To Kingston and back again; a New Year's journey or,
Young Geoffrey VS the ravages of age!
Our son, the driver (I'm so proud)! Carl the Second takes the wheel.
Raven had a brutal couple of months at work and insisted that a post-holiday holiday was in order.
Kingston (Ontario) being reasonably close by, and boasting one of our favourite eateries, the humbly- and confusingly-named Pat's Restaurant, which serves up some delicious fare that, I'm told, is about as authentically Cambodian as one is likely to find in a small Ontario city, I rented a car and packed up the family for a whirlwind getaway last Thursday morning. (Yes, more than a week ago now; I've been busy.)
Raven had also got us tickets to see something called Lumina Borealis, an interactive sound-and-light show held in and around "historic Fort Henry". I had feared we'd be standing around watching a display similar to that which shows up on Parliament Hill every summer, a technically impressive, but edifyingly bourgeois entertainment, which we would passively consume while standing in the damp and frigid Kingston night as it was projected upon the Fort's walls.
A wall near the end of the Lumina Borealis show. Pictured here are people hurling orange snowballs at the display; a hit results in sound and a reaction from the imagine.
Happily, it was a good deal more interesting — and fun. It was cold (a damp cold! And for those of you who live in warmer climes, a dry cold is a lot easier to handle), but the show — a variety of sights and sounds, including physical objects, light-images and microphones into which we could speak or sing and affect the visual goings-on upon the walls around us — more than made up for it. We probably did the circuit in 45 minutes, and I enjoyed it a lot more than I had thought I would.
If you have kids, they'll love it.
But I digress. Aside from the Pat's (Cambodian) Restaurant, the other memory I had from our last visit, was of the best biscotii had ever tasted.
Come morning, we left Carl the Second in charge of our motel room and set out in search of coffee — and biscoti.
Carl in Charge! Our son was proud to be responsible for protecting our room from strangers and nose motel employees.
I didn't remember the name of the place, but had a pretty good idea of its location, and it didn't take too long for me to find it. Coffee & Company at 53 Princess Street. We entered and took our place in line. When it was my turn, I ordered a Large coffee (sensibly, they do Small, Medium and Large; that's it, that's all) and not one, but two, biscotis. The second I asked for in a bag, as I wanted to take it home with me.
Dream on, Young Geoffrey!
Two biscotis became one, then almost none, in very short order. (After snapping the photo below, "almost none" become "none".) And when it was time to go, I found myself lurking near the counter and smiling and nodding at the young woman in charge with all the deranged charm of a temporarily sober drunk at a family gathering..
The remains on the tray. Yes, your Honour, it was delicious. I regret nothing!
"I need another biscoti," I said, brandishing the empty bag into which she had earlier placed my second. "To go."
She smiled and nodded in return, as if I weren't on the edge of drooling. As she reached the glass jar in which the biscotis were on handsome display, I blurted out, "Make it two. No! One. No! Two! TWO!"
"Are you sure?" she smiled, a kindly Pity dripping from her eyes like sweet honey.
"Yes," I whispered, and stared as she set about her labours.
She grinned and tonged one, then, two, then three biscotis into the little white paper bag. As the third dropped from sight, she winked at me and mouthed, Don't say anything!
What could I do but grin and nod, then shake my head emphatically in reply?
When Raven and I left the cafe, I asked her, "Do you think she gave me the third biscoti because she thought I'm a hot stud or a cute old man?"
"Oh please!" quoth Raven. "A cute old man."
The sun sets on Young Geoffrey's Youth or,
A young woman struggles mightily to extricate foot from mouth
Carl II somehow travels backwards in time, to when all was a panda's paradise: black and white!
Back in Ottawa, I worked a late shift on Saturday that saw me home after 03:00 Sunday morning and in bed close to 05:00. And up again far too soon, for a soccer game at 13:00 hours.
Despite a two week lay-off for seasonal gorging, the game was a good one, hard-fought and close, ending in a 5-5 tie. And, more importantly from my personal stand-point, I played better than I feared I might, running hard and placing some nice balls, if I do say so myself. I even assisted on at least one goal.
Anyway, at one point early in the second half I and a young team-mate called Maddison, with whom I've shared a team a few times before, found ourselves on the sidelines, chatting.
"You're doing really well today," she said. I demured as one does, but she insisted, "You've really mastered the one-touch exit. And you really move! You run just as hard, and pretty fast for, uh ...
There was an expression bordering on social panic in her clenched jaw as she realized her near faux-pas.
Jesus, the things people take offense at! Or might take offense at.
I smiled widely and said, "It's okay, I know I'm a little older than most of you guys. I'm not under any delusions about that."
She nodded, sheepishly, then added, "I don't know if I qualify as young any more myself."
"Oh please! You're under 30, aren't you?"
I laughed. "I'll be 52 in February. You're still pretty young from where I stand!"
And I thought, before I took the field again, how strange it is that merely verbally acknowleding an obvious truth — such as, that a man twice her age is "older" — can be frought with such anxieties.
And yet, I felt an echo of Maddison's nerves myself, when she answered my guess that she was under 30, with the information she is 26. Might she, I briefly wondered, have been hurt that I didn't suggest she was under 25?
But there you have it. Like almost every older person I know or have known, I don't feel like I am the chronological age that I am. But (and unlike many, I am blessed with my bike-riding, soccer-playing good health (and nevermind the arthritis and possible tendonitis)) I can't help but become increasingly self-conscious of the fact that Young Geoffrey is, in truth, well into his middle years.
Post-scriptum, for Nellie
"Powderfinger" is one of my favourite Neil Young songs. Bad history, but (I think) beautiful poetry, in metal.
He came dancing across the water
With his galleons and guns
Looking for the new world
In that palace in the sun.