Thirty Something Vignette: no.4

It was late. The time of night where things are said that wouldn't – couldn't  – be uttered in the harsh glare of daylight. She used the opportunity to obtain clarity. 

"What do you want in the future?" she inquired. 

At first he waffled, misunderstanding the question. Perhaps it was intentional. Earlier proclamations of love and marriage belied the truth; his response began with "I like you but …". 

She looked at him as he sat basking in ego and felt a pang of sympathy. Despite being in love with him, she didn't initiate this conversation to ask for something more serious. 

It was because she had met someone else. 

Thirty Something: Vignette no.3

"It's gone now, so you will have a space to park your car when you visit."

It was a kick to the stomach. An unexpected, if not inevitable, moment I'd been waiting for and hoping would be miraculously put off indefinitely. Despite being nearly a year on, the permanence of the event had still not fully resonated. I had items to cling to – THINGS – such as old hockey jerseys and tools and the type of objects that dads just seem to collect and keep for no reason whatsoever. Within this amassed wealth of curios, I felt comfort that his spirit was still around. But now it seemed I needed to redirect. We are, after all, not our material goods. 

"It made me sad too but we needed to do something about it. The car couldn't just sit there forever. You have nowhere to park when you visit."

It wasn't a hockey jersey or tool, those were still there and would remain in their place, but it was my late father's vehicle and this would be much more noticeably absent when I visited. A gaping void next to the house cruelly reminding me of the unexpected loss. As my mother didn't know how to drive, it ultimately served no purpose other than helping us both stall change. She did the right thing. I will never be prepared to face this newfound reality. 

The 2000 Honda Civic SE wasn't just his vehicle, it was my old car as well. My first major purchase, my father talked me into buying it instead of moving in with a boyfriend back-in-the-day (which was good advice as the car definitely had a longer lifespan). He coached me in haggling a fair price. He taught me the importance of regular maintenance. He joined me on road-trips from coast-to-coast. The vehicle was a vessel of our relationship. Despite having another set of wheels, my father bought the Honda from me in 2008 when I upgraded. He never admitted it, but I knew it was a pity purchase once again meant to help me out. 

Part of me though believes he couldn't bear to see it go either. 

My dad proudly took pictures the day I bought my first car (1999). 

Thirty Something: Vignette no.2

I hopped in the backseat of the cab. A protective shield acted as a barrier between myself and the driver. These weren't present in taxis roaming the streets of the city I currently live in. However, the city I currently live in does not have the level of crime that plagues my hometown. I felt disconnected, but it was just as well; cab drivers can be quiet or entirely too talkative.

The commute – my regular commute – from the airport to my childhood home would be 40 minutes long winding through industrial zones, past the latest crop of highly congested retail outlets, to a residential area replete with mature trees, manmade lakes and a rich French/Metis history. My parents chose a physically- and spiritually-lush place to raise me. Although returning now brought a flood of bittersweet memories. 

The cab driver eventually did initiate conversation. This started out with the type of generic universal dialogue that strangers fill the air (and time) with, but eventually evolved into one of the most profound colloquies I've ever had. 

The driver appeared to be roughly the same age as myself and shared much of the same goals, struggles and heartbreak that I was going through. As many in their 30s can relate to. The frank discussion covered life aspirations that seemed to be eternally out of grasp, and ended, upon pulling up in front of my mother's house, our final destination, on the topic of parental loss and the hardship of faking enough strength to emotionally carry remaining family from their own despair. My father died last summer after an unexpected and far too brief battle with esophageal cancer. My driver's father died five years ago from a sudden heart attack.

He was not present.

And did not get to say "goodbye". 

All of his family reside in India.

As I exited the taxi cab, I gave my farewell to the driver and told him to phone his mother. He smiled warmly, then watched and waited as I left to greet my own. 

All that weekend, I regretted sharing everything with this exceptional stranger but our names.

Thirty Something: Vignette

Saturday night. The living room of my living space a makeshift entertainment venue and pagan confessional, where the candidness of subject matter at discussion is directly relative to levels of alcohol consumed. Currently, we were indulging in a 2011 riesling.

The conversation flowed from real estate to career ambitions to, lastly, and always most promising, dating.

The bottle was almost empty. 

"Give me your laptop, I'll show you him."

I handed my Macbook to a friend who proceeded to show me the profile of a man she met online. His digital persona carefully curated to depict an individual hellbent on being viewed as a "badass"; through my eyes though, the motorcycle and excessive tattoos more acutely screamed "midlife crisis". Especially since his listed profession was dentist. The mental gymnastics she performed in regards to imagining her future with him were Olympian-level. I hated to be the Russian judge in this friendship.  

"He's not your type. And besides, he lives in Winnipeg; you live in Saskatoon."

I steered the conversation to another topic as the wine was wearing off and I didn't want to address my own highly questionable tastes. Instead, I excitedly brought up an upcoming trip that I have been immersed in planning: a solo excursion around Korea. Hallyu and the art of k-pop. Bulgogi and the art of not getting ill from street food. I want to rent a bike and risk my neck on their infamously terrible roadways. I will visit the world's "most dangerous tourist trap", the DMZ – all in an effort to prove my own badassery to myself and fight off the sinking feeling that I'm (also) on the verge of a midlife crisis. 

Perhaps I judged the dentist too harshly. 

"Who is Kim Jon-Un?" inquired my friend.

San Francisco Vignette no.5

It was 4:20pm. As the ferry back to Pier 33 embarked from Alcatraz, I made my way to the bow to secure the best spot for photographing San Francisco's skyline. Next to me stood two tourists from Mumbai. We entered into conversation about Goa, dolphin sightings and imagined life in maximum security prison. 

"So what did you think of the tour?" I asked them. 

"It was very interesting," one of the gentleman replied. "but I don't understand why everyone thinks it is bleak. I did not find it so. They were criminals and got the punishment they deserved." 

San Francisco Vignette no.4

It was 5:23pm. We were at Haight-Ashbury admiring the now commercialized former hub of the counter culture. I wanted to visit Whole Foods. 

At Stanyan Street, I gazed into the eastern periphery of Golden Gate Park and felt a thousand eyes stare back at me amongst the darkness of the trees. Loitering about were young people, old people; some more weathered in appearance than others, some with canine companions. They congregated here with visions of 1969. Of free love and cheap drugs and being in the presence of their apostle Garcia, even though he - and the gospel he preached - were long dead.

Death changes everything.

"LSD. I can get you some LSD." a 20-something male with a yellow lab uttered to my companion and I. 

I walked into Whole Foods. 

San Francisco Vignette no.3

It was 1:45pm. The purpose of my trip to San Francisco was ultimately business. I was attending a digital design conference hoping to acquire knowledge and inspiration from some of the greatest minds in the industry. Currently stationed at the podium was a content strategist from Facebook. As he spoke, I surveyed the audience. It consisted of a motley crew of marketers, designers and programmers each remaining amongst their own tribe and realm of self-importance. Half the room had their face buried in their phone. This is how we connect in the modern age; we speak to the world via an interface rather than to those at the same table. 

Later in the evening, I went for a walk. One of the highlights of my trip was strolling through China Town at dusk and I used my limited time in the city to revisit its magic nightly. The colours, the scents, the noise … all weaved together to transport me to another world. My phone, in this setting, was used to capture a part of that. 

San Francisco Vignette no.2

It was 12:36pm. We were seated at a booth near a window overlooking the ice rink at Union Square. My lunch date talked about shopping and clothing and men but I wasn't really listening. To get to this restaurant on the 7th floor of Macy's, we had to pass the seasonal display, the sight of which sucker-punched me into a state not conductive to sociability. The first Christmas without my father is approaching and I am dreading it. I miss him terribly. 

I focused on the rather lengthy menu but could feel the weight of someone's stare. Looking up, I met the gaze of a man seated at a table to my left. He resembled an elderly Spike Lee and was dressed quite dapper for what appeared to be a solitary dining excursion. He smiled warmly at me and didn't blink. I averted my gaze out of habit, as I am wont to do when someone challenges my aplomb.  

"I'll have the soup of the day and a salad."

In between listening to the one woman dialogue at my table and watching a flock of pigeons terrorize the patrons seated on the patio, I continued sneaking a glance at the man at the next table. He didn't look away. Now nor did I. I smiled back at him. He nodded.  

I observed as a waiter brought his order. A large bowl containing a hot fudge sundae. My soup and salad arrived shortly thereafter. We ate in synchronicity. 

San Francisco Vignette no.1

It was 11:15pm. I stood at the corner of Ellis and Cyril Magnin, slice of pizza in hand poised to satisfy a late-night craving. There was a lot of activity on the streets, something foreign to the sleepy northern village I call home. Sirens blared in the distance. A mentally ill man to my right shouted obscenities at no one in particular in between reciting random bible verses. Cars honked incessantly at a cab in front of me. The light was green, but it remained stationary. A shirtless man was trying to open the trunk. I assumed he was loading gear. 

"What the fuck?! HEY!!!" the cab driver exclaimed upon looking into his rearview mirror. The shirtless man continued to be transfixed with opening the trunk. 

A scuffle ensued as the taxi driver physically pried the shirtless man away from his vehicle and placed him next to me near the curb. I started to contemplate which self-defence technique would best work against this clearly high-as-fuck individual should shit go down. I didn't want to lose my pizza, but it was probably inevitable. I noted the shirtless man also wasn't wearing shoes. His gaze was as vacant as a zombie. 

Without incident, he made his way back to the trunk of the cab. The driver again exited his vehicle and braced for round two. The mentally ill man to my right proclaimed that God is great. 

I continued munching on my pizza. The walk signal lit up. My hotel was two blocks away.

The symphony of the streets played on.