All hallows eve

It's Hallowe'en, a perfect evening for it - blustery but not too cold. Outside my office window, the gold leaves of my front yard maple tree are showering into the air. I don't know if it's all the rain or just that I was out of the country so long, but the leaves look more spectacular than usual this year, especially the red of the Japanese maples - scarlet, blood-red, unearthly.

On a walk around the neighbourhood this afternoon, I marvelled at how much effort people put into this festival - gravestones, giant spiders in vast cobwebs draped on trees, skeletons looming at windows, ghosts hanging from balconies, soundtracks of groans and screams ready for the first visitor. Dora has made a low passageway from the sidewalk to her door out of orange webbing with ghastly creatures hanging inside; Mary has a dummy with crazed blinking eyes perched on her veranda. It's just before six, and very soon, about a thousand children will begin their door to door march, opening their bags - Trick or Treat!

Yes, a thousand, at least. They come north from Regent's Park, the huge housing project nearby, and south from St. Jamestown, the big high rises. Our first Hallowe'en here, no one had warned me and I'd run out of candy by 6.20. Each year we needed more, until I had six hundred little candy bars waiting by the front door. Once the kids started coming, it was a continuous flood for about two hours, until the candy had run out, and I'd turn out the lights and hide.

But tonight, I'm hiding already. I've done my duty with Hallowe'en - more than 15 years rushing around at the last minute, trying to get some food into the kids as we applied fake blood, black eyes, sparkles and fangs, and then dashing to the door to begin the distribution. Tonight, across town, Anna is going out as a ho train - don't ask - and Sam as some sort of greaser. Last year he was a porno star with a huge black moustache and aviator sunglasses. I remember when he was a spaceman, a fireman, a clown, and Anna a princess and a Care Bear. Then one year she wanted to be a dead bride or Madonna, and I knew that life had changed.

Jean-Marc and Richard down the street are having everyone on the block over once the candy has run out - 7.30 or 8. We are encouraged to go in costume and I couldn't resist, since I happen to own a plastic Viking helmet with giant horns. So I'm going in the helmet as a Viking, with a shield made out of a garbage can lid covered with tin foil, a spear that used to be a curtain rod, and my mink coat flung savagely across my shoulders.

Fun. As a former actress, I always pooh-pooh Hallowe'en - I used to dress up in other people's clothes for a living, I'd cry - but actually I love it. Why else store a collection of vintage treasures from Goodwill? Anne-Marie came over today, desperate to find a costume for a party tonight - everyone has to go as their "future fantasy." Her husband has borrowed a friend's sheikh robes and headdress and is going as an oil magnate. What could we come up with for Annie? She mentioned Coco Chanel, and I was off - red braided jacket, ropes and ropes of pearls, big sunglasses and big black hat, Chanel purse with gold chain, red leather gloves, Chanelly shoes - she looked chic et fabuleuse. Next year, maybe that's what I'll be, and she can borrow my plastic horns.

Out my window now, squeals and shouts, the first arrivals ringing the doorbell across the street - a little rabbit with pink nose and white ears, a witch with a big black hat, a fairy with little pink wings - how great is tradition! - holding orange pumpkin bags for their treats. Time for mine - a big glass of merlot in the dark. Happy Hallowe'en to you all, from one happy, mean Viking.

a letter with a fringe on top

It's 7 a.m. During my usual middle-of-the-night musing, I thought of the last post and said to myself, "Have you actually been emailing for 20 years?" I couldn't remember, though I have a vague idea I didn't even start using a computer regularly till about 1989, 20 years ago. It just doesn't seem possible that there was a time within memory when this machine wasn't the centre of all our lives. During the lecture about my book, I like to remind people that when I began research in 1982, in order to access information stored in New York, I had to write letters, telephone, get on an airplane, take a cab to the library in question and sit waiting for the boxes to be brought out. Now, in three seconds, all the information you need is on your desk.

I just went to the basement to check a big box of correspondence from my two most regular correspondents, Chris and Patsy in B.C., and it looks like emails don't start till about 2000. Not even ten years ago. Before that, in the files, were letters - typed or handwritten letters. Only 9 years ago, they wrote long letters just to me and I to them, and we put them in an envelope and mailed them. It seems impossibly quaint, like getting around town in a horse and buggy.

re the dangers of blogging and pity for pigs

A certain writer friend of mine got into trouble recently, and it was my fault. His agent has his name on Google Alert, and so every time I write here about him coming over to give me advice or have dinner, she reads about it. "Who's that woman who keeps blogging about you?" she asked recently. "And why weren't you writing?"

So you'll understand why, from now on, my friend will be referred to as W'sn Ch*y. FYI, W'sn Ch*y and I had dim sum today with Almeda from Paris and Lesley from across the street. A man, even a writer with a deadline, has to eat, mon dieu.

There are no secrets any more. Even though I post my life on a blog, it surprises me when someone has read it. A student coming into my house recently cried, "Let's see the mink!" referring to a purchase mentioned on a recent blog. When I first started to use email, about 20 years ago - was there ever a time before email? - it felt as if the world had shrunk into a series of village huts, and we were all standing at the door of our own hut waving and calling to our neighbours. But now, we're all living together in one gigantic electronic hut, constantly checking up on each other with the internet and cell phones, tweets and blogs and Facebook and Skype and cameras everywhere. There's a wonderful new New Yorker cover of parents taking their children trick or treating, the kids at the door asking for candy and the parents lined up on the sidewalk, faces lit by the glow of the Blackberries and cell phones they're staring at.

Crazy. I am so far out of the loop, with no cell phone, barely knowing how an iPod works or even, despite Bruce's help and quickie notes, how to use my DVD player. I'm not proud of it, but sometimes, when I watch people staring at a minuscule screen as the world goes by, I'm glad.

Another issue to deal with: in the Star last week was an article about an Ontario pig farmer who was having trouble paying his electricity bill. A picture showed him in his barn, standing in front of hundreds of small metal pens, inside of each of which was a pig. The pens were barely big enough for one; no question of movement. Horrifying. Is it possible that this animal, which has been proven to be loyal and loving with the intelligence of a three-year old, is being raised in this profoundly inhumane way?

I went to Mark my local butcher, a friend for many years, asked, "Do you know where your pork comes from?" and told him about the picture. He said he'd ask. "Are you sure," he asked me a few days later, "they weren't farrowing pigs?" I know that pigs with newborns are put in special pens to protect the young; they do it at Riverdale Farm. No, there were no young in these pictures. He told me that his pork comes from a depot. So, probably from a farm like the one in the picture; perhaps that very one.

Another meat group hit the dust - veal and lamb almost completely off-limits and now pork, unless I can find a place which certifies that they are raised in a relatively humane way. I'm not a vegetarian; I want to eat small quantities of meat, though I do prefer mostly vegetables and legumes. Being a vegetarian simply takes too much time and energy, not only at home but when visiting. Plus I like meat. I especially like pork. Liked. I just didn't want to know how it got to Mark's store.

And now they tell us that many fish are endangered, mercury levels etc.

Do any of you know anything about pig farming, or where to buy ethical meat? Is there such a thing, or am I just grasping at rationalisations and straws? Can anyone enlighten me?

Time for a peanut butter sandwich. I'll call W'sn Ch*y and see if he wants one too.

tips for a visit to Paris

My dear friend and hairdresser Ingrid and her partner Donny were planning a trip to Paris, so I quickly jotted a few notes for them. Thought some of you might be interested, though those who followed my Europe blog will have heard it all before.

A few of Beth’s RECOMMENDATIONS FOR PARIS

Check museum opening and closing hours and closed days – they’re all different. Some have a time during the week when they’re free, and on the first Sunday of the month, almost all of them are free, though very crowded. The big ones have at least one day with extended hours. On those days, suppertime is a good time to visit. If you’re only in town for a few days and want to see a lot of museums, a museum pass is the best bet, because you save money and by-pass line-ups. But if you get your money’s worth, you’ll be tired.

On the top floor of the Pompidou is a chic café/bar with a panoramic view of Paris. You don't need to eat, you can just have a glass of something.

The velib bicycles are marvellous but it took me ages to figure out how to use them. The posts with the instructions and slots for credit cards are often far from the bikes themselves. Finally, I just walked everywhere.

The tabacs are very useful places, selling newspapers and mags as well as transport tickets and phone cards. You can get single or a stack of 10 bus tickets there, or an Orange pass if you’re going to be around long enough. You can use one bus ticket to transfer to other busses for up to one and a half hours, but you can’t get onto the metro with it. The busses are formidable and give you an eyeful of the city while you’re getting to your destination. (Occasionally, when I was too tired to walk, I just hopped on a bus going anywhere, and then hopped on one coming back.) The bus routes are mapped out on the shelters, and the key destinations are printed on the sides of the busses. Though I always had a map and bus guide with me, I also kept my eye open for a bus that might be going somewhere fairly close to where I wanted to go, and regularly found one, just by watching the names on the sides as they went by. You can get on the busses at the front or, often, in the middle, and punch your ticket in the machine. It’s done on the honour system, though tickets are occasionally checked.

The French never, ever, it seems, get taxis. At least, the people I met.

Always bring a snack out with you, preferably a picnic, so when hunger strikes, you’re not held hostage to expensive, crowded tourist cafés. I always brought a ham sandwich and water, and once had a secret picnic sitting in a window well in one of the little side rooms of the Louvre, another sitting on a rock in the "jungle" outside the Musee de Quai de Branly, listening to the Tarzan noises of the exhibit inside. On the other hand, it's wonderful to stop at a sidewalk cafe mid-morning to watch the world go by. Very few French walk around with coffees, as we do here. They sit down and enjoy the event.

Speaking of cafés, the tip is always included in French restaurant bills. People generally round the number off and leave a little extra, a bit more extra if you’re very happy with the service, but there’s no obligation to. Waiters are paid well and receive government pensions and health benefits.

Try not to eat anywhere with English on the menu. And if you want to eat with the French and not with the tourists, do not dine before 8.30 and preferably 9.

The most important thing you can bring is a pair of extremely comfortable shoes. By your second day of walking, you will no longer care about style.

Check the dates of French national holidays, and also keep an eye open for imminent strikes. Strikes can only be held with permits, believe it or not, and apparently a daily local newspaper, le Parisien, lists the strikes that are scheduled each day. A strike can seriously impair travelling around the city and be a major headache, so it’s a good thing to try to be aware of them. Ask at the tabac. Also get Pariscope, if you speak even some French – it comes out on Wednesdays, costs pennies and lists absolutely everything going on in the city that week, including the museums with their hours.

French Elle magazine is not only great for fashion but for what’s on in France generally, particularly in Paris, in art, literature, theatre etc.

Speaking of which, do not go to the theatre in France. Period. Unless you wish to explore in depth the meaning of the word “boredom.” Be cautious about concerts in churches; they’re generally aimed at tourists and often not of very good quality.

If you buy lots of stuff, the French Post Office is amazingly efficient and not that expensive. It sells ready-made boxes at so much per kilo. Better to mail yourself a box of stuff than lug it around. One box I mailed arrived in Toronto four days later.

The website Meteo-Paris.com, if you have access, lists the day’s and the week’s weather.

Monoprix is a fantastic store – once like Woolworth’s, now it has amazingly good fashion for very reasonable prices, but also food (not at all but at most), toiletries, cosmetics and housewares. For general groceries, Franprix is great. And for an eye-popping array of frozen foods, if you have access to a stove or microwave, go to Picard. For the best selection of exotic foodstuff in the world, perhaps, go to Bon Marche’s Grand Epicerie. Incroyable. The Nicholas wine shops can help you get a great bottle of wine for 7 euros or less, or, of course, much more.

If you need an Internet café, try to find one with a choice of keyboards. The French keyboard is infuriating.

Favourite places:

The Sainte Chapelle, but only on a sunny day when the light pours through the stained glass. Get there early, before it’s crowded. A truly mystical experience.

Four smaller museums: La Musee de la Vie Romantique is very small but lovely and has a beautiful little café outside in a rose-covered bower; the Carnavalet – a free museum of Paris history, fascinating and extensive; the Cluny Museum of medieval history on the Boulevard St. Michel, and the Rodin Museum, which also has a very nice cafe in the huge garden full of sculptures.

The street markets are terrific and all over the city daily. Ask which morning your local market is held. They sell food, clothing and the usual stuff and are lots of fun. The big flea markets are worth at least one visit. La Rue Mouffetard is an ancient winding street with a food market and a row of small stores – beautiful. Many artists once lived there.

There are small parks and big all over the place, to provide respite. My favourite is the famous and often crowded, always interesting Jardin du Luxembourg. A great place to rest your feet, eat your ham sandwich and watch both tourists and the French.

A few stores: Colette on Rue St. Honore is supposed to be the epicentre of trend. I thought it the epicentre of expense, but worth a look, as is the whole street. Galeries Lafayette, the big, main store, has great, solid stuff and is absolutely spectacular. You can drink champagne and eat caviar, but you’ll be too busy shopping.

Shoes: I loved comfortable, stylish Arcus, 97 rue de Rennes.

Books: the fabulous and famous Shakespeare and Company, 37 rue de la Boucherie facing Notre Dame, for English books. There are readings every Monday night. For French books and everything electronic as well as tickets to concerts and museum exhibits, FNAC.

Famous old restaurants, besides the famous cafes: Procope, 13 rue de l’Ancienne Comedie and Brasserie Lipp on the Blvd. St. Germain.

Poilane bread at 8 rue de Cherche-Midi, which is a very chic little street.

Second hand: a terrific store full of second-hand designer stuff: Embellie, 11 bis rue Vauquelin in the Latin Quarter. I left a pair of shoes and a blouse there on consignment. If you buy them, I get a few Euros towards my return trip.

Clare Piller

It's always hard when a friend dies, but particularly hard when that friend is much too young. The lively, beautiful blonde Clare Piller and I worked at the Canadian Conference of the Arts in 1972-73, organising conferences with government officials and artists to make sure the arts in Canada were well funded, or simply funded at all. Clare was vastly more mature and worldly-wise than I - she had a husband and small children and wore panty-hose and eyeliner, whereas I - no surprise - lived in a communal house, wore Goodwill sweaters and Converse sneakers and worked with my feet on my desk. We got along famously. Lots of crazy funky wonderful people worked at the CCA then, including Terry, Nancy and Anne-Marie, and before the memorial yesterday, we gathered for lunch nearby, to get caught up with each other and to commemorate Clare. We've all been friends for 35 years and call ourselves the Crones. We believe in Crone Power. One day I'll write about why.

Our friend Clare, with her classy blonde hair and great wardrobe, cared desperately about the fate of the arts in this country and worked to support them her entire adult life, as well as raising 3 children and looking utterly fabulous the entire time. Yesterday, at her memorial service, I found out that she was only 63 when she died - 4 years older than I. In a slide show of her life, the heartbreaking last shot showed her, hair short and grey, hugging one of her grandchildren.

Though I hadn't kept up much of a friendship with Clare, I was deeply affected by the loss of someone so committed to artists, so vital and young. The rest of the day I felt like I'd been smacked with a baseball bat; teaching that night was harder work than usual. I just can't imagine what it would be like to have to say good-bye, in the prime of life, to your children, your brand new grandchildren, your husband of many years and the work you love. Until then, Clare had what looked like a charmed life - a childhood of wealth and privilege, a solid marriage and healthy children, a farm in the Ontario countryside, a house in a Nova Scotia cove, work that mattered. But at the end, Clare, who had given so much, was dealt the worst blow possible. Unfair.

But then, it's never fair, is it? Life.