Beleaguered and Belated: Dispatches From the Hub.

Airports are conducive to dramatic thought. Around you people are being reunited or separated. Each one carrying its own embraces, its own mute language. Fortunately I was with a woman who would accompany me for my flight to Toronto. This is about Heather’s and my trip out east.

The Toronto airport has something all people should experience. What you have to do is arrange to meet your friend Rory at the airport, but then forget that he’s flying Air Canada and not West Jet and after sitting around Terminal 3 like a jerk for an hour and paging him to no avail, then discover you should be in Terminal 1 and then you’ll get to do it: Take the speed train between terminals. It’s something out of Metropolis.

The doors whoosh open for you on the platform edge, the electronic voice alerting you to proper safety procedure is nurturing and kind, it is impeccably clean and comfortable and a highlight of any visit to Ontario.

Rental Car From Avis/My Momma Used to Say ‘Only Jesus Could Save Us’

After collecting Rory in Terminal 1, the three of us hit the local Avis and got ourselves our lovely brown Pontiac Grand Prix. We met up with good pal Beth and her beau Australian Dave (as he likes to be called…wait, was he even Australian? He was from around there…I think). They live near historic Lee’s Palace; a venue that has become mythologized for me due to extended viewings of Canadian Concert Listings on Much Music.

Some would argue that all cities are, ostensibly, the same. Not so. Toronto’s fucking big compared with my current home of Vancouver, and certainly when compared to my hometown of Edmonton and moreover it moves differently. Faster. Harder.

I can’t say I like Toronto. The mugginess of the late August days didn’t help, but additionally, the city instills in me a feeling of simultaneous agoraphobia and claustrophobia. The skyscrapers confine and intimidate a newbie country mouse like me. I’m sure you get used to it and blah, blah, blah, but I don’t think I want to. Coupled with the trammeling urban layout, the crowds were irksome and frenetic. Even on a lazy Sunday perambulation downtown I felt that if I even stopped to tie my shoes I would be crushed by the teeming throngs.

I will give them Style Points however. Getting a beer and pizza on Queen Street West, Heather and I marveled at the hip-ness of those around. Everyone looks like they’re in a fucking band. I never felt like such a square. Our dusty togs suddenly were unbearably ugly, old-fashioned, hackneyed and obsolete. We did go shopping to combat this feeling. Let’s just hope it was enough.



Goes Together Like A Horse and Carriage.

With the sexy voice of our GPS guiding us, we made the trip to Parry Sound (birthplace of Bobby Orr!) for Ben and Steph’s commitment ceremony. They are too cool and the service was too enjoyable to warrant the stodgy moniker of ‘wedding’.

I was somehow under the impression it was ‘just outside’ Barrie, but, in reality, it was an hour outside Barrie, so we arrived to the beautifully situated on Tucker Lake cottage, where festivities were held, with just 15 minutes to get a couple of drinks in us prior to the vows.

It wasn’t typical. It was beautiful. With a refreshing lack of pomp the guests simply stood, some (like me) with drinks in hand, as the couple modestly emerged in front of Judge Campbell (that’s his first name) to hear my friend of 17 years and Steph exchange their self-written, poetic without being maudlin, promises to each other.

It was a good-ass party. Open bar, dancing, lame jokes – everything you need. Even seeing my two ex-girlfriends who were there didn’t affect me at all. Unfortunately, but unsurprisingly, I didn’t get to chat with Ben all that much, but I knew that would happen and it was still great to see him – and to see him so happy,

I’m of that age now. My life will be dominated by weddings for the next couple of years. it’s already started. My cynicism could take over, and I could say you get to a point where you’re tired of the struggle of dating and seeking soul mates and you wish to rest. So plod along dutifully until you find someone who enjoys your company or at least tolerates your annoying habits. But I think it’s more than that. There’s a line from a Lucksmiths’ song where he sings of a girl with a mind like Sharon Stone and a heart like Danielle Steele. I wear the uniform of an indie kid, I love Ghost World and The Believer Magazine and bands off the Frigital Records label, but the truth is – I’m a fucking Nora Ephron movie. I’m in love with love. I just can’t share in the collective cool detachment of my peers. I won’t. I love the cheesiness of romance; I love writing Heather little notes and kissing her pale stomach. I love tickle fights and hand holding, I love being over-complimentary and making those around us sick. And maybe that holds the key to the late twenty-something’s desire for a lifelong mate. It’s not about the easy route or settling. It’s about the desire to see if it’s possible. That it hasn’t just been well-written romantic comedies and generations of pop music that has ruined you, that true love is not only out there, but attainable. And you crave it. And you don’t care if it makes you uncool.

Montreal to Hong Kong/Where Have All The Good People Gone?

The 7-hour bus ride we took from Toronto to Montreal, departing at midnight makes perfect sense. For I, admittedly, still cling to the childish notion that the more uncomfortable and trying a journey is, the better the destination will treat you. The bus ride was fucking shitty. Montreal is one of the best cities I’ve ever been to.

It further dispels the aforementioned ‘All Cities Are The Same’ nonsense. Being from western Canada, where everything has been built in the last 70 years, to go to a place where things are actually old is awe-inspiring, downright awe-ful! Get it? Aweful! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! FUCK!

It feels like another country. Old Montreal is lovely and transportive. The city is mercifully foot friendly and you can walk everywhere. They care about Canada’s indigenous film community and actually have posters liberally displayed for Canadian movies. You can buy beer at the 7-11. You can’t turn right on a red light. They have urinals in stalls. There are no little man or hand on the crosswalks. It’s a hell of a lot cheaper than Vancouver. The galleries are excellent. Everyone’s bilingualism is commendable. What a town.

Heather and myself walked around most of the time. We met up with my and her pals Dominic and Christine, respectively and got drunk with a bunch of Irishmen from Christine’s hostel. Some of them were great guys; others were right arseholes, as they say. I did, regardless, learn the grand game of ‘Reverse Chess’. Remind me to show you how to play sometime. It’s funky.

I’m finding it difficult to verbalize what about Montreal left me so enamored. There’s a thread of community through that place. There’s a weight of history and purpose and eccentricity about it. It seems pre-corporate. It seems handmade. I didn’t want to leave.

Edmonton.

As I settle into the fourth province I’ve been in during this past week, I spend most of my time reflecting. I miss Montreal; I miss Heather (who couldn’t accompany me on this last leg and therefore forced us to have an airport embrace). And, despite the comforts of home and the hugs and dinners of my parents’ house, I miss Vancouver and film school.

Edmonton is a very short book I’ve read a lot and recently just finished for the umpteenth time and don’t much want to revisit again for a while. But it is familiar and I do love a lot of its characters so I’ll enjoy it for the next few days.

That’s what’s new.

Oh, and remember when there was only one set of footprints? That’s when I was carrying you.