Adventures, in Waiting

It's a dark and rainy night in Ottawa. On Bank Street, there is a long line for a show at Barrymore's by a band I've never heard of (The Suicide Girls? Anyone? Anyone?). I stepped out to get a chocolate bar at the Herb and Spice, which is sorta pricey, but I dig what they're doing. It's also the only store I've found so far that carries the amazing Cocao Camino Fair Trade/Certified Organic dark chocolate bars (71% cocao). Yum!

I regret this post is of limited adventure of the Capital variety. I spent far too much time this weekend in my car, and decidedly not exploring the city. Were I here, I might have checked out the Trangressions event on Friday, which was part of the Ottawa International Writer's Festival. A reliable source gave it a passing grade, but said Ivan E. Coyote was definitely the stand-out. Not surprising, Ivan E. is a brilliant storyteller whose work I came to love and admire while living in Vancouver. I probably would have also done my best to see the New Pornographers on Monday night at Capital City Music Hall, in part because I like their records, but also to corner Daniel Behar and tell him how much I appreciate the brilliance of Destroyer and their album, Rubies. It's playing right now and, to be honest, I'm finding it a little difficult to concentrate.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I have spent my first few weekends in the city out of the city. A few weekends ago, the event that drew me away was Homecoming at the University of Western Ontario, my alma mater. Now, this may come as a bit of a shock because we don't really know each other yet, but Homecoming and the events therein are not really my thing. Don't get me wrong, I was excited to see old friends and visit old haunts, but I could have done without the Western ra-ra. Let's face it, I could always do without the Western ra-ra.

Having said that, though, while writing an e-mail to a friend from Western who didn't make it to Homecoming, it struck me that - good or bad - going back to Western re-awoke certain memories I had forgotten until then. Here then, for your reading pleasure, is the text of that e-mail. The subject line was Postcards from Homecoming.

I
Gastonomic travesties of melted cheese and chicken wings at the Alibi, washed down by beer and memories of what was, so many years before. Washed down by more jugs of beer in the subterranean world of the Poacher's Arms, the ringing in your ears from all the noise forming a soundtrack for your hangover the next morning.

II
And in the morning, a loud and vulgar parade through the streets, made worse by pouring rain, smearing the purple and white face paint together, the lavender faces of youth beeming at the thin crowds gathered on the sidewalk, many of whom were just waiting for a chance to cross the street on an otherwise idle Saturday morning.

III
Walking those streets, north on Richmond past Fullarton and Kent and Albert and Central, past all of the stores that have been there forever and the bars that have been there even longer, wondering why years before it felt so much larger and cosmopolitan. Buying CDs at the place beside Dr Disc because Dr Disc is no longer, and not being able to find the book you wanted at City Lights because it just happens to be on the reading list of some earnest first year English class. So you actually went in to Attic Books and bought something.

IV
When night falls, a dinner at the Wave pours out onto the streets and soon lands back at the Poacher's Arms, with its clamour of celebration and bad cover music. Bellies full and beer mugs emptied, doddling up Richmond, surrounded by what felt like thousands of early-twentysomethings drunker than they've been this week, hailing cabs and giving all of those people who never come downtown more amunition, more reasons to hate what happens to their city.

V
At breakfast the next morning, a table for four grew until it was a table for 12, and re-hashing the night before never got old. Taking one more drive through the campus and remarking on the damage and debris left behind from the night before, and only imagining the damage and debris done to all those young bodies, sleeping it off in their dorm rooms or in the beds of new friends who were strangers only hours before. Somewhere in these episodes, somewhere in all of this pomp and debauchery, was you and me and everyone we knew who, for a time, made that place a home, but for who the coming back now feels so strange, yet somehow, so oddly welcoming.

Thanks for putting up with my indulgence. More Capital City Adventures from here on in, I promise.