august 27, 2002.
Damn. What a weekend.
This weekend I discovered something important about myself, to whit: I am an incurable hick. No, really. This isn't a Nova Scotia thing, although that element adds a spicy sauce to the whole feeling. It was my basic assumption that I could be dropped in any urban environment and be comfortable/functional. (Spending 2 years in Wolfvegas only broadened my comfort zone to rural areas.) The basic logical fallacy was this:
- Toronto is a world-class city.
- I can function in Toronto.
ergo...
- I can be happy in any city in the world.
Chicago kicked my ass in several directions, simultaneously. Cabrini Green killed my idea that Parkdale or Jane/Finch or Landsdowne were rough or scary areas of the world. Leona's and Pick Me Up raised my standards for Italian food and milkshakes respectively. The Alley and The Ninety Ninth Floor showed up my idea that Siren or even House of Ill Repute knew the first thing about gawthfash. The Fine Arts Building gave University College a run for its money in terms of beautiful, useful architecture. And the Art Institute kicked my brain into the motherfucking stoneage. I nearly fell to my knees at several points, most notably when I casually rounded a corner and saw "Beata Beatrix" - the only Pre-Raphaelite painting in the building and easily my favourite P-R painting of all time.
On the simplest level, it was walking around and watching people react to the Canadian accent I suddenly developed. A pretty salesboi in 99th heard me talk and insisted that he could mock me at length because he was from Wisconsin and thus considered himself an expert in all things Canadian. I found it difficult to convert to miles from kilometres. I ordered special Quebec syrup ("from the motherland," as Q put it) and it was a big deal. My pretty, colourful Canadian money became much more of an abstraction than usual.
It was a humbling, wonderful experience. It made me realize that although my Toronto survival skills will keep me happy in any and all Canadian cities, they fall short of the major American centres. And while I'm busy being scared, impressed, awed, covetous and dazzled, thousands of people were wandering around with their shirts off, drinking Bud Light. Because it was just another day on Clark Street for them.
I'll tell you one thing; my affection for the fictons of Daniel Manus Pinkwater became a full-blown obsession this weekend. Suddenly I was in the homeland, the base of Baconburg and Hogboro. I was on Snark Street; I was in Blueberry Park. I'm writing that stuff up separately, as it ties into something I arranged to complete before we took the trip. Rest assured that if you're interested in the tiny part of the Pinkwater Chicago tour I completed this weekend, you will have your chance to read all about it in a short while.
Meeting Amy, by the way, was everything I thought it would be and more.
Today I spent a great deal of time lost on the highways and byways of Greater Gomorrah. I don't think I managed a single trip that didn't involve some kind of backtrack or last minute compensation for a navigational error. It's okay, though - I'm lost a great deal of the time lately, and it doesn't really bother me. I figure that if I keep my head frosty, I'll soon be able to find my place in this town without quite so many 5-point turns.
Of course, I did get trapped in the middle of an intersection today. That, besides being incredibly dangerous, was far from fun.
Went into Hogsboro High today. Apparently the course outlines I got last month are just that - I don't have to do any of the planning I'd anticipated. Now I just have to figure out what they mean, what they translate to in daily life. I'm still unsure of the signified, you see...and C. Thomas was much less helpful than I'd hoped. (He seemed upset that I couldn't remember and process everything he told me last month.)
I'll be back tomorrow to set up my boards and get some books on the shelf. Q gave me a number of books this weekend, and I think I can grab some more from my friends. Although BookCrossing proved to be something of a contentious activity, there's a unique cache to the idea of a highschool bookshelf. I think I'll get some interesting volumes.
Before wandering into the school, I had a lovely lunch at the home of Lucretia Nighshade (Dirk's sister). We talked about school quite a bit (as a former teacher, Lucretia has a useful perspective on my continual anxiety), as well as Dirk's behaviour of late. Talking to her made me realize how worried I've been about him...somewhere in between sympathy for Stacy's pain and annoyance at his refusal to return phone calls (yet play baseball for Ophelia's softball team - grrr), I lost sight of the fact that I've been scared all summer, scared that our friendship is dying a slow, bitter death. Lucretia gave me a great deal of hope that hanging on to our relationship will help in the long run and not just hurt me in the short run.
None of this fixes the hurt in Stacy's voice, but then I didn't really expect it to.
Oh, and one of my uncles has cancer. So it's been a good homecoming overall.
4 years ago today: demon baby!
