L'Amour

Oh, Vancouver, how you seduce me with your mountains and fresh air and vegan lifestyle. I'm so used to city streets, arguments over politics and smokers on every corner. This is what I saw when I pulled the curtains open every morning.

View from my window, Sunrise, Day One.

View from same window, Sunrise, Day Two.

Luckily the sun came up....

and burned off the fog.

 Got home last night from five invigorating, exhilarating, exhausting, but very fulfilling days at the Surrey International Writers' Conference. Amazed at how this conference can leave one wrung out like an old dishrag and leaping around like a spring lamb at the same time.

Spent days and evenings with friends and authors I know well, and I made some new friends, too. I flew there against my doctor's advice, and it was actually a bit touch and go before I left. By my departure date, I felt like things were under control and that I'd beaten down the beast, until I realized I hadn't. 

View from the stairwell on my way up to the magic room on the 21st floor. Don't attempt this drunk.

Last Saturday night was a tad rough, and I missed what everyone later said was the BEST keynote speech of the conference given by Jim C. Hines, as well as Jack Whyte's rendition of Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud.

(stifled sob into my fist)

I'm hoping someone taped both of these events, and posts them on YouTube. I did, however, make it up to the partay room later. I have to be at death's door to miss a good party. This is what happens at the partay. That's all I can tell you, because what happens in Surrey, stays in Surrey.

Tyner Gillies, the Wonder Mountie, won the non-fiction prize. He wasn't told in advance as most winners are, and he was clearly blown away. He blinked back tears as we all pounded him on the back. I just love this guy, and his story is both moving and unforgettable. We passed around a copy of the anthology at the table so we could read his entry, and we were all in floods of tears.

There are Many Things Afoot. Most I can't talk about right now, some have to do with me, others about dear friends. Got some great feedback from an agent who requested material, and also from a presenter who asked me to send her some of my essays.

I laughed, I cried, I ate a lot of chocolate. Just the way it should be.

My husband was late to pick me up at the airport in Montreal, so I passed the time by chatting to airport staff, i.e., the guy directing people to the taxi stand. A friend of my daughter walked past, without saying hello to me, but then texted her and he said, "Just saw your mom at the airport. She was asking a black guy what part of Africa he was from."

Okay, for the record, here is the complete conversation.

Me: "What an interesting accent you have. Where are you from originally?"

Him: "Africa."

Me: "Cool. What part of Africa are you from?"

(See? This is called context.)

Him: "Mali. I came to Canada in 2006."

Me: "So, how do you like our Montreal winters?"

Him: "Oooooh, I will never get used to those. They are bad, bad, BAD."

Us: Much laughter and banter.

In other words, I do NOT go up to random people and ask them what part of Africa they're from. 

As for the title of this post...

The couple sitting next to me on the plane? Oh my. It was like sitting next to lightening.

They were from France. You can tell from their accents, which makes it easy for me to understand as it's the French I learned in high school. They looked similar, thirties, maybe early forties, same slight builds and casual chic clothes, tee shirts and leather jackets. He had messy curly hair, stubble and a scarf casually knotted around his neck and she was pretty without makeup, though she looked tired. They were clearly in love, but not in a gross P.D.A. kind of way. It was as though they were magnets; one moved, then the other leaned in that direction. They reminded me of the French movies I watched in the seventies. You just know they have great sex, probably all the time, because they were both so sensual and beautiful. (And then afterwards, they lounge in bed with croissants and cafe au lait and newspapers, and probably a cat or two.)

It was as though they were attached by invisible strings. It was mesmerizing.

He would put his hand on her leg while he read, and she would put her hand on top of his hand, and lock her fingers into his. He fell asleep on her shoulder, and she rested her head on his. They talked softly to each other, murmuring, heads together, never raising their voices to be heard.

When the plane landed, and everyone jumped up and scrambled for their bags in the overhead bins, they stood in the aisle, faced each other and melded into one, as though no one else was there and they were simply one person. She looked into his eyes, and he into hers. He brushed her hair away from her face, and noticed the pendant on her choker was askew, and gently straightened it then brushed her hair from her cheek. They kissed gently, softly. She touched his forehead with hers, their eyes closed, and eventually they burrowed in each others' necks, as thought they were puzzle pieces that just clicked into place. Have you ever seen horses in a field, just resting, heads and necks entwined? That was this couple. I could not stop looking at them (not that they would have noticed me staring.) They stepped out of the plane and walked slowly to the baggage area, hand in hand, swaying in time.  It was a sight to behold.

Anyway, they disappeared, my husband pulled up in the car, and we headed to the local bistro for drinks, succulent oysters on the half shell, and steaks and frites. The air is crisp in Montreal, a big change after the warm sunny weather in Surrey.

Now we have frost, and snow up north.

 But I have my Buddy back, and he, clearly, has me in his sights once again. I think in his tiny walnut of a brain, he and I are like that couple on the plane.

 

City Walk #482

Yesterday I ducked out to buy a few groceries, having been away at the Surrey International Writers' Conference for five days.

What, you thought my husband would have replenished the fridge? He lives on salad and whatever he can find in the fridge that is ready made (jars of pickles, cheese, cold cuts, maple syrup, beer...) When I met him, the only thing in his kitchen was a stack of empty pizza boxes as tall as me. I? As tall as I? It was a 5'4" stack of empty pizza boxes.  And in his fridge were a couple of boxes of alfalfa sprouts and a container of cream cheese. What did he concoct with these ingredients, I can hear you asking. Peanut butter, cream cheese and alfalfa sprout sandwiches on a bagel. I know this because he offered me one during our first night together. It's a credit to his other qualities that I decided to marry him. As I recall, that night we ordered pizza around 3 a.m. and watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail, but that's a whole other post.

And I digress.

(However, I might add he comes by the weird food honestly. His father, now in his late 80s, once offered me a peanut butter and onion sandwich, the onions sliced thick like chunks of apple. The alternative, besides starving to death, was peanut butter and relish or peanut butter and onions sandwiched between leftover pancakes.)

Okay, no more digressing. Scout's Honour.

I love this grocery store which caters to downtown tenants, so it's a mix of ethnic (pretty much every country represented) and health food (due to the number of students and artists) all crammed into a tiny space. I love it because there is nothing worse to me than wandering around a giant grocery store down aisles carrying thousands of varieties of cereals or cookies when all I want to do is buy some veggies and nuts and schlep them home.

Damn, I just digressed again. (However, from the news reports, Scout's Honour doesn't carry much weight these days.)

Outside the grocery store, I noticed a pile of seeds all along the outside of the building. Some stupid tenant in the apartment building next door had clearly laid these out for the birds. I suspect there was some stiff competition from the city rats, pigeons and squirrels (or as I like to call them, ugly rats, flying rats and city rats with fancy clothes) but I thought no more of it until I got to the checkout and pulled my wallet out of my leather backpack.

As I struggled to put away my credit card quickly and fill my portable grocery cart for the walk home (Do Not Judge Me. In the city, these portable grocery carts are used by everyone, not just little old ladies. How else are we city dwellers supposed to lug home heavy stuff like milk, potatoes, and MacCallan 12?* And I bought my cart in an artist's store, for carrying art supplies, and what is cooler than an artist? Never mind that I bought it for my daughter who looked at me like I'd suggested she wear panties on her head and dance Gangnam style down Sherbrooke Street.)

Where was I?

Being glared at by the lineup at the cashier, casually bumped in the ankles by the cart behind me, which is code for move your ass and fiddle with your bag outside.

This is when I noticed my hand covered with what looked like, but did not smell like, chocolate.

Upon closer examination, I saw that a bird, most likely a Flying City Rat, had shat on my bag. If shitting on handbags were an Olympic event, this pigeon would have a gold medal. It managed, even though flying by at 30 mph (they have been clocked at 58 mph, though average speed is around 30) to accurately hit not only my bag, but INSIDE the pocket, a gap less than 1/2 inch wide. It splattered my lovely satin lining, my comb, my fan (Menopausal 101 - carry a fan at all times) and my brand new SiWC pen!  I wiped up as best I could, because it also splattered my one and only Kleenex.

By the time I got home, I was calmer until I pulled my keys out of my bag, conveniently clipped to a lanyard, and tossed them over my hair and around my neck, as a matter of habit.

I remembered, too late, that the keys had also been stored in the Outside Pocket of Bird Shite.

There are many things I love about living in the city. Pigeons are not one of them.

*While the MacCallan 12 is a lovely, everyday go-to single malt, the MacCallan 18 is to die for, or at least, killing your best friend with a skillet to the head and running off with her bottle.