Warning Olympic fever does not respond to meds

Here I am again - I try to keep blogging but have discovered unless you are a 'freelance writer' (i.e professional blogger or unemployed) then time is not on your side. A more than full-time job and two busy little boys do tend to dampen one's ardour for doing anything other than collapsing in a small heap which is attached to a large glass of white wine in the evening. Then there is the daily paperwork but more on this later.

After the birth of Holden on that first Monday of the Olympics, I had a lot of time to contemplate my navel (or caesarian scar) and watch the fervour while breastfeeding - and what an experience this was, even via the television. I was constantly switching channels - not sure whether to watch Nordic skiing or freestyle snowboarding, skicross or hockey - the extremism of winter sports makes them more enthralling possibly, but also the trousers seemingly involved in curling make for fascinating viewing. The heartstring tugs continued after the untimely death of Joannie Rochette's mother and her heroic ice dance performance that garnered her a medal, followed by the well-deserved gold of Virtue and Moir with a skate that prompted a few tears from my hormonal self.

The chant of "We Believe" continued through the golds of Jon Montgomery in the skeleton and his beer-drinking antics in Whistler which made him a star, to the Canadian men and women winning gold in the ice hockey - the unofficial national sport of Canada - which even caused a shortening of the nails from the uninitiated like myself. I did have a cheeky cheer for Amy Williams - the only Great Britain medal in the Olympics - we have never been known for our winter sport prowess, Eddie the Eagle was the famous underdog that never triumphed for GB in the ski-jump and we loved him anyway.

The medals kept on flooding in for Canada and they resolutely remained at the top of the medal board until the very end. The British press were particularly unkind in their comments, although the Canadian press themselves were not entirely blameless with some inflammatory headlines which prodded at the lumbering crocodile of UK tabloids. 'Are These the Worst Olympics Ever' was probably more than unfair - peaceful protests, act-of-God snowlessness and an unfortunate death do not a terrible Olympics make. We could certainly attest to the unrivalled atmosphere and street partying free of theft and violence (only to be marred by the Stanley Cup Riots some time later) and the professionalism of Vanoc when dealing with the issues. Gregor Robertson, the Vancouver mayor, kept smiling for the cameras with John Furlong, and his matinee idol looks and US-style fervour kept the press mildy amused or bemused while the organisors kept on fixing the backstage issues. It was reminiscent of Noises Off, but done with a Canadian quirkiness and charm that won through by the end of 2 weeks - the stage management crew kept the actors looking good until the flame was transferred yet again - not only to Russia, but to my home town of London.

Now it is 2012 and my city prepares itself for the onslaught - all I would say, is beware the tabloid tongues and take it all as it comes and remember - “If you want a place in the sun, you had better be prepared to put up with a few blisters”

Olympic Baby

Two things happened during the Vancouver Olympics - Canada erupted into a sea of red and white with a patriotism that would make the USA look feeble and I had a baby. Obviously the latter was somewhat more important to me (and no, I did not name him Olympian or Whistler) but both have made an impression that will last a lifetime.

As some may know, after Fraser was born I spent 3 months in hospital and nearly died twice, with 3 trips to the intensive care unit. I will spare you the ins and outs of what went wrong (and the fine British institutions that by turn nearly killed me and then rescued me) but suffice to say I had so many tests and invasive procedures that I was suddenly on the 'other side' of medicine. I certainly gained a new found respect for patients and also an intimate knowledge (in a literal sense) of how these things will feel when I order the tests and procedures myself. But as 'they' say - there is such a thing as the 'curse of knowledge' - so I had spent my second pregnancy in a state of suspended fear.

My OBGYN, who was both a saint (for putting up with my jitters) and a star (the whole thing went as smoothly as James Bond) decided we needed to be in Vancouver for the two weeks leading up to the birth. I looked at her oddly when she told me this. 'What?' she said 'you can stay in a hotel'. Um. 'I am due on 15th February'. She looked back blankly 'and?'. 'The Olympics start on February 12th.....in Vancouver. Hotels may be out....'. She grimaced as she had hoped to be away for the whole period to avoid the crowds. I almost asked her if she had a spare room but I knew she had 4 children (soon to be 5 children I believe). So we went on a hunt and were rewarded by friends offering up their apartments for our sojourn - another incredible kindness. Due to unforeseen family circumstances the condo we had for one week was unavailable with a couple of weeks to go before we were due in Vancouver - my hormonal self went into panic mode, fuelled by the past experiences and the fear starting to insinuate itself on my days. As usual, coastal help was at hand. A kind patient and friend had made some inquiries after she heard about our predicament in the clinic. 'I think I have found you a place' she announced on her next clinic visit. I was disorientated momentarily. 'Place for what?' I thought. She started talking about an apartment in Mount Pleasant, an up and coming borough of Vancouver (and that is not agent-speak for scary and tawdry - it was mainly an area of small businesses and industries) and I realised she had gone out of her way to make sure that we had somewhere to go when there were no hotel rooms to be had in the city, 'not even for ready money' to quote Oscar Wilde.

I was immensely touched yet again by the hospitality of the Coast and how people who you barely know are willing to help with any problems (in 2011 I mentioned to someone how we wanted to go back to the UK and christen Holden but that we could not afford it currently and a cheque appeared in an envelope, with a note stating that family are more important than money - I never cashed it obviously, but we did make it home riding on that sentiment). The apartment had been empty for some time, so this lovely lady and my husband drove down with a mattress and other comforts from her house and when we arrived I was so surprised. The apartment overlooked the whole of Vancouver, BC Place in particular, and the mountains beyond - it was breathtaking. It was owned by her nephew and his wife who now owned a fine winery on the Naramata Bench which we have since frequented and their Pinot Gris is unrivalled (more in a subsequent blog).

We lived very simply for that week - using our picnic basket utensils and I had to climb out of bed using a large pole that was by the mattress. It was idyllic to be honest - Fraser played with his few toys, I sat doing cross-stitch and looking at the mountains and felt a new life waiting to appear. And all the while in Vancouver the Olympics were brewing, but I don't think anyone had any idea of what they would become to mean for the city and for Canada. At BC Place we watched rehearsals of the light show from the balcony and we could hear the opening ceremony practices ongoing (day and night.....). The Olympic village sat right in front of the apartment and national flags were draped from balconies like brightly-coloured symbols of a temporarily united world. We frequented the Three Lions pub round the corner for a 'full English' breakfast - a little black pudding and cumberland sausage can ease any pain.

We moved on in the week leading up to the Olympics to a friend's apartment near Granville Island and the excitement was building in the city. Everywhere seemed more crowded with competing languages and high expectations. We went to the hindmost run of the Olympic torch into Granville Island and Fraser sat high on Craig's shoulders shouting excitedly as the flame went whizzing by and onto a boat for its final watery travels to BC Place for the opening ceremony. Fraser and Craig rode the Skytrain and the Olympic Line endlessly while I put my swollen feet up and watched the world go by figuratively-speaking. The dynamism of the city was almost palpable as the gentle pace that defines Vancouver normally was swept away by the fevour for all things winter sporty. Every other person was wearing a volunteer coat and the CTV commentary box was visible for all to see, choosing to be amidst the organised chaos which gave the broadcasts a human edge that I had not seen before in these big events. There was an ice rink in front of the Art Gallery, people ziplining across Robson Street and large screens everywhere as yet blank and waiting to be filled with medal ceremonies. Those rings were all around and it seemed as if everyone wanted to be part of the large venn diagram that defines Olympic spirit.



The Opening Ceremony introduced me to more of Canada - Joni Mitchell - Canadian? Who knew! I cried watching the athletes parade around, it could have been hormones or the picture of the young Nodar Kumaritashvili, the Georgian luger who had crashed on his training run prior to the ceremony. From Donald Sutherland's majestic voice to the incredible slam poetry of Shane Koyczan things ran seamlessly. I loved seeing Romeo Dallaire, the man who helped save 32,000 lives in Rwanda (read Shake Hands With The Devil) and Betty Fox - the mother of cancer sufferer Terry Fox who was an inspiration to millions. It was heartwarming to see these kind of people representing Canada and not a bunch of celebrities alone, but accidental heroes. A minor malfunction of the torch was later spoofed in the closing ceremony - the funniest piece of self-effacing comedy I have seen in years.

And we were off - the Maple Leaf was everywhere and chants of Go, Canada, Go rang out all over town. On Day 1 we trotted (well, I was more lumbering like a giant bear swathed in woolies) to the Richmond O-Zone which boasted a juggler that my English friend upstaged sneakily(a misspent summer earning pennies as a street performer), a huge screen playing sports, some singers and the Dutch beer tent for which the queue was lengthy (unless you happened to have a Dutch passport, I was wishing for my orange Queen's Day hat, just for a seat in the warmth). I dutifully waited in line with Fraser for a balloon animal and cheekily gathered information from the BC showcase on wineries in the Okanagan (I had waited 40 weeks for a glass, so was getting desperate for the mere hint of wine in my future). An Eastern European performing troupe fascinated my son for some time, from their small caravan they brought a whole story to life and he was mesmerised.

Why the fuss about this particular Olympics for Canada - well, they are known for winter sports, ice hockey is their unofficial national sport (the official one is apparently lacrosse but most Canadians have no clue what this is - they should try getting beaten round the feet for a ball by 7 vicious schoolgirls) and had never won a gold medal on their home soil. It was a matter of pride. On the first day Jennifer Heil was robbed in the freestyle skiing and could only bring home a silver, but Canada regrouped for day 2 and the anticipation turned into apprehension. Could it be done?

February 14th 2010 was a sunny Sunday. More kind friends picked up Fraser at lunch and took him off to the Coast again as he would not be allowed in the hospital the next morning. Craig and I treated ourselves to a leisurely lunch at Earl's - a chain restaurant, but a comfortable one for an enormously pregnant woman who could only walk a few metres at a time. An afternoon snooze, a cheesy movie, and a pizza to go later, with my feet up on an ottoman, we watched Alexandre Bilodeau win a gold medal for Canada in the men's moguls on Cypress Mountain (troubled throughout by its lack of snow, but not lack of spirited snowmaking and dumping from elsewhere). The city felt like an eruption - cheering in the streets and the commentators abandoned all hope of being dispassionate and equitable. But this was no ordinary victory - the first person he went to was his disabled brother Frederic and embraced him - more tears from the very pregnant author. He then gave $25,000 to a cerebral palsy charity and encouraged other Canadians to give to charity as much as they could.

The next day I was in the hospital at 6am - it was still abuzz with excitement from the victory and the breaking of the medal curse. The anesthetist was chatting about it and I barely remember getting a spinal and all my fears had vanished, caught up in the Olympic maelstrom and dissolved. Holden was born at 9:55am with a full head of dark hair and a true Canadian cry. The headline on the newspaper that morning? Simply - GOLD. How appropriate.

It has been a long time - interrupted by babies, work and immigration

I was suddenly reminded of this blog I had started back in 2009 to shed some light on working and playing on the Canadian West Coast when on my Twitter profile (another casualty of my techo-descent in the last two years, apart from a chat with one of the Empire magazine editors during the Royal Wedding). It seems as if having another child in the house increases the amount of child-related business you have to do exponentially as if you are the Old Woman Who Lives in A Shoe. This in addition to the 4-5 hours of nightly paperwork that come with a thriving family practice in rural Canada combined to make somewhat of an excuse for my radio silence. I feel like making up for it is going to be rather like an extended episode of How I Met Your Mother, without ever getting to the punchline, but I will give it a try.

However, my recent immigration woes have prompted me into action to catch up on the last 2 years and continue to write this ex-pat guide to Canada and the life abroad. Several times I have thought about picking this up again - when a patient came into the clinic and stated he couldn't be too long as he had to go and skin a bear that had been shot by the Gibsons RCMP - apparently he is the 'go-to' guy for this task. And again when my husband was late home from the store and said 'sorry, I had to follow the bear down the road'. Or possibly when I was cycling at night and a coyote gave me the evil red-eye and scampered off into the night.

After my last post things in rural BC moved onward and upward. My father unfortunately became very ill with Crohn's disease which necessitated a speedy trip to the UK and many visits to St. Richard's Hospital in Chichester. While I was there I found out I was pregnant and that I would be having a little Canadian - which of course has since transpired, but more on that later.

Gradually, we insinuated ourselves upon this rural community - via various groups of people we came to see what makes small towns tick. I remember in the 80's being in love with John Cougar Mellencamp and his song Smalltown, as well as the Boss' My Hometown. I watched Footloose endlessly and also around this time fell in love with country music - something that boasted of little southern towns, where there's a county fair every fall and your friends are there no matter when you call (borrowed from Where I'm From by Jason Michael Carroll)....This love never faded and was only reinforced by a later trip to Nashville and all night in a honky-tonk - much to the general amazement of everyone I meet (there is something odd about a doctor from central London who can sing you all of Tammy Wynette's hits.) However, is it really that strange? I grew up in a city where it was rare to know your neighbours and the stifling pressure of thousands of people surrounding you like an amorphous mass could be both comforting and isolating. I remember seeing Doc Hollywood, the dreadfully monikered but much underrated Michael J. Fox movie of the 80's about a hot-shot ER doctor from DC on his way to work as a plastic surgeon in LA who ends up doing 'community service' in a small town in the South and is lured by the informality, the warmth of feeling and of course, the beautiful girl in this outpost. Despite the old adage (townie is transformed by smalltown ways), there were some lovely moments in this film, especially one moment where the eponymous doc looks on as people watch an old black and white movie in the open air, with the mist of humidity in the light of the projector.

It is from this movie that I borrow a line frequently - 'you can't poop in this town without everybody knowing what colour it is'. I had always wanted to live somewhere where this may be true - and where you could leave your car unlocked, where you could drive home in bare feet and where you can see everyone you know while out shopping. And I have to say, now we do, it pretty much lives up to expectations - my poop is generally a warm ochre for those who wish to know....

This will be our 4th Canada Day in Canada - the embodiment of all things Canadian and also all things smalltown. The parade is a mysterious commixture of entities from the environs of the Coast - an autocade initially of the Coasters car club, pristine cars you could eat your lunch on meandering past with the drivers throwing candy to the children from the windows. Then children on the bikes they have spent all morning decorating, followed by a set of proud parents covered in crazy glue and propped up with caffeine. Then floats from various local businesses, occasionally the MP with large grin shaking hands and kissing children, the La Leche league (mothers for breastfeeding who I was mistakenly calling the Dulce De Leche league for some time - still I am sure the breastfeeding goes well with banoffi pie), the hospital auxiliary who tirelessly raise funds for our little local hospital and the war veterans whose mere presence in this procession makes me cry for those lost. Bringing up the rear - the emergency service vehicles, watched intently and cheered by my 3 year old - 'look Momma, a big fire truck'!

After this families pick up their folding chairs, umbrellas on occasion, Canadian flags and small children and amble to Hackett Park for the stalls and bouncy castle. Graham Walker is a local children's entertainer who makes great cd's full of music that don't make you want to kill someone (take note Wiggles) and often is playing here, with a field full of kids pretending to jump like frogs and buzz around like bees. There are craft stalls full of jewellry, pottery, carvings and glass, some of which is worthy of a purchase or two, and a huge bouncy castle. The First Nation have a salmon lunch stall where you can purchase BBQ salmon and sit and eat it on the empty bleachers which until recently were full of parental bums, cheering on their teens. After all of this there is usually a house party or two, and running through it all, the illustrious (or should I say industrious, as I feel the Canadian flag works hard) Maple Leaf.

This was what I had dreamed about - on this day we sit on 'our corner' with a bunch of friends. We speak to everyone and there is a congeniality and warmth that feels welcoming and undemanding. Small town life at its most picturesque and accessible.

But just remember, I also love these lines -

And that road rolls out like a welcome mat
I don't know where it goes but it beats where we're at
We always said someday somehow
We were gonna get away gonna blow this town

So maybe one day I will. But it's not going to be anytime soon.