Home again, home again

I've slept something like twelve hours out of the last sixteen. Everything around me is familiar and yet vaguely unexpected. Like I just caught sight of a squirrel outside and am taken aback to see that it's gray rather than black.

The return flight was as smooth as the one there. If you're going to Toronto (or one of the other half-dozen Canadian cities they fly to) and you're not freaked out by the thought of being in something sustained in the air by means of a propeller rather than a contained explosion, fly Porter. Seriously. In fact, you owe it to yourselves to come up with some reason to go to Canada just so you can fly them. I expected a Canuckistani version of Southwest; I got something out of the 60s. When our refreshments came, they were served in actual glasses. Who does that any more? I packed ham sandwiches for the midday trip over; monshu only ate half of his because they gave us roast beef.

But what most amazed me was the airport. When I learned the city was trying to close it, I expected some dilapidated survivor. Instead, it reeks of newness and efficiency. But the most amazing thing was the departures lounge, which is all divided into comfortable little semi-private nooks. [Insert joke about Canadian antisocialness here.] When I went to check out the café in the corner, I was bewildered by the lack of a cashier. "Is all this complimentary?" I asked a passing employee, unable to contain my disbelief. Even though we were still stuffed from lunch, I couldn't resist bringing back a tiny packet of Walker's shortbread for the old man; had we a little more time, I would've done a proper afternoon tea.

(As our hosts clarified, the only Torontonians who really want to see it shut down are the shoreline condo-dwellers and the bizarre little community of people living on the islands and paying fifty year-old rents for an unbeatable location. And, frankly, screw them both sideways. The turboprops aren't really any noisier than motorboats anyway.)

If they could only do something about the ridiculous ferry ride to the airport, it would be perfect. Coming over, we thought it was absurdly charming, having to board a boat in order to travel 100 metres. But all that evaporated when we attempted to drop off our baggage in order to spend a couple hours along Queen's Quay on our final afternoon and ended up burning an hour because we had to take them to counter ourselves. They let you check in at the terminal, but you can't leave bags there. It's the one and only measure on which a Chicago airport has them beat for convenience.

Speaking of which, the sweet lady at Midway must be the kindest customs agent I've ever gotten. The only thing that kept us from falling asleep in line, however, was playing the game of "Are you in town for what I think you are?" Pretty sure Mr Plaid was, and the two men behind me gave the game away by talking about self-constructed costumes. But Big Beard Daddy oozed straightness (on both measures) and the hottie in the yellow oxford and dress slacks was probably going on business rather than coming direct from work without changing, alas.

So it's right from the whirl of the Toronto scene into the maelstrom of Bear Pride--for me at least. monshu is spending the day at home recuperating and getting a handle on things; when he gets out of the shower, he'll fill me in on the condo drama. The cat seems to be adjusting to the restoration of routine; at least he's stopped yowling and making mysterious demands of us. (For a while there, it was hard to remember why I'd missed him at all.)

Meet the neighbours: a Talk to Muckefuck Story™

I got back to the house right around ten o'clock and found a crowd of people in the alley. I couldn't tell what they were up to; there were about six of them, well spaced, pretty much smack in the middle accompanied by the intermittent sound of something crunching. I thought about investigating, but went and opened the gate, only to stop and reconsider. Were they crushing beer cans at this hour? Even on a holiday weekend, that's kind of uncool.

As I came closer, it dawned on me that a game of cornhole was in progress; the noise I heard was the sound of the bean bags hitting the boards. There was a moment of quiet when I drew near, even before I made some remark about being surprised at seeing so many folks in "my alley". They were immediately apologetic and offered me a beer, which I refused with the explanation that I'd had quite enough today already. Once I'd indicated I was a condo-dweller from the corner, the hosts identified themselves as "lowly renters" and introduced me around.

I hung out for about forty minutes, discussing racist cartoons and small towns in Illinois. Finally I fell into talking with the oldest person there--like me born in Maryland and then transplanted to Midwestern farm country--about airport security and farmers markets. Frankly, he was just about the hottest daddy I'd seen in a day chock full of them. As if to turn the knife, another partygoer summoned him for a game of euchre, explaining, "That wasn't a sexual 'come here' gesture", prompting a bit of homoerotic bandinage. That was my cue to call it a night.

The whole experience was oddly parallel to one I'd had a week before almost to the day and hour. In Canada, Victoria Day is mutatis mutandis our Mem Day: no one really knows why it exists, they celebrate it by drinking and barbecuing, and it functions as the social launch of summer. They only difference I noted is that the Canadians toss in fireworks as well. So Sunday night, the twentysomethings next door to the b&b were tying one on on the porch next door.

I was a bit annoyed, of course, but a holiday's a holiday and expectations aren't the same. It was only when I glanced over and saw that the blaring speakers were aimed at an empty porch that I got peeved enough to march over and say something. The reception was the same: apologies and offers of alcohol. And my response was the same as well: I politely declined and stayed to chat. (Although in the absence of any white-haired cuties, I ended up talking to a lovely young blond woman who was more than happy to suggest restaurants and night spots.)

When I finally left, they had turned the speakers inward, shut the window, and a woman was offering tequila shots from a glass tucked into her cleavage. (Sadly, I returned to my room to discover that the really annoying bass boom was actually from a party on the other side of the building, and I wasn't about to go try to break up that one.) The next day, I spied a rump group of four on the deck cooking out and traded waves with my blonde. I imagine it will be the same some night when I see Shayda and Sean grilling outside their apartment; if Dan the Hottie is there, I might even invite myself up.

Bear Pride 2011: Day the First

I'm calling this a qualified success, based on the fact that (a) I actually got my ass out of the house instead of sitting around here and then regretting it later and (b) no one was in fact stabbed at dinner. Actually, only one member of our party really ran that risk, but oh, god, what a member! We love our friend the IP attorney to death, but from the moment he met that blowhard mortgage broker, his lover and I were hatching schemes for how to ditch him.

I thought I had a winner when I suggested moving on to Buck's patio for a drink or two before dinner. Surely we could lose him in that crush? Alas, the pouring rain seemed to have chased the bears away rather than into each other's arms. This didn't dissuade Mr Cleveland; he kept at it, but without the complicity of his better half, he was doomed to failure. Which is how I found myself seated across a table at Sun Wah with a man so unpleasant I wouldn't have stopped to give him directions.

I could've made my escape, but I was basically begged to come along. They were entertaining two difficult houseguests--sweet guys both, but one had said earlier in the day, "I'm just a sad person" and the other confessed at dinner that he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in three days. Oh, and that he was allergic to MSG--which apparently Sun Wah puts into all of its barbecue items, which we'd just ordered a slate of.

I have to say, Coleman proved his worth. He was never at any risk at being the most obnoxious person at the table and he tried gamely to bring the out-of-towners into the conversation despite a complete lack of effort on their part. Miss April was oblivious and easy-going. So that left the dysfunctional foursome of me, my two friends, and Mr Awful. The more he talked, the more I talked in order not to hear him talk, and through it all Mr Cleveland and I sharing glances of knowing desperation.

I'm calling the whole mess a success purely on the technical basis that no flagrant violations of the social contract occurred--thought it was a near thing when Mr Awful complained loudly (because that's how he does everything, apparently) about the supposed rudeness of Kelly Cheng, who is worth about a hundred and ten of his type. At least it wasn't the usual everyone-orders-their-own-bland-entree fiasco that cooperative Chinese dinners can become. We shared out two of their signature Peking ducks (including buns, noodles, fried rice, and soup), a dish of barbecue pork, gai lan and eggplant among the six of us who were able.

Afterwards, I needed a drink just to recover, so Coleman and I had a nightcap at Big Chicks. Almost immediately we were deep in conversation with a stellar couple of guys at the near end of the bar. I tried not to think what a better meal it would've been with either of them substituted for our nightmare companion and instead look forward to seeing them again. (We swapped digits and I think they're sincere about following up.) But speaking of better meals, there'd best be a tremendously good one coming to me as a reward for the pal I was tonight!