Not Niagara Falls
May 28 – Niagara Falls, Ontario
The meeting starts at 8:00 a.m. and I arrive at 7:00 to make sure the internet connection works, put out the name plates for the attendees, distribute expense claims, test the conference phone. With everything ready to go, I stroll outside. At 7:30 on Sunday morning the town is quiet. I saunter along the path following the lip of the Niagara River gorge to find fog and mist obscuring both the river and the Canadian falls. Continue reading
All day, I sat in a windowless meeting room in the basement of a hotel in Halifax, Nova Scotia and listened to very important people talk about very important things. Immediately before the meeting my bowels had erupted, protesting as they often do to the change in input when I travel. I also forgot my acid reflux meds at home in Ottawa. And so the day began.
French Canadian woman looks down on symbol of English oppression – the Bank of Montréal.
Reside as a word to describe where you live sounds forensic to me, like something you’d read in a police report. “The victim, a 59 year old female with two gold fillings, resides at 123 Dull Street, in Ottawa East. It rings of resignation and victim-hood.
Montréalers do not reside, baby, they live, Live, LIVE! Don’t bore me with that old joie de vivre bullshit. Montréalers are way past that borrowed colonial French cliché. They’re on a whole different planet of life. Continue reading
We moved to Vancouver Island when I was ten. One of the selling features for the new location offered by my dad was horses – I could learn how to ride. Lessons arranged, I showed up at the barn on Saturday morning. The group lessons had started the week before and so the trainer gave me the last horse available – a 16 hands tall beast named Jet. I needed a leg-up to get into the stirrups. Continue reading
It was a lie and Harry knew it. The truth was theoretical to Lady Smock, like a science experiment, an idea to float, see how he took it, and then conduct herself on the basis of her theory.
For instance, today she told him she appreciated his making all their holiday arrangements without confirming the details. Yes, yes, they talked, talked, talked about what to do and when to go but he knew she wanted to do it herself. After all, it was her money. He averred she had every right to be upset but as usual she tried to cover her feelings with a theory. In theory, she would accept his decision with grace. In theory.
“Thank you, Harry. I’m tickled pink you chose Guernsey instead of Mont St-Michel! Yes, it would be fun to tour the hedge veg culture on Guernsey. Lovely. Just lovely. Toast and marmite for breakfast is lovely, too. Who wants fresh croissants and local brie with café au lait for breakfast? Yes, you’re right, of course you are. Travel can be so upsetting to the tummy.”
Her wet shoes squeaked as she came up the path returning from her morning beach-walk and Harry knew the truth was going to come out. He and the shoes would be hung out to dry.
(Frankly, I, Windy Mama, would rather go to Guernsey but Lady Smock can be very stubborn. After I read the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society, this island is right up there on my list of places to go. However, the question today is where would YOU rather go?)