demodulated

I’m in St. John’s, Newfoundland, this week on business.  It’s been tough to do much sightseeing as by the time I’m out of work it’s chilly, windy, and pitch black, but I’m trying to do my part.  It’s a pretty magical little city of 120,000 people, barely 20km across, barely 20 minutes to anywhere at rush hour.

The accents are awesome.  It’s mindboggling how many dialects there seem to be in this tiny city.  No two people seem to enunciate the same (if at all).  The lilts of their everyday conversations are lighthearted and melodic.

They seem to have found a way say the word “fuck” as if they’re wringing the word like a washcloth.  It’s something halfway, if you can imagine, between “folk” and “book”.

Everyone here seems to work for a church, or is related to someone who does.  The nice lady I’m working with here is a different religion than her husband, and their daughter is yet another religion and is undecided between biology and theology for university.  Here, Christmas is the time of year with nary a vague “happy holidays” in sight or on the radio.

The radio is something else.  I must have flipped through 5 or 6 stations until I found something with no accordion.  When I did, I switched back to the accordion.  Driving through these windy, windey streets calls for no less.

The hospitality is legendary.  I’ve been addressed with more endearing terms by waiting staff at a restaurant, diner, and mall kiosk than my wife has probably called me all year.  Some such terms that immediately come to mind are:

• me boy
• me son
• me ol’ son
• m’darlin’
• boyo
• friend

So tonight I hoped to go for a bit of a walk and buy a little treat for the Mrs.  I took a very peaceful stroll a ways up Water St. and checked out some of the shops.  I’ll not say what I bought, lest I ruin the surprise, but it wasn’t an easy decision as there were all kinds of charming curios, knitted sweaters and mitts, and other kitchy effects of local colour.

I also kept an eye out for a place to eat.  I saw more than my fair share of pubs - some even with towering copper vats for fermenting local beer - but somehow it didn’t strike my fancy today.  I passed a curious place called Hong Kong Grill which, quizically, though founded over a decade ago purportedly served “Chinese and Canadian food” (wasn’t Hong Kong English then?).  In the end I settled upon the spectacularly charming Velma’s Restaurant.

The place is adorable, adorned with intricately embroidered chairs, frilled curtains, and various golden nautical ornaments, with posters and paintings of the maritime landscape about.  I was warmly welcomed by a waiter, doubtless 5 years my junior, who called me “son”.  Halfway through reading the comfort-laden menu he dictated the day’s specials and I couldn’t refuse the house specialty cod.

He brought me homemade bread, more a slab than a slice, which warmed my hands and my heart as I swallowed it down with butter.  The portion appeard skimpy but very attractive, served with “scruncheons” (I hadn’t the forethought to ask what they were), sliced cooked carrots, scoops of mashed potatoes, and a sizeable bowl of gravy on the side.  The cod was barely seasoned, rich, and fantastically satisfying, and the scruncheons, whatever they might have been, added a salty alter-ego.

As I ate alone I enjoyed watching bundled-up folks pass by and I listened to the light banter of the various elderly patrons as they spoke of Christmas and church.  They’d all ordered 2 or 3 courses and could finish none of them.  The waiter ribbed them playfully for not finishing their suppers.

I took some homemade muffins (blueberry and partridgeberry) which I’ll enjoy with my wife tomorrow, paid, and tipped no less generously than was well deserved.  The parting pleasantry bestowed by the waiter was genuine.

I made the short walk back to my hotel.  The chill could never permeate my fuel-filled furnace, and the blustery winds made me smirk as if they whispered childish jokes as they passed.  A heartwarming, childlike elation washed over me.

I’ll be back.

I happily came across this great episode of the Carol Burnett Show on YouTube and had meself a proper chuckle!  Two bits a gander (where bits = clicks):

Part 1

Part 2

A short while ago Cinira Longuinho, breastfeeding her child on the steps of a swimming pool, was asked to do so elsewhere by the owner.  Longuinho is now declaring that her human rights have been violated.  Here’s the Toronto Star’s report on this story.

My wife and I just had a rather in-depth discussion about this matter, and there are many reader comments arguing both sides of the story.

Do women have the right to breastfeed in public?  In my opinion, absolutely!  On one hand it’s legal for women to do so in Ontario (perhaps not in other provinces) and that’s where this altercation took place.  On the other hand, I have no moral objection to this action because that’s what human bodies are built to do.

As it happens, Longuinho was not ejected from the property but was asked to breastfeed in another room, away from the pool area, for public health concerns (the property owner mentions the possibility of breast milk entering the pool, and the likelihood that a fed infant is liable to urinate, defecate, or vomit).  As such, it seems to me that the pool owner has no problem whatsoever with breastfeeding, but was trying to accommodate the majority of her guests at the expense of inconveniencing one (or two, as my wife points out to me as she reads over my shoulder).

The key concept here is public.  Here’s the third paragraph from The Star’s story:

But the owner of the private pool said her priority is keeping the pool clean for everyone.

Here’s as far as I needed to read before formulating my opinion:

But the owner of the private pool

Done.  The breastfeeding woman has equal rights as other patrons inside this private property - pretty much none.  The owner of the property, as long as she breaks no laws in doing so, is free to impose whatever rules she wishes and is free to eject whomever she chooses regardless of whether she has any reason.  ROAR - Right Of Admission Refusal.

Or so I believe.  I might be mistaken.

Longuinho makes mention of a case in 1999 where a woman from Caledon, Ontario, was proclaimed the winner where she was ejected from a public pool for breastfeeding on the premises.  As this was a public space the breastfeeding woman was partial owner of that facility and thus was beholden to the law and no further restrictions.

I’d have thought this would be the most important distinction if not for this proclamation by Longuinho regarding the resolution of that case:

They said it was a human rights issue, that I have a right to breastfeed anywhere anytime, in a public space or private space, and so mediated in my favour

This statement troubles me.  I like to think that if I own property I should have absolute control over whom is permitted on my property, and should be permitted to eject anyone with or without justification.  If I’ve invited someone into my house and they refuse to leave, I should hope that the police would assist me in shooing that person onto public property.

I really don’t feel that there’s any more to this discussion, and I share Longuinho’s desire if not her means:

I’m doing all this because I really think it’s important for women to go in public and breastfeed without being scared.

I couldn’t agree more with this.  As Canadian taxpayers we are co-owners of publicly funded spaces.  I simply believe that the human right to regulate our own property is greater than that of women to breastfeed wherever they wish.  This isn’t a breastfeeding issue in any way.

It is a Canadian woman’s right to breastfeed in public, but it is her privilege to be a guest on private property.

Thanks to my wife for provoking this conversation and for supplying the title to this post.