Seeking Structure

How my job took me on a journey back to the basics of high school essay writing.

Writing an essay for Fr. Thompson's high school history class didn't involve much writing at first. Before we even started a rough draft, we sat down with him to choose a topic. Then we'd return with a thesis and a list of sources. Then we'd submit an outline.

Then we’d add meat to the bones of the outline with research. He taught to us to write quotes, notes, summaries, and citations on index cards. These were arranged by subject, which would form those three blocks of arguments that would go in between those introduction and conclusion.

After he looked over our index cards, we'd finally get to the actual essay writing.

I took this research and outlining technique for granted until university – when the training wheels came off. There were no weekly check-ins about sources or helpful notes in the margins of my essay outline. I was on my own, lost. My disciplined index card technique de-mutated into a helter skelter frenzy of scribbling out notes from books and academic journals on index cards, notebooks, and scraps of paper. My outlining process was laying them all over the floor, like David Bowie snipping lyrics, only I was no genius. Then I'd madly read and rearrange them as I banged out my history essays.

I should’ve known better. During a first-year history lecture, our professor asked the class how to research an essay. A former classmate raised her hand and responded with Fr. Thompson's index card technique. The history professor paused in surprise. “In 30 years of teaching, no one has answered that question correctly,” he said. It was, he added, the only way to research a paper.

And yet, I still couldn't muster the discipline to scratch my research notes onto index cards. I stubbornly held on to my paper diarrhoea essay technique.

After university, I spent ten years writing snappy 30-second radio ads, rhymey headlines, three-syllable taglines, and moody brand films with little dialogue. Most of my blog posts clock in at 200-300 words (though this one's a longy, at 667 words). There was no need for index cards, though I was a curiosity in many ad agencies with my notebook scribbling. So, the intention was there, but the structure was missing.

My current job demands regularly writing 5000-word eBooks, which means researching exciting topics like Software Compliance Audits and Oracle Java Licensing Changes. As you can imagine, I've struggled to wrap my head around the research and organize it into a sensible, logical structure – qualities I often lack.

I did everything. I doodled boxes and arrows in my notebooks, which spread from one page to another and then to the next page like a blob made of crazy-looking handwriting. For one long piece, I took a hint from John McPhee and David Bowie. I typed out all my research and the bits of half-written text, snipped it with scissors, and spread the clippings all over the office floor. As my nervous colleagues watched, I crouched and moved around the pieces, from the beginning through the long middle to the end, murmuring to myself.

To beat this professional challenge, and calm my colleagues, I fell back on a high school technique: Fr. Thompson's index cards.

I type my notes from interviews. I print them out reading materials and highlight passages. Then I sit down with the index cards, I read all of it and write the main points and highlights and random thoughts onto index cards. Old school. Then, as I'm writing, I shuffle through the cards or lay them out on a desk. Not only do I feel like an adult, but I feel like an organized adult.

In high school, the common question from every student when confronted with something that demanded effort was "Ugh… Am I going to use this in real life?" Twenty years later, I have my answer.

  

No crazy here!

What we learned from dragging a baby all over Greece

Traveling is all about learning things, opening your eyes to new possibilities and experiences. Bringing a baby along for a trip to Greece was definitely a learning moment. A whole new experience that, at times, kept my eyes open all night.

We flew into Corfu, stayed a night there, took a ferry to the mainland, stayed a few nights in Plataria, went to a Greek wedding in Paramythia, then took the ferry back to Corfu, drove to the remote village and settled in for almost a week. Just writing all that exhausted me. I know it exhausted the little person we dragged along. Here are a few things I learned from traveling around Greece with a baby.

1) No more unscheduled schedules

We're the type of travelers that don't wake up with a plan in mind. We usually have a goal, like a place to visit or a neighbourhood to discover, but it's not scheduled down to the minute or even hour. You can spend a day discovering something or realize it's a mistake and find a patio to order a few drinks. With a baby, that changes. You're constantly working around the baby's schedule: feedings, naps, and early morning awakenings.

2) Naps are not accidents

The great part of traveling with goals instead of itineraries is you get lost and discover wonderful things you might not have experienced if you were going from point to point. But that takes a small to medium-sized time commitment. One of the not-so-wonderful things that we discovered early in the Greek vacation was if a baby skips a nap, then the rest of the day and a chunk of the night is now planned… for crying, screaming, and all-purpose misery.

Sure, you might think he'll nap in the car or pram, but that can't be planned or predicted. Plus, the moment you stop for a pee break or a car honks as it passes by, the nap is over and you have a cranky baby for the rest of the day.

3) Babies can sleep anywhere, but not everywhere

After I turned 25, I just couldn't sleep on friends' floors like I used to. When I turned 30, crashing on couches became a pain in the neck. Now that I'm into my late 30s, I've realized I need my pre-bedtime rituals, like reading a book, stretching a bit, or a warm shower. I'm getting fussy in my semi-old age.

A baby is no different. Sure, he often nods off in some weird positions in car seats, but staying overnight in three different places in Corfu and Plataria made him as fussy as a 37-year-old man-baby who skipped his all-important neck stretches.

Our budget didn't help either. We booked accommodation like we were traveling without kids. It's not like we were couch surfing in yurts – we were staying in well-reviewed 3-star-ish places – but our little man had to adjust to each strange place with their different noises, heat, air conditioning, bed softness, and crib comfy-ness. Not so easy for someone who was born less than a year ago.

4) All about the amenities, man.

Both of us were never type of people who slept in 40-person hostel dorms when we traveled. We’ve rested our weary bones in pretty spartan rooms with few amenities, thin walls, lumpy beds, and more than a few bathrooms down the hall. I also really liked having loud bars with patios nearby and rates so cheap that you earn street cred for staggering through the neighbourhood at night.

You know what I appreciate now that I travel with a baby? A kitchen. Elevators. Thick walls. Peace. Quiet. A small beer on the balcony. Decent sheets. Our own bathroom where you don't have to bring your own towels.

5) Luggage. So much luggage.

When we're packing, we fall into the common trap of thinking "Oh, we might need that winter coat." And we pack it. Even if it's August, you never know. I've worked on that impulse, so I often pack less and fit more Duty-Free booze into my carry-on bag.

When packing for a baby, that impulse to pack for every conceivable eventuality is life or death, sleep or no sleep, which is pretty much life and death. Everything goes in. So, as the father, I'm carrying a gigantic duffel bag on my back, pulling along a wheely suitcase in one hand and carrying mine and the baby's carry-on bags in the other. Duty-Free booze? Not anymore.

6) The struggle is worth it

Does this seem like a complainy post? It isn’t, because all this struggling is worth it. When you watch your baby son touch some huge Ionian flower for the first time or smell the salty sea breeze for the first time or happily dig his hands into sand at the beach, well your heart melts just a little… before you look at the clock and wonder how you're going to get him down for a nap in the middle of a beach.

Where does the time go?

I was going to write this shortly after my son’s six-month ‘birthday,’ but the job and the dad stuff got in the way, so I put it off for a few days. Two weeks later, I’m finally banging out this draft, wondering where the time goes.

My Opa once said that as he grew older, the days got long but the years got shorter. I never really noticed that stretching and condensing of time until I became a father. When I lay in bed exhausted, I wander what a long, eventful day it was and then I think wasn’t that little guy just born a few days ago? How did he get so big so quickly? Where did those long, full days go? 

Shortly after university, I watched a friend become an active father. It was from that adult’s perspective of parenthood that I saw how much work and sacrifice comes with being a father who’s present, who’s there. I knew going into this fatherhood thing that I was giving up some things to be a part of something that was outside myself.

Aside from the sleep I’ve lost – which barely compares to my wife’s sacrifice at the Altar of No Sleep –the sacrifices I’ve made haven’t been a big deal. It’s the me-centred stuff that’s the first to go, like partying all night or binge-watching an entire series on a rainy afternoon. Easy sacrifices.

And the money? Yes, a baby is expensive, but I would have blown that on whiskey and road trips if he didn’t come along. If anything, my son has grown me up and made me more responsible. He’s made me became a man.

But the time… That’s a sacrifice I’m still getting used to.

With so much more demands on my time and energy, I see time as my most precious resource. And it’s flying by. I don’t feel like I’m wasting it. If anything, I feel as though I’m making a far better use of it than I ever have before. I’m tested and challenged. My son grows every day, and I’m growing too, keeping up with him.

Time might be flying, but it’s not slipping away. And as the six months have raced by, I feel as though my life is fuller than it ever was before. Now if only it would just slow down a little bit, so I can appreciate and hold onto some of these moments just a little bit longer.

Quest for a German Drivers' License

Patiently posing in front of our rental

I meet a Canadian at the rental car desk. While he filled out my reservation, we exchanged stories about ending up in Germany. His hometown was up the road from mine, Kitchener-Waterloo. Like many folks from there, he's of German descent, so it wasn't too hard for him to get a work visa and come over during a gap year that turned into a few years.

While we talked about life in Germany as a Canadian, he asked me about my address. Like every time I rent a car in Germany, there was a pause as I reminded myself to provide my Canadian address instead of my German one. He understood right away.

As a permanent resident, German authorities would prefer if I got a German drivers' license. When I rent a car I let them believe I'm visiting from Canada. It's not illegal, since my license is valid, but I should have a German drivers' license if I live in Germany. My new Canadian acquaintance had recently done this, and understood the patience and strength it takes to drive through that part of the German Kafka-cracy.

If Germany decides your country is on its level of driving excellence, you simply exchange your foreign license for a German license. Of course, you need the right papers.

A First Aid Course in German

German drivers must pull over to help someone in distress, rather than the traditional North American Let's-Slow-Down-And-Rubber-Neck as you pass by. This means, you need a first aid certificate.

The course I found was in a hotel basement, where they also threw in an eye test, which is also needed for a license exchange. The course was in German, so it was a first aid lesson, an eye test, and a German lesson all rolled into one. Good deal. The only other non-German speaker was an IT worker from India. He was also taking a driving course because Germany doesn't look as favourably on Indian licenses as my Canadian license and wouldn't exchange it. He had to earn his German drivers license from scratch, so this was one stop on a longer journey for him. The two of us muddled through the German details of the course together and followed along with the demonstrations.

I apologize in advance if I pull over to help you on a German roadside.

The 1st Government Appointment

Like my other bureaucratic adventure in Germany, the rule of thumb for a foreigner is that you won't get it done in one appointment. There is always some paper you're missing. I find this frustrating, but friends who grew up in East Bloc communist dictatorships find this comfortingly familiar.

Of course, I forgot about this rule. I strutted into the office. I spoke my crappy German and proudly laid out my documents. The man looked it over and asked me for a driver history. Why? I have all my papers! Nope, I did not. I had gotten my Canadian drivers' license renewed after I arrived in Germany, which suggests to the German Powers-That-Be that I only recently earned my drivers' license. I needed a driving history from my home province to prove that I've been driving for 20 years.

Oh, and the translation of my Canadian drivers license wasn't acceptable either. It must be translated by someone certified by the government. The only place for that is the ADAC, Germany's version of CAA, which  shares the building with the government's transport office that I was in. How convenient!

Playing the Waiting Game

To get a complete driving history I wrote a letter asking for my drivers' license history, not the history of all my vehicular brushes with death or maiming. I signed the letter and mailed it, like my forefathers. It's a bureaucracy, so they don't accept Visa. I wrote a cheque, also like my forefathers and I waited… And waited…

Over a month later, I received my reply. My request required a different kind of request because I was in foreign country, so the amount in the cheque was not sufficient. Could I send another cheque? I wrote another polite, formal letter. Signed another cheque. Did my walk of shame to the post office, and then I waited again for the Ontario government to open my letter, walk to the bank, cash my cheque, chat idly with the bank teller about the weather, then return to the office to write my official drivers' with ink and quill.

The Waiting Game Continues…

Months later, the drivers' history finally arrived. I went to the ADAC with all my papers and said it my crappy German, "Frau! I would like a translation, please." She copied all the important driving papers and I got a receipt.

Like so many times, I'm my own worst enemy. I was so accustomed to waiting months for important papers that I didn't read the German fine print on my receipt. I waited two months and started muttering about the awful ADAC. I had a mind to call and vent, so I dug up my receipt looking for some contact information and discovered the pick-up date for my drivers' license translation was a month ago. Yep! I'm a genius.

I picked up my papers and marched into the drivers' license government office. Triumphantly laying out all my papers. Speaking my still-crappy German. When I laid out my first aid stuff, the lady waved it away. She did carefully examine my drivers' history, so that wait was worth it. When everything was signed and stamped, I was told the drivers' license would arrive in two weeks. And wouldn't you know it, it arrived in two weeks. The rusty cogs of German bureaucracy certainly get moving when you have all your papers.

See you on the Autobahn!