The Red Pyramid

I arrived the day before the Nile Tour was set to begin, and booked into our hotel, the Marriott Mena House. Originally a private hunting lodge, the “Mud Hut” was bought and sold and rebuilt, opened to the public in 1886. It’s a posh place, once the destination of the elite when visiting Giza to take in the pyramids. High ceilings, plush carpeting, lots of marble; you get the picture. It still has a view of the Great Pyramid, despite it being somewhat removed from the historic site, but Giza sprawls between it and them now. The sprawl is low to the ground, thankfully.

I saw a small gathering near the front desk, reading the notice board, their fingers pointing to and tracing the text on the page with the Contiki logo splayed across its top margin. I thought it likely that these were some of the people I’d be spending the next week with, so I walked over to them.

“Contiki?” I asked.

They were, so we made our introductions. They were from Southern California. Their names fell from my memory even as they uttered them. Except one. One name stuck: John. Not only is that my middle name, he and I had already met, in a way. We’d been conversing for a couple months on the Contiki website. Contiki’s great for that, having dedicated message boards and chat rooms where past and present attendees could meet and greet prior to their trip.

We finished checking in, got our room keys and we all promised to meet up in the bar to get to know one another better; or they me, in their case. One of them had gathered up a few pamphlets from the front desk and they were leafing through them when I arrived.

“We’re thinking about starting our vacation early,” one of the girls said. “We were thinking about going to Saqqara. It’s not on our itinerary and we may not get another chance.”

I was in. We were off. We hired a couple cars and were there within the hour. It was hot. There was no air-conditioning, but at the speed we were travelling along Salah Salem and the Ring Road, that wasn’t much of an issue. We were thankful of the speed later, for yet another reason. We arrived not a moment too soon. That’s a silly saying, isn’t it? We only arrived in the nick of time. We were actually late. The site was almost empty of tourists and they were actually closing up for the day—nothing a little palm greasing didn’t alleviate. We consulted our cabbies, expecting to have to grease their palms too, but they told us not to worry, that we’d hired them for the day. That was a pleasant discovery, a little surprising as well, considering they’d cost less than most cab fares I’d ever had. They closed the gates behind us and escorted us to the base of the Red Pyramid, pointing up to a platform about two-thirds of the way up its flank, where a small group of tourists were just then emerging from the bowels of Sneferu’s tomb.

That’s a long way up, I thought before beginning my assent. If not for the stair cut into the blocks that climbed its steep northern slope, the assent would have been really taxing, each rise a couple meters in height. We were already winded when we passed those tourists on their way down.
“Is the climb worth it?” I asked those descending.

“Spectacular,” they said as they passed. That was encouraging.

We caught our breath for a moment before entering the passage. It was steep. Impossibly steep. It was tight, too. And blessedly cool. Three feet high and four feet wide, it sloped down like a ladder at 27° for two hundred feet before landing on a short horizontal passage. I descended facing away from the laddered steps, white-knuckling the bannisters that follow on either side. I tried facing the “stair” for a few feet before finding that way impossible; I couldn’t see where I was going; I had to stare down between my legs just to find the next rung. Not that facing away was much easier. I still had to stare down between my knees to fix a foot on the rung, the view inviting vertigo. It was steeper than I originally imagined. My legs had begun to cramp by the time I reached the landing. We rested there a moment, marveling at the engineering we saw there: a vaulted chamber whose corbelled roof rose forty feet high, rising in eleven steps. We pressed on. At the southern end of the chamber, but offset to the west, another short horizontal passage led into a second chamber. It was so low we had to bend double or crawl to gain the other side. From there, we climbed large wooden staircase that wound up the southern wall to another entrance to another short horizontal passage (as low as the other) that lead to a third and final chamber with another corbelled roof fifty feet high. Unlike the first two chambers, which had fine smooth floors on the same level as the passages, the floor of the third chamber was very rough and sunk below the level of the access passage. It smelled of dust and eons. The walls were blacked by centuries of smoking torches and the breath of the teeming multitudes who’d already passed through them for centuries prior to my own passage. I suspect that a fragment of my own breath lingers there with theirs too now, likely to outlast me as theirs has them. It’s the only thing of mine I left behind, unlike those others. There was graffiti everywhere up there. Everyone who’d made that trek in decades past had left their mark. 

I put my nose to the stonework, trying and failing to see a flaw in the stonework seams. I even tried to slip a corner of a banknote between them, to no avail. I wondered how they’d fit those stones so perfectly, how many hours they must have ground one limestone stone against the other to make so perfect a surface. I wondered if we could do such a thing now.

We climbed back up on burning legs, our backs as tasked as our calves and thighs.

My legs ached for days afterwards. But to my mind, it was worth it. I’d walked and crawled and climbed through one of the oldest man-made structures on the planet. I’d walked in the footsteps of the ancients.

I’d do it again in an instant.

Amsterdam, A Return

I had always wanted to go to Egypt. I’d watched countless hours of documentaries about it and its importance to the emergence of civilization, not to mention Cecil B. DeMille’s career. Contiki Tours offered a Nile package, and I’d had a blast on the Contiki South Africa tour, and at 35, I still qualified, so I decided to book with them again.

Then I met Bev. We were in early days, just dating then, so I expected to leave and return to an email saying that she’d met someone else while I was gone. There was that possibility. We didn’t know much about one another then.

I researched what weather I’d expect to face, not to mention what was socially acceptable. Lonely Planet was a help in that department. I discovered that it was considered rude to turn down a cigarette when offered one, hence my deciding to wait until after the trip to quit smoking. That was probably just an excuse to delay the inevitable, but I wanted to give myself the best chance of success. I packed light-ish. There was no need for rain gear (Egypt being in the thick of a desert), but there was great need for hiking boots and long pants. Knees were a no-no, so long pants were a necessity, although I did pack shorts and a couple bathing suits—I was a tourist, after all. Everything went into the backpack. There was really no need for a backpack, but I had one and was hell bent on using it.

Flights were similar to the prior year. Timmins, to Toronto, Toronto to Amsterdam, with yet another eighteen hours to kill until connecting to Cairo. This time I had a mask and earplugs. This time I was prepared. This time I was well rested upon landing in Amsterdam, or at least reasonably well rested. And this time I had some understanding of the city, the trams, the museums, and confidence in the timetable I needed to keep.

I passed customs, caught the train, disembarked at Centraal Station and found a café for breakfast. Exactly the same as last time, but this time without trepidation, this time without the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me, taxing my thought processes.

I made my way to Voorburgwal and caught transit to The Rijksmuseum. I wanted to see Rembrandt’s “The Night’s Watch”; I wanted to see the van Gogh collection. I took my time, sitting in front of the limited list of masterpieces I sought out, reading from the museum guide book, taking in that I’d read and applying it to what I was seeing. I didn’t stay anywhere near as long as I wished to; time was short, and eighteen hours is not as long as one might think.

But I was of a mind not to rush. Amsterdam is a walking city and I wanted to get a feel for it as such. I didn’t know when I might be back, if ever, so walking afforded me the best view I was ever likely to get. It was only a couple kilometres, I reasoned, and I still had time. I took what looked to be the most direct route, up Nieuwe Spiegelstrat. I was making great time until I came face to face with a canal crossing my path and no bridge spanning it. I crossed at Vijzelstraat, a couple hundred meters over, following Rokin after crossing yet another canal. Each step brought me into further confusion. It was dizzying navigating streets that thread between canals. I began to wonder if I were lost. I wasn’t. I just thought I was.

Amsterdam is also a city navigated by bicycles, so I was passed by more than a few of them, astonished at what people managed to balance upon them and still keep to their seat. What Amsterdam is not, is a car friendly city. There are cars, but they are small, compact 1.2 litre affairs; anything larger would find their route too narrow and risk being hung up on curves and curbs. I saw one such, hung up on the curb, its wheels racing, a crowd gathering to watch the fun before a few men stepped forward to help. They were still helping long after I’d seen the need to be on my way. I was hungry by then and in search of a café.

I grew hungrier still. I began to wonder whether I’d made a mistake walking, thinking that it was taking longer than it should to get back to the city core and its main canal, wondering if I were in fact following a ring route and not a spoke. I didn’t have a map other than the one in the Lonely Planet Guide I was carrying and it wasn’t as detailed as I’d have wished. That was stupid of me. But I continued to cross canal after canal, each curving forward from me. That seemed promising. What I saw seemed similar to what my little map was showing me, anyway. I gave a sigh of relief upon spilling onto Damrak after about an hour. I recognized it instantly, thankful I hadn’t gotten myself turned around.

I decided to keep to De Wallen. I ate, I had a few beers, a few espressos, I sought out and found a few treasures, like a sliver of a bakery that specialized in pastries.
I had an early supper, preferring that to some gourmet salami and baguette for twenty bucks at the airport.

I lingered over a book back at Schiphol until my flight was called, tackling and failing to complete Pynchon’s “Gravity’s Rainbow,” sleeping well on the plane, waking shortly before landing in Egypt in the relative coolness of an Arab dawn.

I made it. Strike it off the list. I’d always wanted to come to Egypt. And now I was there.

I hoped this adventure would be as memorable as the last.

World’s End

Remember Y2K? It was supposed to be the end of the world despite its predicted imminent Mayan demise twelve years in the future. There always seems to be some reason why the world was/is coming to an end. I’ve been living in the end of days my whole life, it seems. My Great Aunt once showed me some prediction written back in the 1700s that the world was going to end in 1986. It didn’t. Obviously. Nostradamus became all the rage and there was abundant proof that Hissler was Hitler and that the apocalypse was nigh. Was Reagan supposed to be the Antichrist? I don’t know. But the Nostradamus specials were on TV for years and probably still are.

Y2K was only the next and most recent (then) prediction of doom. The computers were going to fail and the bombs would launch and we were all going to die. The sky was falling. Cats living with dogs. Mass hysteria!

Total pandemonium!

Corporations and governments spent billions looking into the possibility of failure and what that might mean. They spent billions on patches and upgrades and new systems. Were the banks going to collapse? Were savings safe? What was to become of all those financial records? We were told not to worry, everything was going to be fine. That set people to worrying even more.

The moment was fast approaching and the world braced itself for the end of days. I prepared to go out to a party. Andrew Marks had rented the Moneta Rec, a little private men’s club, to throw an End of the World Party, and if that failed to happen, then just a New Year’s Party.

I woke on the 31^st and turned on the TV. I watched footage of Auckland taking in the New Year, then Sydney. And Tokyo. Nothing seemed amiss. When Beijing brought in the New Year, I was convinced that mothing was going to happen. The world was not coming to an end. Everything was business as usual. When Moscow failed to cease to exist and launch its missiles, I knew we were safe. If all of the Pacific and the East could weather Y2K without a hitch, we, the West, who’d spent far more on preparing for the inevitable would be fine.

That did not stop Hydro from sending operators out to each and every power plant, just to be on the safe side.

The night fell, I put on my coat, and I walked over to Dawson and Lena’s house to share a cab to the Moneta Rec. It was cold. New Years was always cold. The temperature always plunged from fifteen below to thirty below between Christmas and New Year’s. I flipped my collar, put on my ear muffs and pressed my gloved fists deep into my pockets. The pre-party was in full swing when I arrived. It can be a challenge to decide just when to call for a cab when people are drinking. No one drinks at the same pace. Some open another bottle when they discover that the person beside them still has half a beer before them. God forbid someone should forgo drinking for thirty minutes. When we finally got everyone mobile, the gathered piled into the waiting cabs and before long we were plunging into the heat and music escaping for the Moneta Rec’s atrium.

“Coats downstairs,” Andrew told us, directing us to the stairs right next to us. “The bar is downstairs. No drinks upstairs,” he said, duty bound to inform us of the rules of the club. We all ignored them, taking our drinks with us wherever we went, taking care not to spill like teenagers.

The Rec is small, just a small house no more than 1000 square feet. Hardwood floors on ground floor, aged tile in the basement where the bar is. Paneling gave it a warm, homey, 1980s feel. We piled our coats atop the others, got our drinks from the cooler bar set up before the actual bar and made our way upstairs with beverages in hand. I didn’t dance much. I didn’t have a date. Bev and I had only just begun to see one another and we were still early days, so to speak. She had already made plans, and so had I. But I was not lonely. I had most of my friends and acquaintances around me. Drinks flowed. Stories were told. We set one another at ease, telling tales of the survival of Auckland and Sydney and Moscow, telling tales of trips and hopes and dreams and parties past. I didn’t know it then, but that would be the last rowdy New Year’s Eve party I’d ever attend.

Champagne made its rounds before the time. We held them ready. The music stopped. Andrew told us all to be quiet. He said that there was less than a minute to go until it was the year 2000. Did we all have champagne? We did. Those who didn’t rushed to get theirs. Couples drew close, some getting a head start on their kisses.

Someone cried out “Ten!” We picked up the count from there. Nine. Eight. Seven. Insert crowd noises, people talking, people laughing, people crying out, “Six!” Five. Four. Three. Two. One. “Z…..”
The lights went out. It was pitch black. There was a pause as ZERO became a faltering zed, drifting into the eerie silence.

And then we laughed.

The lights came back on. The music began again, the volume rising. Guy Lombardo’s orchestra played their time-honoured “Auld Lang Syne.”

There were kisses and hugs and slow dancing. And the collective voice of the crowd resumed its undulating gaggle.

Bev was celebration across the downtown core at Amigos with her friend Barb.

Their countdown was as enthusiastic as ours. But when they reached the count of zero, the bright lights above the raised dancefloor declared the coming year: 200. The final zero had refused to light, itself a big fat zero.

Trail Blazing

I resolved to use the internet for something other than playing computer games. I decided that if no one was going to introduce me to women, and if only creeps were found in bars, I’d search the electronic personals, instead. It may be common practice now, but it was largely uncharted territory at the time; it was for me. Then again, all dating was uncharted territory for me. I discovered that not all people are as forthcoming as they appear to be, that not all people are as they present themselves to be. I wondered why so many people thought that the personals were less creepy way to meet people than meeting someone face to face in a bar. I thought they ought to have their head examined. At least in a bar you met the person. And what made them creepy when they were in a bar, but not when introduced by friends who really had no clue what they were like in private? Those doubts and questions aside, there I was, my credit card in hand, signing up for internet dating sites.

What can I say? I was desperately lonely at the time.

I learned that meeting for coffee was the way to go. It was a public space, just shallow enough for a meet and greet, just long enough to feel out whether there might be any chemistry, and it was short enough to afford either party a quick escape if need be. Dinner was too much of an investment, first off; a movie didn’t afford an opportunity to talk.

I had two dates of note, neither that close together. Both began in much the same way. I found the other on “Friend finder,” I reached out and we messaged a few times. When it seemed we had enough of a rapport to warrant exchanging ICQ or email addresses, we did, and we took it from there. Yes, this is going back some. But that’s what memories are, going back some.

The first was tall, dark, black haired and a little older. I suspect that her hair had a little help. Hair needs that later on, or so girls tend to believe. She was divorced. She had a child, not a baby, a child. Coffee was good. Conversation was easy. I suggested another coffee date. She suggested a movie. She suggested we go back to her place after the movie.

I recall her paying the babysitter. I recall her daughter peering down from the stairs. I recall a drink, a few passionate moments on the couch. I recall her daughter calling down to her in the midst of it, necessitating a hasty, rather red-faced retreat. The mood cooled somewhat afterwards. We sipped our wine. My eyes swept over her living space. She had a decorator’s eye. She admitted as much, speaking on how she loved to choose paint colours and sometimes painted twice a year, experimenting with hue and texture. I thought that a lot of work. I noticed that she owned a lot of stuff, none of it cheap. We kissed again, the coals stoked, the fires rekindled, and at the white hot heat of it, she backed away, calling for a stop, long before buttons were popped or snaps unfastened, long before hands might have slipped beneath clothing, at least by me, but not before my shirttails were pulled free.

I stopped. My heart was racing, but I stopped. Panting, I collected myself, re-tucked and straightened. Now I was never often in the thick of it, most certainly never driven to the brink and then told to stop. That was new. And I wondered why; I thought it might have been because it was too much, too fast, too quick; but I hadn’t set the pace. Then again, I hadn’t weathered a marriage and divorce, either, so I could only imagine what subtext she might be bringing to the table or failing to bury.

I also wondered how soon I was supposed to call, knowing that it would be at least a week, what with my starting Afternoons that week. I decided to split the middle, messaging her Wednesday, typing out what I thought was the usual and expected. I had a nice time. I’d like to see you again. I hope we can go out again soon. I’m free this Saturday, if you’ve a mind to.

She took her sweet time responding. Thanks, but no thanks, she messaged back. I was a little surprised. I was a little shocked. I had no idea what to make of it all. I messaged her back, asking what I had done wrong, but I received no answer. Looking back, I wonder still; but I also can’t help but think that I ought to thank my lucky stars. Had I dodged a bullet? Had I been spared a high maintenance drama queen? Or had I actually done something wrong. I don’t know. Indeed, I’ll never know. And as time passed, I ceased to care

I met Beverly in the same manner. Friend finder, ICQ, coffee. I was 35, weeks before turning 36. It was just before Christmas, just before I was due to go to Egypt, just before I had finally quit smoking.
That deserves description. I’d been smoking for about sixteen years and like most smokers, I’d tried to quit a few times, but I’d lacked the resolve. It was the same story, time and again: I’d quit, I’d smell someone’s smoke and I’d break down, bumming one; I’d feel guilty straight off the first drag, but I’d be back to a pack a day within the month, just the same.

But this time was different, this time I’d given myself a scare. I was walking home after a night out at Casey’s. I was following my old route, for nostalgia’s sake, despite its adding some time to my trek to Victoria. It wasn’t cold; a gentle, early winter snow was cascading about me. I lit a smoke. I never felt better. Then I didn’t.

A hot poker stabbed me in the chest. I bent double, then crouched low, thinking that I was having a heart attack. It can’t be, I thought. I’m too young! But that sharp stab said otherwise, and what I thought didn’t matter, not in the least. I remained crouched, half expecting that I’d flop over on my side, enveloped in pain, half expecting that’s where they’d find my frozen corpse the next morning.
“There you go, you stupid cocksucker,” I thought, “you went and killed yourself.”

I hadn’t. The pain subsided, given time. But the ghost of it lingered there, a dire warning of what might come were I not to heed the warning.

What was it? Acid reflux. My doctor congratulated me on my decision to quit and gave me pills to ease the acid in my gut while my esophagus healed.

I would quit, too; but not before I’d gone to Egypt, a trip planned and paid for, a land where the boy child has a cigarette shoved in his mouth at the moment of birth; were I to quit before then, I was sure to fail. So I didn’t, not just then.

Shortly after my scare, I met Beverly.

Mere months afterwards, I quit.

I’m surprised she didn’t run for the hills.

Jezebel

Time was growing short. I was in my early mid-thirties, with little to show for it. I’d attained an unused education, I’d gone on some trips, I’d saved some money. I’d watched my friends slip away, with few replacing them. I’d also become what I’d fear the most when still a sad, lonely young man: a sad, lonely older young man. My track record with the opposite sex was dismal, at best. Dates were few, growing fewer, scant to scarce. I’m likely to blame for that.

My confidence continued to wane with each and every rejection. I don’t recommend balding in a big hair age. A woman once reached out and lifted my ball cap, dismissing me out of hand when she spied what wasn’t there. Things like that make one reticent to put oneself out there. That reads false with time’s perspective; I’d done alright when on holiday, not every time, true, but love is a rare and many splendored thing, never to be passed up when it rears its face. Granted, even those moments took a little time, even with such small groups sequestered together for albeit limited time. Things have to happen quickly if they’re going to happen at all. Strike while the iron is hot, and all that. That begs the question: was it love? I’ll err on the side of the romantics and say yes. Love hits you in an instant, even if you’d known the object of that instant for years. To believe otherwise invites cynicism, a perilous path, if you’ve ever been on it.

Sadly, I was cynical. I was lonely. I was angry. I prowled my city by night by myself, a shadow of my former self. Smiling Dave, as someone had once mocked me years before, had died the death of a thousand barbs, brush-offs and rejections. I had no love for the community I’d fallen into. That’s not specifically Timmins. And it is. I’d grown to hate where I lived, who I worked with, anyone I bumped into. I dreamed of escape, a dream that would overwhelm me over the years, if it hadn’t already.
I’d grown a hard, bitter, brittle shell.

I’d all but abandoned Casey’s (there was hardly anyone there past 9 pm most nights), opting for The Welcome, until that felt less than welcoming, trying Mendez’ on for size. Dirty Dave’s closed its doors, 147 ceased drawing bands. I found a small crowd at Mendez’ for a few years until Mike and Jan Gautier married and moved to Alberta, effectively breaking up that little cadre. Mendez closed its doors once Manny bought and renovated the Victory theatre, and Amigos and The Attic were born. I moved in, although I can’t say that the music was to my taste, but that’s where the girls were, and I’d yet to completely abandon hope. Women my age were beginning to divorce the loves of their lives, and I was hoping that they might see the light and notice someone like me for a change. They didn’t. They found much the same they had before. Like I said, cynical, angry.

I returned home from South Africa and Elizabeth with newfound hope. I always found newfound hope. I was playing pool with acquaintances in Amigos, sounding off about my trip when one of the women in attendance perked up.

“I know Elizabeth,” she said after extracting a few more details from me. She’d gone to school with her back in England. She was still in touch with her, despite having moved to Canada.

“She’s getting married,” she said. That was a punch in the chest. It ought not to have been; it was only a fling, after all. I wasn’t moving to England, she wasn’t moving to Canada. We knew that. And we’d said our good-byes. But hearing that had hurt me, tarnishing a wondrous memory in a flash by an unexpected and uncalled-for feeling of loss and betrayal. I swallowed it.

Despite that quick pain, I enjoyed how easily we’d struck up a conversation. She smiled at me a lot. I was encouraged, so I gave her more than a second glance. Tall, brunette, graceful. Bright brown eyes. I neglected my game, focusing on her instead, ultimately losing for having done so, and not really caring, although Dawson might have.

That hope died a quick death. She was married. She was just a happy girl making conversation with someone who knew someone she did.

I was going out weekends alone more and more. Dawson had grown distant after our Leafs road trip. We had a minor accident at the end of it. He was driving. He lost control of my Jimmy a block away from his house, smashing up my grill and bumper. I insisted he pay half the damage. He insisted I go through my insurance. But I had no desire to take the hit for something I didn’t do. He ultimately paid, not quite half, but he did pay. And our friendship cooled after that.

I found myself imposing on those I knew and met up with, hanging about, whether welcome or not. So, one weekend, when I spotted Gabber from work at Amigos, I struck up a conversation and when he kept up his end of it I stuck around. There were girls in attendance. Why wouldn’t I stick around? Hope abounds.

One of those girls took interest in me. Hope more than abounds when the opposite sex takes an interest. We began to talk. We flirted. We danced. And before too long we were necking, oblivious to the presence of everyone around us.

“Do you want to get out of here?” she whispered in my ear.

I answered her with a kiss. And we left.

“You work fast,” Gabber said later that week.

“Yeah,” I said, leaving it at that. Of course I do, I thought. I was accustomed to finding love while on vacation. With just a week or two at my disposal, if I were to take it slow I’d never have experienced what limited comfort I had.

“Your place or mine?” she’d asked. Either, I thought, not really caring.

We stepped out into the night, too early for cabs to be in attendance yet. But I knew where they harboured until the hour of need, so I steered her in that direction.

It was slow going. We stopped to neck often.

Then she said it. She whispered, “I’m married.”

I inhaled sharply. My exhale shuddered. I bit back the livid tears that were welling up. I pressed her into a cab, handing the cabbie the first bill I pulled from my wallet, a five. That ought to be enough, I thought; cabs were cheaper then.

I confessed the whole affair to Neil the next weekend. He was in town, enjoying a much-needed break from fighting bush fires.

“Fuck it,” I said, “I don’t give a shit, anymore. They’re all married; or all the ones I meet are. If none of them want me for anything other than a one-night stand, who am I to care if their marriage is on the rocks.

Neil was having none of that.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he said. “Someone will come around. Get out of Timmins, if you have to.”
He left for Toronto with Sharon soon after.

I resolved to give Timmins one for year, and then I was getting the fuck out of this hellhole.

A Devolution of Concerts

There were quite a few concerts to see over a few years, some put on by Northern College, some not. Most were. Timmins had been largely bypassed for decades, hardly any “name” artists bothering to grace us with their presence anymore. Johnny Cash was an exception, but I didn’t go see him. The Barstool Prophets were another exception, but they’d fallen on hard times, thanks to file sharing, and were playing everywhere that would have them.

That left the college. Northern College had made a point of trying to lure bigger names on the University Circuit to Timmins; and they were succeeding, somewhat. But attendance was touch and go.

We filed in to see The Headstones, shocked to see the college gym only about a third full. Hugh and the boys put on a great show, despite the low turnout, focusing on we who had shown up and not those who hadn’t. Hugh spit, he growled, he screamed, and he and his band peeled off layers of midnight black as they sweat through one layer after another. I braved the stage, risking Hugh’s spit, finding the sweet spot between the speakers, where hearing loss was at its optimally least.

Then Blue Rodeo unfurled their Turkish rug on the stage, easily the most expansive and expressive I’d seen to date. There were couches. There were wingbacks. There were claw foot lamps, replete with tasselled shades. There was even a sock puppet at stage left, where Dawson and I were contemplating its presence and mystical meaning, when Jim Cuddy and Greg Keelor came up beside us, joining in our discussion.

We braved a snowstorm to watch Sarah Harmer and her first band, Weeping Tile. There were only twelve of us in attendance. It was easy to meet her and talk to her at length, considering.

There were others, the most notable being a college concert trip to Sudbury. Cambrian was hosting 54-40. Northern had tried to lure them up, but they were a little too pricey, and the SAC budget had been spent. So, Northern College, SAC specifically, had enquired if anyone wanted to go. But we’d have to shoulder the bill. We did. A lot of people did. We bought tickets, along with just enough people to pay for the bus. We boarded the coach when the time came: me, Dawson and Jim, those others.

We brought a twelve pack for the trip; it is a four-hour trip, after all. Those hours went faster than I’d anticipated. Anticipation. There were new people to meet. There was lively discussion. We were going to a concert, after all. Dawson knew most of them. He was custodian at Northern, he worked hand in hand with them on SAC. And Dawson was beginning to prefer the company of those younger souls.

We thankfully pulled into Sudbury about an hour before the doors opened; not long enough to get a good meal at a good restaurant, but time enough for a slice of pizza or a burger before queuing up at the Cambrian Hall, the same hall that I saw The Watchmen in.

Students are starting to look young to me, I thought, taking in those people around me. No doubt. I was 35, they were still 20. There was a different vibe. It didn’t feel like it had when I’d attended The Watchmen. And it wasn’t. The crowd was more aggressive, rougher, quick to anger. The mosh pit did not nudge, it thrust. The pit did not flow and leap as one. It pushed, it jostled, it elbowed.

And when we surfed the hands, they crashed us into the bouncers who pushed us back. I was up and in, the bouncers nudged me back, and the crowd rushed me back toward them. They pushed me back harder, and I felt the hands almost give. Then they pushed me back into the bouncers a third time, and the bouncers lost patience. The thrust me away, hard, up and towards the center. The crowd did not catch me. The crowd parted. I crashed through and hit the floor, neck first.

That hurt. I found Dawson and Jim and said that I’d had enough of up close and personal. So had they. So, we retreated to the back third, where the crowd had thinned out.

A young woman eyed us. She had evil in her eyes. She rushed us, leaping up and crashed into us, her elbows flying. We tried to catch her, but elbows flying are a deterrent to such magnanimous conceit. She backed off and did it again.

“What the fuck,” Jim said as she prepared for her third assault.

She rushed us, we parted, revealing the metal support post behind us. I don’t think she saw it. I wouldn’t have cared if she had. She hit the pole hard, laid out on the floor as she crumpled.

We looked at her, then at one another. And we laughed.

“Let’s get out of here,” Dawson said, “before she wakes up.”

That was foreshadowing to a day of concerts in Hollinger Park. Nine bands were booked, Big Sugar, Sam Roberts, and Swollen Members, among them. Our Lady Peace headlined.

Seven thousand attended. Lawn chairs abound. A slice and a coke ran you up about twenty bucks. I milled about, chatted here and there, and tried to inch my way closer to the stage from time to time, but as time wore on, I retreated back to the chain-link fence where Dawson and Lena, Jim and Geri, and Joel and Denise, and those others in attendance from that period had settled.

Our Lady Peace took the stage. The crowd surged forward. The mosh pit stirred, and grew violent. It turned into a riot. Young girls were beating on young men, yelling at their boyfriends to “kill him!” They clutched other girls’ hair and dragged them to the ground, kicking them when there.

A woman from Dawson’s group was beside me at the edge of the melee. She looked at me and said, “Do something.”

I did. I laughed.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said, “They’ll tear me apart if I go in there. That’s a job for Mommy.”

Just then an army of Mommies took to the field. They waded in and pulled the little boys and girls apart. Sent them packing. No one dared punch Mommy.

And I kept my skin.

I’m getting too old for this shit, I thought.

Road Trip

I’d never been to an NHL game. That’s not much of a surprise; I was never much of a hockey fan (there’s a fair bit of subtext to that statement). I’ve watched games, but only while belly to the bar, the game just a prop to fill time between conversations. I may not have been much of a fan, but many of my friends were and most wanted to go see an NHL game, if they hadn’t already. Dawson too had made mention of it in the past, but he’d never actually come right out and suggested a road trip, either. Small wonder, as he’d never been to an NHL game, something that had probably been on his to-do list for years, if not decades.

One day the proposal came up: “What do you think? Do you want to go?”

“Can we get tickets?” was my only response. I’d always heard that Leafs tickets were hard to come by.
Dawson said he knew a guy that could get us corporate tickets. Corporate tickets? I imagined us seated in seats no further than five rows up from the ice.

“Alright,” I said, “I’m in. How do we want to plan this?” I asked.

Dawson wanted to wait before committing. He wanted to ask around some more, to see how many others might want to tag along. I think he wanted the trip to rival the Casey’s annual football crawl. I had my doubts, about that, thinking that the more people we had tagging along might make the prospect of getting enough tickets a serious concern. That said, I welcomed the thought of having more people along for the adventure. So, we’d wait and see how many tickets we’d need. I thought that prudent, so long as we didn’t wait too long. I had holidays to book, and the new year was fast approaching. He asked around. Many were interested; few had the money or could spare the time. The only takers were Joel and I. And Dawson’s brother. Dawson made his call. He got the tickets. Leafs VS Canucks.

“Are they good?” I asked. They were at the time, early in the season, but they had dropped in the standings as the season advanced. Then again, so had the Leafs. Neither were having a stellar year.
I left on my South African adventure. And returned. The date closed upon us. The game was only weeks away. Joel said he’d book the hotel.

“You’re sure,” I asked. “I can do it.” But he insisted. I suggested the Royal York. It was closer, and The Path led right to the ACC; we wouldn’t have needed to wear our coats on game day. But Dawson and Joel baulked at the idea, saying they couldn’t afford to stay at The Royal York.

The week arrived. I asked Joel if he’d called to book a hotel. I’m a worrier. I fret. I don’t like leaving things in other people’s hands. He said he had called on Monday and there was lots of rooms left. He had even found a hotel right across the street from the arena. I ceased to fret. The road trip was planned. We had tickets. We had accommodation. All we had to do was get there. I offered to drive. It was the least I could do, since Dawson had landed us tickets, and Joel had booked the hotel.

“What hotel are we staying at?” I asked mid-week. I fret. I needed to know where we were staying so better navigate to it once entering the city.

“The Primrose,” Joel said. The Primrose? I’d never heard of it.

“Where’s that?” I asked.

“Right across the street from Maple Leaf Gardens,” he said.

The Gardens? I asked my Dad. Where the hell is the Primrose? “The Primrose Hotel?” he asked. “I stayed there,” he said. “That’s nowhere near the ACC.” He showed me on a map where all our relevant addresses were in relation to one another.

I was pissed. I counted to ten. Done was done. I consoled myself that the Primrose was just off Yonge Street, close to Queen St. W. Subways were a stone throw away.

We packed our bags and hit the road Friday morning for Saturday’s game against Vancouver.

The drive was uneventful, despite our concerns. People had filled my head with tales of sudden snow squalls rising up and washing the world white, stranding vehicles for hours at a time. No such squalls arose. We arrived and parked in a car park a block from the hotel.

Joel was first to the Front Desk. “I’d like to book rooms for the weekend,” he said, credit card in hand.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the attendant said, “but we’re full.

“Excuse me?” I said to Joel. “I thought you said you booked the rooms.”

“I called,” he said, “and they said they had lots of rooms.

“You didn’t book?” I asked.

“They said they had lots of rooms.”

“Yeah,” I fumed, “they had lots of rooms a week ago.” I was livid. “We travelled to Toronto for the weekend without a reservation?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How could Joel have been so stupid? Did he not know that hotels fill up? Apparently, he hadn’t. I was angry enough to abandon them and search for a room on my own. Not very charitable of me, but like I said: I was livid.

“Let me see what I can do,” the girl said. She tapped her keys furiously. Seconds seemed hours. The minute hand crawled. I was fretting.

She found a room. One room. Two double beds. Would that be alright?

No, it wouldn’t, I thought.

But it would have to do.

We had to share. Dawson and I also had to share a bed.

We shared until I woke up in the middle of the night, Dawson spooning me, Dawson’s arm wrapped around me. I freaked. I extricated myself, bundled up the coats on the floor, and stole the comforter off the bed. I can’t say I was comfortable. I can’t say that I didn’t ache when I woke.

We had hours to spare until Dawson’s brother was due to meet us, so we decided to play tourist. They wanted to go to the CN Tower. I wanted to go to Mountain Equipment Co-op. We compromised and went to the CN Tower. I hadn’t been up it since my Grade 8 trip, and really had no desire to, but I went with them, thinking that it had been a long time and I ought to stick by my friends in the big city.

I stuck with them until they were pouring over souvenirs in the gift shop. Time was getting short and I really wanted to go to MEC. I announced my desire to leave. They brushed me off. I left.

They were pissed at me when I returned to the hotel.

“Where the fuck did you go?” they asked.

I thought the answer obvious, my MEC purchases in hand. I really didn’t care that they were angry. I was angry, too. And I was hungry. I wanted to eat, and there was little time remaining before the game, with little time to hit a restaurant. But Dawson’s brother still hadn’t arrived. The clock ticked. The minute hand crawled on. Dawson’s brother walked in twenty minutes to game time, and we still had to travel down Yonge to get there.

We were late, half the first period gone when we gained our seats. Our seats were not together, either. And they were nowhere near the ice. We were, in fact, eight rows up from the camera. The hot dogs were expensive, the beer even more so. The Leafs were on the ice, but they hadn’t come to play. They lost 4-1. They were booed after a fourth power play without them taking a shot on net. I was ready to hit Yonge.

We had to go to the Brass Rail, apparently. The line-up was at least an hour long, so we went to Zanzibar’s instead. I bought the first and only round. I laid down a twenty for three beers, and was surprised when there was no change. They abandoned me for lengthy lap dances they could ill-afford. They wanted to stay. I didn’t. I put on my coat and said, “Suit yourselves,” so they left with me. A couple bars later, we discovered that the Primrose was in an odd neighbourhood. Not only were there an abundance of Ladies of the Night on every street corner, it was also an LBGTQ neighbourhood. We called it a night.

But not before Joel took pity on some girls he struck up a conversation with on the way back to the hotel, going back out to buy them each a cup of coffee. Or so he said. He wasn’t gone for that long, so he might have. I’ll leave that up to your discretion.

I took to the floor right off, leaving Joel his bed, leaving Dawson to share with his brother.
I awoke in the middle of the night to one or two of those Ladies of the Night prowling our floor, looking for some guy who had jilted them.

“Where the fuck is he?” one of them raged at the top of her lungs. “He said he was looking for some action!”

Their anger fading into the distance, never quite vented.

Maybe they were looking for Joel.

Table Mountain

One final excursion awaited us in Plett, river tubing. I imagined us furiously paddling a tube the size of a raft downriver, navigating rapids, careening off rocks, water spraying. What awaited us were tiny tubes, one to an individual, sedately inching their way downriver, rolling down shallow rapids. It was sunny, it was hot, rocky banks and towering trees rose up on either side of us. The water was as red as rooibos. Our progress was lazy at best, more akin to bumper cars than white-water rafting, leaving ample time to hang on to one another’s rafts, engaged in such languid sun-soaked conversation. Our time together was growing short and we knew it. We steered by hand, paddling, light strokes that eventually left rub burns on our inner arms. Otherwise, it was our laziest day, one that culminated in our anchoring at a sinkhole. We tossed our tubes into the pool below, leaping into the base of a falls, too deep to touch bottom, eddied sufficiently to twist and roll us in its depths until we were spit out into the calm bowl that radiated out from it.

Before long we were back on the bus for the final rush to Cape Town, Table Mountain rising up higher and higher as we drew nearer. We asked, would we be going up there, pointing at its flat, expansive summit. Sadly no, Jan said, much to our disappointment. We were going to the cape to see the penguins.

But not before we stopped off to pick up some beer. Jan asked us, “Do you want some beer?” We did, so he collected the cash in a hat. The money in hand, Jan spoke to our driver in Afrikaans. We pulled over, next to a roadside pub, surrounded by a scattering of vehicles, but more so by bicycles.

“Want to help me?” Jan asked. Sure I said. “Leave your wallet on the bus,” he said, “and anything else you hold dear.” That did not inspire much confidence as to the wisdom of our endeavour.

“Not to worry,” Jan said just as he and I walked through the door, all eyes within snapping to us. There was not one white man to be seen among them. Jan didn’t seem concerned, so I followed him when all I wanted to do was beat a fast retreat to the bus. I didn’t. I kept on, focused on his back, despite the eyes that I knew were tracking our progress. I tried to appear as cool as Jan. I likely failed. We approached the bar, its length secured behind a rank of wrought iron fencing that brought black and white western banks to mind. We ordered our beer, paid up front, and waited as the cases were slid out to us, through a gated gap at the floor. We hoisted them, two apiece, and walked back out the door as though we hadn’t a care in the world.

“Not to worry,” Jan repeated.

My mouth was dry. My litre of beer did not last long.

We booked into our motel. “What is there to do?” we asked. We had a free afternoon and evening we were told. So, a few of us made our way to the coast for a swim. We walked, not the brightest decision. It was farther than we’d thought, and there were few whites about. None, actually, besides ourselves. We endured uncomfortable scrutiny, much as I had when I’d walked back from the mall in Sandton City. We didn’t bathe for long; the water was far colder than the Dolphin Coast had been. We knew as much, watching the surfers boarding in and out of the surf, red faced and otherwise wrapped in wetsuits.

We stayed close to the motel after that. There was a bar. There was a disk jockey. There was beer. There was a lot of beer. I was used to that by now, the copious volumes of beer, the late nights and early mornings. Or so I told myself. Tanya and the twins and a couple other girls were very invested in bottles of champagne; I can’t testify to its quality, but judging by its label, I don’t think it was top shelf. I hit my bed as late as I’d become accustomed.

I slept in. As I awoke, I looked at my watch and noted that the bus was set to depart in about fifteen minutes. I felt like shit. Taking stock, I decided to take a pass on the penguins. I showered. I shaved, taking extraordinary care. My hands were shaky. My head was throbbing. I had a big breakfast, with plenty of juice and coffee, chased by about a litre of water and a few extra-strength Tylenols.

I asked the front desk what excursions I could buy. They helped me leaf through the pamphlets at the front desk, and I found two I liked, Robben Island and Table Mountain. All I had to do for Table Mountain was show up; a gondola was scheduled every quarter hour, the price no more than a bus fare. I booked the afternoon Robben Island tour. A cab picked me up and I was off.

Table Island was surreal. It was an actual mountain. It didn’t look that high, owing to its top having been cleaved off, but it was. It was so high, in fact, that the table sported a subarctic ecosystem. Short scrubby shrubs clung to the warmth of its rocky ground. We were warned against ever leaving the marked trails, informed that our very footfalls were deadly to plants already barely clinging to survival. I can imagine why. The table was forever buffeted by the icy subarctic winds of the Southern Ocean, winds that never let up. And it was high enough that the air was thin, rarefied and not particularly warm either. It was cold enough to require the fleece I’d bought at its base. When I faced the sun and closed my eyes, I imagined the red I saw through my lids was the warmer air at sea level; but the side not facing the sun was cool, growing colder by the minute.

I descended having wandered about for an hour and made for the pier. I was early so I ate an early lunch, drank another litre of water, and popped yet more pills.

The ferry was full. Nelson Mandela was all the rage at the time, and those tourists who’d come to the Garden Route were eager to see the prison where he’d spent decades of misery, sentenced to hard labour breaking chalk, going nearly blind for his trouble. Sunlight reflected off the chalk wall had taken its toll, destroying his eyesight. I saw his cramped cell, no larger than a cot, its walls apt to be frigid by winter and suffocating by summer. I was horrified when I saw implements that ought not to have been of use even in the Spanish Inquisition, and was treated to a lecture on what life was like for the political prisoners sent there to waste away in anonymity, or in the case of Mandela, unseen by those he continued to inspire in spite of his prolonged absence. Had they killed him, he’d have been a martyr, so they tucked him away and worked him to within an inch of his life, instead.

The tour complete, I made my way back to the pier where I browsed for a few souvenirs and had an early supper. I was making my way back to the car park when I saw, to my heart’s delight, my tour bus. No guesswork was required: how many buses could there be in Cape Town with Contiki Tours scrawled across its flank.

I made my way for it. When I’d closed about half the distance, it began to pull away. So, I began to run, waving my arms. It didn’t look like it was going to stop, so I slowed to a walk again, thinking myself no worse off than I’d been. I hadn’t expected to see the tour bus, after all.

I stopped! Its door opened, and my heart leapt again. I began to run again, but my souvenir bags made running difficult. I slowed. I walked. I mounted the steps to the cheers of my friends.

“Where were you?” the twins asked. I filled them in. They were envious.

I asked them about their own trip to the Cape. They said the bus ride there and back was long, the visit short, the penguins not very forthcoming. I was glad I’d missed it.

We had a going away party that evening. Those who were close, sat closer still. No one got drunk. Some slipped away early for more private goodbyes.

We all signed a page, leaving our contact information: names, addresses, email, and such. It’s kind of a ritual on Contiki Tours, I’d come to realize.

I kept in touch with Tanya and the twins for a little while, but those letters, quickly exchanged a first, became infrequent, as one might expect. Travel friendships, Euro pals they’re called, fade quickly. A world separates them, and they’re usually soon forgotten. That’s expected. Think on it: How long did you know them for, anyways? A week? A day? And did you really know them? I think you did, some anyways. If anything, those fleeting friendships are the most intense you’ll ever know. You’ll share with them what you’d never think to share with even your closest friends. But in the end, in a blink of an eye, your time together comes to an end and you never see them again.

Elizabeth was a blink in my eye. Flaxen hair. Bright blue eyes. “Hi.”

I loved you for a moment. And then you were gone.

 

Second Wind

We caught our second wing in Plettenberg Bay after sleeping off the ride from Port Elizabeth. It was more a nap then a sleep, about three hours. Just enough to refresh us a little. The weather had improved. The sun had risen again and the rain had dried up. But the wind continued to howl and gust inland, just in time for Bloukrans Bridge.

There was no way I was jumping off that bridge. No matter the wind. And the wind did howl that day, made worse by its being funnelled up the course of the Bloukrans, confined and concentrated by the steeply rising flanks of the gorge. At 216 m (709 ft.) it’s the world’s highest commercial bungee jump. To be entirely truthful, I wouldn’t have jumped off it even if it were the lowest commercial bungee jump. I can think of better things to do than jump off a perfectly good bridge with an elastic band tied to my ankles. But that’s just me.

We did have some takers, though, one of the Albertan engineers, a few others. There was serious discussion by them as to whether to buy tighty-whities for the occasion. We other brave souls sufficed with watching from the observation post, some distance away. One had to be, it was a hell of a drop. We bought beers, shared smokes, and gasped as we watched them leap and drop out of sight, then rebound in what must have been harrowing fright. We watched again by video, giving us an even closer view, fully experiencing how frightening the winds and heights were from the bridge, from our safe vantage afar.

The Albertan kept a journal of his journey, had kept it from his having embarked from Alberta, while in Casablanca and Morocco, even throughout our most alcoholic of stretches. I say that, but the Albertans were “good boys,” far less excessive that we others were. So maybe it’s no surprise that he was always diligent in transcribing his experiences each day while we languished on the bus between the here’s and there’s, sleeping off the latter late night. He got stuck after the bungee jump, making notes on scraps of paper, trying to get all his feelings and sensations into words, as if that were possible. When I saw him staring into space, pad and paper in hand, I asked him what he was doing, although it seemed obvious to me. So he told me what he was doing and how he’d gotten stuck.

“It’s hard to get into words,” he said. “I don’t know how to describe it.”

Next to impossible, I thought. Feelings are elusive and ephemeral, not particularly empirical or quantitative.

Besides, he was an engineer; and most engineers don’t have a flair for artistic expression.

“Fight or flight,” I said.

“What?” he said.

“You felt fight or flight. Your body thought it was about to die, so you had a surge of adrenaline to cope with it. That’s not terribly romantic, and it certainly isn’t as cliché as ‘my heart leapt into my throat,’ or ‘I was delirious with fright,’ or ‘time slowed to a crawl and I felt every hair on my body electrified,’ but fight or flight is as accurate as anything.”

I don’t know what he wrote. Two days later he was still struggling with it. Like I said, no imagination. I expect his travel log read like a timetable, filled with names and times and quantities of beast, each noted in a separate column.

Our second wing lasted into the night. We plunged into the tepid pool at the resort as the sun dipped low and the light bathed us in a golden glow, remaining long after the incandescent pots blazed white.
The Aussies, sans Tanya, the Albertans, and their hook-ups disappeared for a little tumble and twister while the rest of us hung out with a case of beer, luxuriating in the warm water and cooler air.

We paired off, girls on shoulders and wrestled one another, the losers driven under the surface. We played rough, tripping one another up, bulldozing those not likely to trip. Boys and girls alike ended up with angry red welts from grasping, groping, raking nails.

Growing tired, we lazed about and floated, staring up into the night sky, opening up to one another and telling tales we’d likely never tell our friends. Temporary friends are good for that. We all had quiet declarations. We all had woes. Travel can be a confessional.

We all had desires. But how to accommodate those when bunked four to a room?
The others faded into the night, two at a time until there were very few of us left. I was shy, older than each and every one of them, and not what I thought particularly attractive. Not particularly sure if I’d been flirted with from time to time. I can be dense that way, only realizing what might have been after it had come and gone. Sometimes it seemed obvious, but I’d always been a little daft in that department.

Elizabeth, one of the twins, had lingered close by me most of the evening. She was tall and blonde to her friend’s short dusky dark countenance.

She plunged below the pool’s calm surface, kicked off, spanning the pool’s width, twisting and returning without rising. My gaze followed her progress, admiring her fluid glide, her practiced grace. She flowed beneath the surf with all the self-assurance of an otter. She’d been a lifeguard, a swimmer like me. She had none of the clumsiness of someone unaccustomed to years in the water.

She arched her back and her body buoyed up below and before me, her head back, her hair flowing back from her brow, tucked back behind her ears. Her eyes were closed. She came to rest between my dangling legs, her forearms on my thighs, her hands folded beneath her chin.

She opened her eyes, capturing mine in hers. Bright blue.

She whispered, “Hi.”

I’d had one or two infatuations while on that trip. I was taken with Tanya, short, strong, compact, as tenacious as a terrier. And I had spent more than a few hours watching Alison curled up and sleeping on the bus in the seat opposite me, her Asian complexion glowing in the sun.

I forgot them just then, under the spell of bright blue and a whispered, “Hi.”