On being ... insufficiently self-sufficient?

By Ingrid Sapona 

Unexplained water on the floor near one of my toilets has been of concern and puzzlement. About eight months ago I stepped on the bathmat by the toilet and my sock immediately felt wet. When I bent down to feel the memory foam bath mat, I realized it was totally soaked. I dried the floor and tried to figure out where the water came from. I checked all the things one would normally check and I could find no obvious source for water. 

I then laid paper towels around the base of the toilet and continually (ok, maybe obsessively) monitored them for moisture. Three or four days passed and there was no wetness. Strange… The only thing I could think of was perhaps I had knocked over the toilet brush holder and perhaps it had water in it and I didn’t even realize it until the mat had absorbed the spill. Anyway, the floor remained dry and eventually I put the bath mat back and relaxed a bit. 

Because I got a new toilet when I did the en suite renovation in September, I had the plumber move the old toilet into the guest bathroom. (It’s taller than the original one that was in there.) I used the guest bathroom during the en suite renovation and all was well. 

Then, about a month ago I happened to be putting something in the guest bathroom and I noticed that the bath mat near the toilet looked darker than usual. With a bit of trepidation, I stepped onto it and my sock got soaked. Ugh… What now? 

I knew that when the plumber moved the old toilet, he used a new seal gasket, which explains why there wasn’t a visible pool of water. (In fact, he didn’t use a wax one, he used one that’s more durable.) So, as with the incident back in March, it seems there must be a trickle that’s unnoticeable but that the memory foam absorbs over time. 

I called the contractor to give him a heads up that there was maybe something wrong with the toilet that had been moved. He had me check the typical possibilities (condensation, dripping from the water line, etc.) and I assured him there was no obvious moisture. Ironically, he had been here the day before because he was finishing some grouting in the en suite. He said that, in fact, he had poured a bucket of water down that toilet and flushed it and it seemed fine. Though he didn’t think he had spilled any water, at least that was a possible explanation. I said I’d monitor it. After a few days with all the paper towels still dry, I put the bath mat back and (again) breathed a sigh of relief.  

Well, one day this week the bath mat was soaked again. This time the contractor came over to see for himself. I took some solace in watching him checking all the things I had checked and – like me – he was stumped. He didn’t have time or the equipment with him to disconnect the toilet but his best guess is that the water shutoff valve or the hose is the cause of the ever-so-slow dripping. He put down some new paper towels and said we should wait to see. 

I told him I’d just as soon get a new one. I pointed out that it’s happened three times now in two different locations (which is why I don’t think it’s the water shutoff valve) and that I find it worrisome – and stressful – to just wait. He indicated that if he were me, he’d wait because even a new toilet can be defective. I appreciated his looking out for my wallet – not to mention not adding unnecessarily to landfills – but I don’t want to take the chance. He relented, saying he’ll come install it Monday. 

The next day, as I was waiting for Home Depot to deliver the new toilet, I noticed the paper towels were wet! At that point I turned off the water to the toilet, as I don’t need any more proof that there’s a problem. When the contractor comes on Monday, I truly hope that whatever the problem is it will be obvious – but I doubt it will be. 

I have a strong need to feel self-sufficient and this whole toilet thing has really challenged me on that front. Making matters worse is that there are all sorts of YouTube videos – and believe me I’ve watched many – that explain that toilets are so straightforward that only a few things that can cause problems. And of course, they make it look like all you need is a wee bit of strength and nerve and you should be able to tackle the job yourself. 

Though I know that when the contractor comes on Monday, part of me will feel like a wimpy female because maybe a guy would have waited. But I think at the end of the day there are two things that will help me salvage a bit of self-respect: first, I’m mature enough to admit when a task is beyond my ability, and second, I’ve worked hard all these years so at least I’m in the position where I can afford to buy a new toilet and to pay someone to install it. Here’s to a dry bathroom this Christmas! 

Happy Holidays to you and yours… 

© 2024 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... relatable

By Ingrid Sapona 

More than I care to admit, I find myself in conversations or situations where I feel that I’m just different from everyone else. Sometimes it has to do with “shared experiences” that I’ve not shared. For example, I’ve never been married – so I’ve never had a wedding. It’s not the being single part that makes me feel removed. It’s the way so many women go on-and-on about weddings, starting with descriptions of their hunt for their dream dress. (How else do you explain shows like Say Yes to the Dress.) The fact is, I never dreamt about my wedding or envisioned myself in a certain kind of gown (mermaid or otherwise). 

Then there are the assumptions about what girls read growing up. No Little Women or Pride and Prejudice for me. My passing knowledge of such stories came from movies. And, even after becoming familiar with them, I never saw myself in any of the characters, much less the stodgy manners of the day. 

The same with the topic of kids. When it comes up (and it does throughout one’s life – not just during the child bearing years) all I can say is that I really never gave it a thought. I wasn’t passionately in favour OR opposed – I just figured I’d see what happens. The response I get when I speak about what must sound to others as a laissez-faire outlook has definitely made me feel I’m out of step with the mainstream. Doesn’t bother me, mind you, but it often seems to provoke skepticism. 

And then there are the conversations where someone says, “Well, we’ve all been there before…” and then others around are all nodding their heads in agreement. Honestly, even when I’m with a group of people I have something in common with – say we’ve all practiced law or are all sailors, or whatever – I often find myself silently thinking, “Um, no, I can’t relate to that.” Maybe I’m not alone in thinking that, but it sure feels that way. 

Conclusions media types often draw regarding events is another area where I often find myself scratching my head thinking, “That’s not how I see it”. The very first example of this that I remember goes back to the 2004 U.S. presidential race. That year Dr. Howard Dean, who was the governor of Vermont, was seeking the Democratic nomination. Initially he was a long-shot, but he became the top fundraiser and a front-runner. He finished in third place in the Iowa caucus, however, which was clearly a disappointment to him and his supporters. But what ended up costing him the most that night was a very hoarse “Yeah!” he shouted at the end of a speech. I remembered seeing that and thinking, “Oh, the poor guy sounds so hoarse and looks so tired”. Well, the next day the media buzz was far more negative. The media branded it “the Dean scream” and it became the “gaffe” that some think cost him the election. I didn’t see the incident that way at all! 

Indeed, the flip side of feeling so different is that I am loath to generalize. For example, from time-to-time one of my sisters will ask me, “So how do Canadians feel about [fill in the blank]?” I’m always stymied by such queries. The best I can offer is a vague response. I explain some of the different viewpoints that I’ve heard, rather than assuming my fellow Canadians’ reactions are all similar. 

Since few weeks go by without my coming across something that makes me shake my head at how little I feel I have common with others, I’m accustomed to it. But the other day I experienced just the opposite – I read something that I could totally relate to. It was among a batch of funnies a friend emailed me. Though there were lots of jokes and cartoons in the email that made me laugh, one hit squarely on a behaviour of mine that I’ve never thought others might relate to. Here’s the humorous statement that took me aback: 

"One thing no one ever talks about when it comes to being an adult is how much time we debate keeping a carboard box because it’s, you know … a really good box." 

I so saw myself in that, as I have long known I’ve got a box fetish. But, it’s not something that comes up often in conversation, so I’ve always assumed it’s not a common attraction. Anyway, reading that joke made me realize there must be others out there that are at least a little like me, which was a delight! 

Though it may sound like a leap, this revelation made me think about trying to focus a bit more on things I might have in common with others, rather than just noticing the differences. Who knows, if we all tried that, the effort might be a small step toward combating polarization. Certainly couldn’t hurt, I figure… 

© 2024 Ingrid Sapona

On being … collateral damage

By Ingrid Sapona 

With On being… I aim to write about feelings and reactions to an incident or event that I think others might also feel or be able to relate to in some way. I try not to write about politics because the column isn’t meant as a wider social commentary. Avoiding writing about politics has been especially challenging this year, as there’s been an extraordinary amount of turmoil around the world. 

That said, it’s impossible to ignore the overwhelming sadness – and anger – that I’ve felt the past few years as millions of people have become collateral damage in political battles they have no direct control over. Pictures and stories about the plight of innocents literally caught in the crossfire in the middle east, in Ukraine, in Sudan, and other war-torn regions are the most obvious – and heinous – examples of collateral damage. (Not to mention the fact that those surviving such conflicts have no place to call home any more.) 

For those of us lucky enough to not live in fear of a bomb dropping on us or our loved ones at any moment, it’s important to have perspective and to not catastrophize over the results of an election. But just the same, damage to economic interests and rights that result from political decisions others take is very definitely a form of collateral damage. Indeed, a recent article about what might happen if Trump’s planned tariffs trigger a trade war noted that Ontario’s premier fears the people of Ontario would be collateral damage. Sadly, taking a page out of Trump’s handbook, the Ontario premier’s response is to urge the Canadian government to seek a bilateral trade deal with the U.S., rather than worry about a trilateral trade deal that includes Mexico. (Maybe the premier figures Mexico will be collateral damage under the incoming U.S. administration’s trade policy anyway, so elbows up – let’s only look out for Ontarians.) 

The title on a recent opinion piece in the Washington Post sums up the way many outside the U.S. view the election results: “Americans ordered up Donald Trump. The world will foot the bill.” Though that piece focuses on trade and immigration, mention of “the world” is a nice segue to yet another aspect of collateral damage the election of Trump will inflict: damage to mother earth. The trajectory the climate is on is in need of a course correction but not of the kind that’s likely to result from policies like “drill baby drill” and doing away with environmental regulations. Putting economic interests ahead of efforts to limit climate change is perhaps the hardest thing for me to fathom. The collateral damage caused by not working to solve climate change transcends both physical borders and generations. Shortsighted does begin to express the concerns even childless women like me have about what we’re leaving future generations. 

Usually by the time I sit down to write On being… I’ve figured out a few ways of coping with the particular matter I’m writing about. But I’ve not come up with any great ideas about how to staunch the fears I have of the – shall we say ripple effects (perhaps a less charged term than collateral damage) – of the U.S. election results. I have decided to limit my diet of news (there are only so many balaclava-clad folks waving Nazi flags I can see, or hate-motivated tweets and texts that I can hear about). But that’s really just something I can do to help my sanity. 

As for combating the powerless I feel to effect broad changes, I’ve decided that focusing on doing little things to help others is better than doing nothing. I figure just being kinder and more generous with people we cross paths with is a good start. Such action may not change others’ lives, but it may remind us of our shared humanity, which seems to me a necessary first step that could lead to bigger changes. 

What about you? What are your coping strategies in light of the political situation(s) around the world? If you have any insights (other than of the “this too shall pass” variety), please share them… 

© 2024 Ingrid Sapona 

On being … an aide-mémoire

By Ingrid Sapona 

Last Sunday a friend and I were considering where to go for lunch. As we thought of places, I looked them up on-line for their hours. To our dismay, a few were closed on Sundays, a few required reservations (and none were available when we wanted to go), and a few were only serving brunch, which we didn’t want. 

Then I thought about a restaurant another friend and I recently reminisced about – a place neither of us had been to in years but that we agreed we’d like to revisit. I knew it was a one-word name but I couldn’t remember it. All I could think of was that the name reminded me of a Harlequin. When I mentioned this, my friend laughed and asked if I was actually thinking of a book. I explained I meant the clown-like character with a costume featuring fabric with large, colourful diamonds. 

When my description of the name didn’t help, I mentioned the restaurant was known for its panoramic view, despite being in an area one wouldn’t think of as having such views. I also thought the street it was on started with a B, but couldn’t remember more. So, I opened Google Maps, looking in the general area I was picturing in my mind. There was a street called Balmoral but the restaurant wasn’t coming up on Google Maps. Argh. Maybe it had closed, or maybe I was just out to lunch (equal possibilities, admittedly). 

I was about to give up when the name popped into my head: Scaramouche! I then found its website and confirmed that it’s still in business, but not open on Sundays. While that was a disappointment, I was pleased that at least I remembered the name (eventually). I was also pleased when I looked up Scaramouch in the dictionary* and found there is a connection between Harlequin and Scaramouche – both are characters in commedia dell'arte. (Whew, not going crazy.) As for the address – well, again, I was part right. It’s on a street that starts with a B (Benvenuto) in the neighborhood I was looking on the map (in fact, a couple blocks south of Balmoral). 

Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not writing this because I’m concerned about memory problems. I think I’ve been to Scaramouche once and it was easily 25 years ago – so I don’t feel bad the name didn’t come to me right away. What this little episode got me thinking about, however, is the different ways we use to remember things. 

For example, growing up some teachers tried to drill into us different mnemonics. I never really found them too helpful. The only one I’ve ever remembered is Every Good Boy Deserves Favour, which I know relates to reading music. But, in writing this I had to Google the phrase to: 1) make sure I had it right, and 2) find out exactly what it represents musically. I didn’t remember that it is specifically for the notes on the treble clef. Indeed, I’m sure there’s a mnemonic related to the bass clef, but I don’t remember it at all. Then there’s the “i before e, except after C” mnemonic. In fairness, that one pops into my head whenever I’m typing a word with “ie” – but it’s not that useful because I don’t remember all the exceptions, so I often end up looking up the spelling anyway. My main qualm about mnemonics is I’ve just never seen the point of memorizing something to remind yourself of something else. 

These days, rather than relying on aide-mémoire, I turn to digital tools to jog my memory. For example, I use Google Maps a lot because I’m far likelier to remember the general location of a place I’ve visited – or driven past – than I am to remember the name of the place. Even if the name doesn’t pop up on Google Maps, the Google Street View might capture it or seeing pictures of the neighborhood at least gives me a sense of whether that’s the area I’m thinking of. 

IMDB (Internet Movie DataBase) is another great tool (I prefer the app to the website) I rely on if I can’t remember an actor’s name. If you can think of a movie (or tv show) the actor was in, just look up the title on IMDB and you’ll see the names (and usually faces) of the entire cast. So efficient! 

I’ve realized that when I’m trying to remember something, I often use a reverse engineering process. I start with what I remember and then I turn to things like Google Maps and IMDB to try to figure out what I’d forgotten. Sometimes the process takes awhile, but it’s kind of fun making sense of the seemingly random details you remember (like the fact the street name starts with a B). 

What about you? What tools – or techniques – do you use when you’re trying to recall something? 

© 2024 Ingrid Sapona

 

*Attention fans of the rock band Queen: If you’re scratching your head wondering why the word Scaramouche sounds familiar, well, Merriam Webster (another aide-memoire I call on often) reminds readers of this lyric from “Bohemian Rhapsody”: "I see a little silhouetto of a man / Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the fandango?" Rings a bell… right!

On being … the hallmarks of a Hallmark movie

By Ingrid Sapona  

Have you noticed that many of this year’s Hallmark movies have been set in European locales? And why not: travel provides unusual opportunities to strike up conversations with strangers and to learn about other cultures. And even when you don’t speak the language, no subtitles are needed when the protagonists are in love.  

Picture this scene: three gray-haired women (me and my sisters, if you’re wondering) find their assigned seats in a six-seat compartment of a train bound for Prague. A few stops into the four-hour journey a tall gentleman passes the compartment and then returns, eyeing the numbers on the empty seats. After double-checking his ticket, he opens the door, stows his backpack above one of the empty seats, and sits down. Shortly after, another guy comes into the compartment and before the train takes off, he sets up his laptop and dons noise-cancelling headphones, disappearing into his screen. 

As the train picks up steam, the tall gentleman pulls out his phone and smiles as he texts away. At some point, perhaps after an announcement in Czech, one of us asks the tall fellow what the announcement was about. He smiles and says it was about the next stop. He then apologizes about his bad English. We assure him his English is good and apologize that none of us speak Czech. 

The gentleman again looks at his phone and then explains that he was looking at the map to determine how long it will take to get to his stop. He assured us the train’s making good time. Then, with an irrepressible smile, he added, “You’re probably wondering why I’m so anxious that we’re on time.” Though, undoubtedly, everyone on the train was keen to be on time, the flush in the stranger’s cheeks and his beaming smile hinted at a story that was ripe for the telling. So, one of us asked him why. He then enthused that he was going to see a girl he met a few weeks earlier. 

With the conversation ice broken, we couldn’t resist asking for more details – and Pavel (not his real name) was too enthusiastic to hold back. Seems he met a lovely tall girl (I’ll call her Natalie, though that’s not her real name) recently at a festival in his home town. The festival attracts people from all over and Natalie and her friend went there to check it out. The festival is known for its costume parade, Pavel said. He proudly shared photos of the painstaking process the village women go through to put on the elaborate costumes and he explained the significance of different outfits the men of different ages wear. He also told us about all the work that goes into planning the three-day festival, which it so happened he was in charge of this year. His enthusiasm and pride in the history of his village was genuine and lovely. 

As he was talking, the train slowed to a stop, though we weren’t at a station. Then came an announcement – first in Czech and then in English. There had been an accident “involving a human” and the train had to wait for it to be cleared. Nothing we could do, of course, but hope the delay wouldn’t be too long. Pavel immediately texted Natalie to explain about the accident. We then broke out some snacks that we shared with Pavel and the other cabin mate, who smiled and accepted the offer of some candy before quickly returning to his computer screen. 

We resumed our conversation with Pavel, taking the opportunity to learn a bit about the Czech Republic. He described the region of the country he’s from (Moravia) and that – among other things – it’s well known for its wine production. Though he works in the energy industry, like many in his village, he makes his own wine. Indeed, he was bringing Natalie a few bottles of his wine. 

Chatting with Pavel was a delightful way to pass the time. But, when his phone pinged with a text about an hour into our wait, he looked nervous and quickly replied to it. He then sheepishly explained the text was from Natalie and she was frustrated that he was spending the time chatting with three women. We laughed that he mentioned that to her, but when he looked serious responding to yet another text that came in, we realized it wasn’t necessarily funny to Natalie. Then Pavel asked if he could do a selfie with us. Absolutely! We understood immediately that he’d use the photo to show Natalie that the women he was passing the time with were no threat. We smiled as long-armed Pavel snapped the picture and we encouraged him to text it to her right away. Misunderstanding averted….  

The delay ended up being well over two hours. But, thanks to the engaging conversation with our new friend, the time flew. And, perhaps because I had expressed interest in the kinds of wine they grow in the Czech Republic, before he left, Pavel gave us one of the bottles of his wine. It was a lovely gesture and it would have been impolite to refuse, so we promised him we’d let him know how we liked it. (We drank it the following evening – it was a delicious, full-bodied 2022 Dornfelder.)  

Pavel got off a few stops before we did and we thanked him for the wine and wished him good luck with Natalie. Of course, it’s way too early to know how their story ends. I’m guessing, however, that 20 years from now Pavel and Natalie will be proudly helping their daughter and son with their costumes for the village festival. What other ending could there be? Oh yes – and my sisters and I will be enjoying some wine from Velké Bílovice – Pavel’s home town. 

© 2024 Ingrid Sapona

On being … a never-ending voyage

By Ingrid Sapona 

You get to a certain age and you think you know yourself pretty well, right? Well, I’ve always thought I knew myself, but sometimes the simplest questions leave me at a loss. For example, until recently, I couldn’t have told you what kind of movies I like. I realized this over the summer when a few of us were talking about what we’re watching on tv. One person mentioned something on Netflix and when it didn’t ring a bell with any of us, he described it. When he said it had some time travel in it, without skipping a beat, another friend chimed in: “Oh, I love movies with time travel.” I thought that admission was funny, but at the same time, I was glad no one asked me what kinds of movies I like. 

The truth is, I never really gave any thought to the kinds of movies I like. I have a few favourites, of course, for example, White Christmas and The Way We Were. But these certainly don’t fall into a “category” (unless sentimental is a genre). I went home wondering if there’s something wrong with me that I couldn’t immediately identify the kinds of movies I like. I could easily reel off genres I avoid: anything sci-fi, scary, violent, or dystopian. Eventually that night I realized there’s a genre I do gravitate toward: spy stories – though not the James Bond kind – stuff like Three Days of the Condor. (I know, maybe I should just say I’m drawn to movies starting Robert Redford, but that’s not really a genre – it’s more of a crush.) 

Another simple thing I hadn’t identify until my 20s was a favourite colour. It wasn’t until university that I realized how much I like purple (deep purple, to be exact). In my own defense, growing up in the 60s and 70s when people talked about purple, they usually meant lilac, or heaven forbid, mauve – both of which I’ve never liked. So, I really never gave purple a thought. Then, at university, purple and white were my alma mater’s colours. The dark purple was both warm and cheery. And, in law school I learned purple’s the designated colour for law and jurisprudence and from then on there was no denying it’s my favourite colour. 

I had another colour revelation recently when I went shopping for a new outfit. I found a pair of pants (a black/white print) that were nice and I wanted a top to go with it. The sales person brought me a top in a style that was nice and she mentioned they had it in a number of solid colours. When I went to look, I was immediately taken with the fuchsia. The I loved the colour, but was it me? 

The truth is, I’ve always been drawn to bright pink, but it took me a long time to even admit that. If you’re having a hard time imagining the colour, I may as well call it by its pop name: Barbie Pink. (It’s actually Pantone^® 219C, if you’re curious)    I think I’ve always been embarrassed to own up to liking Barbie Pink because the colour is so strongly associated with girlie-girls. (I certainly don’t fit the Wikipedia description of a girlie-girl: a woman who presents herself in a traditionally feminine way.)   

While I didn’t feel funny about choosing hot pink bath towels, just because you like a colour doesn’t mean you should wear it, right? The thing about Barbie Pink clothing is it’s pretty hard to blend in when you’re wearing it. Indeed, that may be part of the draw for some – but it’s not for me. Finally, after WAY too much debate, I ended up getting the fuchsia top. It looks fabulous with the black and white pants and besides, I figured, one look at my sneakers and everyone’ll know that I’m not a Barbie wanna-be. 

They say that one of the good things about getting older is that you’re more willing to be yourself. Being myself hasn’t really ever been much of a problem for me, but what has surprised me about getting older is how much there is yet to discover about myself. And the nice thing about growing old is that I have more time to learn about my (hidden) likes and perhaps a few (hidden) judgements – like about who wears what colours! 

What about you? Any surprise discoveries about yourself – maybe about some of your tastes changing, or perhaps things you now more freely admit to than you once might have? 

© 2024 Ingrid Sapona

On being … lessons from – and of – a tourist

By Ingrid Sapona 

A few years ago, before a trip to the UK I found a blog called Londonist that does a weekly update on things going on in/around London. I continue to read it because it’s interesting to hear about all the different things happening each week, even if I’m not able to attend any. 

Recently they published an amusing article featuring readers’ response to the question: “What things does a person do in London, which makes you instantly come to the conclusion: this person is not a Londoner?” It wasn’t surprising that the article opens with a photo of three women – tourists – smiling as they take a selfie at one of the iconic (irresistible?) red phone booths. The last photo was also a gimme: four people striding across the striped cross-walk at Abbey Road. Mind you, I’ll bet even some Londoners have done that! 

What I found most interesting about the article was that many of the responses were as revealing about Londoners as they were about the behavior of the tourists. For example, one reader commented about tourists, “Remarking ‘so much history’ as they stop by a building Londoners have obviously strode past for years.” From the tourist’s point of view, if you live in a country founded in the late 1700s (the US) or mid-1800s (Canada), a building pushing 100 is probably considered historic in your hometown. For those from the “new world”, it’s hard not to be awed by – and maybe remark on – the sheer number of buildings in London that go back many, many centuries. 

Then there was this, which is similar, but more even telling about Londoners: “Someone looking up at a building, rather than solely focusing on where the next spare mm is of the pavement they can occupy for a nanosecond, in order to expedite their … travel time”. Makes Londoners sound so focused on getting from here to there that they only notice those in their way. (Of course, that kind of rushing about happens in many cities, but it doesn’t make it any less sad that folks don’t have time to appreciate their surroundings.) 

There were lots of comments on tourist quandaries about the Tube (the subway). One person mentioned a tourist who was “Confused the Northern line goes south”. In that poor confused tourist’s defense, I say: who amongst us hasn’t been overly literal at one time or another? Someone else commented about a tourist who wondered which tube station to get off at for Windsor (which, at about 25 miles outside of London, can be reached by train, but not subway). I can relate to being a foreigner-who-made assumptions about the proximity of things in a foreign land. When I lived in Amsterdam a friend’s parents were visiting and on the day they were flying home, we decided to drive them to Antwerp for lunch. Given how close it looked on the map, we figured we had plenty of time. To our surprise, it was over 100 miles away! Made for quite a scramble to get them to the airport on time. 

Behaviour on the Tube can also be a giveaway of one’s non-native status, apparently. For example, one Londoner remarked about a tourist who “watched a video with SOUND on” while on the Tube. The fact that a Londoner found that comment-worthy makes me think that such rudeness, er, behaviour isn’t the norm in London. To that I say: Lucky London Tube commuters! Talking loudly on the phone and playing music and videos for all to hear is, unfortunately, pretty common here. 

But it was the comments under the heading “Overly-friendly tourists” that I thought said more about Londoners and their buttoned-up manner than it did about tourists. For example, one reader commented that they could tell a non-Londoner because they smiled at someone they didn’t know. Another noted that trying to start a conversation on the Tube show’s you’re not from London. And someone else commented about strangers saying please and thank. Wow, I thought. These are all things I’m sure I did – repeatedly – in London (and pretty much everywhere I’ve ever visited). Though I’d like to think I blend in (at least in the UK and northern Europe), if friendliness marks me out as a stranger, I don’t mind. 

I’ve always thought that travelling widens your perspective toward others. What I didn’t really think about before was that it’s a two-way street. Contrasting how tourists behave with how locals behave tells us something about both.   

© 2024 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... too many choices

By Ingrid Sapona 

I’ve decided to renovate my bathroom. The extent of the changes I can make hinge primarily on two factors. The first is the basic structural limitations related to the condo building itself. For example, I don’t think I can change the toilet’s location, as the refuse has to flow through the pre-existing piping. Actually, maybe there is a way to make drastic changes, but that brings me to limiting factor number two: budget. In my case, the sky is definitely not the limit! 

So, the only (arguably) structural change I’m planning is replacing the tub with a large shower. Since that involves removing floor and wall tiles, rather than try to salvage any, I’m going with all new tiles. And, though I’m perfectly happy with the size/shape of the vanity, the top is dated (Formica, if you’re wondering), so I’m replacing the entire vanity. Actually, the lighting is probably the most dated looking thing in the bathroom, so I’ll be replacing that too. 

Because the shower is the focal point, I’ve put a lot of thought into how I want it to look. I poured through photos of bathroom renovations. They all looked beautiful, of course. (No one posts pictures of their ugly renovation, right?) I was surprised at how quickly I managed to rule out certain looks. Take shower niches, for example. Though they may have started out as utilitarian – a place for your shampoo and stuff – they’ve become focal points in so many design magazines. But the more sumptuous or intricate the niche, the less likely you are to see any shampoos or toiletries in them. And, if there are things in them, the stuff is all in beautiful, opaque bottles. My Pert shampoo and can of shaving cream are UGLY – they’re not something to display. So, no niche for Moi! Ultimately, I came up with a design I like that is simple and yet I hope reasonably elegant, and highly functional. 

Once I made the threshold decision of what to keep (basically just the toilet) and how the shower would be configured, the next step was shopping for materials. When I re-did my kitchen a couple years ago the colour choices kind of revolved around the kitchen counter material. That made sense at the time – and I do LOVE my kitchen – so my first stop was the countertop folks. They were happy to show me things, but they urged me first find shower floor tiles that I love, and then choose a countertop that would go with them. Ugh… 

There are so many tile places and hundreds of tiles to choose from. In short order they all started looking the same to me and none of them seemed right. Eventually, however, I found some that I did fall in love with for the shower floor. Then I had asked one of the designers at the tile store to suggest some wall tiles that worked with the floor tiles I liked. The designer showed me a few and the choice was pretty straightforward. I then took the tile samples to the countertop folks and in two minutes they pulled a couple samples and one of them was exactly what I was hoping to find. 

But that wasn’t the end of the choices. I knew what I wanted in terms of the sink faucet, so that was pretty easy. But silly me, I thought picking shower hardware was all about the type of showerhead. Turns out shower technology has evolved, with decisions about things like pressure balance and built in thermostats to be considered. I haven’t chosen the shower hardware yet – I suspect that’ll come down to price. 

The options for towel racks and toilet paper holders almost pushed me over the edge. There are all sorts of shapes and details to consider, like flange (aka rosette) or no flange? Visible or concealed screws? As I was mulling the options, I looked at the installation instructions on a few. The diagrams were straightforward, but mention of a backing plate was off-putting, especially since I didn’t see one in the diagram of parts included. I decided to email my contractor the instructions to get his thoughts on whether they might be more trouble than they’re worth. So, that decision is pending too.

After settling on a light fixture, I went on the lighting store’s website to find out about the type and the maximum wattage bulb that the fixture accommodates. Such details were found under the “additional product details”. In scrolling through this info, I noticed two items that piqued my curiosity: Prop 65 and Prop 65 Description. Turns out Prop 65 is a California law from 1986 that requires businesses to provide warnings to California consumers (that end up benefitting non-Californians like me) about whether a product contains certain chemicals that cause cancer, birth defects, or other reproductive harm.  

Regarding the Prop 65 issues, the product details for the fixture I chose indicated No and No listed chemicals. To that I say double WHEW! Whew that the fixture has no such chemicals and Whew – I though had a lot of choices to make with this reno. I can’t imagine all the choices manufacturers have to make! 

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