Russian Bus Trip

       We use words like "learning experience" or "it was up to local standards" to usually defend an entitled position or belief. I've done it and I am not ashamed to admit it. The sense of entitlement is only wrong if you haven't earned it, or don't deserve it. Part of this deserving is the intelligence and understanding that most of the world doesn't share the idea that by virtue of being born in a privileged society one automatically is entitled to the standards that come with it while abroad.

We see this perhaps best when booking travel. In Africa, I was offered First and Business class when booking rail or flight tickets. The person didn't offer me any of the three levels of coach, nor the lowest class that is on the top of the rail cars themselves. In Africa, the system of judging where someone belongs is much more obvious and simple for travelers of the western world.
    This is not the case in Russia. We encountered some difficulties with the amount of luggage we had in our possession and how to get it all from Moscow to the resort city of Anapa, located on the Black Sea. Flying was out of the question as we had already encountered overweight issues flying in Canada. Anapa, being a tourist area, usually means people flying there for a couple of weeks take one twenty kilogram bags. Rail was our next choice.

      We checked into various rail options and again ran into issues of weight and volume. Depending on the type of train, and where you're going dictates the type of classes and cabins available to you. On this trip, we had first, with two people sharing a cabin usually occupied by four or six, or second and buying out all of the four positions. While expensive by Russian standards a relative bargain compared to Canada where freight is given priority over people. The difficulty was getting the luggage on the train as people are on the lookout for people pulling too much. So with another roadblock we explored other options.

     Bus was the easy answer. This bus transportation is very luggage friendly as people in the smaller towns go to the Moscow market to buy wholesale goods and then pack it all home to sort, tag, and sell in their little shops. An entire industry has developed around this practice. Entrepreneurs travel from their hometown to buy goods imported from Korea and China. They spend the day bargaining and getting their goods wrapped and ready for transport. When done skinny porters with incredible strength bring all their stuff to the bus. The purchases get loaded and then tired from the days transactions these Entrepreneurs crawl up to the second level, find a bunk, and sleep. This leaves the first level virtually unoccupied. I say virtually because there is a kitchen and it gets used to prepare food and coffee at different intervals during the twenty-five hour journey from Moscow to Anapa.

    So it is here I found myself, bags in tow, surrounded by the cacophony of Russian and Korean calls for porters to move faster, in a different direction, or stop entirely. The drive through Moscow had been as exciting as usual and from my Canadian time oriented perspective we were late. I watched as our luggage was buried and tried to calm my rising sense of doom. The bus was not a sleek euro cruiser like I had seen on searches I'd made looking for "Russian busses" It was old and of a manufacturer I'd never heard of before. The driver's seat did have a Mercedes seat cover and I tried to take comfort in this, thinking perhaps it had come with a new engine job. I failed to convince myself on any level that this was true, lowered my head and sense of entitlement, thinking "Once more into the breech."

    My wife Inga and her sister decided it was time to leave me, most likely sensing my mood. So I stowed my bag and settled in a seat sure that I would die here in a fiery crash or killed and looted by the various characters moving in and around the bus. One of these characters was barking orders ferociously. Now small disagreements in Russian do sound, to a westerner, quite serious. This was more than that. He was a large man with military demeanors and a drill sergeant voice I thought I was long immune to. I physically jumped as directions launched from his mouth like Russian mortars. Over the back of the co-pilot seat was a safety jacket with some Russian Cyrillic on it so desperately needing a distraction I brought out my phone. I have an AP that is supposed to translate from pictures taken on the camera, it had yet to work at all but I needed to keep busy to avoid grabbing my towel and running in panic. It worked!  The one time it actually worked is the one time I wished it hadn't. The safety jacket said, "Tank Driver."

    Seeping deeper into doom, I was joined in the kitchen area by an older lady. In Russia, these ladies are called Babushka and can be very unpredictable.  In North America Older ladies may wear purple, here they can give you purple bruises. So I quietly sat there trying to disappear and hoping if I didn't obfuscate that the girls would return. The Babushka started talking, not to me directly but in that way people do to fill uncomfortable silences and encourage the other person to join in. Lacking the skills verbally, I chose instead to sing quietly to myself in English. It worked, she understood I was a visitor and sensed I was as uncomfortable as she was. She set on a new task with renewed vigor and while I sensed this has something to do with me I had no idea what.

    She joined me at the table with several small plastic containers and a bag filled with different types of bread and started making sandwiches. She finished two, took a bite smiled and handed me the other. I accepted it and noticed it was bacon and tomato! Thick pieces of smoke cured uncooked bacon with slices of fresh organic tomato. It was incredible. I said "thank you" in Russian and followed with, "I can't speak Russian." She replied simply by saying "Me neither." She continued to cut and arrange different delicacies on the table between us and then got up to make coffee. When her coffee was ready she simply pointed to another cup. I shook my head and said "Yes Please." She put milk and sugar into her cup and then looked at me with a questioning look. I said "No" and the questioning look was replaced by confusion.

     Russians almost always put sugar in their coffee so this yes I'll have coffee then no confused her, as no one would drink coffee without sugar.  But after a little bit of sign language and gestures we worked it out, once again settling down to cut veggies, fruit, bread, cheese, and bacon.
 Inga and her sister arrived back to find me lounging and eating and feeling if not comfortable then accepted into this new environment.  They too had bought food, drinks, and snacks for the journey and quickly set to sharing. We were joined by an older man that could have played many different roles if cast into a movie, all of them villains.
 
     He was a shorter man with tiny, powerful hands that bore the scars of a life spent using them. He had sharp facial features wrapped in well tanned skin that had lost its elasticity years ago, and now could be compared to the wings of a bat. But his eyes were what you'd notice first. Piercing eyes are easy if they happen to be green or icy blue. This man's were muddy brown, tinged with red and tore to the core of what they looked at. They didn't so much dart to things as they moved, they just changed focus like a fast sport's photography lens.

     I stood up to make room and those eyes catalogued me just that fast. Displaying the shortest of pauses at things he noticed; tattoo, clip from a knife, scars. All accessed and weighed as he raised his hand gesturing no and smiled a mouth full of gold.

    I sat back down beside what I was understanding to be his wife and he dug a bottle of Russian Standard vodka out of an old seaman's shoulder bag. Finding plastic glasses, he poured a round and raised his glass. Instead of trying to make a whole toast in English, he only said.  "New, Journey, Welcome to Russia." We all touched glasses around the tight little table, I lowered mine below the rim of his, a sign of respect in Russia, and was rewarded with a larger gold smile and even more appraising look.

Traffic in Moscow is amazing

I entered the arrivals area of Terminal three to the usual throng of waiting family and friends and looked for my ride. He was not to be found. So I made my way to some benches and set myself up to wait, enjoying a fair amount of people watching. Sitting there, I must have looked like low hanging fruit as the amassed taxi drivers kept approaching me, viewing the stacked luggage like a junkie views a spoon. I politely waved them off or spoke in Russian politely, the two words I’d learned to deal with airport types. “Nyet Spasibo." No thanks.
 
However, they were persistent and I was forced to abandon my rudimentary Russian for English to explain that the driver knew I had lots of luggage and it wouldn’t be a problem.
 
            This use of English quickly rang the bell to those around me that I wasn’t Russian. Something I like to avoid in new countries as it has many far-reaching, and potentially dangerous results. The most annoying of which is what I call the “Lemming”  effect. Two people nearby immediately walked over, got close, and started talking to one another and trying to engage me in English.  This cultural same same grouping behaviour is exactly what you shouldn’t do. An Airport is a long grassy field. The tall yellow swaying grass hiding the lions that are sure to be there. You’ve just got off a long flight, you are tired, confused and packing a great deal of good stuff. Nothing personal but at this point you’re just food and you’re the weakest one in the group.
 
So I got up and moved away from this clucking mass of perhaps soon to be statistics. People who would claim later that they don’t how anyone knew they had X explaining  to cops that could care less, not because they’re lazy, but because you rang the dinner bell.  Cops all over the world hate stupid people about as much as they do the ones that pray on them. Difference is in some countries they don’t hide it so the average Joe can tell.
 
            My ride showed up a few seconds after I moved. His apology two words “Crazy Traffic.” I followed him outside pushing my towering set of bags toward his car. It was a beautiful black G65 AMG Mercedes and it was already gathering a crowd of admirers.  I pushed past some of the taxi drivers that had earlier tried to engage me resisting the desire to ask if they thought my luggage would fit now. I jumped into the front seat and took the time to openly admire the vehicle. Paying careful attention to be respectful but not drool. My driver was a man of little words, noticed my attention and only said “Spasibo.”
 
            We shot off into traffic and I noticed he had a high definition dash cam pointing out the front and two cell phones. One phone was being used exclusively for traffic updates.  “So” I thought, “How could this guy have been late?” My answer came in a few short seconds.
 
Traffic moves in a pattern that probably mimics the forces and motion involved in the Big Bang.  The lines painted on the roads are purely for decoration and this confusion moves in all directions at the same time with only centimeters of separation. Try as I might I could not discern why some cars where jumping into one lane or another. Horns reserved for drivers that dare touch their brakes. While I knew some higher end vehicles had proximity alarms to warn the driver of low fences or dropped bikes I had yet to hear one. In Russian traffic, the sensor beeped like a teenagers cell phone on Friday afternoon. We careened through this deadly looking ballet my guy seeming not to notice close cars or very quickly diminishing angles of entry to off ramps or on ramps. What struck me most about it was everyone looked to be quite calm. No one was in a rage or making gestures at anyone. They were only concentrating on the drive and getting where they needed to be. It dawned on me at that point that the reason for this chaos was necessity and everyone was attempting to cooperate to get home. One accident could tie up a large section of the city for a very long time. So stupid behaviour got a long horn and then blocked out to the curb as no one would let you in. Stupid or inattentive drivers need not apply.

The Official Russian Arrival.

    One of the things that strike a person traveling to a new country is the subtle differences. Humans have it programmed into their DNA to find patterns, it is one of the key reasons we survived and evolved while everything around us had much more dangerous set of genetic adaptations. No razor sharp talons, or thick hides for us. We got stereoscopic vision, and pattern recognition. So it is no surprise that when we land in a strange and potentially hostile environment we slip back into our old ways.
I don't want to give the impression that Russia was immediately a hostile feeling place. Quite the opposite actually it was very much relaxed. Too comfortable, in that way a highly competent MMA fighter sits relaxed drinking in an unfamiliar bar.
     Getting off the plane in Russia is pretty much like getting off the plane in any other country I've traveled to. That uneasy feeling you've left something vitally important wedged into the seat cushion you occupied for ten hours mixed with the general dread of what's next and where do I go to find this what. So adopting the "look like you know what you're doing" posture I walked quickly toward this unknown. Faking a confident stride I didn't feel and speed I wished was half.
This is usually the time your pattern recognition starts to come to the forefront of your awareness. A picture showing two gender obvious block people, with undecipherable Russian Cyrillic under it I incorrectly think is a toilet. Finding instead an elevator I march in hoping another follows me and knows where to go as letting the mask of confidence slip is never an option.
Doomed and alone I look at the familiar control panel inside my new box canyon. The cave bear scratching alongside the familiar square buttons mock me. I jab one in the middle hedging my bets.
The doors open and the brightly lit corridor is adorned with an English sign, "Passport Control." I follow it confidently and praise my good luck, once again fumbling myself out a species ending event.
     Arriving at the control point I see citizen lines but nothing for aliens so I veer right until I see one empty lane with a sign saying "Visitors."  This is so much more welcoming than in other countries that let you know as soon as you arrive you have no claim to the soil you are about to walk on.
Inside the booth is a young women, affecting a bored demeanor she takes my passport without making eye contact, instead looking at me via the video display monitor that sits on her desk. She confirms my arrival into the country on another display terminal as a registration card is generated by the printer. All the while she stares at me on the first display screen. This is the point where the "too relaxed" feeling grabbed the lower regions previously numbed by ten hours of sitting on them. A quick, practiced rip and tuck and this paramount registration document is separated from the printer and placed inside my passport with a stamp. Closed she hands me the passport and the briefest of eye contact occur. I spring into a question I have been rehearsing for hours.
"Do I need to pick up an immigration form here at the airport?" Her response could have been a rear naked choke, delivered by the great Gracie himself in the style and ease this young woman demonstrated with her response. "No, no forms here, only stamps. Go now." Defeated and with the creeping feeling all was not as laid back as it seemed I went in search of my luggage.
 Luggage carousels are always a source of frustration and jubilation at the same time. Yeah, my bag arrived and I won't have to wear this underwear a second day and risk creating a new mutant strain of bacteria. Followed by what the unknown people behind the curtain have broken, stolen, rummaged through? This Great Russian reveal was no different. My bags arrived looking as though they had survived some near apocalypse and I moved past the sheep standing in the way to wrestle the 35 kilograms off the moving catwalk. Wondering why, as I always do, people feel the need to pose readily to pounce on their bag like some jungle cat. The device moves slowly enough that a grandmother sporting a cane could retrieve a bag easily if you'd just get out of the way.  The Lemming like gathering along the edge of the device and the spousal banter of; "Is that it?" "Did you pack the black one too?" providing a bit of comedic reliefs. I moved off thinking it had only been ten hours how the hell do these people recognize their own children after a week of summer camp.
     Having passed Immigration and retrieved whatever remained in my suitcases I headed for Customs. Russia has two lines, Red and Green. Red is you have something to declare and Green is you don't. Not knowing what I was allowed to bring into the country and knowing I was under surveillance so sophisticated that it was invisible I stopped at a display that outlined the various stuff that had to be declared. I didn't really read any of it as I didn't want to know and with this knowledge demonstrate a tick or "tell" that this super sophisticated facial mapping software would flag and garner me added attention. Have stood in front of the display for what I thought was long enough I continued down the Green line.
    Rounding a checkpoint corner brought me to two young ladies discussing nails or hair, or perhaps both from what the gestures they were making suggested. Once again they didn't really look up. Instead focusing, between banter, on the display screen. They pointed at me and then at an older looking x-ray machine. Neither moved or said anything. Just pointed for me to put my bags into the machine. I hefted my luggage into the ancient machine that no doubt contained MRI level scanning abilities concealed inside the antique. When this was complete I looked back at them and saw that they were once more engaged in a pretend conversation, this time it looked to be about shoes. Since I had obviously ‘lucked out" a second time in my all too short day I continued into the arrivals area.

2014 Sochi Winter Games

I have always longed to see my Ice Cream houses. Some, call this Red Square, but to my mother it was the Forbidden City. It was the place of dangerous sabre rattling men that banged their shoe on the table at the United Nations. It was the place of our enemy. The great Soviet Bear poised to nuke our cities and kill our children. But to me it was the place that had Ice Cream houses. The colourful spires representing soft ice cream of delicious and exotic flavours, and to my Mom; fear and destruction.

I am not sure if it is the duality of our worlds or if it is the point of perspective but I’ve never feared this Great Russian Bear. They were, after all, our allies during the war my father fought in. In fact of any of the countries involved they arguably suffered the most. Twenty million proud and incredibly resilient people lost their lives. So how could a country, or friend, that fought alongside us turn against us. They had already demonstrated their superior intelligence.  Beating us in the race for space, so they had to know starting a war would kill their children too.

So while my mother at the time said I could never go, I can honestly say I never lost the desire or the hope I would.  This dream almost came true in 1992, but events beyond my control took life in a different direction.  That direction continued, and continues today, but only till May.

Keep this in mind while reading this blog for potential bias. I watch the opening ceremony of the 2014 Sochi Winter Games with enormous pleasure.  Having the courage to accurately show the history of Russia to an audience, like my mother, that still view this country with guarded suspicion to others that view it with outright disdain was courageous. It was speedy in its transitions and focused on entertaining, rather than educating, but it was inclusive. While slightly avant guard in its symbolism, it was easily understandable, in all languages, and immensely entertaining.

If you believe my perspective regarding suspicion is harsh let me shed a light on this observation. There has been a ton of bad press surrounding these games. Some of it deserved and other plays on stereotypes. A statement made in English about cameras in hotel bathrooms gets tons of air time on many networks. Is any consideration given that the person making the statement is under immense pressure and speaking in a tongue not native to him? Nope, the networks just run with the stereo typed sound byte. If USA Today ran with a story that St. Patrick day celebrations ended with party goers being escorted home in a paddy wagon would it not be called racist? I believe it would. (Paddy is a derogatory slang for Irish and drunk is a stereotype. Akin to saying violent Nigger)

Much has been made about the US president not attending the games. Theories abound about the reason for this. The most likely is that during the Georgian War, Georgian forces retreated from their border when the Russian Federation advanced. This allowed for an unguarded border that could have allowed hostiles bent on terror into the area.  Hostiles that are not friendly to the US or the Russian Federation. But we will never know. Because neither our Prime Minister nor The President will comment officially.  But why the conspiracy? The US President didn’t come to Vancouver either.  This didn’t create any conspiracy theories about it being a snub because of Chechen terrorists or Gay Rights.  But then Quebec Separatists’ were quite then and in Vancouver waving a rainbow flag is about as common as finding a polite Canadian.

So can we really call the mass media racist in the way they are focusing on the issues of the Sochi Games? Perhaps not entirely. But we can call them ignorant, spoiled, and remiss. Ignorant in viewing a culture that has only had its current freedoms for twenty four years yet comparing it to others that have been "free" for over two hundred. Remiss in providing balanced journalism in an attempt to accurately inform rather than titillate or grab a headline. How long ago were the Gay Raids in clubs on Toronto and New York City? How long has our two countries been cool with Gay rights? When was the first Black baseball player? How long after emancipation? The large number of journalists being educated in US schools, in a country shown to be spying on its populace! Perhaps even using Angry Birds game to do so? While international companies like Apple confirms SIRI gathers intel and keeps it for years? Really? I am the only person with the hypocrisy alarm ringing?  As for the spoiled comment let us all remember the slagging we got in Vancouver about substandard accommodation. Really Vancouver?

It is an incredible achievement for any city to pull off an Olympic event. Montreal paid for theirs for years. Vancouver, a city used to massive building projects, struggled under the stresses even with thousands of unemployed. Sochi is a resort city seeing up to four million visitors per year yet only has a population of about 420 thousand.  Journalism is supposed to be about perspectives and information not titillation and pouncing on racial stereotypes.  Canada we only let First Nations vote in elections after 1960 and America you were still arguing about women’s rights into the 70’s. Saudi Arabia has a worse stance on gay rights, and deplorable human rights especially towards the above mentioned groups. But they do have some of the most wonderful hotels in the world, and oil...Propaganda. It’s not just for Russia anymore. 

The first post from the other side of the Ring.

   So life is settling down to the regular pattern of things you have to do, things that you need to do, and things that need doing. Intermixed is the obvious stuff I should be writing. I have a great excuse my very old and most favourite Mac is having issues. I know what is causing it now but making the time to take it offline for a few days to get it fixed is an issue. I upgraded my HD to an SSD and they, whom in the past were awesome, spliced into one of my fan lines for power and so now I overheat and freeze. Makes it difficult to write. Frustration is not something you want during the creative process.

   Married life is treating me well. We are in a state of flux as plans call for a big move and downsizing of non essential stuff. Now downsizing isn't new for me at all. In fact I have downsized a great deal already. But like most things in life there is downsizing and then there is DOWNSIZING. I need to pack my life up into two 25 kilo cubes of very specific measurements. So it is a great deal different than moving from a house to an apartment. But if I am to be honest the experience is very liberating. What is a must keep, should keep, like to keep, and can't live without. Then evaluate and reengineer the space and start again. To say it is a exercise in being frugal is like comparing a Lambo to a Kia. Kind of not on the same planet. But it progresses slowly and this old 17 powerbook will be replaced by a new 13 inch soon and so that drops me x kilos....Daunting!

   Russian New Years. For those readers that are not Russian, suffice to say it happens at a different time but; "when in rome". So this celebration is held on the first like our own. But unlike ours it is most certainly a knock down drag out party. The sense is how you bring in the new year will dictate how your year will be. The better the party the better the year to follow. Follow? Ok so this event has pressure on it from the start. Well, it was an epic event. Full of drinking, dancing, and general wishes for an awesome year. Oddly it was spent meeting new people, with different customs all with the same goal. An accurate reflection of our year to come. It started at 6pm and went till 6am, time spent filled with food, vodka, brandy, friends, dancing, and culture. The only casualty of the evening was my under trained liver. Seems my abstinence of late left me woefully disadvantaged, and when I awoke it let me know it wasn't happy. But the liver is evil and should be punished!

   I got to see a good number of friends over the holidays and miss a great deal more. Time has always been a thief yet as things move quickly along it seems to be more of one. I try to keep up a little bit using the inadequate tools afforded us with social media. But I will endeavor to make more time to see everyone. Going to be a long trip to see anyone next year! So with that promise or perhaps resolution made I will leave you to your own lives.

  Have a great year everyone!

THE GRAND ELOPE

            So, Christmas is only a few days away and it has been an interesting time in my life. December has always been a great month for me. I was born in December and until I was about three always thought people were putting up lights for me. I do remember thinking “why don’t they decorate for the other kids?” I come by my ego naturally!

            I am happy to see that my Post on PTSD got lots of exposure. I think it is important that with the new healthy lifestyle choices a little focus gets turned toward mental health. I was slightly amused that some thought it was a cry for help and sprung into action. I appreciated the calls and if you just posted on Facebook, well that gives me an indication of you concern. I am not really sure how many people saw it on Facebook as I don’t trust their numbers. But suffice to say with over 150000 followers the exposure was large. I have received many private notes and messages from a great deal of people thanking me for having the courage to post such a personal story.

            Facebook. Hmmm, I recently reactivated my personal account for friends only. I had to take it down many months ago as the Facebook police flagged it as a duplicate account. It was right before the IPO, go figure! Anyway I reopened it and hopefully it skates by scrutiny. I don’t post much on it, just things for people that aren’t close by or in touch on a regular basis. I am blessed that most of my friends are in touch regularly and for the most part I see them weekly. I saw a t-shirt that kind of speaks to this. “My wish for you is that one day your life is as good as you say it is on FaceBook”. A more truthful and sad concise statement probably hasn’t been said since the Beatle’s epic “One is the Loneliest Number”. Cluttered life albums with old pictures of partners that don’t matter anymore. I mean sure they were part of your life, so some contextual images that mark a moment, a place, an idea. But single selfy’s? Really? Move the fuck on! Like the shit we buy to impress people we don’t know, and perhaps even dislike, it clutters you. It creates emotional clutter that, forces you to drag it forward. Like the oversized carry on you loaded at the outlet mall, you’re now trying to drag through airport screening! How do you get to Happily ever after, with all the clutter of the “my life sucked” past? Perhaps this is just my perspective. But, I am really at a loss at how to look at it differently. If you’re betting on a game and the team fails to win do you really care what gets said in the locker room after? As the old saying goes “You don’t have a horse in that race.”

            I said this to a friend recently, as we smoked a cigar and talked about life, the universe, and everything. A common topic while herfing (it’s a word) an expensive bit of Cuban Culture. Ever the sensitive sort he put forth a few observations:

“Perhaps it serves as a lesson”

“Perhaps it allows memories of a happier time”

“Perhaps they’re just lazy and don’t edit”

I thought about these while watching the smoke curl and the ashes form. This brought my mind around to a few different thoughts. Does the ash of this cigar serve as a reminder of how good it was previously? I guess in fact it does. However if I don’t leave it in the ashtray it will just drop all over my shirt and make me look like a slob. The lingering smoke, does leave a scent. It is reminiscent of happier times now grown stale with time, and the absence of additional cigars. Smoked cigars left in the ashtray do not grow finer with the passage of time. So the lazy host is condemning his friends to future herfs outdoors in the cold. I guess it is plain to see my mind, once made up is very hard to change. Perhaps a failing, but one thing is very clear with this mindset. I am exactly where I decided to be.

            To other things as we race towards Christmas. Remember even if your friend or partner is not suffering from PTSD or the Christmas Blues Love is the reason for the season. Corny perhaps but when we have the courage to let down our defenses we see the real gifts bestowed on us. Recently I had four friends put their lives on hold, rearrange schedules, and spend time and money to jet to Vegas to be part of my Grand Elope. Considering at this time of year the effort it takes to meet a friend for coffee between mall excursions and the cost with all the gifts to budget for this was quite a demonstration of LOVE. It wasn’t easy for any of them to make this happen and it wouldn’t have been the same event without them. So a public thank-you.

            The Grand Elope. Inga and I wanted to throw a celebration in the city we were introduced in. So we decided to get married in Vegas. Now I know Vegas sounds like a bit of a tacky place to get married and while I am sure it can be it doesn’t have to be. In fact I really believe having done reams of research that it will give you the most bang for your buck and eliminate a mile of headaches. Take limos as an example. Presidential Limousine probably moves more people in a week than a comparable Vancouver company. This gives the client a level of service that is tried and tested and second to none. Restaurants are used to groups and being slammed is not an excuse for poor food or service. To sum up they are set up to do large celebrations. Ours was no exception, it went off as planned and designed without a hitch with most of the arrangements made on the web, or phone text! I planned the whole thing and trust me it was as easy an experience as a wedding could ever be.

• 1400sqft Suite for champane and cake after reception reception
• Chapel, Photogrpaher, video, and officiant.
• Lamborghini (Inga’s fathers “white horse”)
• Limo tours and pick up.
• Reception in the Foundation Room, with the view Inga and I saw on our first date!
• Russian flower arrangements and Cake decorating

All of these projects arranged and completed without actually talking to a single person! This is the digital age.

            So this is life moving forward and MY life moving forward. It has been a challenge of late to complete writing projects and move the sequel along, but it is. Slowly and more tightly this time that will add to your reading pleasure. Some other large changes loom on the horizon and rest assured I will take you all along for the ride.

            Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Best of the season. Enjoy this time with those you love and those that love you. Whatever your faith, beliefs, or delusions, remember Love is why we are all here and without love we will not be!  

Click here to see the New and Improved Website

A Walk in the Garden with PTSD

Revelation most often comes in my life like an errant snowball right to the junk. This particular snowball was actually a series of photographs that were put together for my fortieth birthday. I didn’t see it then. I did see it eight years later when I played it for a new friend. There in the images of me, as if a magical mirror, I saw it. Rather I saw the absence of it. I saw the absence of joy. I don’t know if my defence system was down, or if I was “just ready” to see it. But like many of the things seen that got me here I knew I would not be able to ignore it. Just as I knew I’d try.


What exactly am I talking about? Fair question and one I don’t think I could have answered three weeks ago. I am talking about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The really weird thing is three weeks ago I would have punched you in the head for even suggesting I had it. I actually never really thought; “Hey my dick isn’t showing up for the game without some serious coaching. Something must be wrong!” Drinking a sixty of vodka a week for the past seven years, you would think, might draw my attention.

Nope! I didn’t have a damn clue. Now before you start doing the judgement thing and trying to convince yourself, in that really loud voice we save for situations just like this. Let me stop you. I have a B.A. from a great University with a minor in Psychology. I also have job specific training to an advanced level in Critical Incident Stress Management, or CISM for short. I’ve worked as a Federal Correctional Officer for twenty five years and get paid to be aware, observe, and react to behavioural issues. But I missed it completely until I saw this old picture and was struck by the absence I saw there.

Even then I really didn’t let myself believe it was Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD, for short. For short, don’t you just love that? Because somehow when we abbreviate, it doesn’t sound quite so overwhelming, or embarrassing. No, I went for the simple question. Why don’t I look happy? I mulled that one over for quite a bit. I have great friends, a good job. I fly to Vegas three times a year to have fun. I get laid on a regular basis, and enjoy a very good life. Yet the evidence was staring at me like the mirror above the toilet you just puked in.

I came back to this absent stare, adorned with a plastic smile. The answer came when I rephrased the question. Not why but what. What is making me unhappy? I’ve never been a great supporter of A.A. but in this case they’re right. Acceptance is the first step. That answer isn’t the easiest thing to put into words even for a professional author. But what I can do is define what PTSD does and in that provide a better definition. PTSD creates shadows in your soul and steals the light from your eyes. Ok, sure it is a little florid as a definition from a Prison Guard. But, even if it is I think it is the most accurate. Let me explain.

If you got mauled by a dog and after, when a dog barked, your hands shook and you dribbled pee, it wouldn’t take a psychologist to figure out what your malfunction was. Sure you could develop PTSD from a serious dog mauling, but that’s not my point. My point is that this break down is insidious. For me it was slow and spanned several years. In this lies the real bitch of the bunch for diagnosis. Because we live in cycles, sometimes up sometimes down, how do you know it is a psychological issue and not just a mood? Because past all the overt signs of emotional dysfunction and inappropriate self medicating coping skills, it does something else. It causes brain damage. Images of the brain actually show physical changes inside the sticky parts of your bean. This damage seems to install a worthless filter. You look at things without the “light” of positivity. It also installs “shadows” that echo and cast doubt at the very core of your personality. So while fancy I think this is for me the best place to start.

I say start because from here the choice is to deal with it or say fuck it and carry on. I’ve been functional for a long time with this problem. I am lucky to have genes that allow me to drink, and a job where is a little antisocial behaviour is acceptable. So do I accept that this is just what happens to us? Do I accept that these traumas are going to influence me for the rest of my life?

I went to school for sixteen years and hated ninety five percent of it. But I did it so I could get a job I liked and have a good life. I didn’t hit that goal and knock it out of the park either, but it’s been ok. I’d like to have a retirement that kind of makes up for it. I can’t do that suffering from PTSD. So this is something I can choose to do or continue thinking things like: “Well if I were to get killed today at work I’d be ok with it as I’ve done enough of my bucket list!”

So this is a story; A walk in the Garden of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It is most certainly not a self help book. I hate those and to be honest generally loath the people that read them. It’s just a story of one guy trying to fix all the shit that fucked him up. My hope is that by telling it you get hit by a snowball, right in the junk!

I guess the best place to begin is at the end. For me it was sitting with a drink in hand, staring into a box of things that used to mean something, and grasping at the vapours of why. Now in my case it really was a box. But it doesn’t have to be. It can be a journal, an old car you use to like to restore, or your golf game. The”it” of the box really doesn’t matter. The lack of interest is the important bit, along with the trying to discover what happened. If you’re depressed you might not want to go pull wrenches on the 69 Cutlass. However, if you are asking yourself why it is sitting in the garage, and why you ever tossed cash at it? You might want to look a little closer. If you’re Tiger Woods and your game is off do you blame the grass, or your emotional state?

I could go into a few comparisons here, actually I did, and all of them would have got me sued by Wood’s legal team. So I am left and you by default, with my examples. The melodramatic Scott might say a drink in one hand, gun in the other. In fact I believe I did write that exactly to my x-wife. But in reality the survivor mentality was so entrenched at this point suicide was never a solution. Life was going to come along and do it for me at any time. Normal people, when faced with the likely probability of death, react rather poorly. Sure, we hear the stories about the ones that championed above and overcame the odds. We hear about those for the same reason we read about heroes in books and not the stable boy that died under the horse. In reality people don’t do well with the impending doom scenario. I was cool with it, so long as I lived up to the challenge and went out swinging; part of me welcomed it.

The strange part of this for me is that I believe suicide is weak. A coward’s way out. I’ve had three friends do this over the years and I view each one of them as pathetic for doing so. By friends I don’t mean I knew them on Facebook. I am talking friendship like you could show up at their door, drunk, with a hooker in tow at three in the morning. They’d open the door and even though their wife’s mother was over and they were both in their cycle, he’d let you in. After calling a cab for the prostitute, let’s not be unrealistic.

A caveat, I think suicide is an ok option if you have a horrible debilitating disease that can’t be treated, is only going to get worse, and will take you anyway. Then it is like a “fuck-you” to death itself. I get to kill me before you do! PTSD is all of these things with one difference. If you’re aware of it you can fix it. Awareness!

I know I am going on about this being the hook in the Virus that changes it from benign flu, to the Shepherd's crook that spells Ebola. I want to err on the side of caution and say if you’ve been in a first responder or Emergency services position for longer than six months you should find and do one of the many PTSD checklists available. BE HONEST! We can lie to ourselves about everything but in this one case attempt to be honest. Your life and happiness depends on it.

So we have the first and second A’s in our program; Awareness and Acceptance. The final start to this road to recovery is Adaptation. We learn as Emergency personal to adapt everything we know to overcome the issue we find ourselves faced with. I remember in Staff College being told how this or that is policy or procedures based on best practices, but wait ‘till you get to the Joint. Then the real learning begins. Those instructors understood that they couldn’t teach us how to overcome each challenge we’d face, because the nature of our businesses is people and people are unpredictable. This normal unpredictability gets all the more interesting when coupled with substance and mental health issues. This described many of the offenders I worked with over the course of twenty five years!

I remember one afternoon working in the unit of a maximum security jail when a convict came down to the office just after my partner had finished a tier walk. He came to the door and said that we’d better do another round. My partner asked why and the convict, wanting to remain solid (not a tattletale or rat) replied, “Just do another fucking round”.

We both got up and did another round finding an inmate had cut the tip of his penis off with a homemade knife fashioned out of a tin can. There was a great deal of blood and the Inmate was very pale and sweaty. Seems the inmate had converted to Judaism and been denied the surgery to remove his foreskin. Taking matters into his own hands had proved, on application, to be a little more difficult that it first seemed. My partner, being much more senior to me, reacted and told the inmate just how stupid this was and that he’d better squeeze as hard as he could or he’d bleed out.

The inmate was walked to the jail’s infirmary and a doctor was called. I, being the rookie, was tasked with staying with the whimpering convict while the doctor made the thirty minute drive to the jail. The doctor was an elderly man, having done many years as a military doctor before contracting with the Correctional Service.

He attended the isolation cell inside the hospital wing and asked the inmate; “What in Christ’s name would make you do that to yourself?” The inmate mumbled something about wanting to be Jewish and the old doctor just laughed. The nurse prepared the inmate for surgery as the old doctor went and washed his hands, and I just watched the blood ooze from his decapitated dick. I was not accustomed to looking at other men’s penises, yet couldn’t look away. The soon to be coined car wreak syndrome.

The doctor returned and before slipping on gloves to my amazement pulled out a pouch of Black Cat tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette. The nurse helped him slip on his gloves and then paused to light his smoke. With smoke curling past his head he set to stitching this inmate’s penis together. The inmate cried out and I held him down as he yelled. “Aren’t you gonna freeze it first Doc!”

I remember very clearly what the doctor said and the look he gave the inmate, as I struggled to secure the violent convict. “Did you freeze it before you did this?” He said pulling the hand rolled smoke from his ruddy face, blue grey eyes fixed on the convict’s.

“No.” Whimpered the convict, shrinking under the old surgeon’s steely gaze. As if the man was more Medusa than doctor. Putting the cigarette back into his mouth he mumbled. “Didn’t think so.”

Then with adamant protest from the convict he continued the delicate task. The inmate picked up the tempo of his complaints and the nickname Half Cap for his trouble.

I didn’t know it at the time but I passed my first line screw test. I had stayed and did my job. I had adapted and overcame the rather disturbing incident, and had done so without complaint. My reward was to be invited to the Legion after work for drinks. I was the first of my group of new fish to be extended this privilege, and I blew it.

The Legion was the only place you could drink in Uniform and not run afoul of the Code of Conduct. It was close to the jail and basically on the way home for almost everyone. As such it collected an assortment of Officers, or as they called themselves back then. Line Screws, Guards, and Digger Pigs. I was proud to be asked to attend and listened as the tale of the headless hammer was told. My mistake was commenting on the incident in an emotional manner. I really don’t remember how I put my words, but suffice that they all landed in my mouth sideways.

I was immediately told that this incident was hardly of note and if it weren’t for the fact the guy sliced his “Johnson” it hardly would have been brought up. Then I was regaled with three stories, each worse than the next further entrenching the idea that today was a pretty easy day. So began my career and the first stroll in the garden with PTSD. Staff College had offered little if any training in dealing with stress. My peer group had been through far worse and admonished my feelings as trivial and weak. I adapted, and pushed them deep down next to the childhood terrors instilled by McCammon and Lovecraft, and nurtured by yours truly.

While my peer’s condemnation at the time had been harsh I came to understand how very true it was. But before those of you first responders reading this drop into that comfortable old rusty armour of “You don’t know what bad is” let me assure you, I’ve seen bad. I’ve seen a guy hit with a bat so hard his head popped and one of his eyes came out. I’ve seen men open their forearms like gutted salmon and bleed out. I’ve got between men bent on killing one another, tackling one to prevent him from stomping an already ruined head into mush. I’ve witnessed the despondent slash his throat, and bleed into a flushing toilet in order to hide his act. His whimper chasing tears “ratting” him out and drawing my attention. I lived through riots, hostage takings, and the proverbial catch all, “isolated incidents”. I survived them all. I never went to counselling. I didn’t need it. Everything just rolled off my back with no impact.

Or so I believed right up to my revelation. Then even after that memorable snowball I tried to ignore it as I really didn’t know how to fix it and I was well adapted to ignoring things. Divorce, death, destructive practices and hobbies, I had ignored the lot! I most certainly wasn’t prepared to bring them to the surface with a professional. Besides, what help could an arm chair observer provide? How was navel gazing and discussing my feelings going to make this new reality ice-cream and rainbows? I understand, believe, and support getting professional help. I also know Officers and know it has to be almost insurmountable before we do. I believe this is because at a core level we need to believe we can adapt to overcome any challenge. We after all have lived and corrected the worst offenders in Canada. Eaten lunch and drank our coffee in societies worst neighbourhoods. We do it every day, come home and tell our partners nothing happened. We’d adapted to our environment. Became a product of that adaptation and were comfortable in it.

So we know my revelations are painful. My epiphanies are even worse! I figured I should do the test and stop drinking for a couple of months. Follow some general advice and talk to someone, to try and get this life back on track. I had arrived at the awareness level and had basically come to terms with the acceptance side of the equation. Professional navel gazing sessions helped to take the “basically” out of the last statement.

So what was left was adaptation. Having proved that despite drinking copious amounts of Vodka for a very long time I was not an alcoholic I filled a flask, dug out a cigar and figured it was time to do some hard thinking. I like doing this type of therapy alone and preferably by the sea. I like the rhythmic crashing of waves and the small feeling I get staring out at the vastness of our coast. Cigar alight, and flask open I basically set my mind to drift on things. Attention deficit hyper active disorder is a large obstacle to overcome and I was quickly entranced by a bird. The wind was scything onto the shore tossing huge waves into the grey rocks. The dark water chased the white surf toward me, while this bird pitched and rolled in the air above. It was caught by a hard gust and driven harder still into the rocks about eight meters to my left disappearing for a second in the debris that littered the area just above the surf line. I heard it make a sound. It was a sound in-between a chirp and a squeak and not very pleasant. I jumped to my feet thinking one thing and forgetting one crucial item.

I thought that this was a very traumatic event for the bird and it may be hurt. I forgot I hadn’t had a cigar or a drink in several weeks. The rocks pitched under my feet, and I followed them forward. I landed chin first on a large and thankfully barnacle free rock, my teeth grinding together threatening to break. Instinctively I had saved the vodka and cigar, tossing my arms out in a cross fashion and failing to get my elbows down prior to my chin. The bird jumped up onto a rock of its own, looked over at me, chirped, and opened its wings to the gale. It had adapted, and I had my epiphany along with the burnt chalk taste of chipped teeth.

It seems to me, like the bird, first responders’ have to work in what is at times a hostile environment. But it isn’t like that all the time. In fact most days are pretty much just average days. Other days are really good, and a few are really bad. If we allow ourselves to focus on just the bad days then they start to feel like forever. But if we adapt and allow the situation to just be as it is and choose to instead focus on the good days it doesn’t seem so hard. The malevolent storm that slams you into the ground in an attempt to kill you is just a wind that picks you up when you’re down. Nothing has any real type of meaning until we assign it one. If we allow ourselves to continually assign a negative meaning to the events we are forced to deal with then that bleeds into our regular life and spoils it. Fortunately for the bird this is hardwired into its brain. As humans we need to be aware of the issue, be able to put aside our pride and bravado to accept it. Then with a firm understanding, or a resounding kick in the teeth, adapt and work out coping skills that allow us to put it all into a better perspective.