Black and White Project: Week 39

The Return

I know, my title to this post sounds like it belongs with a horror movie, much like the supernatural thriller TV series, The Returned (Les Revenants, as the original—and much better—French series was known). And sometimes, when I think of my return, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I'm going back to South Korea.

For those of you who may not know, my wife and I lived in Chŏnju, a city about a three-hour drive south of Seoul, from 1997 to 1999. We taught English to children as young as 7 and adults as old as 70, at a private institue, called a hagwon, to universities, and a few private lessons in between.

I wrote a novel, based on my experiences (Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary), and am writing the sequel, Geosunim, oh so slowly. While the character and his history are fiction, almost all of his experiences in Korea are true, had either happened to me or happened to people I knew.

When my wife and I prepared to return to Canada, some of my students asked me, "Will you ever come back?"

"Maybe," I answered, "but not for, like, 20 years."

In March, 2019, 20 years will have passed.

Going back to Chŏnju has been a hard sell for DW. For her, there are many countries that we haven't visited and others that we've been to, but to where we want to return. "I have unfinished business with France," she told me, recently.

Indeed, when we visited France in 2014, there were so many regions that we wanted to see but simply did not have the time to go. We didn't go to Bordeaux, nor to Champagne, nor to Burgundy, some of the best wine regions in the world (luckily, we drank plenty of wine in the Loire Valley and Gigondas, in 2014).

And while we visited Juno Beach, we didn't get to Vimy. So yes, DW and I have unfinished business in France. Same with Italy: though we've been there twice, there are so many regions we haven't seen and need to return.

So many places, so little time.

But I feel a need to return to South Korea. Chŏnju was undergoing so much growth when we lived there, had desperately been preparing for the 2002 World Cup games. There were so many areas around the apartments in which we lived that had a gridwork of streets, but no structures. I wonder if I could even find my old residences.

I want to see the old familiar places, to see if I can find anyone who remembers me. Though I was hoping to finish Geosunim by this fall, I know that's not going to happen. I'm now hoping to have it finished by the fall of 2019. And I'm hoping that a return to the city and country where it all happens will help give me more inspiration.

It helped me to return to North Berwick, in 2010, to finish Songsaengnim and get inspiration for the beginning of Geosunim.

Still, DW is reluctant to go back. And so I may go on my own. DD17 says she wants to go, but I don't know if I want to take her on my own. Not that I couldn't, but I have heard that Koreans still have that fascination with people from the West, where they want to get our attention, want to photograph us like we're zoo exhibits. With the age of smartphones, photographs are more invasive, I've heard.

I don't want to subject her to that.

So, if DW doesn't join me, I'll go alone, for a week, maybe two. It's a long way to go for a short stay, but I don't need a lot of time. And as DW says, there are more places to visit. Perhaps, we'll return to France, or maybe Italy, next summer.

But be ready, Korea, for next year, I return. Twenty years is up.

Wordless Wednesday: By The Light of the Moon

Camera Down

I couldn't do it.

The last time I photographed the aftermath of a tragedy, I felt as though I really had no business doing it. Sure, I'm a journalism graduate, have worked at local newspapers, and this blog sometimes shares news or this city—and the world—with my viewpoints.

But that doesn't give me the authority to impose myself into an unfolding story to which I am not a part. Though my home isn't that far from the path of one tornado and my office isn't that far from the path of the other, I had no right to go to the scenes, to capture images of the destruction.

On Saturday, DW and I visited her father, as we do every weekend. It was there where we learned that the tornado that touched down in Arlington Woods and left a path of devastation in Craig Henry, and the Merivale power station, also hit the Colonnade Road business park, which was only a few hundred metres from her dad's retirement facility.

His residence has a backup generator, which maintained power, and he and most of the other residents had no idea that a tornado had come so close to their sanctuary.

After our visit, because I was carrying my camera, I took photos of fallen trees along Colonnade Road. We saw the damage to the mini-golf park, the twisted signs, broken and falling poles.

I couldn't do it.

I couldn't photograph the mini-putt business. That was someone's livelihood that took a hit.

I stayed away from the broken houses in the neighbouring communities, primarily to stay out of the way of the tireless electricity workers and emergency responders, but also because I didn't belong there.

Yesterday, I ventured to work, knowing that my route passes the Mont Bleu area that saw disaster. I didn't stop. On my way home, I made a detour to visit one of my cousins, and I drove along Cité des Jeunes, which intersects with the opposite end of Mont Bleu Boulevard. I passed the strip of apartment buildings that looked like they had received artillery fire: broken windows, holes in siding, missing rooftops. Crews were on what part of roofing remained, working to patch the holes.

Though my camera was in the passenger seat, I didn't stop. Didn't capture the damage.

Once I reached my cousin's house, she told me of the farm, a couple of kilometres north of her home, which had been leveled. She told me I should take a look, capture some images.

While I did follow her directions, did find the barn, I kept driving for about a kilometre past it before turning around, to make the return trip. Across the street from the barn looked like what had once been a two-story house, but the top level was gone. Toward the back of the first floor looked like it had been crushed, most likely by the second floor, which must have been peeled away before the ceiling of the back half of the first floor could no longer sustain the weight, and the entire second floor had flattened the rest of the house.

Outside, I could see people cleaning up debris, taking in the magnitude of the destruction.

How could I photograph that? Their tragedy was still ongoing. I realized that I had no business being there, and drove straight home.

I think I did have a need to see the damage from the tornadoes first-hand, but I didn't need to photograph it. I didn't need to keep images for myself—there had been plenty of coverage by the media, with more graphic images and aerial video than I would ever capture. I could keep my camera down. These weren't my stories to tell.

My darkened neighbourhood: that's the story I can share. The blackened street of my house, and the darkened homes along it, were the reminder that I could have of the storm with which I can share.

I'll do so tomorrow, for Wordless Wednesday.

Claudette Cain Park

I feel kind of stupid to be writing about my silly photo challenge while many people in our city are still without power, or worse, without homes.

Friday's tornadoes in the Ottawa-Gatineau region were pretty scary, no matter where in the area you were. The tornado that struck the Arlington Woods area and passed through Craig Henry and Tanglewood, where the Merivale power station was completely destroyed, and continued all the way through the Colonnade Road business park, were wooden poles were snapped like match sticks, was only about four kilometres to the north of my neighbourhood. DW and I were driving on Fallowfield Road when the tornado warning came over our smartphones and radio, and we could see the dark clouds along Hunt Club Road.

The other tornado, which devastated Dunrobin before it crossed the Ottawa River, into Gatineau, and wreaked more havoc on Mont Bleu, was only a couple of kilometres away from my office building. As I write this post, I don't even know if I will be met with electricity at work.

But I'll still go in and see.

Still, I have this insignificant photo challenge, and yet I hope it will divert people's attention from the stressful weekend, and give us a look at one of the many lovely spots in Ottawa.

Last week, I provided a photo for Where In Ottawa but only gave three-and-a-half days in which to solve it. At most, only three clues would be offered in addition to the photograph. But James Peltzer, who I think holds the record for solving my photo challenges, didn't even need the two clues I had provided.

James just happened to be in Claudette Cain Park, in Riverside South, near the Vimy Memorial Bridge, when he walked along the same path that led to the gazebo in my photo.

Way to go, James.

For those of you who were following the clues, here they are, explained.

1. Started as a farm: James Moodie, who immigrated from Scotland to the Ottawa area in 1840, bought land for a farm and a cemetery. Only the cemetery remains.
2. From the cradle to the grave: Claudette Cain Park, named after Gloucester's final mayor before the amalgamation with Ottawa, has a water and play area, as well as a small, gated cemetery. It's the only park in the City of Ottawa, in fact, that has a playground and a cemetery. So you can, in essence, spend time here from when you're very young until you're ready to shuffle off.

I also like this park for its views of the Rideau River and Vimy Bridge. This park is worth a visit.

Where In Ottawa returns in October. 

 

Black and White Project: Week 38

Beer O'Clock: Anniversary Parties and Best Breweries

I rarely find the time to attend grand-openings of breweries. Even more rare are my visits to breweries that are celebrating an anniversary.

I think I've only been to two, maybe three, opening celebrations of Ottawa breweries: I was definitely at the party at Whiprsnapr Brewing, in Bells Corners. I was at a celebration at Nita, but I can't remember if it was for when they opened, when they celebrated an anniversary, or was merely launching a new brew.

A year ago, I made it all the way out to the eastern-Ottawa community of Orleans for the opening of Stray Dog Brewing Company, which has, over the past year, become one of my favourite breweries in the city.

This past weekend, I completed a Beer O'Clock first: not only did I attend the grand-opening of a brewery, I also made it to their one-year-anniversary celebration.

In mid-September, 2017, Stray Dog caught my eye (and my taste buds) with bold flavours packed into solid ales. I was blown away by their saison, Le Normandie, and then they went and added blueberries to that brew to make Bleu Nuit (I think brewer, Marc Plante, told me he purchased the berries from Costco), one of the nicest blueberry ales I've ever had.

The folks at Stray Dog—Plante, Justin MacNeill, and Gen Benay—have not only concocted dozens of brews over the year but have have invited musicians, comedians, artists, and performers to the brewery to make their shop a celebration of the community: not just for Orleans, but for the Ottawa area as a whole.

At the anniversary party, I thought that I would simply pay my respects, see if there was some beer on tap that I haven't already tried, take some photos, and enjoy some live music. My eyes fell upon a cloudy IPA, and I instantly fell for it. So much so, that I stuck to it all evening, brought some home, and felt that I needed to review it and share it.

Brite Future IPA (6.5% ABV)
Stray Dog Brewing Co.
Orleans ON

Appearance: the colour and consistency of mango juice, with a foamy, off-white head that settled to a thick solid cap, and clung to the sides of the glass as the beer went down.

Nose: ripe mango, orange, and passionfruit.

Palate: fresh citrus and tropical flavours. The bitter hops follow closely behind the fruit and intermingle perfectly, rather than overpower. There's a solid finish with the fruit hanging on. The alcohol doesn't factor into the flavours but at the end of a pint, you can feel it.

Overall impression: this is an immensely drinkable New-England-styled IPA. I drank it all night at Stray Dog's party but I could also drink it all day long, if I was staying in. After two pints, you won't want to go anywhere.

As it states on the back of the can, Brite Future was brewed for the Craft Beer Market as part of a community brew series, where a dollar from each glass that was sold went towards the Shine Group for the Advancement of Music.

With Stray Dog's stellar first year of success, and with outstanding beer such as Brite Future, I would say that the future is bright for this Orleans brewery.

Beer O'Clock rating: 🍺🍺🍺

At the beginning of this post, I told you that Stray Dog is one of my favourite Ottawa brewing houses. While I was celebrating their first year of success, I began to think about which breweries in this city would rank as my top five.

Three breweries immediately came to mind, plus a couple of breweries that wouldn't make that list. But there are still many Ottawa-area brewing companies that I haven't visited. And so I've given myself a challenge.

Over the next few months, I'm going to visit the breweries that are new to me. I'm going to try their brews and take extensive notes. For the breweries that I haven't frequented in a while, I'm going to revisit them and refresh my memory.

I'm going to rank these breweries in order and provide my opinion on which are my top five (or possibly, top 10).

Knowing how long it took me to pick my top five burgers in Ottawa, this list probably won't come out until sometime in 2019. I'm aiming for March.

Cheers!

Wordless Wednesday: Random Moncton

Where In Ottawa LXXII

Last month, I thought that the Where In Ottawa photo challenge would look like it's a piece of cake, but I didn't think it actually was.

Apparently, it was because it was solved in only a couple of hours.

I'm trying my luck again. But, this time, the challenge runs for one day fewer than usual.

For those of you who haven't played my photo challenge before, here's what I do: below, you'll see a photo that has been shot somewhere in Ottawa. Your job is to identify the spot and let me know by leaving your answer in the Comments section to this post. The first person to correctly identify the location of the photo wins (bragging rights only).

Please do not send me your answer through any other means: no Twitter, no Facebook, no e-mail, no smoke signals. You can guess as many times as you like.

For every day in which no correct answer is provided, I will leave a clue in the right-hand margin of this blog, below my goofy face. If the challenge isn't won by noon on Friday, September 21, the contest ends and I'll reveal the location on Monday, September 24.

Coincidentally, my next photo walk is this Friday, September 21, starting at 6 pm. I'd be happy to reveal the Where In Ottawa location to anyone who joins me. Details for the event and registration are at my Eventbrite site.

Now, back to Where In Ottawa. Ready for this month's challenge?

Think you know Ottawa? Prove it!

Black and White Project: Week 37

Throwback Thursday: That Time in East Berlin

Despite the sun, a haze obscured stark shadows on the pavement, making them grey, rather than a clear contrast between light and dark. I looked at the small hut, in the middle of Friedrichstrasse, and thought that it looked simple, easy to walk past.

Only the much larger barriers, beyond, where the low observation towers and grey, simple walls indicated a clear demarcation between west and east, made me nervous.

My camera bag was slung over my shoulder. Every component of photographic equipment—the lenses, flash, filters—was neatly organized into its own compartment and pouch, for ease of inspection. The micro-cassette recorder in a slim partition, between the flash and the camera body.

I walked to the American hut, Checkpoint Charlie, with my passport in hand, but the officers within didn't seem to want to bother with me. They didn't care who was heading into east, communist-controlled sector of Berlin. I smiled and continued to the Soviet-controlled checkpoint.

Security was tight. Single file through a narrow passage. Lots of unsmiling faces with their cold eyes, unwavering. My passport was carefully inspected: even the blank pages were scrutinized. The man, expressionless, asked me my business in East Berlin. Tourist, I said.

I had to exchange some West German marks for East German currency, which was as small and thin as cigarette paper. An admission fee into this walled territory, which was almost like a history museum unto itself. I explained that I would only be visiting for a couple of hours, would be returning the way I had entered. After examining my camera bag, I was reminded to not photograph anyone in uniform: neither police nor military.

Friedrichstrasse, beyond the wall, was bleak. Pre-war buildings, which had been bombed when Berlin had been flattened but managed to partially stand, were sealed up with drab, grey concrete. Many blocks were still devoid of structures. I felt vindicated in making the decision, before crossing into East Berlin, to place a roll of black-and-white film into my camera.

The wide boulevard of Unter den Linden ran east and west, its center strip lined with trees of various sizes. Had some survived the war? To the west, I could just make out the Brandenburg Gate; to the east, buildings that were still blackened by soot, smoke, and whatever pollution had painted them over the decades since World War II. I decided to head east, toward the opera house, the Zeughaus, cathedral, and the 1960s TV tower, Fernsehturm.

Even in communist Germany, scaffolding would find its way to cover historic buildings. The old city hall, or rathaus, would conceal its Renaissance facade for my visit. In the neighbourhood around Nikolaikirchplatz, under a now-greying sky, the city showed some colour with the rust-orange rooftops of old architect, which had been restored after the WWII bombings. Only here had I wished I had colour film.

With the East-German marks, I purchased postcards that depicted sketches of the city around the beginning of the 20th century. I ate lunch from a street vendor—breaded meat in a white bun and soft-serve ice cream in a cone that tasted like construction paper. The change that I received, in coins, was light and felt as though I could bend one, if I had the inclination. But I wanted to keep some of this foreign currency, though prohibited, as a souvenir. I tucked them into my shoes, under each heel.

Back at Checkpoint Charlie, the line to return to the American sector was longer than it had been going in. So, while I waited for my turn to be processed by the East Germans, I reached into my camera bag and retrieved the brochure that I had picked up at the West German tourist office, near Europacentre. Having only briefly scanned the rules about entering the Soviet sector, I hadn't read anything about leaving it.

And it was at this moment that the blood in my veins froze.

Today, when I look at this 1988 memory, safe in Canada, I chalk up this experience to a lack thereof. It had been my first time travelling overseas and travelling alone. I had gone to Glasgow, Scotland, to visit a friend who was studying at the university there, and I was on my first quest to discover Roland Axam.

I was also writing a spy trilogy, which was set in, among other locales, North Berwick—where Roland was born—and Berlin, where the young agent was an observer for a defection from Soviet-controlled East Berlin to the west.

When I took a train from Glasgow to England, another from England to Harwich, when I crossed the Channel to Hoek van Holland, and when I boarded the third train from the Netherlands to West Berlin (the same train would eventually end in Moscow), I read a book that my friend lent to me: it was about travelling in Europe on a budget.

I learned, as that train sped through West Germany, that Berlin was one of the most-expensive cities in Europe. It was also the most difficult in which to find accommodation. It was suggested, in this guide, that you reserve a room at least a month in advance.

And here I was, on a train, bound for this fascinating, Cold-War-torn city, with no idea about where I was going to stay.

Inexperience is why I failed to do research before I left home or Glasgow. And once again, inexperience is what kept me from fully reading rules about travelling to and from East Berlin until it was too late.

In the travel brochure that I acquired in Europacentre, it warned me that I would have to convert West German marks into the East German currency, which I had, in fact, read before I entered the Russian sector. I also knew I wasn't permitted to bring any of that currency back into the West. I kept one tiny paper note in my pocket, prepared to surrender it at the border. The coins that were tucked in my shoes, however, were coming back with me.

But what the brochure also told me was that any recording equipment was strictly prohibited (cameras excepted). Yet, in my camera bag was a micro-cassette recorder, and it was full of notes.

Notes about the final scene of my novel, The Spy's The Limit, in which the plot of moving defectors from the East into the West. Notes of double agents that Roland had met, in East Berlin. Notes about a government leak. Notes about Roland, the spy, which were written in first-person prose: in other words, my voice, using I, in relation to suspicious activity.

I could see what was coming: I would show my passport, describe my activities in East Berlin to the customs officer. He would inspect my camera bag and find the tape recorder. He would bring me into an interrogation room. He would play the tape, hear my notes. I would be searched. The coins in my shoes would be found.

I would be taken out to the Berlin Wall and shot as a spy.

But the officer took my Canadian passport, studied the page with my photo, studied my face. He took the slip of paper that had been placed in it when I first passed through this point. He stamped it, kept it, handed back my passport, and called the next person in line.

It wasn't until I was past the American hut that I started to tremble. Then laugh. Then catch my breath.

And then, I thought that maybe... just maybe... I could be Roland Axam. Maybe, in that time in East Berlin, Roland Axam was truly born.

Wordless Wednesday: Hirtle's Beach