things off, and gives everything that little extra shine.

In the old days, January was the time of year you could really use a good bath anyway, so don’t be too quick to complain about a winter shower. I happen to love it when the weather changes. It’s been said that if you live one full year in southern Ontario, you will experience every kind of weather there is at least once; which sounds pretty good to me, because there is nothing like a change in scenery to fill the senses and stir the soul.

Anyone who says they wish it was sunny and warm every day should probably just stay inside, preferably in one of those rooms like in the movie Scarface, where the wallpaper looks like a sunset over a tropical paradise. Spend enough time in a room like that, and you’re sure to go a little crazy, kind of like in that movie Scarface. They were all a little nuts in that one, although it may have had more to do with the cocaine than the constant sunshine. Come to think of it, that movie was about Cuba as much as anything, and everyone knows it is sunny and warm every day on Fidel’s happy island. The earth is closer to the sun down there, and it has a way of scorching reality like butter turning black in a frying pan too long in the fire.

In the space of one week, we had snow, fog, rain, wind and sun. It was hot and cold. It was the reality of Ontario. We really do have it made right here. I’ll take the snow, rain, sun and a flooded basement in January any day, because, before you know it, spring will be here and all the itsy bitsy spiders can start climbing the waterspouts again. It probably can’t hurt to be a little more like a spider this winter anyway. They are nothing if not persistent. I’ve tried training the ones in my basement to shovel snow, but they refuse to get the hang of it, and persist in spinning two cobwebs for every one I make the mistake of removing.

Luckily for me, and the web spinners union Local 101, I don’t really mind shoveling snow. My old man used to hate it, and grumbled every time he saw snowflakes start to fall, until I bought him the flamethrower. If melting snow with a flamethrower isn’t illegal in this country, it should be. That’s why last week’s thaw was such a treat. No one wants to shovel snow, when they can simply watch it melt.

Bigger fingers and smaller buttons

January 2nd, 2008

I have only one new year’s resolution to make for 2008, and it is to not let my fingers get any larger. Increasing or decreasing digit size usually requires something drastic, so I figure this is finally going to be a resolution I can keep.

Basically, I can’t afford to let my fingers get bigger, because buttons keep getting smaller. There was a time when electronics had knobs large enough to hang your clothes on, and a telephone was so imposing you could dial it with your big toe if you had to. Now gadgets, keypads and controls come with such tiny buttons that a ham-handed lump such as myself has no hope of using them for anything other than mashing. It’s as if the heavy-handed are being discriminated against. Using scissors was difficult enough, but we the pickle-fingered managed to adapt in society.

There is no way a person who can’t even pick a dime up off a table is ever going to function in the future if machines and their buttons continue to get smaller and smaller. Forget cell phones, tiny cameras or text messaging. I’ll be lucky to operate a remote control in the coming year. We are in the middle of a cruel cycle right now, where portion sizes keep increasing, and our favourite toys keep getting smaller.

Not even Jules Verne could have predicted that hamburgers would be larger than telephones. It’s a vicious circle, but one I am forcing myself to live with; because, let’s face it, who doesn’t love a big hamburger. I had a car in high school that fit an entire case of beer under the hood.

Today, I could duct tape four empty cases together and park my car inside it as a garage. With every passing year, I keep getting bigger while everything around me continues to shrink. Experts call this progress. Not only is every hand-held device getting smaller, but they are getting more complex as well. Lured in by words such as “upgrade” and “enhancement,” we are being forced to learn and relearn complicated routines, just to do the little things that used to take no effort at all.

It hardly seems like progress when the devices invented to make lives simpler, actually make it more frustrating. Someone needs to sit down with the queen nerd in the great nerd hive, and rethink the direction we are taking. The way all these electronic gadgets capture, record and transmit information, it won’t be long before everyone will be able to buy and install a back-up brain, capable of storing all the day-to-day information they need to know. It will hold the phone numbers and pictures of everyone I know, update my bank balance and air miles, and tell me what my favourite song or colour is. It will buy my gas and groceries, and leave my real brain wiped clean for such important tasks as trying to pick the next American Idol.

No doubt, some soft-skinned techo-wizard is holed up inside your nearest nerdery right now, working like mad to be the lucky genius who produces the first voice-activated back-up brain to fit directly inside the human ear. It will probably be annoying at first, but I can’t stick my big, fat fingers in my ears right now as it is, so why worry. With a bit of luck and hard work, I will adapt. Again.