Yesterday I got the chance to cover a group visiting Whitehorse from our sister city, Ushiku, Japan. I don’t really know what makes two cities sisters, or why a small, Japanese town wanted to be linked with a mountainous arctic city in Canada, but that’s neither here nor there. Apparently it means teenagers can travel between the two and get treated to lunch with the mayor.
They were visiting for the week and I attended their official city welcome luncheon. Speeches were made via a translator, soup was served (as the organizer told me, the Japanese love soup) and groups of local teens who couldn’t speak English tried to mesh with the Japanese students by using hand gestures, laughing and pointing.
I learned that there is no Japanese word for “host family”, that the stereotype of Japanese teens holding their hands in peace signs for pictures is true, and that jokes told with the deay of a translator are often not well-received.
The strangest thing to happen to me all week occurred when I was sitting at my little spot going over notes, speeches and waiting to do an interview after the soup session.
“Excuse-a me, meese, what ees yo name?”
I told the lanky teen boy in the combat jacket with long bangs my name.
“We [giggle] want to say [giggle] that you-a are very [giggle] beautiful.”
I smile and nod my head, say thanks. But then.
“Weel you a-marry me? I woo-ed be so happy.” Dayum, I KNEW I looked hot tin this dress! Work it, own it. I smiled bigger, while giving him a half-squinty look, turning my head to one side.
“Thank you, that’s very nice, but no, I cannot marry you,” and I took full advantage of the opportunity to flash my ring.
“Oh, thass okay, eet no bover me that you taken.”
What a nervy little Japanese emo looking dude, eh?
I switched seats to one with a free chair opposite me and welcomed my two interview subjects, who impressed me with their English, expecially compared with my knowledge of Japanese (I can say hello, thank you very much Mr. Roboto and where is the toilet). They used words lke “fresh and clean” to describe this city, which really hasn’t been modernized since 40 years ago. And also that they enjoyed “all the natures” around. They were both shy, and the girl covered her mouth when she smiled. I don’t know if that’s cutom, but I like to imagine it is.
I finished, had the photographer snap some shots, and returned to work. I was excited to tell fiance about his competition to get me to an altar. But really that means fishing for compliments, hoping my valiant hero man would step up and defend my honour and his lady.
“Huh,” he said. “Maybe he can bring you futuristic things from Japan.”
Hmm, I hadn’t thought of it that way.

Labels: Japanese proposal, work

So Pepsi revealed today that its brand of bottled water, Aquafina, is tap water. I know some will be outraged and justifiably feel duped. After all, who would feel good about having paid for water most can get for free in their kitchens?
For me, this debate comes down to practicality. I have been living like a student these last few years, which has meant that my grocery store ventures produce few bounties and fewer “luxuries” as I call them-- the things I in no way need to adequately nourish myself but purchase for the sake of enjoyment. Bottled water has never made the trip back from the grocery store with me, partly because that’s a lot of heaviness for one 5”7 girl and her little cart to carry. Partly because I have a conversation with myself that goes like this:
“Should we buy bottled water? It’ll be so convenient to just grab one on our way out, stick one in the purse. The 8-glasses a day thing will be so much easier with bottled water on hand.”
“OK, then why don’t we buy a Nalgene bottle, refill it with the free stuff that comes from the faucet, and and not buy into this whole ‘oxidized nine times for the puriest-pure French Alps water’ thing.”
“But it IS more pure, and therefore better for you, and then you won’t get cancer.”
“So we will hook up that tap filter we got from the mother-in-law, avoid cancer, and still not pay for some Coke conglomerate’s version of water.”
So today I purse my lips, slide my head back and scoff at the news release from Pepsi. It’s water, people. Not cigarettes, not cancer water, water.

Labels: consumerism, water

I’d mentioned that I’d started a reporting job up here, hadn’t I? Well, day one in the newsroom was quite a shock and I went home disheartened, discouraged and disappointed. My lifelong dreams of saving the world with my journalism, and the culmination of four years getting the degree seemed to be working in a snail’s-paced newsroom where my lead story is about a cat stuck in a tree.
The people here are great, and the newsroom works like most I’ve worked in before. But my discouragement came with the lack of challenge, the lowered expectations and the laissez-faire attitude that has become the paper’s modus operandi.
“I am ready for so much more, and here I am stalled, bored,” I cried to fiancé after my first day. He loved his job, la-dee-da and go figure.
But, never one to give up until at least something better came along, I agreed to give the paper a chance. I have grown more fond of it and have found great joy in covering stories that may not grab national headlines, but that make a difference in the lives of the people that read my work, which has become a great reward I had previously not experienced.
I think Marley’s story best relays my sentiment.
In the middle of a hot, stuffy day when I was feverishly working away on a big story, I got called out to cover a story at the humane society. There, the photographer and I met Marley, a golden lab mix left with three legs after being hit by a car and left to die. Humane society workers estimate he had been roadside for weeks, suffering and starving. When a caring citizen did pick him up and bring him in, the animal shelter got to work organizing the dog’s medical care. When we arrived to do the story, Marley was nursing his fresh amputation wound and building up his strength. He wagged his tail and dog-smiled at us with his big brown eyes.
The shelter had incurred great costs to fund to dog’s operation, and had called the paper to ask the public for help.
I wrote the story, we ran it alongside touching photos of a smiling, three-legged dog and I went home early.
I brought fiancé to the humane society on Saturday to show him the kitty and puppy I had picked out for us while covering Marley’s story. We waited in line for an attendant to show us the animals and I smiled all giddy at the cute critters in the windows. While waiting, curiosity got the best of me and I listened to the people in front of me.
“I am wanting to give some money to help out that poor dog in the paper,” said the lady in front of me wearing a fruit-pattered top and rain boots.
“That story was just so moving, I had to help.”
And my heart melted. I felt like Superman. I hadn’t swooped down to save a damsel in distress, but my words had helped this poor dog with three legs and big smile. I felt so good.
And when I got to the front of the line, I didn’t even tell her I was “the one” who wrote the story. Which is a big step for normally show-offy me.

Labels: journalism, reporting, work

I've been MIA since my Internet access has been reduced to whatever half hour time slot I am fortunate enough to book at the Whitehorse Public Library. Because that's where I moved. Whitehorse. The Yukon. As in the arctic, north of 60, 23-hour sunlight.
Its a bit surreal. I have not fully realized yet that I have left my entire life, friends, family, work, social network to move 5,000 km away. Even as I write that, I don't appreciate that I am the subject of my own post here. The town is beautiful, clean, and the major perk is the mountainous landscape and aqua-blue waterways. Ive found a reporting job, and am getting used to the fiance having a job where people hate him and he sees depressing things like 14-year-old drug addicts all day long. I haven't quite figured out that I cannot go on a shopping spree on a whim (no money and also no clothing stores to go nuts in!), stores close at like 5 or 6 and then you're just supposed to be with people, and also the idea that business casual can sometimes mean over-sized T-Shirts and cargo pants. I'm adjusting, and trying to absorb all I can about what I've gotten into so that maybe one day, sooner rather than later, I will find myself speaking the words "home" and referring to Whitehorse.
More later when I have my own computer in my own house with my own Internet access that does not include peery strangers shifting their gazes to my screen. Yeah, old gardening lady in Crocs that smells of cilantro, I mean you.

Labels: moving, the north