What a night. I suppose it's night time despite the broad daylight, albeit setting sun. I just came in from a short exploratory walk that took me through the marshy area behind my apartment. It lies beyond the creek which runs parallel to the dirt lane. The birds are singing their tails off and the breeze that was cooling down the otherwise very warm day up in the hills around the Arts Centre seems to have blown itself off somewhere else. The leaves, as I predicted to my mother last weekend, are opening at a pace. I took some photos. On Sunday, they were quivering, fuzzy buds, ready to spring into life at any moment. I told my mother that within two days they'd start to open, and they did. I give it no more than two days before everything is in full leaf. I cannot believe how quickly everything is exploding out of dormancy.

This includes the people, by the way. Everyone's up on their bicycles, or walking, or riding their noisy dirt bikes and ATVs. I don't much love the latter two, as they're kind of noisy, but the people around here don't do it too often, so far, so I can bear it. Courtesy. It's all about respecting your neighbours.

In other news, Gareth has booked his ticket to Whitehorse ! I'm thrilled to pieces about it, of course. He's arriving on the German charter flight (twice a week, full of German tourists, direct from Frankfurt) on the 8th of June, around lunchtime. This is the same day as the Gallery Opening, so he'll get to crash while I help finish things up at the Centre and then I'll come back, get changed and pick him up for the festivities. This is going to be awesome and also kind of wacky. He's staying for a while, so it will be kind of like... co-habitating, as they said in the fifties. My apartment, my cats, and my boyfriend, all under one ceiling. Weird. And also neat ! I'll get to play 'house' !

I know, I’ve been neglectful again, but my excuse is very good. I have settled into my apartment and am now the proud co-habitator of two cats ! Yes. I had intended only on getting one cat (Choco – previously spelled Chacko), but I knew there might be a problem in separating him from Twilight (now called Twee). When Choco came into the shelter, he was about four months old and had no experience with humans. He quickly bonded to Twilight, who is a massive, hairy guy of three years old, as though he were a littermate or even sometimes like a surrogate mother. Twilight was just fine with this as he likes kittens and young cats a lot. When I got Choco home, he was extremely distraught, yowling and hiding and whining and whimpering. He kept calling for Twilight in the special trill he uses and of course no cat answered. Then he cowered in his litter box for seven hours straight. The next morning, I knew I had to go back for the other one. When I let Twee out of the carrier, he proceeded to sneak about the apartment making pathetic little growly meows. Each one was answered by Choco who was hiding in my bedroom. When Twee entered my room, Choco leapt out of his hiding spot, trilling with his tail quivering, and full-body rubbed the other. Now, almost a week later, wherever I go in the apartment, there is a small, furry, black parade that follows me. Twee follows me and Choco follows Twee. It’s adorable. And the good news is, Choco, who didn’t handle human attention well at all, now lets me pet him and he curls up on the bed at night. Yay !

So, let’s return to my trip for a bit, since there are so many other things I can talk about. For instance, Cardiff, the capital city of Wales, has remarkably few things open on a Sunday. This presented a challenge since Gareth and I were hanging out with his sister, Carolyn. After sharing a drink with Gareth’s brother as well, who then left for more atrociously bad hockey, the three of us sort of wandered around by the bay. We did enjoy an outdoor photo exhibition put on by Oxfam about the before and after of the 2004 tsunami. The photos were brilliantly presented on all four sides of rectangular pillars through which we could walk and wander while surrounded by the hodgepodge of Victorian and modern architecture. After that, though, what were we to do? Decisions, decisions ! (Let me tell you, Gareth’s family is incredibly bad at making decisions.)

In the end, we decided to do what everyone else seemed to do on a Sunday afternoon in Cardiff. We went bowling. Yes, that’s right. The king of American leisure sports is a central attraction at the city’s main mall complex. There was also an arcade and typical American-style restaurants. This amused me to no end. Anyway, bowling is always fun, and it was this time, too. Carolyn whooped our asses – I think she’s secretly in a league – and much laughter ensued. We also discovered in this mall a small exhibit of new Dr. Who memorabilia. The new series is predominantly filmed in Cardiff, you see, so this was kind of a tribute thing. Anyway, it was my treat, I took them in to see it and we ended up being happily surprised by what we found. Particularly the button that said ‘Do not push’, which Carolyn pushed, and caused the dailek to come to life, scaring the crap out of her. Following all that, we struggled with a dinner decision, wandering around looking at restaurant menus posted in windows before finally settling on an American-style (heh) Tex-Mex place, not unlike Tortilla Flats in downtown Toronto. The waitress was lots of fun and the food was good and I discovered that Bloody Caesars are totally unknown in Wales. Incidentally, I have since discovered that apparently, the Bloody Caesar was invented in 1969 at the Calgary Westin Hotel. Neat.

I guess all this American pop-culture was acceptible having spent the previous day at St. Fagans, a stunningly beautiful 'living history' museum of country buildings dating back four hundred years or more right up until the Second World War. We got there early enough in the day that there weren't many people about (except at the bakery where we purchased a breakfast of scones with jam and the Welsh traditional bread, Bara Brith). We stroled around the entire site, in and out of wonderfully old buildings, many with thatched roofs and tamped earth floors. There was a paddock with an unusually shaped cow (imagine if a horse and a cow interbred) and, of course, sheep. The trees were fringed with pale green leaves and encircled by lush, dark ivy. The daffodils were in full bloom (the Welsh national flower), and the weather was excellent. On the site, there is also a recreation of an ancient Celtic dwelling, which was fun to explore, and a gorgeous estate house with exquisitely beautiful gardens. Sitting on the grass, watching the creek laugh its way over rocks was a serene moment that we particularly enjoyed together.

When I was in England, in Leicester ("It has a cathedral? Oh, well I guess it's a city, then..."), I did a fair bit of exploring, at least considering how long I was actually there. Leicester is a Medieval city, its city centre bears testament to it with its bizarre winding roads and narrow lanes and alleys. There was a sprawling, park-like cemetary across the street from the university where I was attending the conference and when the lectures became too stuffy, I took myself off to it for a walk. I do love cemetaries. I'm really not sure what fascinates me about how people manage their dead, but I have always been interested. I've never been a death-bunny, hanging around in cemetaries and moping about, nor do I have an interest in corpses. No, I'm only interested in what happens after all that. From prehistoric burials and Ancient Egyptian mummies, to catacombs and modern cemetaries; I read articles and make visits to sites and museums to bear witness. This extends to preserved remains, too, like bog people, but that's not related to this particular entry. Anyway, the cemetary across from the University of Leicester reminded me of a slightly older, far less aesthetically beautiful Mount Pleasant Cemetary, in Toronto; not so conducive to picnicking, but still nice enough.

It wasn't so much this cemetary, though, that will stand out in my memory from Leicester. No, it was on the following day, when Gareth and I stumbled upon a gem of a find right in the middle of the city centre. Leicester is a typical city in that it has a vibrant surface life, the feeling of urban sophistication, of things going on. But, like so many cities, if you scratch at it, the veneer begins to peel back exposing a starker, less polished, and sometimes worm-eaten base. Leicester isn't worm-eaten, it's not riddled with holes that threaten to buckle the structure, but it is suffering that particular blight called Urban Decay. Look around long enough and you're bound to discover that there are far too many rental signs and closed-up shops. There are dirty buildings that show scars of age and a lack of concern for defacement. The people who live there, not the students or tourists, but the average folk have a blankness in their faces, a roughness sometimes, and occasionally something darker, like an emotional hunger. Oh yes, Leicester is a city, but not because of its cathedral.

At any rate, while wandering around and getting relatively lost in the process, we stumbled upon a beautiful old church wedged between typical blocky architecture, worn industrial buildings (complete with peeling paint and broken windows), and a construction site. The church is St. George's Church, and the neighbourhood is appropriately named St. George, based on the "Way" that cuts through it. Apparently there is a plan to redevelop the area, which can be read here. On that day, it was like we walked back in time. In fact, that's kind of what we did. Dusty city streets were left behind, their bustling people and vehicle noises and exhaust left behind as we wandered up the lane to St. George's. The church yard, amazingly still intact for an urban church, wound around it, overgrown with lush vegetation of all kinds, headstones covered in moss and leaning precariously. Edwardian lampposts marked out the walk past the church and a chest-high black, iron fence separated the graveyard from the walk.

I immediately wanted to wander amongst the graves and read (where I could) their inscriptions, but Gareth balked at the idea of hopping the fence and, in his mind, disturbing the dead. My argument was that we wouldn't be disturbing anything, instead, we'd be paying them respect that they obviously hadn't experienced in a while. Rubbish was strewn throughout the yard, caught in the long grass. I hopped the fence and knew immediately that no one was going to care. The graves seemed to date from the mid-late 1700s to the early 20th century and were surprisingly thin to still be intact. There are a lot of broken headstones in the UK, be it from moisture or vandalism. After a while, I hopped back out of the yard and joined Gareth again. We followed the lane around the church and realised something. This was a church that hadn't been in use for a long time. The sign, where services were listed, was hand-painted and peeling, using old fashioned lettering that suggested, at the most recent, the 1950s. The stained glass windows were black with soot and no light was going to pass through them. No, St. George's had been dark for a long time. In a way, it was very sad. This was a dead church. While we imagined a few elderly parishiners caring as best they could for it, the reality seemed to suggest otherwise. If anything, the Council would probably send someone to cut the grass once or twice a season.

And yet, surrounded as we were by the dead, a memorial to the fallen soldiers of the "Great War", and a deserted church, life was springing up all around us. Daffodils and other flowers were bursting from the earth and blossoms and leaves were exploding from the trees in the church yard. It was amazing. In the end, Gareth agreed that our exploration of the grounds and reading and photographing the headstones was far greater respect than the site had been paid in a long while. I hope that the church is preserved. I hope that it is allowed to remain and even if it never takes a congregation again, I hope that it is saved as a piece of Leicester's beautiful architectural history and that it's given the care it deserves. Considering Leicester's balancing act as a vibrant living city and a city threatened to be overwhelmed by urban decay, I suspect St. George's future is uncertain. As a university town boasting a strong liberal arts core, there is hope. Perhaps we visited right when Leicester is at the turning point and is actually undergoing renewal. I hope so - it was a fascinating place.

The good news is that there must be some semblance of spring (if not summer) because I saw a total of three robins today. They sing a slightly different song here, as if they speak the same language as their eastern relatives, but with an accent, or a slightly different dialect. Anyway, it was heart-warming to see them. And, somewhere near the Arts Centre, furry crocuses are growing. Seriously furry. I'll get pictures, I promise. Speaking of pictures, I have some nice shots up at deviantArt. Anyway, I will seek out said crocuses if only to prove that there is something growing in this ridiculously harsh climate.

Nevermind climate. Timezones. They suck. Granted, we've both been busy since my return to Whitehorse, but I've hardly had a chance to talk to Gareth all week. Not to mention that taking the bus home from work takes so much longer than driving does that it's already really late where he is by the time I fire up Kinsey and get online again. A remedy for this might be for me to get up earlier and enjoy some online time with him before I head off to work, but eight hours is a lot of difference to overcome. It hurts a bit, because I want to talk with him. Well, I never said it would be easy to handle the distance or separation, but I know that when I'm with him, there's no other place I'd rather be. We'll figure it out eventually, but it's frustrating.

Anyway, more about my trip, hm? The first night in Wales... I tried to be awake and engaged, but after a nearly sleepless flight (thanks to the hostile French couple sitting in the seats in front of me - a story for another time), I decided to lie down for a nap around six o'clock. At nine o'clock it became apparent that I wasn't going to be getting up for dinner and pretty much slept through the night. That first morning, waking up at Cwm Farm, was really lovely. I felt much better. Refreshed. Of course, then there was the challenge of getting the coffee maker to work. This machine took raw beans and spat out hot, delicious coffee. If only we could get it to work. It took three of us (Gareth, myself, and the daughter of his mum's boyfriend) to make it function. Following an uninspired breakfast, we went out to explore the farm. It was so beautiful. Holly trees, gorse in full bloom, everything green and shining with moisture. It was very much like a fairy tale. After seeing the photographs I took of the farm, one friend of mine asked me if it was alright for him to imagine that it was actually Middle Earth and not Wales. In my mind, why can't Wales be Middle Earth? Close enough to the place in which Tolkein was writing, isn't it?

Except that I don't recall a tale from Middle Earth that involved hundreds of small migrating spiders running through the wet grass. As an arachnaphobe, I just had to grin and bear it. They were everywhere. Interestingly, only on a certain terrain and I didn't come across anywhere near the numbers of them at any other place we visited. I expected to find them at the Botanical Gardens, but I didn't. Perhaps these were a special species: Running Cwm Spider. Needless to say, I made sure to keep walking where ever they were, because my phobic imagination had them running over my shoes and up my pantlegs. Because isn't that what every spider wants to do? Run up your pantleg and bite your thighs? No? Oh.

OH ! Before I sign off, because I'm really tired and it's pushing 2am, I have put in an application for a cat at the Yukon Humane Society. His name is Chacko and he's very small, a runt. He's shy and not comfortable with humans, though he's really bonded to another cat. I'm hoping that he will handle the separation alright and discover that I am a good person to bond to. He's black and white and delightful. If I get him, I'll probably pick him up mid-week, once I'm in my new apartment.

Stories about my trip will come, but I thought I'd share some commentary on the Conservative's new budget, first. If you're not interested in that, I recommend you visit my flickr account and look at my photos from the trip and entertain yourself that way.

Below are the post-budget comments from NDP Heritage critic Charlie Angus, reprinted from CAPACOA.

May 3, 2006

BUDGET IGNORES ARTISTS AND THE ARTS: Angus says Conservatives fail their first big test

OTTAWA - NDP Heritage Critic Charlie Angus (Timmins-James Bay) condemned yesterday's budget after Arts and Culture were virtually shutout of new spending and tax reform. The Conservatives, like their Liberal predecessors, failed to provide real security for the future of Arts and Culture in Canada, said Angus following the budget announcement.

"The only reference to arts and culture in the budget today was $50 million over two years to the Canada Council, while we saw absolutely nothing for the CBC, the film and television industry, Canadian museums, or Francophone and First Nations culture."

Even more surprising was the fact that they announced a series of tax cuts, but found no room to introduce income-averaging for those in the arts industry, and no tax credit for parents who enroll their kids in developmentally beneficial arts programs, said Angus.

"We knew that Canadian Heritage wasn't one of the Conservatives' top five priorities, but it's clear now that the Arts aren't a priority for them at all."

Chronic under-funding over the 12 years of majority Liberal governments has left the future of the Arts uncertain in Canada. There was a glimmer of hope in the 18 months of minority parliament where the NDP forced the Liberals to walk the talk of their social spending rhetoric, said Angus on Tuesday.

"The precarious state of Canadian culture after more than a decade of Liberal neglect required a significant reinvestment in artists and in the arts from this budget, but it simply hasn't come. This budget was a litmus test for the Conservative commitment to preserving Canadian Culture; they've failed." Angus concluded "It is now clear that the New Democrats are the only Federal Party committed to working toward a real future for artists and the arts."

It's time for a story. I have many, but I think I'll share a pair from April 22nd first. Gareth and I were given a lift into Cardiff by his mum and her boyfriend (which was very kind of them as they were heading elsewhere to a wedding). We stayed that night in the city centre Travel Lodge, which was a hole-in-the-wall hotel (there are a lot of them in the UK, it seems) making use of a building already in existence. This was a good idea on his part, booking us in, because we attended his brother's hockey game which wasn't until 10pm that night.

We went for dinner to a really delicious Indo-Malay restaurant called, if I remember correctly, Bali. The food was excellent and the portions generous but not ridiculously so. I didn't drink any alcohol, as I'd done my fair share the night before, instead having a yummy lychee nut drink. The service was really good. The waiters were attentive if perhaps a bit too eager to please. When Gareth got up to use the washroom at the end of the meal, I looked toward the bar and three or four of the waiters were standing at it looking straight at me. Then, seconds later, one arrived to clear dishes and proceded to ask me where I was from, etc. I thought to myself, "Is he hitting on me, or is he just being really nice?"

As he went away, the head waiter appeared, smiling and asking if our meal had been satisfactory. I got the feeling there was more to the smile than just common curtesy. I was right. "Can I buy you a drink?" he asked. "I would be very happy to buy you a drink at the bar," he said, gesturing to the bar where at least one other waiter was watching. "And maybe I could take you out?" I think I managed to look more flattered than shocked, but I'm not sure. Regardless, my answer was simple, "Thank you for your offer, but I really don't think my date would appreciate that." When Gareth returned, I couldn't resist telling him and when I went to the loo, the waiters came to him and were very nice. I told him that he should be flattered that his girl got hit on.

Later, we went to see the hockey game. Played by the university B team, let me tell you, this has got to be the worst game I've ever seen. Now, to be fair, the Welsh are not known for their hockey prowess. Leeks, sheep, choirs, and dragons, yes; hockey, no. But, what this team lacked in skill they made up in enthusiasm and fun. Even the guys working the sound booth (a pair of players from the university A team) were funny and enthusiastic (even offering stick handling advice in the intermissions). They picked some really appropriate tunes to highlight the insanity of the match, and I kid you not, they had the goalie up and dancing more often than he was stopping pucks, that's for sure. At any rate, it was no surprise that the Belfast team creamed them (12-2).

Following the game, one of the players called up to Gareth: "Sorry, Richard's brother !" in an appology for the worst game ever. Then, while decompressing afterward, they were mucking about on the ice and I managed to get hit in the knee with a puck that was aimed at the boards ! My response was, "Oh, fuck you !" which brought the player up into the stands appologising profusely. I told him that as pennance, I would keep the puck and go back to Canada and tell everyone how badly the Welsh play hockey. He agreed it was a fair trade. Anyway, it was a ton of fun, regardless of the bruise.

In other news, unrelated to my trip, I now possess the keys to my apartment and will soon be moving into it ! My mother has sent the first batch of my stuff up via Greyhound and it should arrive sometime late this week or early next. I am pretty excited to be getting a place of my own, and then I will get some furniture for it... and a cat. :) Yay !

Verdant, lush, beautiful: three adjectives aptly suited to describing Wales. Possibly, also ‘damp’. The people are amazingly friendly, kind and welcoming, the ales are strong and delicious, and the towns have unpronounceable names. I think it’s not incorrect to say I may well have fallen in love with the countryside of South Wales. I spent three days at Cwm Farm (pronounced Coom). This is the home of Marion (Gareth’s mother) and belongs to Dave, her boyfriend. It’s not a working farm, although a neighbour does pasture his cattle in one of its fields, but it makes charming habitat for local wildlife, which is essentially Dave’s intention. Birds fill the trees, holly trees and gorse grow everywhere, ivy climbs over everything, and a creak wends its way past the lovely farmhouse. There are outbuildings, one of which is being converted into the leisure/guest house. It already boasts an indoor swimming pool, but is currently being equipped with a film-screening room and getting a rather complete renovation. Despite the technology that fills the house like ivy does the woods, the whole locale is tranquil and extremely relaxed.

Visiting with Gareth was beyond wonderful. I cannot begin to describe how much fun we had. Meeting his family was not stressful as they are as great as he is, though it was possibly a bit embarrassing for him as his mother and I were more than comfortable swapping stories. His brother and sister are funny and warm, just as his mother is and I felt very comfortable with them. It is infrequent that a person gets to fall in love, which is different from loving someone. I’ve loved, and once, a long time ago in my teens, I was in love, but nothing compares to the intensity of feelings I have for Gareth. For the first time, with anyone, I feel like I’m a complete person. Comfortable in each other’s space, able to finish each other’s sentences, we fit together so well that it’s as though we’ve always known each other. We laugh and laugh, tease each other and have heart-felt, deep conversations about everything under the sun. Every moment with him feels as though it’s been well spent, regardless of whether it’s been wasted watching stupid flash animation on the internet or discussing American foreign policy.

Leicester was fun – the conference quite good and hosting numerous interesting speakers. It was nice to be surrounded by so many international museum and gallery workers and graduates of Leicester’s museum studies programmes. It gives me a good feeling about attending the Interpretive Studies degree as I plan. Amazingly, I was something of an exotic coming from an institution in the Yukon, almost as fascinating as the woman from Cameroon. I particularly enjoyed swapping stories about misconceptions of the north with a curator from Norway. It seems they, too, have a proliferation of polar bear images despite the fact that most of Norway does not boast the white beasts. I met interesting people with whom I hope to keep some contact and discussed at great length, well, museums. Surprise ! Leicester was an interesting old city, too, but despite the university and tourism, showed a rougher, seedier side belying the financial depression it seems to be suffering. London, too, was fun, but more than seeing the sites (or is it sights?); it was spending time at my mother’s childhood best friend’s flat in North London. Pat and her partner were generous and humourous hosts and made the last day and a half of my trip truly enjoyable. Gareth came with me to London and they accepted his presence without question and behaved exactly as if they’d always known him. Pat cooked a marvellous lamb stew for our first night, and for the last night, I treated everyone to a delicious meal at their favourite restaurant.

It is a great let-down to be back in Whitehorse and although I love my work, I can’t help thinking that I’d rather be in the UK than here. Nothing is growing yet – the snow in town only cleared a few days ago. Temperatures struggle to reach 5 degrees whereas I had gotten quite used to 15 degrees in England and Wales. I am happy to have had such a grand time, but I wish it was still going on. I said it when I was there the first time, and I maintain it still, I like London, and now I can add that I really love Wales, too. I miss Gareth terribly. It’s amazing how much a person can slot themselves into your life without you even realising until you’re apart. Living nearly half-way around the world from each other will continue to be difficult (and expensive), but now that I’ve got him, I don’t want to let him go. Thank God for the Internet.

Anyway, next post will be stories. I have tons of nifty things to talk about, but this is enough for now.