Archive for the ‘Maine Tattoo’

18 Bollywood Relationships That Made Headlines Back In The Day – ScoopWhoop05.06.21

The Bollywood industry is always brimming with gossips, breakups and love affairs. When it comes down to relationships, there is a fair share of tittle-tattle involved.

Here is our list of some relationships from the tinsel town that made headlines back in the day.

The couple was truly, madly and deeply in love for good five years. They appeared in numerous movies and events together making headlines. However, itallegedlywent downhill when she met Saif Ali Khan on the sets of Tashan.

Known for their brilliant on-screen chemistry, theirallegedrelationship has been the talk of the town for decades.Reportsstate that their relationship began back in 1976 on the sets of Anjaane, when he was already married to Jaya Bachchan. Although he never accepted this, the evergreen queen has been pretty vocal about their alleged relationship. Fromarrivingwith sindoor and mangalsutra at Rishi Kapoor-Neetu Singhs wedding to her explosiveinterviewwith Filmfare in 1984, she professed her love several times on camera.

Be it their scorching pairing or the burning controversies that followed for years after they broke up, their affair has been the talk of the tinsel town for ages. The couple started dating in 1999 during the shoot of Sanjay Leela Bhansali's Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam and ended things two years later. As per reports, Salman was an abusive partner. Hereportedlyshowed up on the sets of SRKs Chalte Chalte and tried to drag her away as he suspected her of having an affair with SRK. Sadly, the couple broke up on a very bad note.

She instantly rose to fame at the tender age of 20 with the movie Hare Ram Hare Krishna, directed by evergreen Dev Anand, who was 48 years of age back then. Even though he was a married man and the father of two kids, he fell in love with Zeenat. In his autobiography, Romancing With Life, he openlyconfessedhis love for the diva. He even nearly expressed his love, but silently withdrew when she was getting close to Raj Kapoor.

This couple created a buzz on the silver screen due to their steaming hot chemistry and good looks. They started dating in 2008 while shooting for their movie Bachna Ae Haseeno. They were quite serious about each other and she even got a tattoo engraved behind her neck with his RK initials. However, it is said that heallegedlyfell for Katrina Kaif while shooting for Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani andreportedlycheated on Deepika with her.

This has to be one of the most controversial affairs in the history of the entertainment industry.Reportedly, both came close to each other while working in movies together like Krrish 3 and Kites. Back in 2016, there wasgossipthat he had ousted her from the movie Aashiqui 3. On this, shecommentedthat exes do silly things to get your attention and that chapter is over for her. This didnt sit right with Hrithik and he sent a legalnoticeasking her to apologise for defaming him. Its still a he said-she said mystery.

Known for his skills and strong on-screen presence, he had no escape from his alleged affairs with different actresses, despite having a wife and 5 kids. Back then, Nargis was already a big superstar and Raj instantly fell in love with her. Their chemistry was noticed by the entire nation in the songPyaar Hua Ikraar Hua.Reportedly, she was hell-bent on marrying him even though it wasnt possible since he was already married. Raj Kapoors son Rishi Kapoor in his autobiography, Khullam Khulla,mentionedthat He was also a man in love at the time, unfortunately, with someone other than my mother. His girlfriend was the leading lady of some of his biggest hits of the time, including Aag, Barsaat and Awara.

The Haan Maine Bhi Pyaar Kiya on-screen couple were dating in real life for five years and even got engaged in 2002 on Amitabh Bachchans 60th birthday. Their breakup, which was wasreportedlypinned on the bitterness created by their mothers, became the talk of the town back in 2003.

After their sleeper hit, Kalicharan, the duoreportedlygot close to each other. He was already wedded to Poonam Sinha when he wasallegedlydating her. Reena wanted a commitment from the actor but he refused to leave his wife. So, she decided to leave him for good and announced her wedding with Pakistani cricketer, Mohsin Khan.

They met on the sets of the movie Hadh Kardi Apne when he was already married to Sunita and was the father of two children. According to therumours, he gifted her diamonds, a lavish flat and a high-end car. He even recommended her to many directors. However, Sunitareportedlydecided to move out of their house but he wasnt ready to break his marriage and hence broke up with Rani.

He was touted as one of the most faithful husbands in tinsel town until PeeCee came into the picture. Theyallegedlygot close during the shoot of the movie Don in 2011. From their PDA at award functions to PeeCee supporting SRKs IPL team, all headlinessuspectedthat something was brewing between the two.

With their adorable on-screen pairing, its no secret that people were rooting for the pair. After working in a number of movies together like Khalnayak and Saajan, the duoreportedlystarted making headlines and was quite serious about each other. However, he was sent to jail for the illegal possession of arms in 1993, under TADA. According torumours, she decided to end their alleged relationship and disassociate herself from him.

Who can forget their iconic pairing in K Asif's Mughal-E-Azam? This duo made headlines for their classic on-screen chemistry.Reportedly, they fell in love on the sets of Tarana and dated for nine long years. In his autobiography, Dilip Kumar: The Substance And The Shadow, he quoted I must admit that I was attracted to her (Madhubala) both as a fine co-star and as a person who had some of the attributes I hoped to find in a woman at that age and time...She, as I said earlier, was very sprightly and vivacious and, as such, she could draw me out of my shyness and reticence effortlessly.

Theiraffairmade headlines in the late 90s simply because of their sizzling on-screen and off-screen chemistry. It is alsorumouredthat she dumped him to get in a relationship with John Abraham. However, they have set an excellent example of exes who remain friends.

They met on the sets of Dastak in 1996, when he was married to his then-wife Aditi and had a daughter. Talking about his extramarital affair, he said in aninterviewthat, "I regret hurting my wife and my child and abandoning them. I regret the pain I caused them. I always believe that when you're not courageous, you become cunning. I did not have the courage to tell Aditi how I felt. And it was all happening together, it was a big mess.

This Mexican beauty and Greek god met on the sets of Kites. They made headlines when it wasrumouredthat the two started dating while shooting for the movie. The audience was bedazzled with their sizzling on-screen chemistry.

The two reportedly got close while filming Jaag Utha Insan, in the early 80s. Although they never publicly admitted to being in a relationship, theyallegedlygot hitched secretly. However, he refused to leave his wife and it all ended on a sad note.

From Shilpa Shetty and Raveena Tandon to Rekha and Priyanka Chopra, he wasrumouredto be in several relationships. According to areport, Shilpa claimed that he was unfaithful throughout their entire relationship. She said, "I never imagined that he could two-time me and that too all along with our relationship. Akshay Kumar used me and conveniently dropped me after he found someone else. The only person, I was upset with, was him. But I'm sure he'll get it all back.

Did we miss any? Tell us in the comments section.

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18 Bollywood Relationships That Made Headlines Back In The Day - ScoopWhoop

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Fugitive Wanted On Reckless Conduct With A Deadly Weapon Charge – Patch.com01.09.21

CONCORD, NH The District of New Hampshire-New Hampshire Joint Fugitive Task Force is asking for the public's help finding a man wanted on a felony reckless conduct with a deadly weapon charge.

Jesse Daniel Davis, 38, is 6 feet, 1 inch tall, weighs around 210 lbs., and has hazel eyes and brown hair. He was born in Maine and has a tattoo on his right front arm. A warrant was issued for Davis' arrest on Dec. 30, 2020, according to Jeffrey White, a deputy marshal.

"Davis is wanted for bail violations after being charged with reckless conduct with a deadly weapon-vehicle," White said. "Davis is known to have friends and associates in the Rochester, NH, area, as well as family, friends, and associates in the Bar Harbor, Maine, area."

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Davis was accused of reckless conduct-deadly weapon and criminal mischief charges in mid-February 2020 in Rochester. He reportedly failed to appear in Strafford County Superior Court in August 2020.

If you know where Davis is or see someone who looks like him, contact local police or the task force at 603-225-1632.

Editor's note: This post was derived from information supplied by the U.S. Marshals Service and does not indicate a conviction. This link explains the removal request process for New Hampshire Patch police reports.

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The Maine Millennial: ‘Small happiness’ was there, even in 2020 – Press Herald12.27.20

Despite various minor disasters befalling us like the house being invaded by thousands of bees in the summer technically speaking, this wasnt the worst year on record for my family.

That distinguished title belongs to the 12-month span between July 2017 and July 2018. In that circle round the sun, my dad, my uncle, my grandmother and my dog all died. And while that experience put my psyche through a thresher, my emotional scar tissue made me tough and resilient. Spending months in isolation isnt my favorite thing in the world, but compared to that, its a (socially distanced) walk in the park.

One good thing about being a recovering alcoholic is that sobriety is, in and of itself, an accomplishment. If you go to bed at night free and sober, youve accomplished something, even if you stayed in your pajamas all day. I didnt learn to make sourdough in quarantine; I didnt learn a new language. But I stayed sober. And thats something. 2020 has been full of failures, on scales small and large, but that has been one small success for me. June was my second sober anniversary and I got myself another tattoo to celebrate. The green pine tree and blue North Star have settled on the inside of my wrist like they were born there.

And I taught Janey a new command. Now, in addition to sit, down and wait, she knows over when were walking along the road and a car approaches, I say the word, she walks over to the side of the road and sits at my feet. That was the first time I ever taught her a command, and I have to say I was pretty pleased with myself.

Plus, I havent missed a column deadline yet. Though I know I make it look easy, there have been many times this year where my writers block was more like writers mountain. But you move a mountain one stone at a time.

For most of this most hellacious year I thought I was doing pretty good coping with the global pandemic, unemployment, isolation and being single. And then in September I got shingles. Turns out they can be caused in part by stress. Now, getting through two weeks of nerve pain without any painkillers, that was tough. The shingles incident was probably the closest Ive come to relapse since my grandmothers passing one month into sobriety. But I got through it. I burned through a lot of scented candles, but I got through it. And now Ive got a bunch of pox-like scars wrapping around my ribcage as a permanent reminder of 2020. (They say millennials are sensitive snowflakes; my epidermis definitely is.)

We did have wins in the family this year. My sister moved into her first apartment. (Lets hope that she learns from my many mistakes and the independence sticks.) My mom published her first book in seven years in the middle of a pandemic to (I must brag) critical acclaim and, more importantly, the cheers of her readers. I got elected to my towns Planning Board, which is very cool if you are a government nerd like me. Janey the dog went from being 85 percent house trained at the beginning of the year to an astounding 98 percent! Maine celebrated our bicentennial of statehood. 2020 may have robbed us of our planned celebrations, but nothing can take our age away from us! Happy birthday, Maine.

Is my life going the way I was hoping it would when 2020 started? Of course not. My life wont be going the way I want until Im married to Timothee Chalamet and/or Anna Kendrick and living on a private island surrounded by two or three dozen rescue dogs. But this year has caused my sense of gratitude to grow wild and flourish. In the gray haze after Dad died, I thought I would never feel big happiness again, so I had to focus on the small happinesses, the bright and fleeting ones, wherever I saw them. A fat bird on a branch outside the window. The Big Dipper in the backyard. A particularly well-made cup of coffee.

Unlike so many Americans, my family has not been in danger of hunger or homelessness this year. We are lucky. We are blessed. We may not have much but we have enough, and thats fine with me. As E.B. White put it, I would really rather feel bad in Maine than good anywhere else. I am most grateful for Maine and its beauty and its resilience. I dont understand why people live anywhere else, but Im glad they do, because if everyone lived in Maine the traffic would be unbearable.

All the same, I am ready to leave 2020 in the rear view mirror; a stripe of roadkill in the road of our life.

Victoria Hugo-Vidal is a Maine millennial. She can be contacted at:[emailprotected]Twitter: mainemillennial

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Opinion: We the north: On finding a home in Canada – The Globe and Mail12.27.20

Illustrations by Connor Willumsen

Nathan Englander is the author of five books, including For the Relief of Unbearable Urges. His most recent novel is kaddish.com.

The moment it sinks in were moving to Canada, I tell my wife I want to be buried on American soil. Its Rachels job were moving for and I figure that grants me a couple of personal requests. While I give her a chance to ponder, I google how far it is from Toronto to Buffalo, and then to Detroit, the nearest major American cities I know.

When I watch our daughter Olivia disappear into her Brooklyn daycare the next morning, I feel a rush of panic over sending her to a Canadian school. What will they teach her up there?

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I think, She wont know American history. Then I think, I dont know American history. To test that, I literally ask myself: Who was the second president of the United States?

And honestly, Im even surprised when I cant answer something that basic. I mean, I work at a real university! I spend all day sitting around thinking and writing books! But, no, I really dont have a clue. And admitting that fills me with a sense of a calm. Olivia wont need to know American history either. Let her learn Canadian history instead. If I teach her George Washington, and the Brooklyn Bridge, and tell her the Mets won in 1969, shell basically be caught up to me.

Riding that wave of relief, I let go of a bunch of other move-related concerns. When I look at the overloaded bookshelves in our apartment, and picture the boxes we have in storage, and flash back through all the apartments Ive lived in over the years, all the dishes Ive wrapped and unwrapped, the idea of moving again after getting settled, well, I even ditch my initial stipulation. I really am good with dying in Toronto. I tell Rach she can sprinkle my ashes in Lake Ontario and let the currents decide in which country I end up.

As we get closer to leaving, theres a lot more cheering about our exit than Id expected. I try not to take it personally. When I tell the woman on the phone at my internet provider that were cancelling service to move to Canada, she says, Congratulations! as if wed won the lottery. Even our close friends, all of them New York-loving and Brooklyn-obsessed say, Youre getting out? Thats the dream. The fact that the destination is Canada only gets them more excited. Its all wed darkly joked about those last years, in our ironical regional left-leaning way. I mean, this was the summer of 2019. If you happened to believe in democracy, or racial justice, or womens rights, or global warming, or gun control, or about a million other things that you could just file either under basic human kindness or the rule of law then heading to Canada was a punch line that always killed.

We rush to take a family scouting trip to Toronto, because another thing about that summer is that Rach is around five-hundred months pregnant with (spoiler alert) baby Sam, and we need to get up north and figure out some things while she can still fly. We visit Toronto hoping to get a better picture of the place, to try to imagine school for Olivia and find a neighbourhood thats in range of the university where Rach will be teaching (back in the days before wed ever envisioned her teaching on screen).

My vote is that we live near the store that says Appetizing in the window. That is, appetizing as noun, like they mean it at Barney Greengrass and Russ & Daughters. I feel safer living within easy access to bagels and lox.

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We crisscross Queen and King and Danforth and Dupont, trying to decode the city and saying things like, If Madison, Wisconsin, had a kid with Red Hook, Brooklyn, that baby would be Roncesvalles. Or, The Annex is like Park Slope, if the brownstones were semi-detached and Paul Auster was Margaret Atwood.

Our friend Terry volunteers to play tour guide. She picks us up early one morning and offers to take us to Starbucks for coffee which puts the fear of God into me. What will my new life be? Staring at me in her rearview mirror, she catches my face and takes the hint and drives us to a hole-in-the-wall caf beside a tattoo parlor instead. A pierced and inked and earlobe-stretched man sits in the window, I imagine having ambled over from next door. We order coffees and pastries, and, while our order is being prepared, Rach asks the barista where he lives, and what his favourite parts of the city are. He gives us his take. And then he gives us our whole order on the house. Hed moved to Toronto from Tokyo four years before. He knows what its like to be new in a place.

Rach thanks him. And I cry in the coffee shop in front of this superhip Torontonian-via-Tokyo, because he is so kind.

When we finally make our move, while Rach and the kids and the dog and I settle into our new space and our new neighbourhood, while I settle into saying kids instead of kid now that Sammy is on the team, those sorts of unexpected coffee-shop kindnesses keep coming in too many ways to list.

Really, from the moment I pull up at our house and our new neighbours invite me in to print my parking pass and share their WiFi and offer help in any way they can, were made to feel right at home.

But as for actually feeling at home, thats where I lag behind the rest of the family. Rach has her job here. Sam has his mom his universe during that stage when attachment parenting doesnt even begin to touch the glorious extremity of that new baby bond. And Olivia is like me in a lot of ways (we both talk frequently and loudly, for example), but thankfully shes radically different on the delicate flower front.

She shows up at her first-ever day of big-kid school, in a new country, without knowing a soul. We get to the playground fence on the other side of which the junior kindergarten classes congregate. I load on her knapsack, and Olivia walks right through the gate and doesnt look back.

So that leaves me and the dog, a neurotic rescue, to find ourselves out of sorts. I think the reason the two of us are the most confused in the family, the most anxious, is because both of our realities are fragile constructs both of our worlds rest wholly on familiarity and habit. We yearn to sniff our way along our daily routes.

I once talked to an eye doctor who explained how none of our eyes are really perfect matches, and our body just knows how to adjust for that. To tilt the head. To imperceptibly pull focus on one side and balance things out. And he gets people coming in, people whove never had issues with their vision, but something seems off, theyre getting headaches, they just cant see right. And he said its often related to some kind of personal trauma or shock to the system. Suddenly the head forgets its proper, reflexive, subconscious tilt, and everything appears out of whack.

Its kind of like that when you move a writer. Also, Im too old to make friends.

Im surprised at how much the idea of a border exacerbates making this place seem farther away from the States when, in a pinch, I could get in the car and be enjoying the view of Niagara Falls from the American side from New York State! in less than two hours. Im closer to Brooklyn than I was when I lived in Wisconsin or Iowa. Latitudinally, were south of Maine and Michigan and Vermont. Its the other-country of it all, coupled with my Yankee ignorance of Canada, that makes it feel so much more distant.

Also, the ignorance isnt mutual. During the most critical American election cycle of my life, Id run into my neighbour as we dragged recycling bins to the curb, and, no joke, hed say something like, Did you see Klobuchars fourth-quarter numbers? If Warren wants to keep her lead, she better hit harder on Medicare for All though I bet Biden takes the nomination in the end. And in response Id say, A premier is kind of like a governor, and a province is your version of a state!

I am trying to learn Where to mail a letter. Where the cash machines are. The name of a good pediatrician and someone who can watch the dog when were away. Also, someone gave Olivia a Canadian trivia pack meant for a five-year-old, which Rach and I promptly stole. Canada has one-fifth of the worlds freshwater, is the second-biggest country, has the longest common border, and on and on. At nights, when the kids sleep, we sit on the couch and quiz each other, getting everything wrong.

Its a continuation of a process started months before, on my second trip up to Canada that summer, taken alone, after Rach is too pregnant to fly. I make a quick one-day excursion to sign papers, to get keys, to meet all the people that need meeting so we can arrange the things that need arranging for our arrival. I schedule an early flight back, as prescribed by the obstetrician, who thinks it would be a shame if I happen to miss the babys birth.

I spend that night at Rachs aunt and uncles, whod moved to Toronto decades before. Sports-loving family that they are, we watch Game 5 of the NBA Championships, convinced its going to be the final game of the series, and the first ever NBA championship for the Raptors, and for Canada. After they win, were going to head straight downtown to meet, I guess, the whole rest of the country and join in celebrating the victory, just as Rachs aunt and uncle had done when the Blue Jays took their first World Series in 1992.

So I watch, and I root. I cheer when my hosts cheer. And as I make a real and concerted effort, my heart shifts. I want that win for the Raptors, my new team, and for Toronto, my new city, strange as that is to say. I try the feelings on for size both Canadianness and sportiness and I tell you, there is pride and joy and my shifted-heart swelling in the last seconds as the Raptors take the lead, followed by shock and deflation when the Warriors come back to win the game by a single point. We are devastated. Its honestly sad.

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Trying to be positive and to be cheery, I make some joke about what Ill do or say when I bump into the Raptors at the airport the next morning when the team flies to the States for Game 6.

When I get to the airport early the next day, its quiet and nearly empty as I walk the terminal following the American flag signs toward security. Along with a few other gobsmacked travellers pulling out laptops and stripping off belts, I freeze as, one after the other, entering at intervals as one might in a wedding march, the Raptors make their supertall, just-defeated way toward their charter. Kyle Lowry goes by hooded, and then Kawhi Leonard, minding his lanky business, strolls past me looking humble. The smattering of us, the scanners and scannees, all wanting to show our support, quietly clap them through.

Back in New York for Game 6, back with Rach in our tiny apartment, we get Olivia to bed and gear up to watch. It is a sweet, hopeful experience, as we nervously root for a team, knowing that what were nervously rooting for is that next stage of life, a baby a month away, a move two months away, a daughter who will stand at attention and sing O Canada every morning come fall. It brings back that two-worlds confusion I remember from all my years living in Jerusalem, when Id go into a movie theatre and watch everyone on screen running around New York, and Id dissociate until the lights went on and Id again find myself around the world and at home. Curled on the couch, we watch, and we holler, ecstatic, when the Raptors win. A muted cheer rings out on the corner of Washington and Greene.

We stay put when its done and watch the Raptors celebrate, a victory for their team, for their city and their country, a championship delivered by a roster on which only Chris Boucher, born in Saint Lucia, holds Canadian citizenship.

As they put words to emotions, as they try to absorb what theyve just accomplished, live on TV, Mr. Lowry offers his response. With the trophy gleaming at his side, that favourite son born and raised in North Philly looks into the camera, into all our Northern eyes, and says, Toronto! Canada! We brought it home, baby. We brought it home.

In Toronto, I try to find some hobby to anchor me. This isnt my first time at the new city rodeo. I know, as does Rachel, how quickly I turn lost, and lonely, and stop shaving, and start wearing the same sweatshirt day in and day out for weeks on end. Its like some mix of the Unabomber and Oscar the Grouch. Finding a non-writing activity usually helps.

When we moved to Madison for Rachs PhD studies, I took what we still call sadness pottery. Throwing lopsided bowls and too-tiny coffee mugs so helped me get settled that, after I got the hang of it, Id have stayed sitting at my pottery wheel on the edge of Lake Monona forevermore.

The year we spent on the Zomba plateau in Malawi for her fieldwork was, admittedly, a harder transition, me being used to regular electricity, and being able to call 911 in an emergency, and other perks like that. Still, once I found the one sort-of-functioning dirt tennis court and someone to teach me, I suddenly had my sanity back and, also, something that passes as a backhand by the end.

In Toronto I go with ice skating, which is a skill, like walking, that every able-bodied person here seems to have mastered. I show up at the arena eager for my first group lesson. I look for someone in charge, while admiring the tiny hockey players flying across the ice. I enter the little shop and find a man behind the counter who tells me to go to the locker room and lace up my skates.

Yes, super, that would be lovely, I tell him back. And I ask him for something in a size 9.

He looks confused and I look confused. He asks me if I brought skates for my lesson. And I ask him why I would have its an ice rink, thats where you trade in your shoes to get them. And I keep searching for a wall of cubbies behind him, one filled with the stinky old sneakers and muddy boots left as collateral. And he, he just shakes his head.

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That, in total, is lesson one.

Apparently in Canada you bring your own skates to the neighbourhood rink. I walk outside crestfallen and bump into one of the parents I know from school. I tell her what happened. Without pause she says, Do you show up at a swimming pool and ask for a bathing suit? And I immediately understand the degree to which I dont understand.

What further confuses is the early trips I need to make home from home. Were barely in Toronto for a few days when Olivia and I have to fly back to New York for my nephews wedding.

I end up waking Olivia hours early to catch a morning flight. We pass through airport security and, at customs, I hand over our passports to the agent and smile very weirdly as I do whenever I face anyone in a position of authority. As my friends have long pointed out, I look like Im guilty of murder whenever I try to look innocent in any way. The agent thinks Im guilty, too. He doesnt wave us through. Instead, he keeps asking me questions about what food I might have. I didnt think I had any food. And then I remember, I have Olivias airport snacks, packed at two in the morning during a period of the day I like to call my me time.

I say, A mozzarella cheese stick, which doesnt seem to satisfy. So I put myself back in the kitchen and walk through my own little cheddar-bunny-fuelled memory palace, naming the contents of Olivias bento-to-go plastic lunchbox. Then I say, Ummm, like, three apple slices? which is apparently what hes after. He alerts me to the fact that getting caught crossing borders with a segmented apple is a serious crime.

Now he is upset, and, it seems, America is upset. We expect more of you, he says. Also, he doesnt seem to be letting it go.

The problem with the charges as I see them is, I wasnt caught with anything. I admitted it freely. And Olivia and I hadnt yet gone anywhere, as the wrong was currently being righted before wed even passed his desk. Also, if the agent really wants to get into it, had my unwitting mission been successful, we werent really crossing a border with that apple at all. For the short journey to New York from Toronto, one passes through U.S. customs on the Canadian end of things. So, what Im really trying to stress is that Pearson International Airport is mostly in Mississauga but for a sliver of airfield that reaches into Torontos western district of Etobicoke. My plan was to feed Olivia those apple slices while she played a game called Finger Skate on the germ-covered iPads bolted down to the tables by our gate tables very much resting atop Canadian soil, on the traditional lands of the Anishinaabe, the Chippewa, the Haudenosaunee, the Huron-Wendat and the Mississaugas of the Credit.

What his desk demarcates is actually a liminal space, a sweet in-between world, a concept my academic wife taught me about, and whose academic appointment is what brought us here. But I dont say any of that.

At this point, a second officer leads Olivia and me off to another room to face yet another pair of officials, perched behind a different desk. One of the two women asks to be presented with the offending bento box. And the other, donning plastic gloves, unfastens the fasteners, and stares at those slices in their little purple plastic compartment, before lifting them out as you might a condom you found floating in your pumpkin spice latte.

Im honestly afraid they are going to ban me from entry into the U.S. over this. Ive been reading articles about random detentions at the U.S.-Canadian border, about five-year bans being given to unsuspecting Canadians for no reason at all, and I wonder, with our heightened Yankee xenophobia, if an American can be banned from America for the crime of transporting a Red Delicious.

Thats when it hits me: If Im stuck in Canada, where am I stuck at home or away from home? The question continues to nag after were given our passports and whats left of Olivias snacks, and allowed to head on our way.

In New York, Olivia and I check into a hotel in Chelsea, a neighbourhood that had been a central part of my life for more than 30 years. The concierge, looking out at the avenue, says, The entrance to the High Line is on the next block and And I interrupt and say, Yes, so is the entrance to my shrinks office, which I cant believe comes out of my mouth. But I really feel threatened by the act of being given directions to anywhere in New York. I want her to know that the deli, the deli right over there, is the deli that knows I like my turkey sandwich on a Kaiser roll. And I want to show her in which red brick tower my buddy Pete, from college, grew up. I want her to know that I remember when Tramps played live music and the Limelight was a club, and how amazing it was to show up at Florent for a steak frites at 3 a.m. I want to tell her what the neighbourhood looked like in the nineties, before they built all these hotels, and which businesses were in the storefronts that are other storefronts now. I want her to know that before that High Line was the High Line, two of my best friends fell in love making a movie atop that spur, when it was nothing but weeds and wildflower and broken bottles littering forgotten train tracks.

And that is what Ive already lost in the few days since leaving. Ive lost the right to lay claim. It reminds me of all the years when I had long, long hair, a giant nest of curls that are easiest described by asking you to picture Cher, circa Moonstruck, or maybe the drummer from the metal band Ratt. When I cut it off, I swore never to be the middle-aged man, of the infinite middle-aged men, who used to come up to me and, unbidden, say, I used to have hair like that.

Right then, I cede ownership. I vow never to answer as I have just answered this nice person, only trying to enhance my visit to New York. I vow never to say, I used to have a city like this.

We have our family night, our New York night. We celebrate the commitment being made as the couple stands before a wall of windows beyond which the Hudson River how much of my life have I spent beside it rolls by. The night goes late enough for a four-year-old that Olivia, out of nowhere, says, The problem is, I want to stay at the party, but I also want to go lay down. And so I lift up my girl and carry her out into the silence. We walk the quiet city streets in our finery, the endless construction sites empty for the evening, the traffic died down, and if there are horns honking or sirens screaming, they dont register a perfect peaceful night.

In the morning, already dreaming of getting back to Rach and little Sammy, to my crazy soulmate of a dog, I fly back to Canada with Olivia, the first time ever with the notion of it being a return. We make our way to immigration at the airport in Toronto. We face a Canadian officer who checks our documents and asks us where were headed. Its then, I look to Olivia and think of the new life just begun, and I tell him, Were headed home to our family. Baby, were headed home.

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Opinion: We the north: On finding a home in Canada - The Globe and Mail

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