Tag Archives: train

heading to victoria again

Tonight I get on the train to small-town Victoria again to do some training at a regional health library. Woo! Actually that’s not even a sarcastic woo, because Holly’s going to come too. She has to take an earlier train back than me so she can get to work on time (stupid-early-o-clock) but I’m going to be working anyway.

Maybe we won’t exhaust all the excitement Shepparton has to offer right away, but if we do, Holly’ll get to at least spice it up by driving. We’re renting a car and while she can legally drive here, I don’t have a license for Australia (apparently you can use your North American one for three months, which I have been here longer than).

This is sort of a warmup for December when we’re planning a bit more extensive roadtripping up to my friend Mel’s place and maybe inland a ways. I like deserts.

Other than this excitement, things are just ticking along. Holly made Chinese noodles last night that tasted very approximately like the noodles you get everywhere in Nanchong. She’s in charge of that kind of cooking – specific cooking. My technique is more “Let’s combine a bunch of stuff and see what happens” which isn’t untasty, but it’s hard to know how to make something happen.

I’m reading a bunch of SF&F books for the class I’m taking, which is a fun way to spend my time. Not that I didn’t enjoy my recent social media class, but reading about Vikings and faery and space travel and thinly veiled Christian allegories is a much nicer way to spend a Saturday.

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gallivanting on train and bike

On Saturday I got to go on an adventure. Holly needs a bike to get to work. It’s a half-hour walk that’s really crappy at the end of a twelve-hour day running around a kitchen lifting 20kilos of butter at a time, smashing your fingers under said butter and getting yelled at/needing to dodge the occasional cupcake being thrown by the chef. (I’m leaving out the story about the panicky bike-borrowing that happened this week, because I’m not sure if she’s got it in her queue of blog posts.)

So she went on Gumtree and found a used bike for a decent price. You can get a new bike from KMart for less, but she wanted a bike that was actually going to be good to ride, that was light and fast. Having bought such a bike in Vancouver last fall, I know what she means.

Anyway, this bike was out in Woolooware, across Botany Bay from where we live (yes, that Botany Bay), so I took a couple hours from my Saturday to take the train out there. I like how these suburban trains work here. If you live in a little town like Woolooware you’re still only half an hour from downtown Sydney. I don’t know if that’s what it’s like on the Go Train in Toronto, but this feels even more extensive than Vancouver’s Skytrain network.

I got to Woolooware and phoned the guy to get directions through the town to his house. Now, we have trouble with Australian accents, Holly and I. I especially find it difficult when it comes to names, since you can’t necessarily just figure it out from the context when there’s a word you don’t get. Case in point: Woolooware is down the Illawara Line though Holly’s best guess was Yellow Wire. We just looked at a map until we could piece something sensible together and happily it worked. For getting to the guy’s house I knew his street had a F in the middle and vowel sounds on either side. Maybe an R in there somewhere. It took a bit of getting lost but eventually I made it to Alfred street and went “That makes sense!”

I brought the bike back to Central Station on the train and then rode it home from there. My first time riding on the left hand side of the street. I remembered to be in the left lane, but I kept on trying to hug the right hand side of it. It was a little hard on my nerves but I got the bike home safely, and missed my bike back in Van City (but not that hill up to UBC).

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tracking (far from the outback)

Holly’s very into the jobhunt. They do this whole “job trial” thing here which is deeply annoying. They keep on bringing her into places for a few hours to work and then don’t call her back. Kind of a dick move. But it’s a big city and there are lots of people looking for work I guess. She’s pretty awesome about keeping on going even though it’s tough.

Today she went on an hour train ride north and back as part of this whole process. I can’t tell you why, or what she returned with, but I can post this picture she took from the train.

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bairnsdale the first

I maintain my love of sleeper trains, but even the Melbourne-Bairnsdale bus today was pretty good. What the busride had over the trainride was its daylight hours, so I could actually expect the Australia rolling past me.

I keep having to remind myself that it’s winter here, since everything is so green. Rural Victoria (at least in the Gippsland direction) looks like a lot of dairy and sheep farms. It’s kind of hilly (in a way more bulbous than rolling) and off in the distance are mountainish looking things.

There was a weird stretch where there were these erratic dead, branchless tress studding the fields like bones in compound fractures. It was kind of ominous, but fairly localized.

I like how the trees are different from North American trees. You see a clump of trees in a field and that’s fine and then when you pass close by it’s like no northern tree you’d care to think of, all made of ropes entwined on itself. When I was out walking I thought about how knowing more about plants would probably get me amazed at the differences in the ground cover and grasses and all that too. But trees are big enough to be noticeable.

Bairnsdale is a small town and my motel is about a mile from the train station and town square. This is because of a mixup in the recommendation process wherein someone thought a restaurant was a hotel (well, it is called a hotel but that doesn’t seem to mean anything about lodging here) and quoted us the price of the motel with the one-letter-off name. When we couldn’t book a room at the restaurant we assumed the recommender had mistyped the name, rather than that she was recommending I sleep in a restaurant.

It’s not a bad little town. I had all of Sunday afternoon to wander around. There’s a village and a really tall-spired church and not much is open past 2pm on a Sunday afternoon.

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in the line of duty

On Friday I demonstrated how I am my mother’s son and managed to trip over nothing as I was crossing a street. The traffic was stopped at the light so everyone had a good view of me standing and then hitting the ground.

Unlike when my mom does these sorts of things I came out of it with only one injury, a knee that does not enjoy bending or being knelt on. It’s winter here so I was wearing my protective leathers, otherwise my elbows, shoulder and a good chunk of my back would be scraped all to hell through my dramatic rolling technique I perfected in grade 6 telling violent stories to kindergarteners.

The long-weekend here’s been pretty rainy and bleah, so I didn’t feel the need to go out putting stress on my tender knee until this morning when I went to wrok and discovered it is a long-weekend. I hung out, had coffee and wrote a book review at the office while I waited for it to stop raining.

I appreciate the fact that we have an espresso machine at work with company coffee so I don’t have to spend my own money on caffeination. When Holly arrives (in less than 3 weeks!) she might be bringing her fancy tea ceremony paraphernalia she’s been learning about. Which will be pretty cool, but we’ll still probably have to start buying coffee.

Possibly next week or the week after I might be sent out to the wilds of Victoria to teach some librarians about using Koha. I’ve never been on a business trip before, and I get to take the train! We were pricing it out on Friday and it’s all “First-Class sleeper” this and “hotel and food money” that, which is much more fun than the ordeal we went through getting Holly flights to Sydney and Vancouver.

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book review: desolation road

Ian McDonald’s Desolation Road is so goddamned good. It’s the story of a town on Mars (though it’s not called Mars but Ares) out in the middle of the desert. We read about the town being formed by one person stumbling upon an oasis and then welcoming the stragglers who show up on the train. It’s sort of like a western, with that whole trains to the frontier aspect.

The thing about the book that makes it so great is how it feels more like a Gabriel Garcia Marquez or Salman Rushdie book than Kim Stanley Robinson. The characters have that kind of magicalness to them, that storybooklandish kind of feel. One of the town’s early residents is Persis Tatterdemalion who crashes her plane there and won’t leave unless she can fly out. There are angels and intelligent trains and a ghost that unravels a murder and identical triplets who love the same woman and war and saints and robots and strikes and the Greatest Snooker Player the Universe has Ever Known and a man who makes people bleed with his sarcasm.

Probably my favourite book I’ve read so far this year.

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book review: iron council

One of my favourite things about China Mieville’s New Crobuzon books (of which Iron Council is the third) is how the goals in them shift. The book is never the same thing at the end as it was in the beginning. It’s wonderful. Iron Council takes that a bit further than the previous ones I’ve read, by chopping the story into achronological chunks. It opens with people fleeing the city, then jumps back into it where revolution is fomenting, then back in time to see how the fleeing people’s target got somewhere, then into the city and back and forth and it all worked. The book talks about wanting to do something rather than talk about something, about history having a plan, and about love. There are anarchist artists and a whispersmith cowboy, and handlingers, and golemists who intercede and create things out of earth and air and shadow. There’s a cacotopic stain, and swamps, and grasslands, and smoke that turns to stone, and trains, always the trains.

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book review: where europe begins

The second Yoko Tawada book I’ve read, Where Europe Begins, didn’t leave me with quite the same “Holy fuck! I can’t believe this thing exists!” feeling that I got from The Bridegroom Was a Dog. Natural really. There were expectations now. So there were some bits I didn’t like so much but others that were great. It’s another book of shortish pieces, some of them translated from Japanese, some from German. I couldn’t tell which was which just from reading them, which probably speaks to the good work of the translators.

The most important part of the book (for me) was the title story. It’s about the narrator travelling the Trans-Siberian railway to Moscow. What got me about it was the admission of the narrator that parts of the story were written before she’d ever gone to Russia. “I like to have the story of a trip planned out so I can quote from it when I inevitably run out of words in the middle of my travels” (not an exact quote – grumble grumble returned my library book too soon – but that was the sentiment). And she also says that her diary was written long after the fact. Her notebooks just sat there mute during the travels. And the narrator doesn’t make the facile statement about not writing because she’s busy experiencing life or whatever; she can’t write on the train because the words all disappear. All words everywhere. For her. The story ends with her collapsed in a Moscow train station square while alphabets try to orient her, but she can’t deal with any of it. Because she’s in the centre of Europe.

Being disoriented and bewildered are common states for Tawada characters, which probably explains my attraction. I’ve been trying to read this W.G. Sebald book which has similar themes, but it drowns in detail of a more prosaic kind. His world is bewildering because of the most mundane bits of life which he treats as special, while Tawada is making the bizarre feel mundane.

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book review: the bridegroom was a dog

I have a new author whose everything she’s ever written I feel the need to amass: Yoko Tawada. I picked up her book The Bridegroom was a Dog at the library used book sale several weeks ago but only just got around to reading it. I’d never heard of her and didn’t really know what to expect. What I got was awesomeness.

The book is three long stories, unrelated to each other. The title story is about an odd woman who runs a cram school. When a man shows up to live with her and clean her house and go wandering about at night she doesn’t know what to do except try to take in one of her students (the one on whose notebook all the other students wipe their snot). A mother recognizes the man as the husband of a woman in a neighbouring town and weird stuff happens.

The second story has a young woman arriving in a foreign city as a mail-order bride who never sees her husband but goes to school where they teach her about taking baths and she pulls the ears off of squid and dreams of her husband every night giving her more money and pouring ink in her ear. She explains to the doctor that her husband is a novelist. That’s why there’s ink in her ear.

And the third story is about a journalist taking a train ride through a Swiss mountain and decidedly not going to sunny Italy.

The tone for each of these stories is Murakami weird but with things happening right on top of each other. They seem unstructured rambles but work so well. Evidently Tawada writes in both Japanese and German (though this book was translated solely from Japanese). I cannot wait to find more of these things out there.

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36 the long march home

I woke up early. As usual. Just in case my alarm decided not to go off my body (or is it my brain?) gets me ready to check it an hour beforehand. I made coffee and waited for Holly. We then waited for Xiao Meng to finish washing her face before leaving so I could say goodbye. I said the same kind of “Nice to’ve met you” sort of polite insincere thing you say to someone whose place you haven’t been living in for a month. There was too much of a lineup for he good baozi for me to feel comfortable waiting.

In the subway I bought my ticket (the little blue RFID poker chip) and hugged Holly goodbye. “See you soon,” I said, and it’s possible. Sooner than this was at least. 20 months? Easily doable. If I don’t go to Japan that could be spring. If I do go it’s on her way back to China and she does really want to visit. So yeah. Not so long at all.

I made the train to Shanghai in plenty of time, but not enough to make me wish I’d waited for baozi. I took a window seat and my seatmate was unconcerned (she and her blaring cell phone). On the ride I slept a little. Near Suzhou or Kunshan there was a rabbit strung up by its ears next to the tracks. Brownish with a bit of ginger colouring. So yeah, it still had its fur which is odd for a strung up Chinese rabbit. There were a couple of young men climbing over the wall to the tracks. Did they have anything to do with that rabbit? Wo buzhidao. Reminding me of it was a beggar in Shanghai who looked like a skinned rabbit. He was horribly burned, hairless, eyelids over black pool of eyeball, mottled skin, no lips, stumps of digits beckoning from his cardboard mat next to the church on Renmin Guangchang.

Coming out of the Shanghai train station to the Line 1 entrance was horrible in its own way. The two ticket machines were out of service and hundreds of people were stuck between the train station gate and the subway turnstiles with the only possible escape being through a couple of harried clerks behind plexiglass. I’m glad I wasn’t overly paranoid about pickpockets because then I could abandon myself to the crush of people. I was in no particular hurry but could use my elbows enough to maintain my relative position.

I rode to the People’s Square and sat for a few minutes before eating delicious ice cream in a waffle bowl. Then off through the unterwelt to the MagLev station which cost 50RMB but went 431kmh. Which was pretty awesome even if I was in a backwards facing car. It felt like being in a plane that just wouldn’t take off. Sort of sad really. Like it was held down by magnets instead of levitating on them. At the airport I checked in quickly (showing my hand luggage to the suspicious Air Canada woman), chugged my 1984 and proceeded to wait for the plane to arrive to take me back to Canada.

Planes are very sad machines. Or maybe the sadness is just in sitting in the middle so there’s no sense of distance. Not being able to see the ground you’re covering slip away, just sitting alone in a room with a bunch of chairs and video screens. From Shanghai we were on one of Austin’s planes which meant I spent a lot more time watching movies than I would have if it was on only one screen. But this way I could watch the movies I wanted to see (Michael Clayton, The Assassination fo Jesse James… and I’m not There) and stay awake so I’d be able to sleep on arrival in Winnipeg. There was a massive high school group on the plane filled with noisily happy sounding people. I sat next to a tiny, no not tiny, big fat infant. She was cute enough though. Didn’t scream too much.

And eventually we touched down safely with a few clouds on the mountains. I changed my HK dollars from three years ago into Canadian to supplement my cash on hand for the month. And yeah here I am back in Canada. Still a few hours till my flight to Peg City. I don’t know if I have any better a handle on China than I did when I left, but I do have a few more experiences and things I’ve seen. I think these notes will be useful as a good base for the book (which may be titled something like The Hangman’s Harmony), at least in combination with the other sources, the blog, the travel notebooks primarily but the chapter structure may go back to the Wittgenstein disc. A couple of months to finish it [Ha!]. That’s the plan at least.

I hope all this will be useful to someone. No, not useful. This is no practical document, merely a recording of stories that may not be entirely true or accurate. What else is there to say while I’m falling asleep on an airport chair?

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