Homage to a Hotel Housekeeper UPDATED

The delay tactics from Priceline, whom I called to report false advertising on their Mariott Courtyard listing, had worn me out. I had no choice but to maintain the reservation.

Tired upon arrival in Toronto, I rode the hotel elevator. When I approached my room, the housekeeper's trolley stood between doors at the end of the corridor. Like an inkblot in the Rorschach test, I saw something else: the attempted rape and sexual assault case, in Manhattan, two weeks earlier.

In case you've been living under a rock, here's the skinny. At New York's four-star Sofitel, a 32 year old, Guinean-born housekeeper entered a presumably guest-less suite number 2806. To her surprise, the guest, 30 years her senior, appeared butt naked. He turned aggressive and demanded free services of a non-housekeeping type. Horrified, the housekeeper finally managed to escape. But not before her forcible confinement. And more.

The man? Dominique Strauss-Kahn, aka DSK, Managing Director of the International Monetary Fund and a candidate to the post of First Secretary of the Socialist Party, in France.

After the incident, to put it mildly, DSK dressed and left the hotel without his cell phone. He had lunch with his daughter, before going to the airport to catch his flight back to France. There, he could bask in the bosom of a society that has long turned a blind eye to le droit de cuissage. Meaning, the lord of the estate has the right to cavort with the thighs of his subordinates. No repercussions. Vive la France!

In Paris, DSK could once again get away with imposing his Lotharian appetite on women. After all, wasn't he known as "the Great Seducer"? Hush, hush, wink, wink.

But the lay of the land in Manhattan turned out to be less generous than the Parisian. The so-called subordinate, who had been violated in the Sofitel suite, spilled the beans -- to her bosses and to her union representative. That jump-started a criminal investigation, while the libertine nestled in his first-class seat, waiting for take-off. Comfy and cock-sure, he shot an audible vulgarity about the hostess's ass (l'avion c'est moi). Moments later, the New York Police Department entered the aircraft and apprehended him.

Quel shock!

An unshaven and disheveled Strauss-Kahn emerged two days later. His 'perp walk' in the Criminal Court of U.S. Judge Melissa Jackson caused a frenzy among the French who gasped at the sight of their presidential hopeful, paraded in handcuffs. Under France's Napoleonic Code, transgressors enjoy a cloak of discretion. U.S. Civil law will have none of it.

“I think it is humiliating," said New York's mayor, Michael Bloomberg. "But you know if you don’t want to do the perp walk, don’t do the crime.”

The French were deeply offended. But their oh-so refined sensibilities went out the window when the French press published the name of the raped victim, which is protected by U.S. law. In France, the housekeeper's name became an open sport.

Once a subordinate, always a subordinate. Except that the quiet widow and mother to a teenager doesn't live in France. She lives in the Bronx. And she belongs to a union.

What was Strauss-Kahn thinking? Or does he?

May justice prevail, as the case resumes on June 6, 2011. Brace yourselves. The details are going to get ugly. Butt ugly.

UPDATE:

The credibility of the victim has taken a turn for the worse, moreover because the prosecution - the very ones carrying the spears - has uncovered anomalies. The charges against Dominique Strauss-Kahn may well rest, but the severity in which they are handled will be reduced, if some or all of the charges aren't dropped altogether.

Can the state of New York be sued? Jes wonderin' .. In the meantime, Strauss-Kahn is due to be released from house arrest.

UPDATE 2:

Strauss-Kahn is released without bail conditions.

Remembering

When most people sat down to dinner, on November 10th, young cadets stood guard at the London Cenotaph. Hours later, the silent sentinels were still there.

Nearby, in the shadows of Victoria Park, stood a lone man with a camera strapped around his neck. He explained that his son was one of the cadets, on shift, standing guard all night long.

"He hates the cold," the father said of his son. "And he doesn't quite understand why he volunteered to do Remembrance duty. But he knows he had family in the War, in Holland."

I went home after that. But not for long. I pulled together some equipment and drove back downtown. It was past midnight. Another round of cadets now stood guard in the bitter cold.

The view through the camera lens humbled me. Until slurring words interrupted my thought process. I looked up to find a young man brush by me.

"Ya know what the travesty is?" he said, his index finger weaving to puncture the air in the direction of the young cadets. "Sending these guys to Afghanistan."

I shook my head as Genius waltzed off, unsteady in his gait.

What do you say to the man who thinks he knows everything?

Drumbeats

Photo: Sydney Hedderich

The Museum of Ontario Archaeology in London provided the setting for my first experience with a spiritual gathering to honour Aboriginal culture. I was not disappointed.

Before the Traditional Pow Wow and Harvest Festival, I scouted the Museum grounds, between the palisade of pointed cedar poles and a Carolinian forest. The peacefulness and beauty of the site promised a memorable weekend celebration.

During subsequent visits, I enjoyed chatting with exhibitors, storytellers, dancers, potters, and Museum staff. In the elm longhouse, where corn cooked over smouldering fires, smoke rising through holes in the roof, Nina of Many Names told the story of how the corn husk dolls came to be. Closer to the edge of the forest, members of the London Potters Guild recreated an ancient pit firing. Beyond, Museum staff taught children about archaeology at a hands-on dig.

Around the appointed hour, in the large grassy arena, Master of Ceremonies Gordon Nicotine-Sands announced the Grand Entry, sacred in nature. More drumbeats followed, as did singing and dancing in regalia. When combined, the rhythms and colours inspired my images of movement, captured in two-step time.

On the last day, a bald eagle circled high above, tipping its wings to the resonating drumbeats that closed the ceremony. It was a fitting signature to an unforgettable experience.

Of hawks and tobacco

Photo courtesy Hawk Migration

It was an overcast day when I approached the recreated palisade of an old aboriginal site, now the Museum of Ontario Archaeology.

The entry looked forbidding. But that was the point when the Neutral Iroquoians erected the pointed cedar poles for protection.

Just as I was about to enter, a large wingspan flew over me, nearly grazing my head. I looked up to see a large bird circle before returning to perch on one of the poles. Its cream-coloured chest revealed brown banding that spelled: "hawk".

Startled, I wound my way through a maze to find a grassy arena. At one end stood a longhouse — an arched structure covered with large, weathered tiles of bark. Inside, rustic bunks revealed a sliver of insight into how former inhabitants lived, 500 years ago.

At another end, by a forest, a man unloaded materials from his truck. I approached, finding a descendant of one of several tribes that, long ago, freely roamed this area. We exchanged hellos. He said he was setting up a booth of historical artifacts for interested visitors to the upcoming pow wow.

I told him about the hawk.

"Red-tail," he said.

"How do you know?" I asked.

Without another word, he walked briskly across the arena, his salt-and-pepper ponytail bobbing along. I kept up with him — barely, as he whisked off his steel-rimmed glasses and rubbed them with his shirt tail. He put his glasses back on and squinted at the top of the palisade. The hawk was still perched on one of the poles.

"Look at the base," he said.

In an aha! moment, I saw russet-coloured feathers at the bird's behind. But the feathers were puny, not nearly as large as those of the hawk photographed above. Not that I knew the difference, then.

"He's immature," said the man. "Probably kicked out of the nest."

"I can see that," I said, unable to imagine a nest big enough. But really, I couldn't see much else, given my relative ignorance on fauna.

We parted ways, the man and I. And as I headed out, he called: "Have a cigarette?"

I turned round, wondering how anyone, in such a peaceful site as this, could be so addicted to be bumming cigarettes off complete strangers.

"No," I said somewhat disgusted.

The man raised his arm and rubbed two fingers in the air.

"Need it to sprinkle," he said.

A second aha! moment filtered through dusty memories. Maybe I'd seen a native ceremony in an old movie, or read about it somewhere. I certainly remembered when people would handroll cigarettes, using loose tobacco. A few of those supple and curly threads — so sweet and pure — would have come in handy for the occasion.

"Does a cigarette these days even have tobacco?" I called back.

The man paused. I sensed a chuckle. Perhaps the aha! tables had turned.

On my way out, I entered the administrative building. Staff member Anne Tremblay-Pedersen was wrapping up for the day.

"Is the man that's setting up still on the grounds?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, before telling her about the tobacco incident.

"Indeed," she said. "Tobacco, like sage or sweetgrass, is sprinkled about in what's called a smudge."

I expect to have a few more aha! moments during the pow wow — my first — this weekend.

It's too darn hot!

Church of God, London, Ontario

If the humidity weren't so bad, I could tolerate these 25°C plus heatwaves. But the humidex is wringing my patience when it adds another 10 degrees, and more, to our level of discomfort.

Some say the excessive heat is caused by global warming. That so? Then how come the almanac records hotter temperatures, decades prior. Take yesterday, for instance. The high of 31°C (the humidex made it feel like 42°C), in Toronto, underperformed the 1937 record of over 33°C. Care to explain that, Al Gore?

But whatever the reason for the heat, it's days like these that make you long for crisp autumn winds. It's days like these that make you seek ways to keep cool. Are you running out of ideas? Here's one: A church with prayer AND air conditioning. That may come in handy for some after viewing Ann Miller's sizzling rendition of Cole Porter's "It's too darn hot!" Now that's cool!

New look

The decorator came knockin' at my blogdoor. Told me I needed a new design. Maybe the site did need a fresh face, after all. But did the experience have to resemble a home reno? My apologies to readers during the construction overhaul.

Context

Context is everything.

















Then again, not so much.

















Sometimes the message and the medium are just plain bizarre, regardless of context. Take, for instance, this church billboard by a dead-end road in Scarborough, Ontario. Under the banner of Grace Church Christian Reformed, I read: "Well, it is a whole lot better than shooting each other."

Sure, the message grabbed my attention. Not because of what the sign said, but because I wondered if there wasn't a better way to say it. I spent so much time figuring it all out that the author's intentions were lost on me.

I suspect the reverend tried to provoke some thought in the face of rising urban violence. And by provoking, he may have also wanted to improve the attendance ratings at his church.

Perspective

There it was. An anniversary announcement to beat all. The sign stood before the Château. Château trailer, that is, by the road that leads to Mitchell, a town near Stratford, Ontario, home of the Shakespeare Festival. Somehow, methinks the Bard would have loved the ribald humour in this southwestern Ontario countryside.


















But forsooth! What's this? A change in camera position (and lens) reveals a distinctive lawn greeting by a family's home. Members of the Garden Club will never be the same when they come to this address for afternoon tea.