Tag Archives: Vancouver

Blowing Magic Bubbles

“No matter how far you travel, you never get away from yourself.  It’s like your shadow. It follows you everywhere.”                        Haruki Murakami – ‘After the Quake’

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Foreign travel is my life’s passion but of necessity I return home (along with my shadow,) albeit reluctantly to water my plants and change shirts.  Soon enough the welcome of familiar surroundings becomes humdrum but fortunately I reside immediately facing Vancouver’s Stanley Park and Lost Lagoon is a stone’s throw from my door.  In praise of this immense urban park, I’ll vouch to never knowing what  awaits behind a majestic Douglas fir or along the ten kilometres of seawall around English Bay.  Daily I stroll along the leafy paths and feed the chickadees,  the squirrels too and if in a forgiving mood perhaps indulge a thieving racoon or two, especially the new born in the spring that admittedly are cute little rascals.

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(Note: To improve your viewing experience click on the photos below to enlarge — once for medium, twice to zoom in.) 

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At any rate one day this spring as I ambled down the shady lane leading to the lagoon, I was surprised, no, in fact, flabbergasted by what materialized in front of my eyes.  A soap bubble so large it almost filled up all of the sky between two large cedars.  I had no idea where that dazzling UFO had come from, it hovered an instant then in a breath of air flew upwards and in the sunlight a kaleidoscope of colours shimmered as if by magic.

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Those who know me well will not be surprised when I claim blowing soap bubbles in the wind is a wonderfully therapeutic activity.  To be candid it’s an activity I am totally in tune with, one might say I was born to be a Bubble Blower.  I can imagine nothing more heavenly, as fragile or short-lived and therein lies its poignant charm.   I might compare the bubble’s evanescent  existence to the span of a human life since when we first walked the face of this planet.  ‘Time’ is incomprehensible, beyond control, aloof and willful, fleeting as a shooting star.    But, this is to be a happy anecdotal story and thus I’ll spare you from more of such kill-joy musings.

Cherry blossoms seen behind the diaphanous bubble have but a short life span as well; such loveliness cannot be hoarded but pause and breathe in the time of a sigh, let go and await next year.  Always allowing myself the gift of a future pleasure is part of my personality make-up, or as a perspicacious friend claims me to be, “The Eternal Optimist.”  Truthfully I can’t quibble with that statement and am rather happy about it and grateful for such priceless good fortune. 

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Bubbles must be blown in the wind so the element of unpredictability is present every second, the god Zephyr must be of a mood  to change the direction and shape of a bubble to create the most whimsical of shapes and bursts of colours.   Now how did I come to blow bubbles? I mean gigantic bubbles that have no kinship with those of childhood.  Remember? You’d find a straw, carefully slice one end perhaps four or five times, bend the flaps to create a kind of starfish shaped instrument.

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 Then you’d dip it in a soapy water, warm but not too warm, pick up a small drop, carefully bring it to the mouth and then a blow a steady but gentle stream of air through the other end.  Result? Soap bubbles would materialize and with a delicate shake the bubble would release and fly off for an ethereal moment of glory.

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Indeed, even then as a burgeoning romantic lad I had come to equate soap bubbles with the fickleness of life.  Was I destined even then to be circumspect about my future prospects? Happily, I can emphatically say not but it was a close call after we’d emigrated to these shores when I was in my mid-teens.  Without being over stating the culture shock was traumatic and I never quite totally got over it.  But that’s an altogether other story to be told in full in my autobiography (presently in the furrowed brow stage).  

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Or they’d pop almost immediately and that too made me learn the rudiments of a philosophical stoicism admixed with an altar boy’s faith and hope about what to expect from life.  Some bubbles last and others don’t, and that’s that.  Well, all this is really of not much import however it does serve to introduce my recent adventure with soap bubbles, but in this instance gigantic, colourful ones such as my wildest dreams wouldn’t have been able to imagine. So, what is the science behind these beauties?  A soap bubble is an extremely thin film of soapy water enclosing air that forms a hollow sphere with an iridescent surface.   Not to get too technical (don’t want to ruin the whimsical quality) when light shines on the surface beautiful colours shimmer and swirl arising from interference of light reflecting off the front and back of the microscopically thin soap film.   And my friends, that’s where the explanations stop before it destroys the whimsical nature of blowing magic bubbles.  

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A few steps and I discovered where and who was the inspired creator of that surprise.  And that immediately brought to mind the very same phenomenal puffs of soap in front of Musée Pompidou, in Paris.  A few years ago for the first time in my life I saw a man entertaining a sizeable crowd, adults and children alike,  creating giant diaphanous air balloons. Curious as always,  I learned after chatting he now earned a good living from the coins tossed in to a hat.  In a heavily accented French he told coming from the Azore Islands where as a boy he’d learned the trick from his grand-father.  One afternoon he’d taken his children to a nearby park to entertain with bubbles as there was no money for carousel rides and instantly a sizeable crowd had gathered to cheer the display.  

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Months unemployed and unable to find a job he’d taken a chance to do exactly what he was doing then and it now fed him, a wife and two children.   There were several other entertaining acts in the large square fronting the Pompidou Centre but he had by far the largest gathering, no wonder, I thought, each and every one of us must at one time have blown tiny little bubbles and here was the absolute Everest compared to our puny hill of beans.  

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If I were of a mind to wax poetic I’d suggest this hopeful young lady is reaching for a bit of ethereal happiness.   I hope she finds it much more permanent than that elusive bit of froath but just as beautiful.

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The creator of the bubble was doing his thing by the edge of the water.  Later he told me the location was perfect as the wind was just right, neither too strong nor too weak with enough changes in direction to allow for different flight patterns.  Indeed, contrary to the bubbles of youth, these giants at times flew a considerable distance and lasted ten or more seconds.  Let me introduce the artist who delighted me and a gathering crowd with an impressive series of splendid bubbles.   His name is Rimvi and he turned out to be a really decent and generous fellow – you’ll soon discover why I thought so.

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Was he talented? Sure, look, he could conjure up  ‘doubles’ too.  Wow!  And the next one was HUGE!

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I spent several minutes watching and growing envious too.  Finally, I approached and asked if he’d be so kind as to let me try my hand at the exercise.  As I’d surmised since only a fine young man would take such pleasure in blowing bubbles he readily agreed and now you can judge for yourself if I possessed any latent yet promising  talent.

Oops, that was a bit of a bust … no pun, really, it went ‘ploop’ right off.  

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The truth is it took a few tries to get the hang of releasing the bubbles.  Making one was relatively easy although to be candid no sure thing, that came along soon enough but they seemed to get stuck to the tip end of my sticks.

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It took a bit of practice and a deft move. Think of it as if you were releasing a dove in the air.   Throwing your hands upwards but reasonably gently while tip-toeing back two or three steps,  gingerly but with purpose — in other words it took a little practice but I got it and now I share with you my best bubbles. 

Ah, that was better!

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This monumental (to my eyes) effort was caught on camera a milli-second before blowing up.  Notice the bottom tearing up.  

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This one was a winner, almost the size of a whale but the wrong camera angle as the sunlight was too bright and the colours didn’t  show well;  yet notice the witnessing couple in ‘shock and awe’ at the evidence of my prowess.  

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Finally  I’ll leave you with this shot, I don’t know, really if it was MY bubble or Rimvi’s but what the heck, I’ll be generous let it be his and I’ll take credit for a great shot, catching just the right angle of sun rays for maximum kaleidoscope effects.  

P1110042_2  Yes sir, I’m a generous kinda fella, love to spread the praise around, pour moi aussi naturellement.   A final note, I’m going to find the ‘bubble artist’ again, then I’ll plead with him to instruct me on how to manufacture the paraphernalia required to create my own happiness bubbles whenever and wherever.  My next trip I’ll share will be to Belgium – see you then.  Aurevoir mes amis.

‘Evanescence’

As a soap bubble life is ephemeral

let me live it with grace and dazzle

and when I burst out from existence

one tear drop I’ll leave as evidence.

On the smooth cool marble proclaim

a passionate heart was his domain.

Le Fabulist

   
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Clouds – ‘God’s Breath’

If you know anything about me you’ll know I was born in the scenic Champagne area of France, more particularly in a small town appropriately named Ay-Champagne.   Elsewhere I’ve detailed the  wonderful youthful memories  I cling to and hold close to my heart so that when I had recently decided to post a new photographic essay based on my favourite ‘cloud’ photos, an ancient memory resurfaced and I’ll confess it ran shivers down my spine.  I had decided on a title: Clouds – ‘Heavenly Drifters’ and was quite satisfied as I lifted it from a poem I’d  penned long, long ago.  And yet, late at night, unable to sleep, I was musing about which photos I might use when of a sudden my father’s clear and distinct voice whispered , “God’s breath.”  I sat up straight.  Yes, of course, how could I have forgotten?

In a small, agricultural community it’s a common occurrence to see children visit their fathers working in the fields, or in our case in the hilly vineyards that provided the backdrop (and prosperity) to our town.   Often after school, if I wasn’t kicking a football (soccer for you American readers) around, I might take it in my head to go see what my father was up to and if perhaps he’d found something of interest for me. Indeed, numerous times during a break from back-breakingt toil he’d taken the trouble to forage for fruit in season, cherries, pears, wild plums, even the elusive quince after the first frost.  Very occasionally there might be a couple of delicious Chardonnay grapes but only if they were what we called ‘fumée’ that is the skin took on a smoky hue and you’d be lucky to find three such grapes in an entire vineyard.  Failing that he’d always kept a little bit of his lunch carefully wrapped in his knapsack.  I’d rummage through wondering what I might discover then  I’d eagerly wolf down that tidbit as if it came from a royal table.  Once he’d brought home  four orphan leverets,  another time it was a duckling with broken wing and numerous birds in particular a splendid, much  loved magpie.  (Elsewhere in this blog you might read ‘Mack the Magpie’.)

(NOTE: To improve your viewing experience click on the photos below to enlarge – once for medium, twice to zoom in.)

What today I consider a wonderful ‘tournure de phrase’ came about in the following manner.  As long as I could remember every night for a few minutes I’d lay down next to my father who always went to bed soon after the evening meal and after having listened to the latest news on the radio.  He regularly got up at five a.m. a not unusual  hour for anyone who works in the vineyards or for that matter elsewhere in the outdoors.  I’d get cozy under his arm, quietly lay there and wait for him to tell me a story.  He was a consummate story teller, using different voices and either recounting events from his own youth (in Galicia, then a part of Poland), some true to life others wildly imaginary or inventing a new, fanciful tale just for me.   Sometimes when he was out of ideas and that was unusual he’d say, “Today I’m a bit tired.  So you tell me about your day, how was school? Did you have fun with your friends?”  And I’d eagerly try to emulate him, trying to entertain him for a change.

One day when I’d dashed, skipped and hopped my way up to the vineyard where I knew my father would be found, a strange cloud formation drifted into view rising above the green forest that protected from harsh northerly winds the precious ‘vignoble d’Ay’.   They were smallish, round, white clouds drifting into view in what seemed a perfectly aligned row.  Ten or twelve and then nothing but blue sky.  “Oh, look Papa, look at these funny clouds, they look like smoke puffs from the train locomotive.”   Dad adjusted the beret on his head, looked up, squinted for a moment seemingly weighing his answer, then he set me straight, “No son, that’s God’s breath.”  Well, that was new to me and just a tad dubious I enquired, “How do you know that?”

He took the time to hug me first and then explained.  “You see, it’s quite obvious God was out for a jog and now He’s puffing and that’s the result.  These clouds are a result of His breath.”  Dad offered a mischievous smile, “Hmmm… He must be a bit out of shape to huff and puff like that.”

Needless to say I took it for God’s truth, after all this information came from my personal God and I was perhaps not more than five years old, a time when the word of an adult, a parent no less, was unquestioned.

As the days and years passed by even when I’d grown old enough and learned at school about the different types of cloud formations and what one might expect in the way of weather for the next few hours, I’d still ask my father how God might be feeling that particular day.  On a day when we were just about caught by a violent rainstorm we were hurrying down the hillsides trying to beat the impeding drenching home.  “What’s God up to?”  I called out as we were jogging down.

“Oh boy, somebody’s going to catch hell.  He’s really miffed at somebody or at something.  I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near Him right now.”  As a punctuation, just then a fiery bolt of lighting streaked across the sky and a thunder clap that seemed so close I gave out with a puppy yelp.  Dad squeezed my hand hard but now I suppose it was to put my mind off the ominous rumblings of more to come that he actually stopped and cupping my chin in his hand earnestly asked.  “Say, have you been a good boy lately? He’s not mad at you, is He?”

Oh, no, did that have to do with me filching a few apricots on my way up?  Acting like an innocent lamb I answered as forthrightly as I knew how, “Ah, non, Papa, I’ve been good and you know I serve the six o’clock mass every morning without fail and always on time.”

“Whew! That’s a relief as that last bit of fireworks had me a little worried.  Too close for my liking.  Let’s get home to your mother or she’ll be sick with worry, you know her.”

Allow me an aside here, for your information Dad didn’t approve of my early morning dedication to serving as an altar boy but here’s  the proof positive that no one is more Catholic than a Polish mother – my own mother thought it wonderful that her darling might actually sprout angel’s wings.  In all other aspects she was more fiercely protective than a mother hen but when it came to serving God, nothing was off limits including me getting up at the crack of dawn since I was apparently of all the boys I knew the only one willing to do so.  And that too proves there’s no such thing as an ‘unwilling’ victim.

Mind you in my day at St. Brice parish altar boys were paid for serving at mass.  There was a going rate for a low mass, high mass was more remunerative so were weddings  and the most sought out gig was a christening, on top of a generous tip by proud parents, and not to be outdone in generosity the God-mother and God-father added to the bonanza. and that wasn’t all,  there were scads of delicious sugar-coated almonds stuffed in cornets of pink if it was a girl or blue for a boy.  Once I hit the absolute jackpot of all times by serving seven consecutive christenings on the same day.  I was seven years old then and lorded it over my school pals by dolling out ‘dragées‘ for the next couple of weeks.  A maharajah couldn’t have been more regal or blasé about his munificence.  Rampant popularity waned and petered out as the supply ran dry.  An early lesson in the old ‘what have you done for me lately?’

Incidentally, funerals were the most miserable of all to serve, muted sobs, the occasional bone-chilling wail, then with a heavy cross held aloft leading a dreary long procession to the cemetery a good kilometre away.  The gloomy affair paid not much more than for a morning mass and the bereaved were almost always too overwrought to remember to tip the altar boy, the sacristan and bell ringer. Oy!

Of course I eventually learned that Nimbus were at times an awesome treat promising displays of pyrotechnics in lighting bolts and cacophonous thunder claps sure to scare the ‘beejees’ out of my mother (much to my delight).  There were the lofty, thin as a gossamer veil Cirrus clouds that Dad would delightedly ascribe to, “God is having a pleasant nap.   See He’s breathing nice and calm as can be.”

My father was as close to nature as a man could ever be; it was a quasi-religious devotion for he loved every moment spent outdoors, observing and doing his bit to ‘assist Mother Nature in her life giving work’.  No one to my knowledge could eke out more veggies and fruit trees from a backyard garden.  When he had a couple of acre garden on his sister’s farm the variety of tomatoes alone prompted my uncle to invite other farmers to see what he’d grown. He’s now up there among the clouds and speculating how God might be feeling on a particular day.

And so, since ever I can remember and ‘remembrance’ is now wearing the mantle of a  longish, epic journey, I was fascinated by clouds.  “Boy, get your head out of the clouds,” was an admonishment I heard often enough much to my annoyance.  However, it’s true even as a young lad I disliked boring. clear blue days, but enjoyed the passing clouds and always looking up imagine what a particular cloud might be the mirror image of that which it overflew.  Oh, this one has the odd shape of England and that one a perfect copy of the Italian boot – by Jove! It’s aiming a swift kick at England, the cheeky beggars.

Of course some cloud types were much better for such speculation, for example Strato Cumulus were more artistically inclined than the lofty, airy Cirrus;  I was so infatuated with clouds I even penned a couple of poems.  Since poetry is the ultimate in subjective writing I wouldn’t hazard a guess as to their quality and thus they may perhaps best remain in the realm of ‘anonymous’.   Not so long ago I wrote a pseudo fairy tale entitled ‘Little Lost Cloud’.  You can find it elsewhere on this blog.

Over the years I have collected photos of my favourite cloud formations as I traveled here, there and elsewhere.  Allow me to share my affection for our heavenly companions.  The photographs I offer span several decades and in the skies above different countries.  When I remember the exact location I’ll indicate otherwise it will be an approximation.  In a poem I describe clouds as ‘heavenly drifters, rootless and country-less’ and it shouldn’t really matter where they were captured for a brief moment.  Oh, by the way, isn’t that where our personal Guardian Angel rests after a hard day’s work?

On my way to Paris, clouds that I imagined were hugging close for warmth, somewhere above the  North Atlantic Ocean.

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I like this photo for the clouds and the weathered  stone tile roof, near Bû, an oddly named  small town in France.

What would otherwise be a mundane photo of a chateau’s manicured lawn takes on a dramatic overtone provided by dark,  threatening cloud.

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In the same neighborhood – the background makes one forget  the ‘frontman’.

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Three photos taken in Italy.  Now you know why the colour ‘sienna’ is named after the terra cotta tiles in evidence as far as the eye can see in the city of, you guessed it, Sienna.  The venerable Ponte Veccio in Florence as well the unmistakeable Leaning Tower of Pisa.   A leisurely tour of  Tuscany should figure prominently on your list of must-do and see if you’ve not yet done so.  It’s a joyful adventure in scenery, culture, food and wine.  Bravo, bravissimo!

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In the Piedmont on my way back to France via the Valle d’Aosta.   I pulled over and got out of the car when I saw this memorable cloud formation – the wind blew to my ears the sound of bells from the distant flock, a memorable moment. 

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Idyllic Holland, where else?

Somewhere in Belgium, on my way to Ghent, if I’m not mistaken.  It occurs to me I should take notes when it’s not an obvious well-known site.  Next time. 

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Paris – naturellement.  The cloud backdrop is perfectly suited to the statue.

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In Corsica.  Can’t see the clouds? Must be above as it’s still drizzling on the bucolic lane leading the flock home.  No technicalities, please, I just really like the photo a lot.

From my window – Lost Lagoon in Vancouver’s Stanley Park.

English Bay, Vancouver.

North Vancouver across Burrard Inlet seen from Stanley Park’s seawall.

Somewhere in  beautiful France.

In Bavaria on my way to lovely Fussen and  fabled Neusweinstein Castle
 

The splendid castle built by the ‘inspired’ Ludwig II, a much more appropriate tag than the snotty ‘mad’ all too often attached to his name.  The French poet Paul Verlaine called him the “only true king of this century” . The shy dreamer bequeathed this airy fairy tale edifice for generations of visitors flocking from all corners of the world and via Walt Disney’s whimsical rendition to millions others.

Sublime, spectacular, splendid Mont Saint Michel, in Normandy

Wild flowers, mostly poppies of different colours were growing in profusion in a Bretagne field.

Above Dinard and the ‘Promenade au Clair de Lune’ –  below the Flemish style roof of Beaune Hospice (first hospital in Europe) and Chateau Chambord final residence for exiled Leonardo da Vinci

Two of my all-time favourite pics captured on the park grounds of Chambord.

A palette worthy of Renoir colours the Kootenay Rockies in British Columbia – photos taken five kilometres from Montana border.

And there she is, My Little Lost Cloud.  Alive and doing well somewhere above  your head.

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Copyright@Vancouver, October 27, 2012 John-Michael Papirchuk