Menno Simon Kielke Kranberry Klassic / Peace

Bruce's Menno Simon Kielke Kranberry Klassic: In a blender dump one cup of fresh kielke, 1/2 cup of pure lard, two cups of buttermilk, then add three ounces of communion wine (actually Welch's grape juice), throw in a couple of ice cubes and blend on high 'til it's nice and frothy... pour it into one large milkshake glass, get two drinking straws, and share with your significant other whilst praying for the missionaries in the foreign fields. You might want to use a Gideon Bible as a coaster.

Now, I am assuming that anyone reading this realizes that it's all an elaborate joke. I am referring to Bruce's cocktail recipes. Typical ex-Steinbachian of his generation, cynical and self-deprecating, mocking of his culture but simultaneously obsessed with it, cannot let it go. Or it will not let him go. My mother, my aunt, they are all the same. There is evil magic in that town. People throw themselves in front of trains.

Now for the remainder of my trip and yes, the conclusion of this blog.

September 24th: The best breakfast ever: soft boiled egg, chocolate croissant, a second, ordinary (by ordinary I mean sublimely buttery and flaky) croissant, baguette, cheese, yogurt, honey, apricot preserves, a kiwi, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and café-au-lait. Always a choice, in France, of coffee, by which they mean café-au-lait, tea, or hot chocolate at breakfast. The coffee is in a little pitcher, hot milk in another little pitcher, and the little wrapped squares of sugar, perfect pats of butter, everything on a lined tray, served in bed with a newspaper. Well, there would have been a newspaper if not for the strike - but the following day there is a newspaper.

I bathe and head out shopping. I am a very good shopper; it’s what I do, to my financial detriment. I find all sorts of perfect furnishings for my new house but of course can’t buy anything big, practically speaking; but then I find clothes, new clothes, vintage clothes, and books, and figs and chocolates and this and that. John Kennett has asked me to buy him a bottle of absinthe and I need one for my project as well - and it is relatively easy; there are liquor stores and wine caves everywhere. I find it at the second place I try, and I buy two bottles, 38 Euros apiece, and ask the shop owner about Mirabelle plum puree. “Oh, it’s impossible,” he exclaims, “no, not impossible, but very difficult, nobody makes it; only in Alsace, peut etre.”

At a grocery store that stinks of old cheese there is crème de mure, and at a Jewish deli I find pepper vodka and Kriek, the Belgian cherry beer that looks like blood, that Wim recommended. Then at a kitchen shop in the preserves section there is something called Mirabelle plum comfiture (blah blah blah) miel, so probably jam with a bit of honey - but those rare plums! - so I buy it and think, I will plop a bit into my drink and call it done.

I buy miniature Eiffel towers for Caleb and Chancellor as promised, and a book of pastry recipes, in French, which Caleb has requested; we will, I hope, eventually translate and try every one of the sauces and cakes and things together. By now my bags are full and I am hungry; I return to my hotel where I eat the leftover baguette and cheese with butter and apricots - yum - and drink Orangina. Then it rains, and I fall asleep for three hours.

And again into the city, close blocks of apartments, churches, stone and iron walls, everyone speaking French, everyone frolicking, how delightful. I shop a little more then eat tomato and mozzarella salad at the same internet café, where they speak no English at all, all the tight round tables, cigarettes for sale including Lucky Strike - did everyone but me know that those actually existed? - an extensive wine list and a view of the street. Sea salt and freshly ground pepper and crusty bread and a better red wine than yesterday. Then I find a toy store where I must buy a spaceship for Jule; there is only a vintage UFO thing that I don’t think is what he’s after; and the man who speaks little English struggles along with me in French in a friendly way, showing me all the toys, a Magic Coloring Book, various tops, the wind-up robots.

It is getting dark.

I pass Hotel de Ville and cross the bridge to Ile-de-la-Cite, and arrive at Notre Dame just before the lights come on, greenish then yellow then just glowing, and I sketch it, and smoke a cigarette. Here there are tourists. I was here once before, with Patrick. Eleven years ago, during the month between medical school and residency, a year before Caleb was born.

At a souvenir shop a man asks me in French if I know when Notre Dame Cathedral was built - but why would I?

And I walk the perimeter of the church, past the flying buttresses and gargoyles, and it is all very three dimensional and ghostly.

I find a quiet street along the Seine, with stone steps down to the water, and I walk down and touch my hand to it, brown and rushing. It is a magical moment. Then I stand on the bridge while a boat passes underneath, lit up, and the tourists with their cameras wave as they motor along. Couples kiss and snuggle. Girls with boots and scarves and hair in loosely knotted buns, boys all thin and navy blue.

I am only a little bit lonely.

I dream about making love to ghosts, an orgy in a haunted house.

September 25^th: I have to check out and return to Brussels. Café-au-lait and chocolate cookies. I pack carefully, but my bags are now very heavy, crammed with books and liquor. I try to walk to the metro but it is impossible, especially given the busted wheel on my suitcase, so I take a cab to Gare du Nord and am glad; it is only six Euros and the driver plays Parisian music and I see more of the city. It feels like the opening of “Linear” - “Unknown Caller”. Driving away from Paris.

Failed internet again at Gare du Nord, so I write instead. I find my train but it is full and I’m in the wrong seat and get kicked out but eventually it's all sorted and turns out relaxing and this time I stay awake and watch the towns and fields pass by. I thought last time and think again that France looks a lot like Manitoba, only with bigger trees and darker, fatter forests.

From Gare Midi I manage to get straight to Brussels Airport, with the exception of one malfunctioning train and a track change. It is 7 p.m., and I am so tired. I wait for the hotel shuttle on a wet bench, shivering. The Pullman Brussels Airport Hotel makes me feel like a character in “Up in the Air” - but I do not meet George Clooney. A group of conference speakers schmooze in the bar, where I order a scotch and Asian crispies, not much selection, and they are obviously warmed up from frozen but who cares, I am starving and eat every one. Then internet in the room! - and a decaf coffee that is foamy and sweet - how do they do that here, manage to make every coffee perfectly delicious, even in airport hotels? - and again, a tiny biscuit.

They respect food in Europe; it’s what I like best about it, probably.

September 26^th: I’m on the plane flying from Dusseldorf to Toronto. I woke up at one and again at four, was violently awake, so got up and began the day. First plane at 7:30. At 7:00 I finally make it to the front of the security line and send my suitcase through and they stop it and open and search it and I see them on the scanner, my bottles, but even then don’t think of it and say casually, “Oh, it’s only my drinks, all my drinks.” - “Your drinks?” - “Oh my God… I can’t take them, can I? Oh my God, I forgot,” even though I packed my small toiletries so diligently in a clear plastic bag - and the officer pulls out the two bottles of absinthe, the pepper vodka, the crème de mure, and the Kriek, carefully cushioned in bubble wrap and plastic.

“That’s, like 100 Euros worth of liquor right there,” I say. “I’m sorry, ma’am. There is nothing I can do.” - “One hundred Euros! And I knew it - I just didn’t think - I didn’t want them to get broken in the luggage,” remembering one trip home from Mexico when a bottle of creamy pink stuff busted and soaked all our clothes, and we decided that from then on we would carry bottles on to keep them safe, but of course that was before the liquid bomb and the new regulations.

“Can I drink some now? Will you have some? Could I put some into a little bottle - but I don’t have a little bottle.” - “What we do, ma’am, is we sell what is left here and give the money to welfare.” - “To welfare? Really? Not to airport security, for a party?” - “No.” - “Oh my God.”

He puts the bottles into a plastic box along with half-consumed containers of water and Coke, and I go off.

After fuming a little I decide that this may be a sign, that it may be time to quit. I imagined, with my finds, that I would be entering a new era of genius cocktail-making; instead I am entering an era of distraction, stupidity; or possibly, hopefully, of frugality and moderation. My new baby doll dress, though, is so comfortable, and those jeans… And half of that absinthe was for John Kennett who would surely have paid me for it, and who gave me good scotch this summer. Damn.

“Be careful, sweetie,” a girl says into her cell phone. “I will call you when I get to Israel. I will stalk you in the evening.”

At Frankfurt I have time, and search the duty free store, but of course there is nothing interesting there, except free samples of scotch, and I try two, with the attendant’s assistance. Then a delicious lentil soup and gummy bears and the last chocolate croissant of the trip. Why are not all Europeans grossly obese? I have never eaten so much bread.

At Dusseldorf I am paged for being late, but really I am just relaxing, just taking my time in the bathroom.

Now I am listening to U2 on my noise-canceling headphones, from the beginning, Boy to No Line on the Horizon.

They were so good when they were young - but also now that they’re old - their new songs, "Mercy" and "North Star" and "Every Breaking Wave"… "Mercy" has been in my head all day. “Because, because, because, we can, we must!” Damn, they must release it!

I decide that I will enter a new era of frugality. Really I must. I almost bought 15-year-old McCalland scotch for 75 Euros to make up for my loss but then felt a little bit sick, oh the excess. I have a lifetime supply of alcohol in my cupboard already. Why can I not just use up what I have and be satisfied? Drink gin and tonic, Holy Water, my favorite cocktail, and Chi Chi’s; what is my problem, why always this need for something new? I shouldn’t even buy wine until all my other alcohol is gone, except for special occasions.

Also, what was the point of this project and is there any need to persist, really? I will not succeed in making every cocktail in that lame book; they do not make Mirabelle plum puree except in Alsace, and even then… I guess I started it primarily because I wanted something to do, something to fill up my evenings while the boys watched stupid action movies or wrestled in the basement. And yes, I wanted to be a more sophisticated drinker, like I would like to be a more sophisticated eater and decorator and dresser and traveler, would like to grow up and be part of the world, an independent adult. But primarily it was to force myself to write, and about something, to have a project. And now I have left my husband, and actually that was perhaps the real project, only I didn’t know it until suddenly it was done.

Lunch is coming, bratwurst or chicken. It smells good. For some reason iTunes has skipped from “I Will Follow” to “Get on Your Boots” and Bono is singing, “You don’t know, you don’t get it, do you, you don’t know how beautiful you are,” which four nights ago he sang to me, pointing at me, and I believed him, because he is Bono and he is wise, a prophet, my spirit-guide, and I hope that he will be happy in the end whatever it is that he is going through and I hope that I will be happy in the end given what I am going through.

“Happiness is for those who don’t really need it,” he sings, in "Mercy".

Do any of us need it, really? Truly NEED it? We need sustenance, shelter (though not even that, always), some degree of social interaction, maybe, but happiness? I have had contentment, I have been secure in my career and relationships, I have been in charge - but I have been empty. Until happiness came along I didn’t even know that it hadn’t always been there. Now that I’ve recognized it, though, I don’t want to let it go.

Wish me luck.

And best of luck to you (especially to John - sorry about the absinthe).

Cheers.

Peace.

P.S. At customs in Toronto the drug puppy sniffs out my bag and I’m sent to have it searched; I have a pear that I forgot to declare and enter into a long discussion about it with the young customs officer, who threatens to charge me four hundred dollars. I end up eating the pear right there while talking to him, and it’s a very juicy pear; “Yes,” he says, “for it’s organic. They do not mass produce their fruit in Europe like we do here.” I mention about the absinthe, and he says, “Oh, but it’s made with wormwood in France, it’s a hallucinogen, unlike the synthetic stuff that you can buy here at the liquor board.” - “I know,” I say; “that’s why I want it, because it’s the real thing.” - “But you are not allowed to bring it into Canada,” he says. “It’s illegal. We would have taken it from you.” - “Oh. Well. I’m glad you told me that, or I might have gone back and tried again, wasted another 75 Euros.”

So that being said, John owes me another glass or two of good scotch.

And I wish I’d just consumed that absinthe in my room alone in Paris. The ghost orgy might then have been even more interesting. Maybe someday I'll go back, and do just that.

Schmoant Fat Punch / Killing Bono

Bruce's Schmoat Fat Punch: In a large punch bowl, pout one 750 mL bottle of Baby Duck Sparkling Wine, one 750 mL bottle of Strawberry Angel Sparkling Wine, add four raw eggs from free range Amish chickens, then fill 'er up with schmoant fat, add plenty of ice, sprinkle with shelled sunflower seeds, serve in a highball glass and add a little paper / bamboo umbrella... just might become the drink of choice at many a Mennonite beach party where the women wear one-piece turtleneck bathing suits and the mean wear Bermuda shorts and black socks inside their sandals.

September 23^rd: I sleep late and check out, walk with my suitcase to rue Madeleine where I thought I saw The Old Brussels Lace Shop yesterday. I’ve busted a wheel on the cobblestones so my suitcase pulls hard, but I try to stay positive - at least my arms are getting a work-out. The lace shop has been converted to a café. I buy a cappuccino and a package of cookies which I consume at an outdoor table, then wander towards La Grand Place, which the taxi driver last night recommended that I see, and on the way I notice a small crowd gathering, waiting for something. For what? They are outside the posh Hotel Amigo, blocked by barricades. “Qu’est qu’il se passé?” I ask a man and he replies, “On attend U2.” - “Quand?” - “Je ne sais pas.”

U2’s hotel. Well. Five years ago after Vertigo in Las Vegas I spent half the day wandering the city searching for them, guessing where they might be staying; I walked myself sick over it, begging the heavens for a glimpse of Bono - and now, by fluke or fate, here I am, in the crowd. I grab a spot, second from the front, beside a Greek man and his elderly mother. Much marijuana is in the air. In front of me, I discover, are Wim, an olive-skinned, kind-hearted cop from Brussels aged 41 with an 11-year-old son, who has brought a “Rattle and Hum” album cover to have signed, and a pathetic obsessed pair of groupies from Cork, Ireland; Martin and his girlfriend, Anya. “Wim, like Wim Wendell.” - “Oh, that’s better; I thought you said Vim, like the cleaning product.” - “It is a cleaning product, isn’t it? And a good one.” - “Yes,” says Martin, “they’ve been making it for years. It used to come only as a powder.” - “Oh?” Martin has been, literally, following the band around the world since 1979; he is going next to Spain, then to Australia and New Zealand. He is the epitomy of un-cool in his Bono-worship, a sloppy middle-aged red-head with far too much knowledge who pants and exclaims that he will leap the barrier when the great man arrives. Anya is firmly fat, which I mention only because she wears tight jeans, belted, and a short shirt, and bounces her leg so that her back fat bounces, constantly, inches in front of me - so I notice, really, really notice. We wait for four hours. My train for Paris leaves at 3, but I gladly miss it. Martin and Anya and Wim admire my dedication. I let Anya sit on my suitcase to rest her feet, and they give me a newspaper to have signed; I thought at first I’d just ask Bono to sign my hand if he came near, but realize afterwards that would have been futile. Four hours and it feels like nothing. Security guards, policemen, the hotel manager. Taxi after taxi. Five hundred or so people have gathered; people are hanging off the windowsills and door frames. There is Darren Murphy, Edge’s bodyguard, and Brian Murphy, Bono’s bodyguard, and his beautiful tall wife, and their baby in a sleek black stroller. They scope out the scene and talk on cell phones. The word is that they will come, maybe at two o’clock, maybe at three, in an orderly fashion; everyone but Larry, who hates crowds and is staying at another hotel.

Then finally, finally, Adam emerges, bright blue Adam Clayton with his cropped white hair, and he walks straight towards us, and we all yell, and he signs my newspaper; Wim in the first row holds it out. The Edge appears and bodies heave forwards and poor thin Wim is being crushed against the bars. “Pousse pas! Stay back!” the police yell, and the man behind me who earlier seemed so placid is swearing, “This fucking petit valise,” referring to my suitcase. “Somebody’s going to fall over it.” - “I’m sorry, I can’t do anything,” I say, and a woman is standing on my foot, her high heel, and I have to pick her up by the hips to get her off. Then oh my God there is Bono, there he is in the flesh, and he veers left and it is raining a little, Brian holds up an umbrella, and he is working his way along the line, Edge working his way along the line from the right under his red umbrella, and people start trying to calculate who will arrive in front of us first, and it’s almost simultaneous, Edge first, hands thrust out. “Edge! Please! Edge!” is all anyone is saying. I want to say something meaningful, he’s right in front of me with his thin facial hair and black toque and chunky gold earring. “Nice earring,” I manage; how dumb. And then there is Bono, Bono is here, his freckled forehead, his deep dimples, his too-long hair, his face pinched. He is tired, he is sad. Depressed, maybe? - had it with this game, his recent surgery, suddenly feeling an old man, looking like a little boy, escorted around by his team, impeccably groomed, king of the world. I do not want him to be sad. I want him to play “Where the Streets Have No Name” on a rooftop, a surprise to everyone. He wears a silver earring. “Bono! Please! Bono!” and Wim helps guide my newspaper and the king of the world is signing it; he even flips it over to find a good spot, near the photo. “I love you Bono,” I yell into the roar and he glances up, vacuous.

A girl is sobbing and the police assume that she is hurt and lift her over the barricade but she just huddles and cries and I’m sure she is fine, but holds a blank postcard; she did not get it signed, and he is gone, he is past her in the line.

Wim also got all three autographs and we cheer for each other and separate, I buy Elaine’s wedding lace handkerchief and find a pub in the square where I drink beer and eat a Croque Hawaiian. I am pleased to have those three signatures in my bag, pleased to have had those mythical creatures so close in the flesh, but I can move on, I am not discouraged! Five years ago I would have felt that now that moment was over and unlikely ever to recur I could not go on, for what could ever happen that could top it? Now I know what could top it.

I could fall in love, and have it reciprocated.

I think - how awesome is this, all these people I’ve met and connected with, and how wonderful it is to bond with strangers over a shared experience, particularly when under duress, like the sinking of the Titanic, or queuing for a U2 concert. They make me feel important, these people; they validate me, make me want to live. But then how self-centered is that, how adolescent? - that people seem wonderful to me because they connect with me, because we have something in common, because they buy me beer or tease me or grab me around the waist; because they notice me, I admire them. I realized this first in grade 5, when Russell Watts whom I’d never given a moment’s thought to passed me a love note in class and suddenly he was fascinating - I wanted him because he wanted me. If he’s smart enough to have admired me, then he must be worth something. It was the beginning of our footsie affair.

I must grow up now, though, and show a bit more discretion.

The metro trip to Gare Midi goes smoothly. I am two hours late for the train, though. I inquire at first one ticket booth then another then find the correct counter for Thalys, and the girl says, “It’s your lucky day, there’s a strike, so you can take any train you like.” I was expecting to have to pay 50 Euros for another ticket.

My lucky day.

I cannot find a WC, but do discover some very intensely cola-flavored jelly candies, and the train is nearly empty and I fall asleep instead of taking in the scenery. In no time at all we are in Paris, metro to Hotel de Ville with only one change, and coming up the stairs there is a concert in the square, the sky deep blue, fountains and lights and song. I head up rue du Temple looking for #12, but pass #12 and it is not my hotel. I find a café with free wi-fi and manage to search Google Maps on my ipod and figure out that it’s rue du Vieux Temple that I need, and it’s not far, and after a glass of wine I walk there, past café crowds, small theatres, no tourists at all here in Marais. The Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais is impossibly romantic, made up like seventeenth century France with chandeliers and swaths of fabric. The internet does not work, so I write letters on the fat creamy letterhead, and watch some French commercials on TV, and eat chocolate cookies, and go to bed.

At three I wake up and call home, 8 p.m. in Canada. Caleb and Jule, my babies. They are watching The Simpsons and do not even seem to miss me.

Plumi Moos Martini / Brussels

Because I promised, I will give you another of Bruce's cocktail recipes, then will move on to what I really want to say, which relates to U2 in Brussels!

So here it is, the Plumi Moos Martini: In a chilled martini glass, add your favorite gin (not sloe gin - apparently a bad experience with that and Dr. Pepper once) to six ounces of plumi moos, then stir, don't shake (excessive shaking could lead to dancing), garnish with a sprig of mint.

Now to detail the events of the lovely September 20th, 21st, and 22nd, during which I definitely found myself dancing:

Flying from Toronto to Frankfurt on Lufthansa, I watch “You’ve Got Mail”, a Nora Ephron movie and therefore charming though for some reason I’ve always skipped it, before. I can’t believe Lufthansa - complimentary movies and alcohol! - as well as a good meal, and a substantial blanket. Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks are competing bookstore owners who, dissatisfied with their somewhat shallow partners though they haven’t actually admitted it to themselves, fall in love via e-mail. Neither knows who the other is in the real world, but eventually they recognize each other and Meg Ryan says, “I was hoping that it would be you.” So I start sobbing but oh, just a little; I control myself. The elderly German man beside me seems concerned but we cannot communicate… at least, I assume that is the case because he speaks German with the stewardess and looks a bit disheveled and his hearing aids… but shortly thereafter he asks me a question in English, and we start to talk, and it turns out that he is a retired dermatologist from Latvia who emigrated to Canada via Germany as a young man. He speaks German, Latvian, English, and Russian. He trained as a doctor in Canada, took up dermatology in his 30’s, researching the pathology of acne at the Mayo Clinic, published dermatology textbooks in Latvian, and was an associate professor at MacMaster University in Hamilton for many years. He says, “I am a doctor and a writer,” and I say, “Oh! I am also a doctor and a writer,” and he says, “What a funny world, that we find ourselves sitting together like this,” and we have a long conversation about literature and medicine and love. He split up with his first wife, a sculptor and painter (“but that’s not why we split up”) in his 30’s, after they had two children, who now are soldiers in Afghanistan. He is disappointed that neither attended university. He married his second wife later in life, and she recently died of ALS. She was a poet, and he has compiled her poetry in six volumes, and now is working on a collection of literary essays and his memoirs - though he is embarrassed to tell me about that, and I am the one who says “memoirs”. We discuss Al Purdy and Anais Nin.

We are 40 minutes late arriving in Frankfurt leaving me only 30 minutes to get to my next plane which I assume will be no big deal, but it turns out the airport in Frankfurt is enormous, and recently they began requiring security checks even for transfers. I start out jogging and end up sprinting, through endless hallways, up and down staircases and elevators, removing my Doc’s not once but twice, laptop in and out of my suitcase, and when I finally arrive at Gate 42 I am a sweaty mess; I am the last one to board; I am desperate to wash and change my clothes and would like to apologize to the sleek French couple beside me for being so stinky but that would only make it worse, my pathetic French, so I close my eyes and pretend that I am not there until the seatbelt sign is finally off. I spend far too long in the bathroom, brushing my teeth and so on, and miss the drink service which means that I cannot take my medications which I’m already six hours late with but then we are landing and here I am, sleepless in Brussels.

I realize that I have strained my right Achilles, and can hardly walk.

I drink a coffee at a stand, then take the train to the city. A man asks me for directions at the train station, as if I belong there. I emerge from La Gare Central, into Europe. It is familiar, though I’ve been here (and not to Brussels) only once, and eleven years ago. I have no idea which way to go to my hotel - my Event Travel map is hopelessly inadequate. The sidewalks are cobblestone and pulling my suitcase along I bust a wheel. There is a beautiful square, and another, and an ancient church. At last I find a store that sells maps, and sort myself out, turn back in the opposite direction. Enfin j’arrive. I am embarrassed to check in looking and smelling so bad. However. It is 2 p.m.

A heavenly soak in the tub and a gin and tonic, followed by a 3-hour sleep. At 6 I go out to eat, salade bergere and a cappuccino on the corner, the waitress tres efficient. The salad is magnificent - goat cheese on toast on top of greens and tomatoes and cucumbers and almonds and julienned carrots and lots of thick fatty / crispy bacon, with the tiniest bit of mayonnaise and some sweet oily dressing, just enough. I write until my laptop dies. Then I am tired and return to the hotel, and e-mail in the lobby, and have a cup of tea and debate: shall I sleep the night and line up for the concert like a sane person, mid-morning? But I am here, and will not be here again, and oh it would be lovely to be up against the rail, and won’t I be sorry if I don’t go for it now that I’ve come all this way? But it is beginning to be night, and do I really want to leave my comfortable hotel room to sleep on pavement? I check the Metro schedule - maybe I’ll go when it opens, at 5:30 in the morning. Yes, that is my plan. I set my alarm for 3:30, and fall asleep.

At midnight, though, I’m wide awake and restless. What the fuck am I doing here, warm in my boring bed, when I’ve come all this way to see Bono? I get ready, and venture out. The sky is clear, the moon huge and bright over the cathedral in front of my hotel. I find a taxi stand and hop in. The driver says, “Oh, you are going to the concert? But it’s not until tomorrow night. Oh, you are working there?” and I explain that some of us crazy fans line up the night before, to get a spot at the front. He doesn’t seem to get it, but in the end he helps me, looping around the stadium twice before we find the gates. Drunk Belgians give him directions. “Are you here for U2?” he asks them, and they say, “U2? Non! Ah, c’est une anglaise, la? Stupides, les anglaises!” At the gates there are campers, but not many, and now I am excited. A young blonde boy and girl are sitting drinking beer and they call me over. They have the list. I am number 42, and record my name, and they mark my hand, and then I park my sleeping bag near a fence across from the sleeping Dutch who have hung up a flag upon which is written, “The Dutch Will Follow”. I sip Coke and smoke a cigarette, then fold the corner of my sleeping bag under my head and lay on my stomach, my face to the pavement, the beautiful sidewalk, a few small stones and a branch with green oak leaves just beginning to rot, but otherwise a perfect clean sidewalk. I can see the corner of the Atomium, lit up, and the Olympic Center sign, and the moon and one star or planet or satellite, and the fence and the street and the occasional taxi, delivery trucks arriving at the stadium, security guards posted inside the gates, a few people gathered around talking in English and German and French, drinking beer and smoking, U2 conversation, Mike from St. Louis and Cees discussing after-parties and hot tubs and blow jobs. Mike, it turns out, number 43, is the only other North American among the first 50, and he is a bit of a loser, hopeless at political discussions, and Cees and the others tease him terribly. He doesn’t seem to notice.

After 5 a.m. roll call I walk a few blocks and find a spot behind the trees to pee, and a man finds me who has heard that I have an extra ticket to sell, and we go to his Winnebago where he has money. It feels like a drug deal. He asks why I have an extra ticket and I tell him that my husband was maybe going to come, but we split up in the summer. “So now I have the ticket of your husband,” he remarks. I reply, “Yes, but only for the concert.” His English is not good; he doesn’t get it and I’m glad; it was an uncalled-for lewd comment and he is not interesting to me at all.

Then I am sleeping and then a man is dancing inside his sleeping bag, hanging over the fence and saying to me, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, my Canadian lover,” and later he says, “I apologized to you earlier but you didn’t hear me; you were sleeping.” “I did hear you,” I say, “but I didn’t understand what you were apologizing for; I thought you were somebody else,” and it turns out it was about having mentioned, at roll call, the South Park episode that makes fun of Canadians, and after that whenever he sees me he sings the theme from South Park.

Finally the sky is turning blue and my sleeping bag is damp and somehow it seems colder now than it did at 2 a.m. I sit up and huddle. “Roll call, roll call, every two hours, miss one and it’s an X by your name, miss two and you’re out,” they yell periodically. After 7 a.m. I venture down the street again, sit in a restaurant briefly for coffee and a tiny macaroon, and buy fruit and orange juice and a cinnamon bun and stupidly nothing else, thinking there will be hot dogs or something later on. I eat and sleep and across from me the Dutch eat and sleep and we look at each other; more people are arriving and by 9 a.m. there are probably a hundred. It is 11 before they open the gates and let us in. Cees, who is number one and therefore the Line Nazi, does an admirable job of keeping everyone orderly, calling us in one at a time. He is big and boisterous, with a grin like a cat. Cheers for each of us, and they sing South Park again. Now we are up against the next set of gates, the gates that we will later rush from. There are port-a-potties and a curb and I find that if I arrange my scarf on the curb with the sleeping bag folded in three under my hips there is enough padding and the sun is up now and I am warm enough and can actually sleep, except when that blonde woman stands right in front of my sun, but finally I know I have been sleeping because I wake up and my face feels a little bit burnt.

I listen to Liz Phair and doze on my back. Some keeners from Ireland sing U2 songs, a mini-concert. Cees and the others joke loudly and look for line jumpers. I find one: a French girl who, I am certain, has no number on her hand, then emerges from the port-a-potty impeccably made up, pulling her leather jacket sleeves over her wrists guiltily. I tell Line Nazi Number 2 and he asks her but - shit - there is a 65 written there; God, I hate to be wrong, and she is awfully cute. She moves away, though, and later sits beside the other number 65 who notices and she is loudly booted to the back and everybody cheers.

His father died in Flin Flon, Cees tells me. "Flin Flon Manitoba Saskatchewan." He says it again and again, liking the sound of it. "Flin Flon's in Manitoba," I tell him. "There is a town that's half in Manitoba and half in Saskatchewan, but it's not Flin Flon." - "He was a miner," he says.

U2 warms up, bits of music from the stadium, guitar and drums. People sing along. Just dozing, just bored, boys playing cards, and then suddenly it’s time, a few jump up and then everyone rushes, pushes against the gates and I am in a fairly good position even though I was not ready. My sleeping bag is still wrapped around my shoulders and I throw it to the girl beside me, ask her just to throw it across the crowd to the sidewalk and she looks confused, but does it. Somebody would have tripped. I do not see it again. It’s like cattle at a rodeo, bucking broncos waiting to be let loose. Oh shit, the other slot is open already and they’re having trouble with the ticket scanner, and the girl in front of me has a huge backpack and it’s being searched - but then I am through, and run full out beside three or four others, security guards and vendors setting up watch us, laughing, and I cross the stadium to the outer circle and stop there for a minute confused, because more people are there than inside - but then realize, how stupid, I was here last time, this time I’m going for front and center, for proximity rather than sound quality - and take off again, around the back and into the center; Nick from Brussels is cheering with me while he runs because he is there too, and I arrive fifth from the center, against the rail, right smack between Bono’s mike and The Edge’s, oh my God, and Nick and the girl beside him are going insane, and I collapse in a coughing fit and cough and cough and think I’ll cough up blood; I can’t breathe; it’s the dehydration and lack of sleep and three cigarettes and anxiety and an all-out sprint, I guess, and I’m having an asthma attack and no inhaler, and just breathe, breathe, breathe. People are offering to search for water. Then they are coming around with drinks for sale and I stand and go pre-syncopal while Nick and his friend ask what I want and I gasp “Beer, beer,” so they buy me not one but two cups of beer, and that is my supper, and it rejuvenates me enough that I can jump during “Beautiful Day” and all the rest.

Just before Interpol, though, I have to pee and also really, really would like some food, so I dare to leave; people save places for each other and Cees five over from me knows that I belong there; but now the stadium’s overrun by minor fans, rude and ignorant fans, and the line-ups for food tickets never mind for food are fifty or sixty long, and I have to find 50 cents to use the toilet and finally return to the inner circle with no food, and then it’s nearly impossible to get back to the center, everyone pushing and dirty looks but fuck - I belong there! Look at my hand, you fuckers - number 42 - I’ve been here since two in the fucking morning and you will NOT STOP ME NOW! I reach Nick and the tall Greek man’s shoulders and fall between them, say “Oh my God, that was difficult,” and they ask if I'm okay and Cees gives me a thumbs up and there's Interpol’s guitarist in a full suit and tie, very skinny, shaking his leg, twitching his leg in an odd way, like somebody I know would probably dance if he could in fact dance. They play too many songs of course, and every one sounds the same, and they have five band members like every opening band for some reason that I don’t understand, and too many instruments. Finally they are finished and I sit down and eat pistachios, and briefly fall asleep; then the music is louder and we are all quivering and there’s a song about opening the curtains wide and one about starting again, being brave, and then “This is ground control to Major Tom” and I sing along and freak out and jump up and down, because they are coming!

And then there’s Larry, and The Edge, oh my God, emerging from the back of the stage, and Adam, and they’re playing that Stingray Guitar instrumental and then from somewhere behind us Bono’s voice, “Stingray, stingray,” and finally, finally, he comes around the corner and arrives, like, two feet in front of me, and they start into “Beautiful Day” oh my GOD.

He is chubbier than pre-back surgery, deep dimples in his cheeks, but he is lovely, and poses and bounces like always, and we can’t take our eyes off of him. Nick is bouncing too and has his arm around my waist and we are bouncing together. He must be twenty-five, a child. He grabs me and laughs with excitement. He has U2 written on his cheek in marker.

During “Get on Your Boots”, I swear to God, Bono points directly at me while he sings “You don’t know, you don’t get it, do you? - you don’t know how beautiful you are,” probably just by virtue of the fact that I happen to be standing right there, but still. I am sure he notices my red bracelet. During “Moment of Surrender” he definitely sees that I and the Dutch girl are crying. We cannot stop; we both say, “I cannot stop!” and there are hugs all around.

I have a moment with The Edge as well; I am staring at his face and he is staring at mine and it goes on for, I don’t know, maybe six seconds, until it’s starting to get awkward, and then I raise my eyebrows, and he does too, and laughs.

I did not realize, never having been so close, that the opening bars to “With or Without You” are just single sustained notes, vibrated in that unusual way.

I even have a good view of Larry, his thin face and white v-neck at the back of the stage; I was afraid that I wouldn’t be tall enough to see him from the very front given the tall stage.

A girl to the left of me faints and won’t wake up and they pass her over the rail to a security guard, who carries her off.

Again I think, Bono seems a bit dissatisfied, distracted, and he is no longer flirty, and I am convinced that Ali has insisted that he take young boys onto the stage instead of beautiful women, and in defiance he sings “Ultraviolet” followed by “With or Without You” - but he obeys.

“You want to kill me and I want to die…”

Larry is stony-faced serious as always; Edge is focused; Adam is relaxed. He has lost weight. He wears a denim vest and matching pants, with silver tassels.

The whole thing is perfectly executed, but perhaps too choreographed, too exactly like Las Vegas last fall, even Bono and the Edge touching hands across the bridge, even the little speeches.

This is the biggest they can possibly get.

After the concert we slowly part, long walk over water bottles and miscellaneous garbage, tripping over each other. To the street, where there is this pita stand and we eat pitas packed with chunks of pork and mayonnaise and sauerkraut - delicious. The best thing I’ve ever tasted. The metro station is closed. What the hell? I walk blocks and blocks, limping, unable to flex or extend my right ankle. Finally there is an open station and I catch a train with a thousand or so bodies already on it, absolutely suffocating, I’m dripping sweat again, and then we are to switch but there has been an accident on the line “involving a person” and it is closed indefinitely. Everyone sighs and goes off in different directions; I take another train a short way, then it is stalled, then starts up again, then dumps us off and I end up on a tram that gets me to two stations over from La Gare Centrale. I find the line to Gare Centrale and am suddenly alone in a huge hallway underground, 1:30 in the morning, waiting, only an old bearded man across from me who appears to be homeless; I have dreamed about this, and was afraid in my dream that he would rape me but he looks harmless and also is separated from me by the tracks. I make it to Gare Centrale and limp to my hotel; a Spanish waiter at a café on the way begs me to come in for a drink but obviously not tonight, no fucking way. I must consume a cold liquid in the privacy of my room, then sleep.

Kommst Borscht Sunrise

I am still drifting, my current residence Toronto Pearson Airport, soon to be NH Hotel du Grand Sablon, Brussels. In less than 48 hours (that is as accurate as I can be, not yet having sorted out the time change) I will be worshipping at the shrine of U2, screaming at Bono's pant legs if I'm lucky. I will not be singing / yelling along to "Breathe" as an opener this time; I hear they are debuting something new instead. "Moment of Surrender" has lasted as the finale, though, thank the Lord. It was written for me, I believe. Not just for me - I'm not completely delusional - but for me and for a bunch of other me's around the world, who needed it, I am convinced. It was written and recorded all in one take, supposedly; more delivered from heaven than written, really. Brian Eno confirms it.

I listened to The Clash's "London Calling" for the first time ever today - how could I have not had that experience to date? Sophisticated misfits. Beautiful dreamers.

I will not be making a cocktail, obviously, here at my table in the Wolfgang Puck Cafe overlooking the Starbucks' trash receptacle. I thought for this week I'd pass along Bruce Kliewer's recipes for "cocktails in honor of our Menno heritage" instead. Brilliant, all of them, I'm sure, though I have to admit I haven't yet had the opportunity to actually try any out. Please let me know if any among you (3) readers manage a test and have an opinion.

First off, "Kommst Borscht Sunrise": Fill a tall glass with lukewarm kommst borscht, add two ounces of amber tequila, then carefully pour two ounces of grenadine down the inside of the glass. Watch the "sun rise" as you enjoy this fine breakfast beverage, preferably while rocking in your chair on the front porch and watching the real sun rise over a field of tall ripening sunflowers.

No ripening sunflowers in my world, and I've never made kommst borscht, but perhaps one of these days...

Manhattan / Sunset

This is a Falcon Lake sunset, August long weekend at Reimers' cottage.
I've been away for most of the summer.

I've been drinking wine.

This evening, though, I managed to make a Manhattan, sort of sweet and sophisticated. If I had to drink whiskey it would be a tolerable way to do it. But then, why would I ever have to drink whiskey?

I'm going to Paris next week, alone. I will look for absinthe, and all manners of bitters. And Mirabelle plum puree.

I may purchase a trench coat.

I want a Saskatchewan winter, because we're watching "Blades of Glory" and Will Ferrell is into the snowy parking lot in skates. I wanted to be Brian Boitano for a while, in 1988. Caleb adores Will Ferrell. The night we watched "Land of the Lost", in June, and it was the funniest thing ever - was a good night.

Shadow is licking her paws after stealing our Sugar Crisps and cheese.

What I really need is tea and aspirin, for my thrombosed AVM.

I have been somewhat homeless for the past month, and will be until October - so may not have another cocktail-making opportunity until then. I am wrapping my liqueurs up in tea towels and packing them in Rubbermaid boxes.

This is a Falcon Lake sunset. Oh yes, I said that already.

Royale With Cheese

Remember "Pulp Fiction"? I was so young and innocent when that movie came out - what was it - 1995? Earlier? Uma Thurman snorting coke, her nose suddenly bleeding. Two thugs discussing hamburgers, driving to a hit. The needle to the heart. John Travolta dancing like he was young again. "In Paris, it's called a Royale with cheese."

I'm recalling this because my latest cocktail was a Martini Royale. Nothing stellar, unfortunately - frozen vodka and creme de cassis and champagne and a lemon twist. Alcohol, of course, doesn't freeze. (That's true, isn't it? But then I have this recipe for pina colada popsicles, and I seem to recall that under the title is the question, "Who says alcohol doesn't freeze?"). The vodka, nevertheless, did not freeze in the freezer over the course of 48 hours. It became sort of slimy, and yes, very cold. But so what? Ice is cold.

I wish I'd had a Big Mac. No, actually, a Quarter Pounder with cheese.

I am hungry tonight, for a burger, or a calzone.

For supper I had broccoli and radishes and cold chicken. I picked raspberries in the rain. Not a bad idea, actually, as the wasps stayed away. I thought about walking in Spain, probably because I was wearing my camouflage rain jacket, the one that I wore walking in England, where it every day rained. The jacket turned out to be completely waterproof, which was a blessing. Oh, the pain in my ankles and knees on that journey. We did the north half of The Cotswold Way. Someday I mean to finish it, to end up in Bath in a rooftop pool at the Bath Thermae Spa. Either alone, or with my mother, or Caleb, or ?

That's all, folks.

Tomorrow I'm off to Falcon Lake, yet again.

What a hell of a summer it's been.

Sloe and Steady Wins the Race

I'm not sure who wrote this on the white board in the doctors' lounge; most likely one of my children, though I can't exactly explain it. We're not going to Las Vegas. Jule doesn't know how to spell, and it's not Caleb's printing. Also, the S's are backwards. Must have been Jule, under his dad's direction, though again, I wasn't aware of a plan to go to Las Vegas...

I've had a weekend alone in my house with my cat. For the most part, it was bliss. I biked to Nym Lake for a swim. I picked raspberries, ate raspberries, froze raspberries, picked the stems from raspberries and baked raspberry platz. My clematis is blooming and my tomato plants are forming tomatoes! I read and wrote and slept and did a shitload of laundry. Cocktail-wise, I made a sloe-ho (slow ho?), and loved it. Sloe gin, gin, Chambord, lemon juice, sugar syrup, egg white, and soda water. In that order. Tangy and doesn't taste of alcohol at all.

I tried to watch "Waitress" for the second time last night, but just as it was coming to the hilarious sex-with-the-doctor scene, the DVD stalled, and despite cleaning it and scanning and scanning I never could get it to play past that point. That's the last time I buy a used DVD. So tonight after a very productive day involving raspberries I rented "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo", which I suspected might be terrifying, and I thought I was being very brave to embark on it being alone at home. Strangely in the past couple of months I have no longer been afraid when I'm home alone, even at night; I just close my bedroom door and sleep, despite the creaking hardwoods, backwashing filters, and all the other noises that used to require alert consideration. It was dark and creepy, the usual sexually violent woman-hater serial murderer deal, but I managed. Lisbeth is terrific. Must be a Scorpio.

So now I must venture to bed.

Shadow's outside, killing birds.