Reverse migration

Snowbirds are what they call the people who escape the frozen northerly wastes for places like Arizona over the winter months.  I'm not sure what the term is for those that come the other way, but we were very happy to welcome two sets of southern friends in the last few days.

First came the Schwimmers, staying with family in Seattle and making the trip over the border to see the delights of Canada (us, of course).  Logan was one of the first people to appear on this blog, so it's faintly terrifying to see him now that he's six.  We wandered to Bright Nights in Stanley Park (California may do Christmas lights, but it doesn't do them in sub-zero conditions) and the next day we took a trip to Science World.

That was great - Lauren is a scientist, a proper one with a PhD and everything, and I was able to deploy my theology degree to full effect.  "You might say that," I retorted to every one of her explanations, "but don't you think it might just be angels making it happen?"  She really enjoyed that.

Sadly they were only here for a night, so they crossed back into the land of the free and downward to warmer climes.  Logan is on the list of future au pairs.  He does owe me, after all.

Then came Sagy and Moran!  Moran's sister has lived in Vancouver for many years, and I miss the University Village days when I could stamp on the floor and Moran would appear shortly afterwards with a plate of freshly-baked cookies.

Noa, who was also once a little baby, is now a beautiful four-year-old, and her little brother Yuval is more handsome than both his parents.  Pete had a great time with them both, although he was far more keen to give Noa kisses than she was to receive them.  Like father like son, I suppose.

Cold enough for ya?  As we say in Canada.

Caleb pilots a flying saucer, while his dad sits on it.

Meanwhile, my dad explores fluid dynamics.

Check out my dam building!  Tiny villagers downstream see their fishing livelihood literally dry up.

Dad uses telepathy to keep a beach ball afloat.

Pete enters the eye of the storm in the tornado simulator.

Colour me beautiful.

Evan tests if he could have made it as a basketball pro.

A few days later, the chaos of Uni Village, recreated across generations.

All the kids are into selfies, so I try to keep up.

Well done Mum.

Riot grrrrrl.

Yuval has shades of the young Elvis about him.  Just like I did when I was his age.

The sandwich generation

The economics of grandparenting are thus: I give you an adorable child who loves you unconditionally - the one you've always wanted, ever since your own children turned out less adorable and loving than you'd hoped - and you give me unlimited free childcare where and when I request it.

This works better when you live on the same continent as your ancestors, but Mum and Dad fulfilled their side of the deal to perfection when they offered Hannah and me a night away during their stay.  "Is the Pope a Catholic?" was all I replied, swiftly booking a night at Harrison Hot Springs before that particular conversation ended.

An hour-or-so east of us, Harrison is a resort town in the great tradition of the 1950s.  There's still a dinner dance that takes place every night, which we would have totally gone to and re-enacted the finale of Dirty Dancing, but we decided to stay in our room eating pizza and watching TLC.

The hot springs have been drawing tourists since the late 1800s, and even though the outside temperature dipped to -14C it didn't stop us dipping in the soothing, steaming, mineral-rich waters.  Clothing was sadly not optional, but even that didn't take away from the relaxing enjoyment.  To be honest, I'd have been happy to sleep on a park bench knowing my parents had taken on all feeding, changing, and entertainment duties back at home.

Next morning we made our lazy way home, following a route that took us past several eagle feeding grounds, both bald and golden.  I wondered about these graceful, powerful flyers, swooping with utter freedom in the clear, silent air.  Do eagles eat their young?

Back in Vancouver it's not entirely clear whether grandparents/child noticed that we'd been away.  "I was very strict!" claimed my mother, which means the baby was only allowed ice cream and cake four times a day rather than the five he requested.  Whatever - when the cat's away the mice can play, especially if the cat is sipping cocktails in a hot mineral pool under the twinkling stars.

The view from Harrison.  Not too bad, but cold.

Not my photo, but I wanted to give you some idea.



They also have some indoor pools but, frankly, they're for wusses.



Hannah enjoys a large glass of chardonnay with lunch.  Just like I do on any normal day.

Me and a Sasquatch.  When I shed my clothes to jump into a hot spring I look surprisingly similar.

A Child's Christmas in Canada

With Pete's added years comes an added understanding of what presents are, and therefore what the true meaning of Christmas is: unwrapping stuff in a frenzy.  He was aided and abetted by his mother and grandparents, and so my rule of no presents before church was roundly flouted.  Stereotypically for a toddler, the boxes were often more exciting than the things they contained.

Hannah pulled all the stops out for Christmas lunch, and the turkey would be happy to know how moist and tasty it was after its expert roasting.  All the trimmings were there, even brussels sprouts, although done California-style (pan roasted in balsamic) rather than boiled to within an inch of their tasteless lives, then a mile beyond.

After that I tried to whip up enthusiasm for a game of charades but everyone else wanted to nap.  I took advantage, spending a happy hour helping Peppa Pig pilot her aeroplane around the penguin slide before serving her a play dough ice cream sundae.  Then the baby woke up and I had to give him his things back.

The sun's not up, but the present openers are.

Grandpa reads Pete a new book.  For the sixteenth time.

You mean the humiliation of a silly paper hat is going to happen annually?

Chef and sous-chef.

Ooohhh yes.



Non-traditional creme brulees for pudding, though alcohol and flames are a standard Christmas mix.



Grandma was allowed to share select toys.

And after all that...

Bearing gifts, travelling far

Like the three wise men, my parents have arrived bearing gifts.  I would have preferred gold but there's no arguing with the number of packages under our tree.  Air Canada must have a very generous luggage allowance.

They're with us for the season, which means that Pete is once again over the moon, having powerful sympathisers who will feed him pudding and cakes and even if he doesn't eat his main course.  Wherefore discipline?

As soon as the possibility of taking a grandson on a carousel was mentioned we had to go back to the Christmas market, where prices for marzipan hadn't dropped.  Almost everyone had fun.

Tomorrow it's the big day, and while there has been much talk of Father Christmas (tied to a strict naughty/nice guideline), elves, Rudolph, etc. I'm not sure Pete's entirely clear on what's happening.  But then, who needs Santa and flying reindeer when you've got grandparents?

You wanted a grandchild, so you're in charge now.

Grandma steps up.

What good is a nut cracker without some nuts?

Mummy didn't want to miss out.

Christmas jumper from Aunty Emily.

I made it out of clay

It's amazing how many cultures have stolen the idea of Christmas from the Anglican Church, and today I was surprised to add Judaism to that list when we were invited over to Jessie and Jane's to celebrate the suspiciously Christmas-like Hanukkah.

Hanukkah, or the Festival of Lights as it's often known, is all about the re-dedication of the Temple in 165BC, after the Romans had got up to their usual tricks and put an altar to Zeus in there.  The Maccabees kicked them out, wrote a couple of books in the Apocrypha about it, and since then people have lit menorahs, played dreidel and, most importantly, eaten a lot of food.

Judaism has all the best holidays, with personal favourites being New Year of the Trees and Shavuot, when everything you eat has to be made of cheese.  Top that, Christianity!  The original story of the Temple involves a miracle of oil, and what else can you do with oil but fry food in it?  Or pull it out of the ground and sell it, if you're Hannah.  So Hanukkah dinner (which lasts eight days) included fried potato latkes and deep-fried donuts, lovingly prepared by Jessie, although she did sneak some salad and even some home-made oregano jelly onto the table, which they surely didn't enjoy in second century BC Jerusalem.

We lit the menorah, we sang songs, we ate far too much fried stuff, and after that came time to play dreidel, which is like gambling except the dice is a spinning top and you can eat the money.  You also won oranges, although I don't think that's Biblical.

It was a fantastic night of fun, which made me wonder: why not put every religious holiday onto one calendar?  Being the Internet someone has already done this, so my New Year's resolution must be to celebrate them all.  It's going to busy - see you for L. Ron Hubbard's birthday on 18th March.

Jane - lighting the menorah, singing in Hebrew, serving as Parish Council Secretary at the Cathedral.  Go girl!

Hannah and Pete get in on the act under Jessie's sensible guidance.

It's a feast day, literally.



Gambling and religion: uneasy bedfellows since the dawn of time.

I'm sure my dreidel was fixed.

European deficit

One more Vancouver tradition ticked off our list today with our visit to the Vancouver Christmas Market.  We're actually more Vancouver than most who were born here.  Do you know how few people from our church have visited North America's largest clothing optional beach?  It's quite shocking.

Christmas in Hannah's family remains a big deal, with fevered phone calls between siblings, much excitement/vein-popping stress over present buying, and a lot of cooking.  She was understandably upset to miss last year's Christmas market and, having heard all year from work colleagues how wonderful it is, was determined to go this time.  With entry prices starting at $7, and rising to $40 for a VIP ticket, it must be something amazing, right?

Well, no.  It's an outdoor shopping mall.  Where was Santa, that I may sit on his knee?  Where were elves handing me tankards of mulled wine and gigantic mince pies?  They were there, but I had to pay extra to see those.  It also turned out to be a German Christmas market.  As if holding the World Cup (again) and having the only functioning economy in Europe wasn't enough, Germany also owns Canadian Christmas, when everyone knows it was invented (like football) in England.

After deciding that $25 was too much to pay for my favourite marzipan I sniffed out the place serving the hot wine.  It was $6 in a "souvenir mug"...and you had to give the mug back. "Ist dass die Größe des Bechers ich für meine Glühwein?" I asked the server. "Weil ich finde dass mehr als ein wenig enttäuschend und ich überlege mir ob Sie mit Ihrem Vorgesetzten anrufen und sich beschweren."  That told him.

Peter and Hannah had a lovely time, taking many rides on the carousel, and perhaps indicating that I haven't yet achieved the correct attitude for the festive season.  Like my idol, Mr Scrooge, I muttered a dark "humbug" and took another bite of kartoffelpuffer.

It looks so happy and cheery from the outside.

The closest we'll get to Pete sitting on Santa's lap.

'Tis the season to be merry and joyful.

"Made in Germany with love," said the signs.  Where are all the English Christmas markets, with people complaining about the weather and serving overbrewed tea in polystyrene cups?  That's what the public wants.

Decorations.  They cost extra.

People having fun.  Whatever.

Santa: Year Two

I don't know how the plunging oil prices have affected Santa - I presume he's stopped his exploratory drilling under the North Pole ice cap - but he did decide to come to the Chevron Christmas Party.  We hopped on the cable car to head up Grouse Mountain for an all-you-can-eat hot buffet breakfast and to see him!  But mainly for an all-you-can-eat hot buffet breakfast.

Pete was excited.  He's now somewhat familiar with Santa, having seen him everywhere around Vancouver (how does Santa do that?) although I don't think he really understands who Santa is, or where baby Jesus fits into it all.  Anyway, after last year's quick and unsuccessful attempt to get an 'on Santa's knee' pic I've been talking lots to Pete about the man in red, in a homespun self-help mix of cognitive behavioral and exposure therapy.  Cogbahsposure therapy, if you will.

Initial results on my one-yr-old test subject were good, as he displayed much excitement when Santa entered the buffet room, pausing from eating his fourth pancake with maple syrup.  However, as Santa approached, enthusiasm waned, and when the big man reached our table and asked for a high-five Pete clung to his mum like a baby koala.  If Pete was aware what his mother's really like he'd have leapt at Santa, but he's only known her for a couple of years.

Being much bigger now, we couldn't balance him on Santa's lap and hope to get a nice shot in the nanoseconds before crying/escape began, so no physical contact was made.  I tried to rescue the situation, constantly telling Pete that he'd been naughty and so Santa wouldn't bring him any presents, and that the elves would probably kidnap him and take him to the North Pole and feed him to the reindeer, but even this didn't help.  Oh well - twelve months of intense psychological work and I'll hope for better results next time.

Transport to the top.



A lot less wintry than last year.

Pete takes to the ice!  A skating prodigy?  Maybe I'll force that on him next year.



Santa's transport.

Pete's transport (he wishes).

The ski season isn't exactly in full swing.

It doesn't look like it.

Plate #5.

I saw Mummy kissing Santa Claus...but decided against direct physical contact myself.

Corporate Christmas card.

Gospel carols before we head back down.



But the view made it all worth it.

Home, and time to "help" with making the Christmas cake.



And what tree is complete without a Chevron-branded bauble?  Not ours, that's for sure.