Yesterday I woke up to JJ's singsong voice welcoming me into the day. She offered me a coveted spot at her mint green kitchen table heaving with the weight of flowers, tea sets, doilies and knickknacks. The most important centerpiece on the table was a giant Pyrex pie plate overflowing with crepes and a troupe of berries, pudding, sugar, and nutella. JJ, forever the unmarried and houseless housewife (I say that with pride, because it is my dream to be like her) has been taking french lessons and is doing extremely well. One of the projects this term was to master the execution of perfect french crepes. To say the least, she nailed it. Leigh picked me up and I was still pretty mellow from the previous night's hectic turn of events. French radio, french breakfast, french friends, french vinyl; it was a perfect European send-off.
After breakfast, Leigh drove us to a flea market on Aaron Street in the west end and my knees threatened to buckle in excitement the second we walked in. The consistency of emotion and gratitude I experience walking into a basement flea market surrounded by abandoned trinkets, books and vinyl is almost uncanny. For some reason I always beeline for the typewriter, projector, camera section in high hopes of finding a jewel among gems. Yesterday I had no success in that department but I did end up having a half hour conversation with a French hippy named Peter who is in the top hat business but sells records at flea markets on Saturdays for fun. We ended up in a very heated debate about kids these days and the lack of appreciation people tend to have for music of yesteryears. Mid conversation, Peter yanked off his bowler hat and scratched his head and said, "Meg, I may be deaf in one ear, but I think from the sounds of your discontent I may have just found your new best friend" and proceeded to pluck a Mireille Mathieu album from the French Folk section of his vast collection and shove it into my already full hands. "Listen to her and then listen to The Beatles' 'Magical Mystery Tour' and then come back and tell me how much you love life; let the music deliver you". I had no choice but to take his suggestions to heart and do just that. The onset of appreciation was and continues to be a vast sea. Thank you Peter.
After the Aaron Street market we buggered off to Sonus music on Portage where I stumbled upon a million other albums calling my name. Yes, yesterday was a very nice day. The toll of winter was ignored for 24 hours and the whole of Winnipeg's young twenty-something scene seemed to let the wave of Spring Fever wash the negativity and bitterness away, even if it was for an afternoon. I found it refreshing to see people on the streets again, bikes everywhere defying death in the spring slush. I too wanted to be out there, defying death. Bikes are for Spring, man!
I am sitting at my computer ignoring the giant empty suitcase behind me. It is begging to be filled, but I can't seem to get myself to fill it. Why the hesitation one might ask? I am only gone for a month, so this said trepidation seems rather unnecessary but packing is always a reminder of change. No, even writing that sounds ridiculous; I am going to go fill that thing the second this is posted. I am psyched on leaving, it is just the effort of preparation that miffs me. I have a tower of fourteen books waiting patiently in the wings to be tucked away into the empty spots with precision. They range from Dave Eggers, to Nabokov, to Garcia Marquez, to Hemingway, to Bergen. I am trying to read at least two books by each author to get a taste of continuity in each writer's style. Then I have a sprinkling of carefully selected works that will act as stand-in friends while I am away. I am ready now. I think the choosing of books was the most stressful part.
Amish, amuck, amiss. Amiss you all already.
Blessings to all. Enjoy the break of winter, because Zurich's winter season has long passed.
Meg.
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