Thirty Minutes on the TTC

Dear Elly G,

I just spent the past half hour sitting next to someone, first on the train and now while waiting for the next bus, fighting the irritation I often feel when someone I don’t know persists in staying beside me. I don’t know exactly why I get irritated about this – for a city dweller, it’s an irrational sort of reaction – but I feel it anyway.

I particularly dislike it when the train empties, freeing other seats and the person beside me continues to linger. Nothing suggestive, no looking down my cleavage, nothing like that. They just stay on, ignoring the obvious other options. It makes me feel crowded, hemmed in and irritable, and this  probably makes me an asshole, but I like commuting with my bag on the seat beside me.

It made me remember last weekend’s road trip and the feeling of dread when faced with a vast expanse of grass and no human in sight. I don’t particularly enjoy too much solitude either. It’s almost as if I can’t stand being around people for too long, but I need them about me, milling around, creating that unique sort of hum that I crave, the way I sometimes turn on the TV just to have something playing in the background. It’s the comfort of white noise.

I moved to Toronto to escape the relative stillness of suburbia. But my attempts to reach out and connect have been half-hearted because I like having my own space, and as you know, I have little patience for bullshit.

I know we can’t have everything. I suppose when it comes right down to it, I’m happier in a big city than I would be in a small town. But who knows? I might surprise myself and end up owning a vineyard out in the middle of nowhere.

I’m rambling,
Nikka

Dioramas

Dioramas

Dear Elly G,

Word of the day: diorama. I am seriously pissed off that I never got the chance to take a picture of the Sinulog diorama they had outside Robinson’s Department Store. I want to kick myself. That display was something that will go down in the annals of our history of ridiculousness.

It was a display of superheroes: Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, etc. (it was a League of Justice thing) and it wasn’t just a painting. It was a real mock-up of superheroes doing their thing. Superman was flying and shit.

In the middle of it all stood Sr. Sto. Niño holding up that scepter and wooden ball with a cross on it, because the “greatest superhero” is still Sto. Niño. The first time I saw that mess, I nearly choked. What a classic what-in-the-mother-effing-eff moment. People here are insane.

Just thought I’d share. Wish you’d seen it. So sorry I didn’t get it for posterity – I was just too busy staying away from the crazy crowd. I wish I hadn’t.

Regretfully,
Nikka
1/31/08

Reykjavik

Reykjavik

Dear Elly G,

It’s the ascent that gets me. Every time. That feeling when the giant metal tube you’re in careens down the runway and takes off, leaving your stomach somewhere between the earth and the sky and it feels like a lifetime of being at a 45-degree angle, just climbing. It’s always a while before I can breathe easy again.

Sometimes it’s easy. It’s smooth and uneventful, the plane cutting through clouds without resistance. Sometimes it’s hard. The ascent is choppy, like riding a skiff over rough waves, and I find myself wondering if that view of the city will be my last, wondering if maaaayyyybe I should’ve kept my shoes on in case the plane loses its battle with gravity and we plunge into the sea and I need to frog swim in the Arctic Ocean to save my life or at least prolong it, if only by a few minutes by finding a floating piece of wreckage and I won’t be able to do that if my feet are the first to go.

But I like ascents. I like the thrill. Humans weren’t meant to fly, and each time we take off, it almost feels like having a middle finger extended at the great wide cosmos: look at me now, Dad! I really should knock on wood thrice, because it feels like I’m mocking the fates. Unfortunately, there is nothing wooden to be found on the Airbus. I might try and find a catalogue to knock on, I suppose that will work. Paper coming from wood and all that.

There is a guy on this plane who seems to love that there is absolutely no wood to be found. A thinks he’s on something, very likely little purple party pills, because he keeps going up and down the aisles, just running his hands over everything. Everything. It’s weird. And gross – does he even realize how germy the interior of an airplane can be? He’s not running his hands over the passengers, at least. He’s doing it on all the surfaces of the plane he can touch, including the covers of the overhead luggage compartments. I’ve decided he’s some sort of shaman, blessing the plane’s interior with good juju. Between you and me, A is more likely to be right than I am, though.

Speaking of wood, we touched down in Reykjavik and the terminal is almost all wood. It’s warm, and cozy in that minimalist sort of Scandinavian way, all interesting angles and curves and mood lighting. I wasted no time heading for the mini grocery they had going on, to score some skyr. Passed a few displays of interesting salt. “Lava salt,” and all that, but I tasted it and it doesn’t taste like anything other than salt. Lies! I do have my eye on the cutest little figurine. It’s of a fat Viking, and it makes me happy to see it. We’re stopping over in Iceland again on the way back from England, so I’m sleeping on it for now. I didn’t get to buy the skyr, there were problems with my card or something. I’m hoping this is not a theme for when we get to England, because it is going to be annoying going around with le cash in le pockets. I have nightmares of a Dickensian London, with the Artful Dodger going around picking pockets willy nilly. Listen to me, sounding all first world Visa paywave and shit.

I could be a morning person in Iceland. It’s about 6:45 AM in Reyjkjavik, and it’s still black as night. We left at eight in the morning with no sunrise to be seen. I didn’t do a lot of reading up on Iceland, because it’s just a transit stop on the way to jolly old London, so that is going to have to be remedied.

Hairless Whisper

1/12/17

Dear Elly G,

The difference between a Brazilian done in Toronto and a Brazilian done in Dumaguete spans leagues.

The former takes approximately ten minutes. It’s quick, clinical, precise and expensive, barely even giving me any time to register the loss of body hair.

The latter starts with the aesthetician handing me a bathrobe, a towel and a small bar of soap. (“Ma’am, wash first?”) You know you’re in the Philippines when you need a clean vagina before the waxer even deals with you. That’s how we are. We brush our teeth before seeing the dentist. We wash our vajayjays before getting a wax. My usual suki  admitted to seeing her share of tampon strings. She would never think of asking her clients to wash themselves. I can only imagine the judgment meted out by a Filipina waxer if someone dared to come in for a wax while on her period.

She had me staring at the ceiling for the better part of an hour wondering what my labia must look like to someone who had a spotlight pointed at my crotch and was aggressively parting it every which way, hunting down stray pubes with a tweezer. (“Ma’am, pwede i-puller?”) No one has ever paid that much attention to my nether regions. Not A. Not my gynecologist. Not even I.

Also, so much aggressive rubbing! Each time she spread a bit of wax and applied the strip, she would apply pressure and rub like there was no tomorrow, ensuring the wax stuck to the strip so she could remove as much hair as was humanely possible. I wasn’t quite sure if I was supposed to orgasm. I wanted to ask her if anyone ever had, but concentrated on biting back my laughter and holding in a fart instead.

The best part was when I had to part my buttcheeks. Never underestimate the weirdness of parting your own buttcheeks while a total stranger plucks it clean of hair because there are some parts that wax can’t reach. I’m assuming there are some parts that wax can’t reach, anyway. All for the low price of PhP 550! Sulit na sulit.

 

Yours in hairlessness,
Nikka

 

PS: Traffic here is awful.

PPS: A motorcab had a sign on its rear that read “Ang mulusot pisot” in big blue letters.

Finally, Part Deux (Ex Machina)

Dear Elly G,

Now where was I? Oh yes.

I was beginning to despair. I thought the whole weekend would be a literal wash, because it rained the whole of Thursday and it looked like the sun had dropped the mic and walked out on the whole program altogether. But a little redhead once said the sun would come out tomorrow, and it did, bless that little orphan’s heart. I’m glad it did; we wouldn’t have been able to appreciate the beauty of the Georgian Bay peninsula as much if it hadn’t.

So the second biggest reason A and I went north was to check out Flowerpot Island and the shipwrecks of Tobermory. I had plans to tour the island, but didn’t plan things properly on purpose – the weather was unpredictable and I didn’t know if it would rain. By the time we went to get tickets the island walk-on tours were all booked up and we settled for the non-walk-on tour instead. It wasn’t too bad. I did have a giggle, because their carved statue of a fisherman reminded me of penis.

IMG_3117.JPG
Did someone say bris?

I know, I know. I’m twelve.

Anyway.

Continue reading “Finally, Part Deux (Ex Machina)”

Gorgeous George and Chi-Chee Rodriguez, Une and a Half

Gorgeous George and Chi-Chee Rodriguez, Une and a Half

Dear Elly G,

I guess when I said “gifs,” I meant “a gif.” Because I don’t want to overwhelm. Or overshare. Or both. Or who cares, it’s driving onto a boat and off of it after an hour and a half or so, and here I am gushing about it because I’m an ignoramus. Anyway, it’s just a really cool way to do it. Of course it’s squeaky clean, has a lounge, a gift shop (a Boatique, awww) and a surprisingly respectable cafeteria. I say respectable because it comes with its own popcorn machine, a nacho bar and a pretzel carousel. That’s on top of the full-service kitchen promising an all-day breakfast, fish and chips and even chicken curry on a bed of steaming basmati. (A: “I really like this boat.”)

Continue reading “Gorgeous George and Chi-Chee Rodriguez, Une and a Half”

Gorgeous George and Chi-Chee Rodriguez, Part Une

Dear Elly G,

The biggest reason A and I went north last weekend​ was the M.S. Chi-Cheemaun. Ojibwa for Big Canoe, the ship is the only way to get from Tobermory, which is a town at the tip of the Bruce Peninsula, to the island of Manitoulin. We didn’t know anything much about it other than its prow being heavily decorated with colourful Native American art, and an advertised relaxing view. (Most of this research was done via quick, cursory glances at ads on the subway; pretty boat, Adirondack chairs, white people in shorts holding beer? Advertising works!)

Continue reading “Gorgeous George and Chi-Chee Rodriguez, Part Une”