Greta Thunburg has spoken! And her words have stirred our collective conscience into re-thinking or prioritizing actions concerning our world. As one of the activist slogans reads; “There is No Planet B!” We have to admit it – the current mess happened on our watch. We should have thought of it before. But instead we are leaving it to our children and, even worse, our grandchildren. Unless…

Maybe it’s not too late for us to do something, even something small. As retired folks, we have free time. We can make changes. For example, since moving to the city, Peter and I have developed a passion for riding the subway, leaving our car behind and sitting quietly playing solitaire, occasionally sneaking looks at all the unusual outfits or behaviours nearby. “Holy cow Peter, did you see that?” There are other things we can do too.

As seniors we are all, sooner or later, at that life stage where we want to downsize, get rid of those extra household items and move to a smaller place. We did that last year. At first we had a lot of misconceptions. Surely our kids would want those lovely, gold-rimmed dishes that can’t go in the microwave or dishwasher? How about the stately office furniture, suitable for executives, even though they no longer need large desks because they have only laptop-sized computers?

Eventually. after recovering from all that terrible rejection, we got to work. We found online selling services, furniture banks, metal depots, women’s shelters, little libraries, church bazaars, all waiting for our cast-offs. Although it was an exhausting exercise, almost nothing went to a landfill site. Well, OK, I did throw out a pair of Peter’s ancient running shoes when he wasn’t looking.

And then there’s the garden, which you read about in a recent post. We are still eating cherry tomatoes, even for breakfast, and there is no end in sight. But even Peter the Farmer can’t grow everything in his small city plot. Sometimes I go to the grocery store, but I am determined not to use any plastic bags. In the produce department recently, I put a couple of bananas in my cart, naked. Some oranges too. Then I went to the brussels sprouts bin and put a couple dozen of them in the cart too. Oops – those little green balls rolled through the holes in the cart and onto the floor, and there I was, on my old-lady knees, chasing them under the counters.

Other things in the grocery store come over-wrapped. How about COSTCO with double-wrapped bathroom tissue? Really, are we worried about getting germs on our toilet paper? And toy wrapping is a real problem. Trucks and dolls usually come in hard plastic, so tough that even the best scissors can’t penetrate. Meanwhile the kids are crying out. “Nana can you please open that doll faster? I am Dying to hold her!”

Then what do we do with all this over-wrapping? Does it go into the recycling bin or the garbage? I’m often baffled by the city waste-management charts. For example, why do glass jars go in recycling, but glass drinking glasses go in the garbage? Why do aluminum pie plates go in recycling, but aluminum foil goes in the garbage? Why are we throwing these things out instead of re-using them anyway?

One big topic of concern is water conservation. Even though we live near the Great Lakes, we still read that one day water will be the earth’s most precious commodity. So how can we save some at home? Not running the tap while tooth-brushing is a good one. And brushing, even with less water, is better than what our parents had – dentures! Running the dishwasher and clothes washer only when they’re full is another good idea. Taking showers less often… well maybe that’s one we’re not ready to tackle quite yet!

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? We are used to such a comfortable lifestyle, we hate to give any of it up. Even for our grandchildren.

PS If you have other suggestions on how older people with spare time can help save the planet, please send a comment. I’ll post them on Friday.

Sue

Aha! And you thought it was Friday, not Tuesday!

Well it Is actually Friday, but I need to do a little catching up. I have been receiving so many comments on this site, but I never seem to have space to reply on Tuesdays. So occasionally, on a Friday, I’ll take some time to do that.

First of all, thank you to everyone who sends comments. I read them all and am grateful for the feedback. Mostly they are positive, and occasionally they are very funny. For example, one person wrote back this week about keeping her brain in shape – by learning bridge. Then she lamented her lack of progress. “I don’t think I’m playing with a full deck!” Another person wrote about living as a swinger by quoting Duke Ellington. “It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing!” Good to know I’ve got some stand-ins if I need a day off from writing.

Others have written with examples of places they have been or things they have seen in the city. One person responded to the post on festivals with a note about an Iranian festival in Toronto, “Tirgan” happening back in July. Sorry I didn’t think to publicize that one in time. Another person wrote in response to the post about saving money in the city.When you are at COSTCO getting that cheap hot dog, be sure to fill up on cheap gas too.

One of the early posts about buildings in the city elicited feedback. Two people wrote about specific buildings to check out. One wrote about the CNE building where the Royal Winter Fair is held. She says it seemed much larger when she was smaller. The original Toronto post office on Adelaide St., which is still in operation today, was mentioned by someone else. I remember taking adult ESL classes there when I was still teaching. It was a very friendly, but tiny, place. The Royal Mail, as it was called back then, didn’t send so much junk mail in the olden days.

Several comments have been made about living in the city. A proud grandfather, who lives down the lake in a different city from me, wrote about the entertainment his grandchildren find in looking out the window of his high-rise condo at all the fire trucks and ambulances that go by. Another person wrote about feeling like a tourist as she reads my blog. She hasn’t visited the city in 25 years. And a friend, who brought some country folks to visit me in the city, said they had quite an experience using public transit, some of them for the first time. They were mortified when they were offered seats by “youngsters.” And they almost missed their stop going home, because they were gabbing so much.

The post that has gotten the most response was the one about swimming, or Not swimming, in Lake Ontario. There were childhood stories about swimming; in Sandy Lake just after the ice had melted, or in other places along the shores of Lake Ontario where the water was just as cold as I had found it. One family wrote about spending 30 years living on the shores of Lake Ontario, and how much the lake had been the focus of their lives. There was a message about the water of Lake Superior; where the water is so cold that swimming in it is only possible a few times each summer. My niece, who lives out west, had the most shocking response. She swims in Lake Kootenay where there actually ARE glaciers!

As for errors, well there have been some. Despite reading my words over at least 3 times, I always seem to miss a letter or a comma somewhere. I also used the word “gypped” in one post and someone picked that up – I hadn’t realized that it is considered racist by the Roma. And then there are the pictures. Sometimes they fail to appear – lost in a cloud somewhere.

But I will carry on. And I hope you carry on too – reading, and writing back whenever you want to.

Sue

This is how my first Italian class began last Friday. For quite a while I have been gathering up my nerve to learn another language. All the research on aging suggests that, while push-ups and cardio exercises are crucial for healthy bodies, learning a second language is a very useful mental exercise. Got to keep those synapses firing! I regularly play solitaire on my phone along with many other people on the subway, and do the sudoku in the newspaper until the difficulty level gets over 3 stars. But then what?

My first thought was to expand on my cereal-box French. That’s where, as young children, we picked up our first French words. “Tony le tigre dit, ‘ils sont um um bons!” In high school French we learned mostly grammar. Hardly anybody speaks with the precise sentence structure and verb endings we learned in grade 10.

Then I remembered – I live with a walking Italian dictionary! Furthermore I already know a lot of Italian words: lasagne, panini, spaghetti al la Bologese, picked up at favourite Italian restaurants. I can spell Michelangelo, Galileo, and Machiavelli especially with the help of spell-check. And I know other common expressions such as Ciao! and Salute! Mama Mia I am almost fluent!

But, when Peter, well actually Pietro, and I go to visit his relatives, somehow these words do not seem to be enough. Often I am left sitting silently wondering what they are saying and if they are saying it about Me. (Behind my back but in front of my face, so to speak). Then someone will say something that catches my attention, like “piano” and I just know they are not talking about music. The context doesn’t always help.

So it’s off to Italian classes. This is not my first time. I tried an Italian class when we lived in the country, but it was quite a long drive from home, and it always seemed to snow on class night. After a few classes the teacher switched to Italian Cooking Class. We learned to say a few things like “aggiungi il sale al risotto” as we cooked and tasted the food, along with a taste of chianti on the side. This class was worth the drive! But then we moved to the city.

It was pretty easy finding a class here. The “Instituto di Cultura,” a few blocks from a subway stop, offers classes every day of the week. There are cultural events there as well. Many private schools offer classes too. Then I found an adult learning centre within a couple of kilometers that offers beginner Italian on Friday mornings. I signed up.

Signora Campisi met us at the door on Friday with a welcoming “buon giorno!” She gave us bright red folders, and stickers so we could put our names on them and not lose them. Hmmmm, I thought, maybe this is TOO beginnerish. But soon we got into the lesson. We spent time on pronunciation and some verbs. She talked about supplementing our weekly practice with CHIN radio and TLN tv programs. She gave us homework – to practise rolling our “R’s.” Then it was “arrrrr…ivederci” until next week.

When I told one friend about my new class, she asked, “Why do you need to study Italian words and phrases anyway? Isn’t Italian all hand gestures?” Peter laughed uproariously at this question, as he waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. Good thing there was no stemmed wine glass nearby.

If you have found an interesting way to keep Your synapses firing, send us a comment.

Sue

When we moved from the country to the city, one thing we thought we’d regret was leaving our large back yard. My husband, Peter, was reluctant to abandon his gigantic vegetable garden, and his morning glories which had wandered out of control. We both knew we would miss all the wildlife: wild turkeys who bravely strutted around near Thanksgiving, a gentle deer who came to eat our newly-blooming tulips, sly foxes and coyotes, and one racoon we named Rocky who somehow managed to climb into our bird feeder, forcing Peter to get out his slingshot. Would we ever find such entertainment in our city back yard?

As summer comes to an end, we can definitely say that “Yes we did!” True, it was not a deer but squirrels who ate our tulips. One scrappy one got into our bird feeder by way of climbing on my new red swing, (How dare he!), and then flying through the air. We haven’t seen coyotes or foxes, but our attention has been stolen by the birds. The robins amuse us by bathing and splashing around in our bird feeder and then drinking the water. Yuck. We have a pair of cardinals who visit too. At first there was only a male, but soon he wooed a female with his loud love songs, right near our bedroom window. Well I guess that wasn’t so amusing at 6:00 am.

As for the vegetable garden, Peter agreed that we would downsize drastically – to pots. Basil, rosemary, even cherry tomatoes would grow in pots, he declared. We would put the pots right near the back door so we wouldn’t have to go too far to get the produce. This seemed like a good plan to me. But soon Peter was wandering around the back yard measuring and thinking. And then a new plan evolved: a small patch, only a few feet wide, near the back fence, that wouldn’t even be noticeable. His eyes were wide with anticipation. How could I say no?

Soon the digging began. The tiny patch turned into a large plot. Tomato plants were joined by cucumbers, zucchini, even squash. Then I noticed the extension ladder precariously leaning against a large ash tree and Peter climbing up with a saw. He had decided that his garden was not getting enough sun, and a few branches had to be cut. I rushed to get my cell phone, ready to call 911 on the spot.

After the poor ash was almost naked and Peter was safely on the ground, he declared the garden ready. He visited it every evening with the hose. The produce grew. And grew. Meanwhile the ash branches had to be bundled and hauled to the curb for the compost pick-up. In the country these branches would just be thrown into the nearby forest. Here in the city we had to stand by, ready to bribe the garbage man.

The garden flourished and the produce began to appear on the kitchen counter with Peter’s wry question: “Do you have a recipe for these?” Bu this year, unlike in the past, the amount was not overwhelming. I could easily run to the store for flour and other missing ingredients. Our family and friends, who now live much closer, were treated to zucchini bread, bruschetta, and cucumbers to take home. I had to admit that the vegetable garden was a success.

But the last word goes to the morning glories. Guess what? We didn’t leave them behind after all. A few stray seeds must have found their way into a pot, somehow. They survived the moving van and the cold winter in the shed. In the early summer they showed their brave little heads in a re-planted oleander pot, slowly winding their way upward through the branches to the top, as if to say: “We wanted to move to the city too!”

Sue

Yesterday I was a little worried about my husband Peter. He was not at home yet at 5:00 and we had a dinner invitation for 6:00. Finally, at 5:15, he came rushing in with a large box under his arm. A leaf blower! On sale for $39.95!! But he had had to go to 4 Canadian Tire stores, using up 1/4 tank of gas, before he scored one.

Living in the city is more expensive than living in the country. Quite possibly it’s because we are doing more. Like us, most seniors have more free time, and less income. Money is precious. We all try to cut corners where we can.

And, with more time on their hands, many people really enjoy hunting for a bargain, scouring flyers for coupons, and rushing to stores for sales. Stores know this. Shoppers Drug Mart is a prime example.The management understands that we seniors will be shopping here a lot in the future. Every Thursday they welcome us as we arrive with our lists, and stand in line to get our 20% discount. Other stores such as The Bay have monthly deals for seniors. Hotels, car rental agencies, and some restaurants offer deals too, although sometimes they “forget” to mention it, pretending we are much younger than we look.

Here, in our new home in the city, we have had a year to suss out bargains. Besides our local Shoppers, The Bay and so on, we have found other deals. One of the big savings is eating out at lunch time. We have discovered a great Thai lunch place with specials: for only $10 we get soup, and a main course which is big enough to provide leftovers for the next day. The local pub has a different special every day of the week. If it’s chicken souvlaki this must be Tuesday. The nearby IKEA has Swedish meatballs, or salmon and vegetables for only $9.99. All you have to do is walk through the warehouse, avoid temptations, and get in your 10,000 steps.

Of course, the best meal deal is at COSTCO. How can you beat $1.50 for a hot dog with condiments and a refillable drink? And if you’re still hungry, you can wander around the store and sample rice crackers, chocolate-covered blueberries, sausage bites and granola. Then you finish off with a soft ice cream cone for $1.35. Seniors are not the only ones who take advantage of COSTCO. Families often sit down on Friday nights for “dinner” after they have shopped for their weekend supplies.

Saving on gas is another adventure. Radio stations regularly announce the gas stations with the best price. People often show up in their pyjamas after hearing that the price will go up 2 cents at midnight. Some gas stations always have the lowest price, and the longest lines. But when you’re over 60, you have time to sit in line-ups, as long as you have the latest sudoku puzzle with you.

Peter’s big mission in our new neighbourhood has been finding free parking spots. The parking is expensive on our main street where the banks, bakery, drug store and his favourite Sunnyland produce store are located. His go-to parking spot is at a local restaurant with a handy lot, which is mostly empty in the mornings until 11:30.When the restaurant opens up for lunch, he parks on a nearby street where the parking is free.

Yesterday morning he came home elated! He had been forced to park in a pay-to-use spot because he was late for an appointment. As he was reluctantly pulling out his wallet, his guardian angel was standing right there. She approached him with a parking receipt only half-used. After thanking her, maybe a little bit too profusely, he calculated the money he had saved, added in the Canadian Tire coupons in his wallet, and went in search of the leaf blower. When you’re 70, days like these can make your life pretty exciting!

Sue

A short walk from our new home in the city, through parkland, along residential streets, beside a bike path, and soon we come to – ta dah – Lake Ontario!

I have been a big fan of Lake Ontario from the time I was eight and my parents bought a “summer cottage” on lakefront property. My early years were filled with swimming in big waves, learning to row a boat, and riding on Rudy’s sea-doo. Have I mentioned Rudy before? That muscular, blue-eyed, blond-haired neighbour whom I thought looked like Marlon Brando? But I digress. There were problems with the lake: seaweed washing ashore after a storm, and dead fish littering the beach when the pollution levels got too high. But the lake was always there, a constant and powerful force of nature in the back yard of my youth.

I spent a lot of time sitting at the end of the dock, comforted by the waves; when I failed a subject at school, when our beloved dog died, when Rudy moved on…Then the family cottage was sold and my connection to the lake moved to Kingston where I went to university. The Queen’s campus was only a couple of blocks from the shoreline and I often walked down to sit on the rocks and study on warm fall or spring days.

After Queen’s, the lake and I broke up. I spent most of my adult life in the Toronto suburbs some distance from the lake, and the memories were dimmed by more immediate water bodies: swimming lessons for kids in a neighbourhood pool, visits to a summer cottage on a Muskoka lake, a couple of ocean cruises. I almost forgot about my lake; aptly named Ontario, the Iroquois word for “beautiful lake,” by Etienne Brulé, many years ago. Although the smallest of the Great Lakes, it is part of that system, the largest group of freshwater lakes on Earth, and a major route for transportation, migration, and trading, crucial to the history of Canada.

When my husband Peter and I decided to move to the city last year we didn’t think about being close to a lake. We were preoccupied with more practical considerations like access to public transportation and an extra bathroom. But after we moved, we began to explore the neighbourhood. And there it was – a short walk south from our house – My Lake!

In June I made a vow to have at least one swim in Lake Ontario before the end of the summer. But life got in the way and soon it was Labour Day weekend. I confessed my one weekend wish – to walk down to the lake and jump in. My brave husband agreed to go with me. We checked the weather forecast and chose the warmest day. As we put on our bathing suits, I began to feel like my eight-year-old self again, all excited and eager. I hurried down the path towards the shore, far ahead of Peter who was taking his time, hampered by his Mediterranean blood. Meanwhile I unzipped my beach cover-up and made a dash for the water.

Yikes! The water temperature was glacial!! I plodded ahead anyway and the water got to my knees. When I looked down, they seemed to be turning blue. I inched forward until the water came up to you-know-where. It was freezing! How had I not remembered this from my childhood? Or had the water temperature plummeted in the last sixty years? Peter, who had given up at his toes, stood by admiring my progress. I took a few more tiny arctic steps, submersing my arms as I went. Still unbearable. Finally, waist-deep, I was done.

I turned towards the shore, shivering and disappointed, as a show-off dog swam by. I surveyed the water from the warmth of the shoreline, thinking that my lake was still truly wonderful. And realizing that there are some things you just can’t do at seventy, even in the city.

Sue

Literally. When I tried to stand up after a recent theatrical experience, I thought my legs might be atrophied forever.

Peter and I love going to the theatre and we especially enjoy all the opportunities to do so now that we live in the city. I wrote about our fondness for the Royal Alex Theatre in another post a while ago. We really enjoy the Mirvish subscription series and have seen many diverse and entertaining shows and actors that David and his father Ed have been able to stage for Toronto audiences.

On the other end of the theatrical spectrum, we enjoyed being in the audience to watch our granddaughter Agnes onstage this summer. She signed up for drama camp and invited us to the grand finale, “The Music Man.” There she was, dressed as Ethel in her long skirt , gloves, and broad-rimmed hat, looking very matronly for a seven-year-old. When she belted out “Seventy Six Trombones” as she pranced around the stage with the other young actors, we were delighted. We got her to sign the program for us, in cursive writing, as she pointed out.

Last weekend, when we realized that summer was drawing to a close, we decided to attend a show we hadn’t seen in years, not since we were much younger and more flexible. We packed our pillows and snacks and headed for a night of Shakespeare In the Park. It was a night of adventure, far more than we had anticipated. First of all we got off at the wrong subway stop and had to walk through a very long off-leash dog park. It was getting dark and we had to watch out for tree roots and well you know what else is lurking in a dog park… as we hurried along.

Eventually we saw the signs for the play, “Much Ado About Nothing,” But we were late and the outdoor amphitheatre was packed. We spotted a space between two young couples and signalled to them. They shifted a little bit to let us in. We balanced carefully so as not to land in their laps as we inched past. Then we looked down at the seating – it was not seating at all but rather a grassy ledge with a cement back. We plopped down, wondering: “Where do we put our legs?” What we had thought would be leg space was actually the back seat of the people in front of us. And the show was starting.

We carefully tucked our legs underneath us while arranging our pillows against the cement back. Hmmm…how long was this show anyway? Neither of us had thought to find out. We focused on the stage as the narrator arrived, wearing very short shorts, speaking the modern vernacular, and waving her cell phone around. We were drawn in as other characters took the stage and gently led us from 2019 back into the Shakespearean story. The plot followed the original, although abridged and edited, with modern costumes and props. It was clever and we were enjoying ourselves.

But gradually we began to squirm.In an effort at disctraction, we opened our beer and snacks. The plot thickened. Sub-plots emerged. The wedding scene, with elaborate costumes and dancing, was visually beautiful. The comic relief was hilarious. But our legs were talking to us: “When is intermission so we can stretch?”

With no break in sight, we tried turning sideways, but then other body parts complained. We slouched down but then our knees popped up and we couldn’t see the stage. We tried stretching out but then we nudged the people in front. Despite all our discomfort, we were enjoying the show. After a while the actors made their final bow and we clapped and cheered in response.

Then we tried to stand up. We bent our knees one last time and pushed back against the cement wall. Slowly, slowly, our legs straightened and we were UP. Yea! We gathered our empty beer cans, turned around, and realized that our seats were now steps. We helped each other climb up to the top. Finally we reached the exit, far behind the rest of the audience whom we noticed were mostly younger. By this time it was very dark and the path was gravelly. More challenges awaited us as we made our way towards the subway in the dark on our still-wobbly legs.

After we arrived home, we analyzed the evening. All in all a success. But next time we’ll take a flashlight and more pillows. And definitely more beer.

Sue

The young boy gasped in horror as he stared down at his feet. There was his entire box of popcorn scattered on the dirty cement floor. Beside him a classmate pumped furiously at the ketchup spout, missing her hot dog entirely and creating a thick red lake on the counter. It was going to be an interesting day at the Rogers Centre concession stands.

Peter and I made our way past the mess to our regular seats. We have had baseball tickets for several years. From the excitement of “Joey Bats” Bautista, Edwin “EE” Encarnation, and the American League East Championship, to the loss of these players and other pillars of the team, we had stood by the Blue Jays loyally, even moving into the city so we would not have such a long trip to the ball park. (At least that was One of the reasons we moved). This year was labelled a year of re-building. We considered our new easy commute on the subway and decided to take a chance on the inexperienced team.

The first couple of games in the Spring were pretty close, giving us hope. But then in June there was a rout. As the opposing team scored run after run, we watched the CN Tower edge-walkers, filled up on nachos and beer, and generally waited around until it was the eighth inning and we could leave without feeling gypped. We skipped July, finding other activities in the country instead, and when our August game rolled around, we were hesitant. Should we even bother?

Then we saw the headlines: “Wednesday Is Camp Day at the Rogers Centre.” Well at least the kids would be a distraction. And were they ever! The entire 500 level was full of groups, dressed in identifying colours of lime green, fluorescent orange, red, yellow and Blue Jays blue. All of the little fans were hyper: they had been well-schooled in the cheers and they shouted themselves hoarse with screams of “Let’s Go Jays!” “Strike Him Out!” and their favorite: “Charge!”

When they weren’t screaming they were doing The Wave. And when they weren’t waving their bodies, they were waving their large foam fingers, or they were waving their camp-created banners. The banner contest had caught their attention and they had decorated huge rolls of paper with hearts, kisses, smiley faces; anything they could think of to say “We love you Blue Jays!”

When they were bored with cheering, they watched the jumbotron, hoping to see themselves or their friends live on the big screen. Or they watched as the announcer asked the big question: “What’s your favourite part of coming to the ball park?” The answer rose up from the young crowd: “The food!” And so, on cue, the kids begged their counsellors to release them to the thrill of the concession stands for a feast of chips, pop, cotton candy, gummie bears and ice cream on a stick. Good luck to any parents trying to feed them a healthy dinner after all of that.

Around the end of the seventh inning, the 500 level suddenly became quiet. Had the little fans all passed out from sugar overdoses? We looked up. The 500 level had cleared out. Camp day was over! We could sit back and watch the rest of the game in peace.

But no! By this time, the office group behind us had consumed several dozen beers and were getting loud. They hotly debated the advantages of wake-boards over sea-doos, they complained about fraud in the office football pool, they argued about the talents of their favourite bands. Finally they started in on the latest office gossip. Peter and I looked at each other. Time to leave. The Jays were losing and we had already gotten our money’s worth of entertainment.

Sue

We recently left our new city for an adventure in the north. As we boarded our first flight, we wondered how we would manage, trading in our new urban mindsets for a couple of weeks outdoors.

Our first stop is a city, but a fairly small one by our new terms of reference. One of the northernmost cities on earth, Anchorage supports about 300,000 people. The buildings in the downtown core seem short and utilitarian, dwarfed by the Chugach mountain range towering above, with no skyscrapers anywhere. The Saturday outdoor market is a big draw for both locals and tourists. Artisan wood products, jam made from local blueberries, and fresh-caught salmon (burgers) are some of the most popular purchases. It’s a far cry from the Eaton Centre.

Across from the market, the 12-mile Coastal Trail begins. Walkers, bikers, roller-bladers, love to spend an entire day weaving through forests and meadows, along the coast of the Cook Inlet. For some lucky visitors, the Aurora lights are a brilliant highlight. It’s not hard to spend the 18 hours of daylight outside in this northern gem of a city.

The Alaska Railway takes us south from Anchorage to our next stop. On the way we catch a glimpse of a moose swimming across an inlet. All eyes become fixated on the views from the train windows, searching for another four-legged swimmer. Occasionally someone sees a water spout. This could be an indication that a school of humpback whales is following along beside the train. Calls for breakfast in the dining car go unanswered as we all stare out the windows looking for signs of other wildlife. This is definitely not the GO train on its morning commuter run.

On board our ship for the trip south to Vancouver, we discover the promenade deck just one floor below our cabin. Here we spend every spare moment of the next week, getting our “steps” as we parade around the circumference of the ship, stopping occasionally to watch another humpback’s tail flicking out of the water, or a few sea otters whose close -cropped heads look like bowling balls bobbing along. The mountains continiue to frame our views and, although there is very little snow on the peaks, they are still majestic.

On a couple of excursions we encounter more wildlife. We visit a bald eagle preserve in rubber dinghies, swirling along, following the fast-moving current. It’s hard to take pictures while holding on to the sides, but we manage to photograph a few birds soaring overhead, and one or two sitting on nests and watching over their “juveniles.” At another national park we spy a black mother bear fishing in a stream for salmon. She paddles along slowly and quietly, sneaking up on the salmon while her cubs play in the trees overhead. “Sooo Cute!” we exclaim as we snap away.

A third excursion takes us to the famous Mendenhall Glacier Park. By this point we are really getting into these outdoor experiences and we grab our backpacks with serious intent. We are shocked by what we find at the glacier. I had visited this spot 20 years ago – in 1999 – and taken a photo. Here at the park we search out the same camera angle… and find less than a third of the ice. The glacier seems to be melting before our very eyes! Where there used to be a thick wall of ice, dramatically “calving” huge chunks into the ocean, now there is only water lapping at the shoreline, a beach of pebbles and silt all that is left of this great giant.

On our way home we make a brief stop in Vancouver where we discover a city much like Toronto, but one that definitely lives outdoors more. We spend the first day meandering through beautiful Stanley Park, similar to Toronto’s High Park, but much busier. On the second day we tour part of Vancouver Island and an old growth forest with trees still standing after 800 years. We visit friends whose outdoor patio is home to squirrels, birds and a few deer who come by at breakfast every morning.

Finally we board our plane for home, thinking about how much we have loved being outdoors. But our view of the glacier has shown us first-hand us that climate change is really here. More than ever, we need to treasure our forests, our water bodies, and our wildlife, while they are still around. We promise ourselves that we will start exploring more of the outdoors in our new city, even if we sometimes have to wear parkas.

Sue

This is my tenth post on Seventy In the City and not once have I mentioned all my medical issues. You must be shocked; we oldies tend to talk a lot about our illnesses and besides, I’m sure you really want to know about my thyroid condition, my carpal tunnel syndrome, my bunion which hampers shoe shopping, and my slight heart murmur. You don’t? Well that’s disappointing.

Anyway, what I Will tell you about is our hunt for doctors after we moved into the city and realized that it was not a good idea to keep our old doctors whose offices are almost an hour’s drive away. We could die in transit!

It seems that in a big city, like almost everywhere else in Canada, patients are short of doctors. Finding a good one, someone who makes you feel comfortable and secure, can be tricky. When we asked neighbours and friends in our new neighbourhood about their doctors, we got the same response: “Not taking any new patients.”

One day, on one of Peter’s walks to visit his “girlfriend” at Sunnyland produce store, he noticed a new medical building on the corner. This could be worth a try. Sure enough, a couple of the doctors in this building were taking new patients. But the sign-up procedure was extensive. First there was an interview. It was described as a meet-the-doctor visit but we knew it was definitely an interview. We needed to pass in order to get the position.

The question was – what was the doctor looking for? Did she want a sickly patient with interesting symptons that would present a challenge?

“Oh Doctor, I have this sore neck. It could be my jaw because I bit down hard on a nut the other day. Or maybe I’ve been playing too much golf. I think my mother had arthritis in her neck when she got older. Maybe it’s that. Or my thyroid condition?”

But maybe the Doctor wanted someone healthy who would only need appointments for routine procedures…

“Oh Doctor, I feel really great. I get lots of exercise. I only drink one, well maybe two, glasses of wine a day. No unusual lumps, except for fat of course, ha ha. Regular bowel movements every morning at 7:00, or maybe 7:30. Is that enough to pass?”

Then we discovered another problem. There were only Female doctors at this facility. Peter turned red-faced at the news. He had never been examined by a female, well that’s not quite true, but he was nervous anyway.

We dawdled for a while, considering our options. We checked out the doctors on the College of Physicians and Surgeons website and were relieved to discover no bad marks against either of them. Finally we signed up for the meet-and-greet. It was gruelling but we were both sent to the next step, a visit to the medical lab to get the whole truth.

We found the lab at a nearby subway stop. We walked in and searched for chairs in the crowded waiting room. We sat and sat and sat. It was ominously quiet; everyone thinking their own dark thoughts. Nobody was even looking at their phone! After what seemed like hours, it was our turn.

We were prodded, poked and pinched. The nurse took so much blood that I finally begged her to please leave a little for me. The x-ray technician put me through a circus act of strange contortions in order to photograph every angle. The urine sample, well you probably know how embarrassing it is to be carrying that little bottle back through the waiting room to deliver it to some lucky nurse. Not a good idea to try hiding it in your purse or pocket either.

Finally it was all over. We had both passed! We went out for lunch to toast our new-found doctors. And yes, we had a glass of wine. Or two.

Sue

PS For the next two weeks I will be taking a break from the city and going to a place where there is no internet service. You’ll hear from me again on Tuesday August 12th. Unless my thyroid acts up….