Category: Uncategorized

The Power of a Throwaway Comment

October 7,2024

It is always a treat to visit with an old friend, especially one from my university days, which, in my case, goes back decades. And especially those friends I have not seen in years who live far away from me. But that happened in June of this year when we visited my friend in Portland, OR. I last saw Levente over twenty years ago. And it is always amazing that when we see each other, we talk with each other as if time has not passed between our visits, as if we continue with our conversation from yesteryear.

When I phoned him about our upcoming visit, he surprised me with his solicitous comments about the foods we like, the wines we prefer, and what we would like to see in Portland. I assured him we are very flexible and enjoy all kinds of food. Depending on his available time, we would enjoy quiet conversations about our shared experiences at the University of British Columbia.

Levente welcomed us warmly in the same house we visited over twenty years ago. He bought this house when his job took him to Portland from Vancouver, British Columbia, and kept it when he moved to Huntsville, AL, with his job for many years. When he retired, he moved back to his house in Portland, and now, he enjoys the West Coast lifestyle and mild weather.  

We accepted his offer for lunch, and he began preparing for it as a management consultant, that he was for his career. “I am going to organize lunch,” he said, explaining that he’d open the fridge and see what cheeses and cold cuts he would find for us. Then, he offered a variety of breads and asked if anyone was vegan. And, of course, there was a choice of coffees that he said we could fix on his machine after describing how it worked.

I was surprised at his deliberate lunch organization, especially when he followed up by setting the table formally. At home, we usually consume an informal lunch with leftovers or whatever is quickly available.

After a day of visiting the famous Japanese gardens in Portland, we returned home to a surprise. Levente, it turned out, was going to cook dinner. Seeing him with ingredients, a cookbook, and pots on the stove was a revelation. Given his previous career, I couldn’t help but ask when he had started this hobby.

His wife answered my question with a few words. Having cooked for the family for decades, she was bored and tired of deciding on a menu every day and suggested to Levente that they share cooking: she cooks a week, and Levente cooks the following week. So, how did this idea go down? Levente considered the proposition as a retired management consultant, thought it was fair, and started cooking every second week. He said it was tough slogging for a few months, but following cookbooks with help from his wife, my old friend’s skill level improved to preparing entirely satisfactory meals.

Our conversation about Levente’s cooking arrangement was brief, but it left a lasting impression. I knew our kitchen dynamics were about to change, and I was ready to embrace it. My wife didn’t take long to broach the subject, and I was more than willing to go along with the idea.

I sometimes prepare breakfast, lunch, and an occasional dinner in our household, following recipes. My meals are simple compared to my wife’s excellent meals; she is a superb cook and enjoys cooking when she has the time. In addition to meal preparation, I also share doing the dishes. The idea of sharing dinner cooking was infectious, and if that idea worked for my friend, it should also work for us.

The idea materialized upon our return to Ottawa. At first, my wife continued to prepare the main meal, and I did some breakfasts and lunches, but one night, Kathy was tired and said it was time for me to take over for a week. I said, “Alright, but my meals may be simple.” She said she did not care; I could even bring home take-out foods. I said, “Alright, I’ll do the next five days’ dinners.”

I agreed to this arrangement because many ready-made foods are available now, so I thought providing five-day meals would not be difficult. Much of the grocery shopping is my territory, and I know my way around most grocery stores in our area, including Costco, where shopping is almost fun with all the samples offered.

My limited cooking skills have produced soups (I have made vegetables, cabbage, and lentil soups), green salads, sheet-pan chicken, and baked fish (I like Atlantic salmon and tilapia from Costco).

The first few days went well with me preparing the meals. Then Kathy joined her cooking club the next night, and the following days, we closed the cottage for the season. But we’ll likely proceed as agreed to, in spurts.

Preparing a dinner was new to me; I have done it. What was new was that my friend from college described how he and his wife share cooking, and a brief conversation on this subject suddenly made a massive difference for my wife and me. It gave a legitimizing impetus to pursue the sharing of the meal’s preparation more formally – all because of a throwaway comment by my old friend’s wife.

The Receptionless Reception Room

October 5, 2024

I approached the reception desk and leaned over to check in with the receptionist. To my surprise, no one was on the other side of the plastic partition. But a note was glued onto the divider to go to the corner of the room to check in. Following this instruction, I walked over to the dark corner of the room, where I found a three-foot high post with a touch screen on the top, the size of an iPad. On the screen, I had a choice of touching a box that said “talk to a human” or another that said “check in.” I thought of why not talk to a human being to check in as I used to, but my adventurous nature took over, and I punched the “check-in” button.

And lo and behold, another screen came up with an instruction to punch your name on the list of names on the right side of the screen. My name was there. I thought that this was fun and followed it. The next screen asked me to punch the day of my birth on the numerical sequence at the bottom of the screen. Following that, the screen came up with a large sign; “you are checked in.” I did not have further instructions, so I sat in the waiting room.

As I looked around, I noticed a large TV screen on the wall with names, including mine, each followed by a time period. Mine said five to ten minutes, presumably my waiting time. Ten minutes later, a voice announced my name, instructing me to go to room twelve, following the main hallway and turning left onto the second hallway.

So, I got up, strode as instructed, and found room twelve with a lighted panel next to the door with my name on it. Eureka! I found the office.

I went in and sat down, waiting for the next thing to happen. Before long, a staff member came in, attached a blood pressure cuff around my arm, and explained that the doctor would be here soon. I asked her half-jokingly whether it would be a robot or a human being.

Since I have been coming to this medical clinic, there has always been a reception clerk when you arrive, and staff has always come to the waiting room to take the clients to the examining room. The process I experienced this time was new and involved a learning curve that I found easy.

The human resources budget is likely the most significant component in some organizations, such as medical clinics. So, any idea that saves on personnel is desirable. I asked the nurse if anybody had lost employment due to this new procedure. She said no, but the clinic added new doctors serving additional clients requiring the services of all staff.

Leaving the office after talking with a real, human doctor and not a robot, I thought this new procedure to learn was easy and fun to follow, but is it easy for all other clinic clients? Put another way, was this a business initiative or a patient-centered idea? This new process may save the clinic money. Still, some of its clientele – seniors unfamiliar with current digital communication and immigrants with language difficulties – may have difficulties following the instructions.

What You Learn on a Bike Ride

September 9 2024

I put the bikes on the Thule rack to drive to one of the parking lots along the Ottawa River Parkway. Although we could have cycled from our house to get there, whenever possible I avoid riding on city streets with all the traffic on them.  But when we arrived at the Parkway, we found the two lanes with access to the parking lots closed to car traffic; they were reserved for cyclists on this Saturday. So, we decided to park on a vacant government parking lot nearby, hoping that there would be no monitoring of these lots on a Saturday (by the way, the remote work policy mandates the civil service to work two days per week in the office, so most parking lots for them are nearly empty).

Riding over to the Parkway, we noticed a giant sign indicating the Saturday cycling only sign on the “Kichi Zibi Mekan,” the new name for the Parkway. Let me provide a little history. We used to call this road the “Western Parkway” or the “Ottawa River Parkway”. Both names were geographically suggestive. But in 2012, the government renamed it “Sir John A. MacDonald Parkway” after the first Prime Minister of Canada, a historical name unrelated to geography. We used to call it the “SJAM,” an easy and short name. In 2023, the government renamed it in the Algonquin language, “Kichi Zibi Mekan,” in English: “Great Old River.”

I preferred the Ottawa River Parkway name; it seemed tied to and congruent with the Ottawa River when driving, walking, or riding. Renaming decisions were and are political, in my view. The Conservative government picked Sir John’s name. Sir John was a Conservative politician. When Sir John acquired a bad reputation for his policies towards First Nations, the Canadian public ostracized him. Remember when his monuments were destroyed? This reflects the changing attitudes towards historical figures in Canada.

Instead of returning to the original name, the government, in the spirit of the current ‘reconciliation’ with Indigenous people in Canada, named it in the Algonquin language that few people speak in Ottawa. This ‘reconciliation’ refers to the ongoing efforts to address the historical injustices and promote a better relationship between the Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples in Canada. The name seems divorced from the Ottawa River for English-speaking people; it is three words in the Algonquin language. It is unintelligible to me. However, it is a step towards recognizing and honoring Ottawa’s Indigenous history and culture.

Our bicycle ride took us across the old railroad bridge from Ottawa to Gatineau. I thought the bridge’s name was the Prince of Wales Bridge. The Quebec, Ontario, Ottawa, and Occidental Railway was built in 1880 and christened with a name that lasted over 124 years, although its function as a rail bridge had stopped years ago. However, the bridge went through a major rehabilitation the past couple of years, into a multi-use pathway spanning the Ottawa River; the Ottawa City Council reopened it as the Chief William Commanda bridge.

My curiosity led me to find out who Chief William Commanda was. Commanda was an Algonquin elder, spiritual leader, and chief of the Ashininabeg First Nation for 19 years. In 2008, he was made an Officer of the Order of Canada, an award for meritorious service in Canada. The rehabilitation of the bridge and its renaming as the Chief William Commanda Bridge not only honors his legacy but also provides a safe and scenic route for cyclists and pedestrians to cross the Ottawa River.

I cannot comment on how well-known Commanda was among the Algonquin people or on his accomplishments since this was the first I had heard of him before the Ottawa City Council announced the name of the rehabilitated bridge. But I wonder why we needed a new name and why the new geographic names in Ottawa appear to be acquiring Algonquin memes.

To understand the local politicians’ emphasis on the Algonquin Nation, it’s important to note that the Algonquins have occupied the Ottawa area for over a thousand years. Today, most of the 8,000 Algonquin people live on the Quebec side of the Ottawa River. Therefore, using Algonquin history in naming local streets, bridges, and venues is attractive from a historical perspective and a way to pay respect to the Indigenous people who have shaped the region’s history.

I am less impressed by the use of the Algonquin language in naming parts of Ottawa, like Kichi Zibi Mikan for the Ottawa River Parkway; the words in English mean “Great River Road.” Why not call it the latter? It is understandable in English and carries the historical Algonquin connotation. Members of the Algonquin nation may understand the name but form a minuscule percentage of the population of Ottawa, where over 36,000 people speak Arabic, 16,000 speak Spanish, and 14,000 speak Chinese, in contrast to the 1000 people who speak any indigenous language, including Algonquin (Ottawa’s population is one million).   Based on this precedent, should we see Ottawa venues named in Arabic, Spanish, and Chinese words?

The growth and diversity of Ottawa’s population make the city an exciting place for bike rides. Reflecting on our experiences during our bike rides, we often like to end our trips with a relaxing coffee. This time, the bike path returning from Gatineau across the William Commanda Bridge led us to the Art-Is-In Bakery close to downtown, where we had lunch. I was pleasantly surprised by the long lineup for service and the bustling crowd inside and on the outside patio, especially the vibrant presence of young people. It felt like a scene from the cafes in Marseille around the inner harbor, a delightful surprise in the heart of Ottawa.

There is no question that Ottawa is becoming a sophisticated metropolitan city, with elaborate bike paths sporting historical names and crowded cafes with outdoor patios. However, I prefer to keep street names and similar venues in their original toponymy and not subject them to political whims.

Nostalgia

August 18,2024

Taking the Quyon ferry from Ontario to Quebec by car and then driving along Highway 128 to Norway Bay brought up fond memories. We used to visit our friend Zane, who had a cottage there. Zane passed away many years ago, and his wife sold the house after the family moved to Vancouver, so keeping the cottage was impractical. This time, we visited his wife, who rented two cottages to host the family and remind them of their good times there.

The surroundings along the road were familiar; I recognized the area’s city hall and fire station. Norway Bay was still a small village of cottages that seemed to camp in a pine forest. There was a feeling of friendliness and informality about this community. No fences existed, and people walked on the streets and along the beach for exercise. Many children rode bicycles. I almost wished we had a cottage there; there are always people around, which is kind of reassuring socially.

In contrast, our cottage is on an island with boat access only. We see boats and water life, but we rarely see people to talk to casually, as you can in Norway Bay.

Meeting Zane’s family, some of whom I have not seen in decades, brought back memories of when I met him. At a time, we both were undergoing French language training the government provided for all its managers. Government policy was that employees should be able to speak their native language at work, so all managers should speak French and English.

We all spoke some French; this was not a beginner’s class. As an introduction, the teacher asked us to describe what we do in our jobs. When it came to Zane, he talked about “emballage.” Wow! It sounded like “embalming,” and I scratched my head trying to figure out which government department embalms what and why.

But my confusion lasted briefly until I could ask him who or what was embalmed. It turned out that “emballage” is the French word for labeling. You know, the labels on the products for sale in stores, like cereals and chocolate bars. Zane explained that the government develops rules for the type of information that must appear on product boxes for sale (like the size of the letters) and enforces the legislation on labeling.

I found his work fascinating, and we became fast friends in a short time. His patrician demeanor attracted me. When listening to someone, he jutted his head forward to focus on the speaker and responded thoughtfully with a gravelly voice. But he enjoyed jokes and was fast at cracking a smile.

In subsequent conversations, he described how he came from Johannesburg to attend university in Winnipeg with a windbreaker on his back when the typical temperature was way below zero degrees in January. But he had help to adjust quickly to local conditions, and early in his university life, he met a local girl who became his wife.

We soon met Zane’s family of two boys and an adopted Canadian indigenous girl in Ottawa, and our families socialized. We also met his parents when Zane invited them to visit his family. It was interesting to notice cultural differences between South African and Canadian mores.

Zane had become Canadianized to such an extent that when his mother read the newspaper and his father just took it out of her hands because he wanted to read it at the same time, Zane told his dad off, saying that his mother had the paper first and was reading it and do not take it from her. Back home, the father rules the household, and the woman obeys him. In Canada, we have more gender equality.

Another time, the family was going on a car trip to Toronto, and Zane’s mother started fixing sandwiches. Zane asked why she was doing it; in Canada, everyone, regardless of color, can stop at any food facility to eat. That was an exciting episode for Zane’s parents, as traveling back home was challenging for colored people.

Zane’s mother would have liked to stay in Canada, especially when she was cured, freely, of TB, recognized by an X-ray. But his father decided to return to South Africa, not only because he had his friends there but also because he missed his culture.

All these memories returned to me when we drove into Norway Bay and met with Zane’s wife, one of his sons, and the son’s family. For me, it was an emotional moment. Although we talked with his wife over the years, it had been decades since I had seen his son and his family. Eric is a muscle-bound, heavy-set RCMP officer with over twenty years of service. He has had a varied career with the Mounties in British Columbia, serving on a swat team for a while. Although he was the easiest person to talk with, nobody would mess with him, just looking at his build.

It was also satisfying to remember that Eric had wanted to be a Mountie since high school. We wrote a letter of recommendation for him when he applied to join the RCMP, and I was glad to see that he has made a successful career with the force. 

While having coffee, some of Eric’s children decided to visit “Grandpa.” Somewhat confused, I asked Zane’s wife which Grandpa they would see. She explained that they would visit the cemetery where Zane is buried.