CUBA Part Two

This second post on Cuba is dedicated to the more subtle aspects of the being a tourist in the country, the things I didn’t know before I went, and the things I knew but only in theory. For instance, I had heard that people who travel to Cuba bring presents to give to the Cuban workers there. While their basic needs are mostly met, there are lots of things lacking in their everyday. Toilet paper is a luxury, for example, even toilet seats are in high demand. And paper in general is hard to get, so little things can go a long way.

After a trip to the dollar store and Canadian Tire I had collected these items:

The Gifts

I had originally thought that the presents were mostly for the housekeeping staff, so my choices were feminine oriented. I was told they like flashy stuff, bright colours and whatnot, so I made my choices accordingly. What I quickly realized, was that the need was far greater and wider than I could have imagined. Also there is a difference between knowing about needs and actually feeling the need once you’re there. I immediately regretted not bringing more stuff. Not the fun stuff like gum and candies and bracelets, but the practical stuff: batteries, paper, pens, flashlights, tape, tools, books, bike accessories, clothes, matches, and the list goes on and on and on. The place where we were was so rural that even if these things were available in stores, the residents would have to travel to the nearest city, which is difficult because they don’t have cars and the buses are crowded and irregular and, well, these things aren’t readily available. I was shocked at how easy it is for travellers to make life a little easier for the locals, just by packing these simple items. Next time, I’m bringing an extra suitcase, just for stuff.

Stuff

The other thing I found difficult, was how I felt when I got home. Stuff. Stuff. Stuff. All the unnecessary SHIT that surrounds us here at home. All the different versions of it. The brands, the stores, the malls. It made me queasy before, but upon returning from Cuba, it literally makes me ill. The futility of stuff, when our basic, everyday needs are really so simple. And how much money we spend on junk that WE DO NOT NEED. All the flavours of chips and crackers and juice. All the different stores to get clothes. Knickknacks, trinkets, doodads. All the millions of variations of things, that when you slice it down to sheer need, become superfluous. I am still grappling with this. 

The Cups

There is no recycling in Cuba. The infrastructure is simply not in place, and drinks at the bar are served in tiny little plastic glasses. This is frustrating for two reasons. One, the volume is so small, that you have to keep returning to the bar for the equivalent of a glass of beer. Second, the guilt of throwing away all these plastic glasses starts to weigh on you after a few days. You can recognize the people who have been to Cuba previously because they have to-go cups, which they use for their morning cappuccino and later for their alcoholic bevies. Next time, to-go cups all the way.

The Tips

This was a source of constant anxiety for me. My mum and I referred to it as CUC anxiety, and I had a bad case. CUC (Cuban Convertible Peso) is the tourist currency, and it is approximately equal to one Canadian dollar, and exactly equal to an American dollar. While the resorts are all inclusive, there is the tipping to take care of, a system that intimidated me to the point of freak-out. First, anytime one of the workers does something for you, you give them a CUC. They don’t ask for it, of course. It’s just a thing you do. You leave one on the pillow for housekeeping staff every morning. In the dining room, you leave a CUC on the table after you leave. If the cook at the grill fries you an egg, you leave a CUC on a plate by the grill. The bar tenders get tips. The tour guides get tips. The musicians get tips. This is fine, and expected, but my anxiety came mostly from the question: “is it enough?” and then, every time I left our room, I had to ask myself, do I have enough CUCs? Unforeseen circumstances happen all the time. Once at dinner I only had one CUC and in came the musicians. Shit! I sat stiffly in my chair, not enjoying the music, because I didn’t know who to give my CUC to. The server or the singer. I ended up borrowing a CUC from the nice lady beside me. Of course, this CUC anxiety is more a reflexion of me than anything else, but it is also a reflection of the economic divide. At home, I live below the poverty line, but here, I am rich. Seems outrageous, but it’s true if you consider that the average Cuban makes 20 dollars a month! So even one CUC is NOT nothing. Every tip is very much something, and I felt the weight of this. Also, I had the feeling that the tips were constantly being calculated and though everyone was always extremely friendly, the tip expectation hummed like an overtone. How could it not? This was exacerbated but the fact that after day three, I realized with horror that at the rate I had been tipping, I wouldn’t have enough to last the week. I changed the rest of my Canadian money at the hotel desk and then had to be very careful with every CUC on my last four days. Each one counted, for me and especially for the person I was giving it to. Next time, I will exchange more CUCs than I think I need. Yes, they do add up and it does represent a certain sum, but it is much more meaningful to spend a CUC in Cuba than a dollar in Canada.

Yoga and Beer

 

                  + 

It’s a surprisingly beneficial blend that I would never have dared to experiment with at home. It happened in Cuba simply due to the order of activities. Many afternoons I spent horseback riding, and when we got back in the late afternoon, about an hour before yoga class, some of us would have a beer or two and sometimes three with the guide, Chichi, at our usual spot at the bottom of the stairs. We’d chat until I had to go to class, already sweaty and hot and likely smelling boozy. Good thing the sessions were outside with a healthy ocean breeze! At first I was sheepish to show up after having imbibed. I wasn’t drunk by any stretch, but still. There is a spiritual aspect to yoga and so it was a little like showing up for church with whisky on your breath. The surprising thing was how much easier yoga is when lightly under the influence. My downward dog has never felt so good, so relaxed and deep. Now, I don’t know how I looked, but I felt good. My muscles, which are usually painfully taught, were more relaxed and shifted from one position to the next with a new lightness. I still don’t think I’d show up to a class with beer on my breath here in Montreal, but somehow in Cuba it just worked. And maybe I’ll give it a try at home after an evening oat soda. I might be onto something. 

This particular photo was taken in the early morning. I was actually quite hung-over, borderline about-to-throw-up, and I can confidently report that while I found doing yoga under the influence of beer to be beneficial, doing yoga while hung-over is very unpleasant and strongly discouraged.

Did I mention Cuba is beautiful?

   

CUBA

When my mum invited me to go to Cuba with her, of course I said yes.

I had seen pictures of the country. You know the ones: long white beaches and palm trees. And I'd heard about the all-you-can-eat buffets and the unlimited drinks. To be honest, it didn't sound like the kind of place I would go on my own volition. I was concerned about the indulgent nature of the experience, of feeling overly "white" and of not being able to relax while everyone else was unconscious in the sun.

Well, it wasn't that at all.

First, our destination was Marea del Portillo, a small town about a 2-hour bus ride from Manzanillo. During the drive I saw a Cuba I hadn't yet seen in pictures, a rural Cuba, with oxen tilling the fields and leather-faced men in straw hats cutting the grass with machetes. Pigs and goats blocked the road frequently and kids in pristine school uniforms stopped to wave at the massive tour bus as it whizzed passed.

The roads were in rough shape (even worse than Quebec roads!) but that matters little to the average Cuban living in the area, since almost no one has a car. It's mostly bikes and horses.

The hotel is located where the volcanic mountains (the highest in the country) meet the Caribbean. The view from the open stairwell looked like this:

The beauty was staggering. I just couldn't stop staring.


Our days began at 6 a.m. when the sky looked something like this:

At 7 a.m. we began our yoga practice in a tiled grass hut as the sun came up. I hadn't done yoga in almost a year, but our instructor, Wendy, was kind to us. She provided well-balanced classes to suit our demographic, which ranged in age from 13 to 96 years old. I can't think of a better yoga setting, with the sun easing upwards and the gently breaking waves. Or a better way to start the day.

Next on the agenda? Well some did decide to relax along the poolside with a piña colada by their side. But I am not much of a swimmer; I dislike pools and am afraid of the ocean, so I spent my time doing other things, mainly horseback riding. As soon as I caught sight of the mountains I knew I wanted to be in them, and the best way to do that is via horse.

I mostly rode Pelegrine, a handsome white horse who, from my perspective, looked like this:

The saddle was old and hard which was painful at first, but I quickly got used to it. Thanks to Pelegrine, I had access to the depths of the mountains where life flourished with an abundance I didn't think was possible. Flowers bursting from every corner, walls of cacti, trees growing out of trees growing out of trees. And, I was assured by Chichi, the guide, there is nothing harmful to be found. No poisonous snakes or spiders, no wolves or bears or anything that would attack. I have never felt closer to paradise than when I was in those mountains with Pelegrine's strong legs transporting me deeper into the wild, non-hostile beauty.

I didn't even mind when on one excursion the horse in front kicked Pelegrine and he reared up, sending me toppling into the riverbed (which luckily was sand). Or when a tropical storm hit, drenching me, destroying my phone, and making for a treacherous muddy trek down the mountainside.

When I wasn't horseback riding, I was biking, or running or doing more yoga (we had evening sessions too). One morning, the organizer of the trip, Jenny, took us on an epic mountain biking trip in search of a waterfall where we could swim. She knew a shortcut, but the roads were sinewy and there were no signs to indicate where we were going. Some places were washed out completely and we had to walk. To avoid a hornet nest and some heavily thorned bushes that were obstructing our route, we hoisted our bikes up into a goat pasture which eventually led us to the semi-paved road.

After a long uphill climb I locked eyes with this specimen:

That's about when we decided to forget about the waterfall. We coasted downhill until we reached the sea, which was also where the local fishermen keep their boats:

On another day, my mum and I took a boat to a little island called Cayo Blanco. Here the sand was the white kind you see in pictures and the water was turquoise and the palm trees were perfect. Here is mum, reaping the pleasures of boyancy:

We put masks on and was introduced to a new world of strange creatures, odd looking fish and spikey things that we were told stay away from. I was jumpy, though. The ocean is too vast a place to ever fully grasp, and all those unknowns make me nervous. After about half an hour of peering at lifeforms I couldn't compute, I was back in the sand, finishing an article in the New Yorker about the Cuban writer Leonardo Padura Fuentes. Some snorkling gentlemen emerged from the waters carrying treasures that they found out in the depths, and since they already had lots of that kind of thing, they offered me some of their loot, which I gladly accepted.

Here's mum again, looking very relaxed after her float session:

On the way home, the captain motioned for me to take the wheel of the ship. I was hesitant at first. Afterall, I can barely drive a car, but he showed me how to spin the wheel and keep the ship headed towards one point on the horizon. I think I did alright. The captain's hat definitely helped.

Was Cuba relaxing? Not in the sense that I relaxed. In fact, I barely slept at all. My mind was so packed with images and Spanish words and new sensory details to compile that I would lie awake for hours with sounds and images swirling around my skull. Then the alarm would go off early in the morning. Despite this, I didn't feel tired. I didn't eat much either, and not just because the food was limited as a vegetarian. I simply wasn't hungry. It was as if the air and the sea were enough to sustain me. So I have not returned to Canada relaxed, exactly. But I have returned rejuvinated. Invigorated. And scheming my return. Next time for longer and with a writing project.

There are some places in the world that absorb your heart so completely, you inevitably leave pieces behind when you go. It was unexpected, but a good chunk of my heart stayed there in Cuba. Which only means that I'll have to go back. Soonish. I hope.

Life as a Freelance Everything

So I haven't written here in a while. Partly this is due to my lack of Internet access at home, but mostly this is because of my recent career shift to a freelance everything.

A freelance everything means that you basically do whatever people ask you to do.

Of course, you can put limits on your services. I won't go into sexytime territory, for example. But pretty much everything else is game. The tasks vary in scope and nature, but the main thing to keep in mind as a freelancer is that you never know when the next job will come along, so you kinda have to say yes to everything. My month of November, for example, is completely empty. Maybe it'll fill up. Maybe it won't.

Here, though, is a glimpse into this past month: A day in the life of a freelance everything.

Dog walking:

It seems straightforward, but it isn't always. Collectively these beasts are more than twice my weight, and if they see a squirrel or a pile of trash or some discarded McDonald's, there is very little I can do to hold them back. Fortunately, each dog depicted here prefers different snacks, with the exception of McDonald's, so usually I can keep them at a forward, steady pace.

But what happens if you go to the dog park, and Mali, the nice clean white one on the left, decides to roll in the muck?

Well, you spend an extra 20 minutes cleaning off said dog before she helps herself to the comfortable couch cushions, or worse, the owners' bed. These are twenty minutes that are not on the payroll, but being a freelancer means you have to be flexible. You have to plan for the unforeseeable, especially when it comes to dogs.

Cat sitting:

Cat sitting, though it is the easiest and most predictable, it is the lowest paying. In fact, it rarely pays at all. This cat was thrown into a dog sitting deal, so if anything she was a bonus. I got to stroke her soft fur and cuddle her up to my face (my own cat, were I to attempt the same maneuver, would attack my jugular). Mostly I mention cat sitting so I can show off this beautiful specimen.


Transcription:

Sometimes companies or universities need to have transcripts of things that go on during meetings. This is usually in the scope of research. Sometimes market, sometimes social science. It could be anything really. I get sent MP3s and using my trusty sound-reduction headphones, I listen and type out everything that is said. Tedious? Yes. Interesting? Occasionally. But the work requires very little brain activity, so I tend to do it late at night. It's best to do it all at once, just plug in and get 'er done.

Translation:

This is what I meant to be doing when I decided to be a freelancer. My official title is freelance writer/translator. And sometimes this works out. I prefer if, of course, working with language, two languages. Mulling over phrases, exploring different combinations of words until the meanings match up perfectly. And the topics can vary widely, from aerospace R & D to laughter yoga to catch phrases for major supermarkets. In a way, it's like being an actor on the page, since the style in which you write has to fit the scene with which you're dealing. I welcome all translations, but it can take a while to build up a client base. And in the meantime, other things come up like...

Painting:

I was exploited by a student painting company in university, so I got quite good at quick, efficient work. Recently I redid an outside staircase, which is a truly wretched job. First, you have to grind off the old paint with a loud, heavy machine that blows sparks and paint chips into your face. Then you go over every surface by hand with special sandpaper. Finally, you paint the stairs, once with anti-rust paint and again with the final, toxic layer of thick, penetrating paint. In this case, black. I mentioned limits earlier. I may apply one here and limit myself to one staircase per year.
 

Weddings:

As a violinist, I sometimes get asked to play weddings. This is a great side-job because it is well paid and requires the least amount of time. The time it does require, however, is stressful as there is a lot of pressure not to ruin the most important moment of your client's life. Especially now that weddings are recorded on a number of devices to be reviewed later. The music has to be tight and perfectly timed. If you can manage that, though, playing weddings is a fun and lucrative way to spend a Saturday afternoon.


Babysitting:

I started babysitting when I was only 11 years old, and the funny thing is that it was much harder back then. I remember being spit on, having chairs whipped at me, kids swearing and refusing to go to bed. One ran away from home. And the pay in those days was only $2 and hour. Now, parents hire me to watch their kids because they don't want someone young and inexperienced the way I was back then. TWENTY years ago. Whenever I feel bad about that astronomical figure, I just look at this sweet picture of one of my regulars.

Freelance isn't easy, and I sometimes have to remind myself that no one forced me into this. It's my choice, my way of getting by so that I can make time for writing. Because when the dogs have been walked, the litter scooped, the kitties cuddled, the diapers changed, the floors scrubbed, the stairs painted, the words translated, I can return to whatever it is I'm working on at the time. My words.

Even though my dictionary says that the word freelance is derived from the 19th Century "Free Lance," which was used to denote a medieval mercenary, I prefer to think of it like this:

Lancer in French means to throw. Freelancers throw themselves to the wind, catching what comes along and, depending how things are going that month, that week, that day, take it or leave it.

It can be stressful. It can be discouraging. But it can also be rewarding, eclectic and eventful.

In any case, that's what I've been up to.

Now, what can I do for you?

Here's to Newness

Back in April 2012 I wrote a post on moving. In it, I explained that my partner and I had just bought a place and were moving for the LAST TIME. I was excited to be starting this new phase of my life. The grown-up phase, the part where you fix up your OWN place the way you want it. You don't have to call a landlord if you want to paint or tear down a cupboard or tile a floor. You just do it. But I was foolish to use such a definitive term as "last." The word implies that the future is set. And, well, it isn't. People change, grow apart. Shit happens.

Which is why I am writing from my new apartment, where I now live. Alone. And I'm renting again, so the walls will stay white for now.

I don't like change very much, so this transition has been difficult. Even though I didn't move too far away from my old place, I have a new neighbourhood. A new postal code to memorize. New faces. And a whole new dynamic when I walk out into the world.

I don't live in the Plateau anymore. I am across the train tracks in Rosemont, le Vieux-Rosemont, to be more precise. Historically, this area was home to a Canadian Pacific train factory, and the inhabitants were working class. As with much of the city, Rosemont has had its share of gentrification, but unlike the Plateau, which has become downright posh over the years, Rosemont has maintained an element of authenticity reminiscent of the old days as can be witnessed by these rivalling hot dog restaurants:

Mark Twain famously said Montreal was a city where "you couldn't throw a brick without breaking a church window" and le Vieux-Rosemont is no exception:

Despite its history, there are many new and exciting things happening in the neighbourhood. The alleyways, for example, are becoming greenified. Residents are blocking them off from cars and opening them up to kids and cats and gardens:

 

And artists:

 I don't yet have internet access, so when I need it for work I go to Première Moisson:

Here, I get a full taste of the local flavour. Old timers gather like gangs, hanging out in the corners and giving the stink-eye to newcomers. They behave as if they own the café, gossiping at full volume and sprawling their belongings over a series of tables. One older lady comes daily, buys a coffee and simply gets refills all day. By mid afternoon, she slips into a caffeine-induced state, singing loudly (and atonally) to the heavy rock music she has blaring from her MP3 player, stomping her feet and slamming her hands on her crossword puzzle. She gets up every 20 minutes to either refill her glass or use the lady's room. When people she knows enter the café, she salutes them from afar and sometimes bellows a welcome, startling the other patrons. Maybe one day she'll salute me too, and then I'll know I'm truly integrated into my new surroundings.


Less than a block from my apartment is a liquor store, which, depending on how you look at it could be very convenient as well as somewhat dangerous. Last week, they also installed a piano, and I have been astounded to discover that many of my neighbours are also pianists. This old timer blessed us with some passionate honky-tonk blues:

So, my new hood isn't so bad. Actually, it's quite appealing, which is why the rents are climbing and more and more people are moving here. It's natural to resist change in its many forms, but with change comes interesting new things, new faces, new sounds, new ideas. The unknown is frightening. It's hard to leap into an existence you can't imagine. But the upside of this is that when you let your imagination rest, the outcome can often surpass its capacity.


So cheers. To newness. To the unknown.

When Things Go Right

When my friend Emmanuelle invited me to go camping on her dad's property in Lachute, I said sure. It was to be wilderness camping on a parcel of land that had a small river. There was no shelter or running water. Not even an outhouse. While I was eager to embark on the endeavour, due to an extended streak of poor luck that has persisted for the last while, I was nearly certain that something would go wrong.  

   

The land was majestic. The deciduous forest was bright and inviting, with ferns and moss and rocks scattered here and there by glaciers long ago. We carried our equipment from the car, which was parked by the road, down through the trail-less forest until we reached the water and our cellphones lost their reception. The sweet river sang as water rushed over rocks. There were plenty of mosquitos, but having both grown up in the Muskoka wilderness, it wasn't anything we couldn't handle. Lily, however, promptly lost her mind, snapping the air and running in circles.  

 

We built a fire right away, which deterred the mosquitos, and put a bottle of white wine in the river to chill. My last visitor left a Pabst in my fridge, and though it isn't my favourite beer, it seemed appropriate  to use it to raise a toast to our admittedly perfect fire, which we built in an effortless couple of minutes.

 

 

 

We spent the rest of the evening chilling, drinking wine, roasting tofu dogs and catching up.

 Lily adapted quickly to forest life and spent her time wading in the river and eating mosquitos.   

  

We found a small patch of relatively flat land to pitch our tents.

 

When night finally fell, we gathered our food up and hung it in a tree. We only had a bungee cord, though, so the food bag hung down to bear mouth level. We weren't willing to walk it up through the dark forest to the car, though, so it would have to do. We poured water over the coals and crawled into our tent. I was certain disaster would strike that night. I imagined a ravenous bear, lured by the smell of roasted tofu weiners, thrashing through our tents and mauling us alive. 

But no. There were no animals. Not even a raccoon fucking around with the dishes that we had left drying on the rocks. Not even a mosquito whining in the tent. There were no sounds at all, save for the gentle rushing of the river. I kept waiting for something terrible to happen. 

But it didn't. 

The next day, Emmanuelle whipped up some perfect pancakes and we made sumptuous coffee with soy cream and dark roasted beans. 

 

Emmanuelle had packed some oil for frying and enough home brewed maple syrup to sufficiently saturate the pancakes. 

  

 We ate perched on two rocks beside the river. It was so idyllic it was eery.

That afternoon we went on a long walk through the forest, not following a trail. Just bushwhacking in the hopes of finding the lake. I was positive we would get lost or hurt or find a decomposing body. But we did find the lake. We didn't get lost. The walk was pleasant and the forest was beautiful and filled our lungs with its sweetness. Lily frolicked off-leash, consumed by the ecstasy of freedom and discovery.

When we got back, we made another flawless fire and cracked open the white wine that had been waiting for us in the river. It was cold and succulent. 

 

Raising our glasses, we toasted to love. To friendship. And to the end of my bad luck streak.

That night I slept easy. I stopped waiting for the heavens to shit down on me. I felt less vulnerable than I had in a long while, even out there in a flimsy tent. And I felt happier. Grounded. I awoke refreshed, and after another delicious coffee accompanied with a peanut butter pita, we began the process of packing up. We loaded everything into the car and were pulling out onto the gravel road when the first drops of rain began to slap the windshield. Just in time.

Had my luck changed? My attitude? Or was this the result of reconnecting with nature?

I returned to the city less fearful and longing to return to the forest, where life doesn't seek justification. There isn't right and wrong. Things are. Life is. Simple.

All my Neighbours must be Artists

I don't know what it is, but lately along the sidewalks I've been finding artwork.

It's not by the same hand, as the style varies greatly from canvas to canvas and I discover them in front of different buildings. But considering that they are within a one block radius from where I live, I think it's safe to conclude that there are a great deal of toiling artists in my immediate neighbourhood.

The paintings are usually put out the day before garbage day. Perhaps the artist decided to allow one last opportunity for their creation to be seen. Admired. And if it resonates particularly with a passerby, their art might be taken home and displayed. If not, the next day it will be destroyed.

In the interest of preserving these pieces, which may never be seen again. I've been photographing them and as a creative exercise, have given them each titles.

Here, then, are the local anonymous sidewalk masterpieces:

Exuberant Cynicism

Garçon invisible

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young, Whip-Titted Devil

 Masturbation in Chains

 Blowing Bubbles in Hell

Odd Jobs #1 -- A Day at JT Inc.

When my friend Jessie had a molar extracted last week, she was given strict orders to refrain from putting any pressure on her newly inflicted wound. This included sucking from a straw, spitting, and glass-blowing.

The latter was particularly problematic since this is part of her job and there happened to be a large order of Christmas balls to be filled posthaste. She would have to hire someone to do the blowing. Naturally, I was an obvious candidate (see previous post on odd jobs).

I was nervous about it at first. This is her art, her life. What if I did a bad job? 

"It doesn't matter if you fuck it up," she said. "We'll just keep on doing it until you get it right."

This made me feel better until she added, "And anyway, a seven-year-old off the street could do it."

This was not reassuring. Just because a seven-year-old is capable, doesn't mean I will be. I have been known to botch the simplest of tasks. But I was willing to try, so the next day I went to the JT Inc. headquarters, located in the old Cadbury chocolate factory. 

The studio was bright and clean, with flourishing plants and hundreds of glass rods everywhere. 

                                     

Jessie adorned me with special purple glasses so my retinas would not be seared by the flame and a rubber tube with a mouthpiece on the end not unlike a woodwind instrument. Jessie sat at the torch and I, seated comfortably beside her, waited as she melted the end of a glass rod in the flame.

When the ball was big enough and hot enough, she brought it, glowing florescent orange, out of the flame and said, "Blow!" As instructed, I set my teeth on the plastic mouthpiece, sealed my lips around it and blew tiny spurts of air, harder or softer, depending on the instructions, which were delivered in this manner:

"Blow...blow...OK BLOW BLOW BLOW BLOW!!!! STOP!"

We soon devised a number system which corresponded to the required air pressure. It went like this:

"OK, I'm gonna need a four. Five. Four. Four. Two. One. STOP!"  

It was imperative not to blow too much, or we would face the wrath of a giant dripping ball of molten glass. Daydreaming and discussion was kept to a minimum. But Jessie was right. With her guidance, my task was easy. She was the one doing all the hard work.

Once the ball was blown, it went back in the flame. She turned it this way and that to get it symmetrical, then proceeded to draw on the designs using thin sticks of coloured glass, which she simultaneously melted in the flame while rotating the ball. Then she plunged the whole business into the depth of the flame for a re-heat followed by a couple of blows ranging between a three and a four.

A final trip into the flame to even things out, melt on a little loop of glass where the string would later be tied, and heat the glass on the other side of the ball so that it could be pulled into a perfect, tapered tip. Into the kiln they went for some overnight annealing. Et voila!

I can now update my professional CV to include Christmas ball blowing.