Grand Falls/Grand Sault, NB
The Event
When at home, I commute every day along the same route on my motor
scooter. On one short stretch of road I often pass bicyclists pedaling
up an incline. About once a year, when the sun sits just right, and
the angle from my eyes towards the back of a bicycle seat is just so,
I can see a hint of what’s inside the stretchy bicycle shorts. It’s an
enormously rare event. Not see-through. What I see may be an illusion,
it’s that subtle. The experience hovers across the line of what is
seen, and was is desired.
The magic is that which side of the line the truth fell does not
matter at all. Having the event occur — -or maybe not — -makes me happy
all day. I learned that car drivers behind me are not having an
experience at all, because rather than being grateful when I slow to
bicycle speed just behind the rider, they honk. Clueless they are of
the diamonds by the road. So I keep the throttle at full commute
speed, and whistle Camptown Races all the way to the parking garage.
Why tell you this now? Because yesterday was the day! In an entirely
new context. I was pumping supreme into our tank way out in the
countryside of New Brunswick. As usual during this relaxing activity I
stared ahead at whatever stationary installation my gaze found
first. While I love the landcape rolling by as I ride, in between I
enjoy the reliably fixity of inanimate objects. In this case my center
of rest was the door to the convenience store.
Well, a figure in what looked like a version of pedal-pusher bicycle
pants entered my field of view on her way into the convenience
store. A ray of sunlight arrived at just the moment, and the event
occurred. You cannot imagine the rush of delight at this entirely
unexpected location and context.
Less than a second later the door closed behind the figure, and the
scene returned to its former still life form. I kept the door in view,
reliving the moment.
Click!
The rising fuel level had reached the pump nozzle, and the guzzling
had stopped. However, having been event-bound, I had allowed the
nozzle slowly to slip higher and higher towards the tank’s
mouth. Supreme was level with the edge of the hold. I could still just
close the lid without spilling.
Off I went. And you know what? When you whistle Camptown Races at
110km/hr on a motorcycle, the sound has a vibrato quality. One delight
after another!
Arrived in Quebec City
There are definitely events to tell, like how my Garmin GPS really let me down while navigating a 700lb hunk of metal through tourist thronged old-city streets. But later. I want to go see things. Thus, just a few photos; nothing special. Just ambiance.
My French is sloooowly emerging from the depths of drills decades ago. Just like in France, my opposites appreciate the effort, but they want to switch to English because they cannot stand having their language ruined. If I insist, the will. not. slow.
At the restaurant last night, though, I stubbornly answered in French until they could no longer ignore the linguistic asymmetry in the conversation. Eventually, we truly broke through with each other, and there was much shoulder slapping, laughter, arm touching, Gallic shrugs, and exclamations “Ah oui, les escargos Quebecoise, n’est pas? En fromage, tres special!”







