busy bee in the valley...

Okay, I realize I've been remiss in posting of late, but I'll preface this missive with the disclosure that the last 2 weeks have been both busy and filled with much personal contemplation.

Last weekend I spent 3.5 glorious days in the "big city" of Toronto, seeing many friends as I wended my way through the usual haunts of my former urban Arcadia. I was handsomely rewarded for my decision to change my ticket to take the train on Thursday evening instead of Friday morning, thereby securing an ENTIRE DAY OF GORGEOUS WEATHER on Friday. Spilling eagerly out the door first thing on Friday morning, I made my first stop at my friend Richelle's place for coffee, conversation and a sip of the most godawful naturopathic concoction that has ever passed my lips - my friend Richelle was in need of some organic rebalancing, and a Chinese herbalist had provided her with sackfulls of a variety of dried goods to be boiled down into a kind of veggie broth. If you have the stomach for such things, then I'm sure the benefits must outweigh the obvious impediments of godawful bad taste, but perhaps that one sip of her mega-concoction was the key to securing my superhuman energy for the rest of the day -- I suppose I'll never know.

The next stop was supposed to have been a quick lunch with a former coworker and friend who was unable to join later evening shenanigans already planned.

It was exactly at this point that everything I had planned and projected for my Friday in Toronto began to come undone: because of a rather strange twist of fate the day was now to unfold as a series of happy, though liquor-strewn, accidents.

Arriving at my former office I was informed that due to some calculation of time worked by all during our fiscal year-end everybody had been released from work at noon to enjoy the miracle of good pre-long-weekend weather...so, umm...long story short: I had my first pint just minutes past noon, and therefore squeaked within the boundaries of respectability. Having toasted some time with my friend, who then whisked away to go camping in Algonquin Park, I gathered about me a crew of other willing intimates from the office who dutifully joined me for the next act - to be played out on an expanse of patio where both conversation and beer seemed to flow without end.

Cut to 9pm. I know...do the math, and you can imagine what state I was in - I had reached 9th hour of steady consumption of good company and good spirits. A venue change was in order, so those who still had stomach for the night dutifully trekked to a condo owned by one among our magnificentourage, for more drink and merriment, before a partial parting of the ways took place - leaving only 3 of us to carry on the night. We'd now reached 11pm - hour 11 on the town.

We three troopers (or musketeers, if you'd prefer), found ourselves at a nearly empty martini bar for that drink that marked my CROSSING THE LINE. Yup, at this point I'm sure to any random onlooker my eyes were a pair of shiny glazed ovals, and my steps a little wobbly, but the night wasn't quite over yet...

By MIDNIGHT (a FULL 12 hours from the start of this adventure), we last 3 hopped a cab to the village to possibly dance at Buddies. Arriving on Alexander and sensing our venue choice was less than hopping, we wandered onto Church Street and found ourselves at Woody's (a place you can best enjoy if a little glazed), had our last drink of the night and then, finally, departed said dive and finally parted ways...

The next day was initially one of recovery - 13 hours of outdoor/indoor social drinking deserves at least 4 hours of hazy morning advil popping - but soon took on a more mellow shape as Joanne (my dear friend and host for the weekend) and I set about to prepare for an evening dinner party.

I can only say that good company, such as we had that night, is the most revitalizing thing I know. It was so marvellous to be among friends, eating and drinking and TALKING, and secretly wishing there might be a way for the evening to continue without end. Of course all such nights must end, but I have been relishing those recent memories ever since my return to Pleasant Valley...

And so the final chapter, Sunday, was a greyer day weather-wise, and so was a perfect day to flop around the house, enjoying a precious afternoon in my second home with Joanne, and preparing for one final social engagement - a casual evening with Diana (the queen par excellence of 'Perfect Days'), who is never one to disappoint. More intimate, irreverent and at turns disarming conversation, more wine and a meal of the previous night's leftovers (tying up loose ends, you see...), and my weekend came to as near a perfect end as I could have ever thought to plan for.

But the point of all this, and the realization I had, was that planning for such things is never possible. Friday was a manic adventure in Toronto, made great by the spontaneity and sparkle of each twist and turn; Saturday was a more languorous and soothing day, a warm counterpoint to Friday's heat; and the cooling greys of Sunday, coloured by the last night of conversation, was the perfect punctuation for a long weekend spent mostly off the rails.

Monday morning was an early start, as I had booked a 9:30am train to the valley to avoid the mad crush of post long-weekend travellers (my calculation had been spot on - the train wasn't even half-full). So launched by Joanne, who I missed even before her car had pulled away, I entered the train station full of a renewed sense of life, but also a kind of apprehension at my impending return to Pleasant Valley.

A person cannot live partly in two places and expect a perfect harmony in either one. So my new strategy has been to exist as fully as possible in each encounter, no matter what the place may be, such that no premium choices need to be made. This is, I'll admit, something of a fantasy. Choices are made, and preferences exist, if only to allow comparisons - to mark time with meaning.

This week I felt most deeply the longing to be elsewhere, even as I tried to normalize my valley boy routines, and regain my confidence in my choice to move away from Toronto. It was, quite typically for me, the act of reading that dispelled my tentative posture: words can cut through ambiguity so suddenly that a whole week's worth of wilting thoughts are tossed away with total ease. And in my case it was Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose, that took me out of introspective doubt, and placed me back in the outside wor(l)d: yes, that's right, Umberto Eco is my Prozac...

At that point I could do nothing else but laugh at myself: something more people really should do.

The other side of the coin, so to speak, of my recents weeks has been the degree of general humourlessness I've observed in the good old Pleasant Valley - a sense of immediate consequence without an ability for instant release. But even that impression has been subverted in part this weekend, after having spent the evening yesterday at a vegetarian potluck with long-time friends and other interesting new acquaintances - some of them urban ex-pats like myself. Turns out Halifax is the new Toronto - an informal poll of the room revealed no less than 4 of the 10 gathered were considering a move out East...

Hmm...life in "Pleasant Harbour"??

A ways to go yet before we get there, but at least for the moment here isn't such a bad place after all.