august 11, 2002.

Last year's birthday list:

fireworks, troubadours, candy, dancing girls, crazy group sex, swing bands, comic books, glitter, corsets, drugs, fencing duels, champagne, slave boys, chocolate, body shots & roses.

Our birthday junket to Halifax was an unqualified success. After spending the morning running about with last-minute errands, we left W-ville on the afternoon bus. Oddly enough, Gabriel was there to reinforce the "2 run-intos" law of W-ville. (Said law being that wherever we go in town, we always run into at least two people we know.) Although I would've enjoyed some conversation with everyone's favourite church organist/renaissance harpist/Oscar Wilde enthusiast, he sat quietly and left without waving. However, he did wish me a happy birthday when he found out why we were making the trip. Considering that this was likely the last time we'll meet in the flesh, that was nice.

As the Heritage Hostel on Barrington was full (this is the location of the famed "Club America"), we booked a room at Dal instead. It was a gigantic, sprawling residence of white panels and elegant drawing rooms and coke machines keyed to meal plans. You know - the kind of place that modern architecture derides as "intimidating" and "cold." It reminded me of my cold, intimidating days at U of T. I felt at home right away.

In our room, the Boy presented me with my annual birthday offerings. First he warmed me up with a gag Buddhism gift (he likes to engage with the "bowling ball named Homer" trap by smashing the danger head-on). Then he gave me my real gifts - two young adult books to start my classroom collection, a subscription to East Village Inky and a container with bunnies on it. (That's how he describes it: a container with bunnies on it. I think I'm going to use it to store my Rescue Remedy.) So right away, my birthday was better than last year.

We left the room and began to wander the city, stopping in at our favourite Halifax stores for our last visit as natives. (Aside: Strange Adventures was a difficult stop for us, as there's just so much that I'd like to get right now that I simply can't afford. Ah well.) After a brief stop-over in the Public Gardens to eat ice cream and play with the ducks, we picked up the special guest star of Amoret Day (a.k.a. Tymothi:J) at the bus station. He hugged us both, handed me my birthday fudge & a card from Dirk, and we headed over to Dharma Sushi for some serious birthday gluttony. I'm really not sure how Toronto sushi objectively compares with Halifax sushi; all I know is that I started to really like sushi in Halifax, so it has set the standard. I was so glad to be there, eating one of my favourite foods with two of my favourite boys on my favourite day of the year.

Boy, that's a lot of favourites.

After dinner we took Tym to a magazine store to buy cigarettes. As we browsed the alternative titles, he ran upstairs and checked his email at the cyber café. Total cost to Tym: 25˘. Total cost to the Boy & I: $17. Just our luck to find "Bitch" and "Shambhala Sun" when we were in an expansive mood. As night fell, we found ourselves on the waterfront, looking for buskers.

Let me explain: we had landed in the middle of the annual buskers festival, wherein some truly extraordinary acts were invited to perform. At night the waterfront turned into something like a carnival with booths everywhere and big acts vying for everyone's money. We found a juggler/escapist from Britain at the beginning of his spiel, and soon drew his attention by moving through the crowd to sit near the front.

"You should all come up like this sexy lady," he said. I raised my arms in acknowledgement. "Woah. She looks like somebody on Road to Avonlea." He giggled, "Sorry; that's the only program I've seen from Canada."

(The funny thing was that earlier that day Rev Robyn had called me "the Anti-Anne," due to my black outfit, striped stockings and demure braids. It was because of this comment that I'd decided to wear my straw hat with the black band, just to let everyone else in on the joke. And judging from that busker's response, I'd say that it worked.)

Shortly after his set wrapped up, Tym split to find his other friends and the Boy & I wandered onto the dock to watch fireworks. It was incredible, too - usually I think 'is that all there is?' in the midst of fiery splendour, but this time I completely let go and concentrated on the sparkly places in the sky. They were just dazzling; all the more so without a filter of adult cynicism. AND I got to pretend that the light show was a celebration of my birthday. Ooooh.

After Tym found us again, we got ice cream and headed into a local bar to hear Charlie A'Court play the blues. Charlie is one of the acts we saw at StanFest, and he has to be one of the friendliest guys I've ever met. I remember walking by him on Sunday of the Fest and chatting about accommodations, as in performer hospitality vs. tenting on the hillside. He's definitely the Mr. Congeniality of StanFest 2002, and he defended his crown with ease on my birthday. Even Tym was impressed that he would take the time to come over to our table after his set. We bought his EP. It seemed like the right thing to do.

We took a cab back to our res room, sneaking Tym past the oblivious porter and making many jokes about the erotic possibilities of sharing a bedroom with Tym (I believe the term "Boy sandwich" was bandied about irresponsibly). But in the end we embraced middle class paradigms of sexual fidelity and split up the two single beds. The Boy & I wedged ourselves in the one; Tym stretched out his bus-weary frame on the other. And thus my birthday passed from this earth for another year.

The next day we wandered around the city, trying desperately to escape the wearying heat for a few minutes. The daytime buskers were fascinating, my personal favourite being the two smiling silver angels who silently beckoned individuals forward and "blessed" them with a graceful sprinkle of glitter. Every inch of visible skin was painted the same silver as their robes and wings; they were like dancers, like machines, like statues, like aliens. First the Boy went forward: they gently lifted off his hat and a rose petal picked up from the University gardens fluttered to the ground. Then I came forward, already under their spell. I wandered away in a glow, despite the thick crowds and punishing summer sun. Later I would take pains to avoid washing the glitter out of my hair, just to keep a little of the glory intact. It was totally transcendent mime and the most magical piece of entertainment I have ever experienced.

But in all honesty, the rest of the day kind of stunk. We were hot, we were pushed about, we were tired, we were wary of spending more money and thus hungry, we were bored and we were bitten by a good many bugs. The evening bus - the only one of the day - came as a relief.

Final Tally

Comics: check.
Candy and chocolate: check.
Fireworks: check.
Troubadours: check.
Crazy group sex: offered but declined.
Glitter and roses: check

New items

old friends, ice cream, friendly blues men, carnivals, sushi