Saturday, July 8, 2017

Swimming, Writing and the State of the World

I love to swim. There is nothing that makes me happier. When I lived in Budapest Hungarians would ask me what it is I liked about their city, and I'd tell them, sincerely: swimming at Margaret Island. They thought I was joking or crazy.

The pool at Margaret Island was fifty metres, outdoors. For a swimmer there's nothing better than that distance - other than open water, of course. Margaret Island had two 50 metre outdoor pools and a 33 m. It cost $4 for entrance. Every day I'd ride my red Puch bike, from Pest to the shores of the Danube, over the bridge and onto the island. It took about 7 minutes from my apartment.  At the halfway point of the Margatret Bridge I'd carry my bike down a set of steps, ride past the singing fountain, and arrive at the outdoor pool. It was both a consolation and a release.

I was working on a novel then and I was totally, utterly alone in a country whose language I couldn't understand. A girl I'd loved had dumped me; I was struggling with my health and my writing; somehow the swimming was the only thing that made me feel okay. Human, I suppose. For whenever I swim I'm happy, but when I'm finished my swim I feel alive. Supple, in body and limbs.

It wasn't always easy, nor was it always a solution. I remember once, coming down those concrete steps to the island, and being besieged by foreignness - although I was the foreigner, for this wasn't my country. I felt like I was hitting my head against a wall. I was so lonely. I was in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, writing, but the loneliness ate at me.

So I swam. In happiness and through despair. For me it starts with the smell of the pool. There's something about chlorine that's connected to my childhood. I was lucky to have learned to swim so young. I took to it. From as long as I can remember it was my sport. In high school I joined the swim team and we trained 7, 8 times a week. I was a decent swimmer when I was fourteen - I held one record for free-style at my high school - but when the other boys were bulking up I remained skinny and long. By sixteen I was middle of the pack. I didn't really care. I loved to be in the water. Nowadays, when I smell a public pool - a good one, one with plenty of room to swim and spread my wings - I feel myself again.

So I spent 1.5 years in Budapest. Swimming and writing. Writing and swimming. Sometimes, when I'm in the pool, I wish I could type while moving. There's a clarity and physicality I love that only comes from water. If you were to take a picture of me in action, front crawl, forward motion, I'm sure you'd see me smile.

(It was even open in winter. You could slip in from inside, slither the underground tunnel beneath plastic until you were outside, snow falling, the Hungarians with their bathing caps, mist rising above the surface of the water...)

In time the swimming has become my ritual, my solace, my routine. It's where I go to think, where I think best. It's where I go to clear myself. Perspective. I also got into open water swimming - last summer I did a 5 km race in Hague, New York - a beautiful lake surrounded by the Adirondacks.

Coming back to Canada, after five years of living in Europe, was good in many ways. I could understand what people were saying. I have good health care. But what is lacking, sadly, are the state of public pools (after Budapest there was Berlin, also a good swimming city, and before Budapest there was Vilnius, which has its share of good public pools. Swimming, like saunas and spas, are considered essential parts of a good life, unlike here, where they're considered luxury).

Montreal has a few good options, like the Olympic pool in Pie IX, but it's far and I don't like to have to travel across the city to get into a pool. I train with a triathlon club at the YMCA Mile End most of the year. It's a small pool, but I like the team, there are some really fantastic swimmers - one even used to race with the Italian national team. In the summer, there's Parc Jarry. From late June to early September it's open. It's 50 metres, and it's outdoors.

There's only one lane marked off while the rest is made for people who want to play. This is frustrating as a swimmer but I've learned to adjust my expectations. Also, it's free, and a 5 minute bike ride from my apartment.

There are a few tricks i've learned: one is that I don't go there when the weather is nice. It's just too crowded. But when it's cloudy or rainy, nobody goes. Those are the times I like to swim best.



I arrive at Jarry, under the threat of darkening skies, racing to finish my swim before thunder approaches. The lifeguards watch me, bored. I take in the trees that seem to erupt from concrete. Sometimes my goggles fog up. Rain or sun, I like to lie on the concrete, stretching my arms, following which I go home.

You could say that swimming is my way of being in the world. It's what I do when I first come to a new place: seek out the closest local public pool. In part it's a way of seeing the cross-section of a place. In a public pool you observe people from all walks of life - it is not the place of the wealthy and the privileged. Every city, every place has their own swimming rituals. In Tokyo they clear the pool every fifty-five minutes. For five minutes the lifeguards do a strange ritual of looking. In gestures that best resemble Tai-Chi, they check the state of the water. In my mind they are giving the water time to breathe and settle. At first I was annoyed by this interruption of my routine. But in time I grew to enjoy the strange meditative pace. Then, on the hour exactly, the lifeguards nod at each other, triangular in formation. A lifeguard blows her whistle; you re-enter the water and swim.




For over twenty years, every time I went by Parc Portugal in Montreal, I thought of Leonard. I thought of his lyrics and his music, how he touched so many people. How, when I was eighteen, Leonard made me want to become a writer – and to live the life that went with it. So when I actually ran into him one July some years ago in Parc Portugal – he was sitting alone on a park bench right across from his house – I decided to thank him. I sat down next to him and told him how grateful I felt for what he’s done for so many of us. Leonard nodded and said, “So what do you do?” I told him I was a poet and he said, “That’s really cool.” He wore a dark suit and while he sounded cool he also sounded a lot like my grandfather. He wore sunglasses and was totally present and this unnerved me. He said he’d love to read some of my poems. Then we talked about the weather – it was a beautiful summer day in Montreal. The World Cup was on, and he asked if I was watching any of it, and I confessed I hadn’t. I asked him if he was back in Montreal for good – this was around the time he discovered he was bankrupt – and he said he loved it here but couldn’t stand the winters, they were too hard on his bones. Then we were quiet. So I thanked him again and rejoined my friends and went on with the day. In time I did mail him my first book of poems. Six months later I received a postcard from Calcutta with some thoughts. It was signed, “L. Cohen.” I had the feeling of meeting my grandfather, an angel, and the coolest man in the universe. We’ve lost a prophet at a time when we desperately need clarity and reason. But along with the prophecy, we’ve lost the voice, his grace and his style. So put on your suits and leave your flowers on rue Marie-Anne. It’s time to get elegant again.


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