Monday, September 29, 2008

the wasabi.

My favorite part of the sushi is the wasabi.

Saturday, September 27, 2008

What I did on my summer vacation or why I haven’t updated this blog in over 2 and a half months.

This spring I left my happy little home in Montréal and returned to my old job as a rappel fire fighter in Hinton, Alberta. I went with a brand new video camera with the aim to capture the romance and complete lack of romance that is forest fire fighting.

That’s the short version.

In between 2 week shifts, I spent my days off in the following ways:

1. Hanging out in Hinton town.
2. Heading back to Montréal, proving to me where home is.
3. Another week in Hinton, this time with a brand new bicycle.
4. Going to the very first Pemberton music festival, and witnessing, from the confines of my nylon government issue tent, a coke deal gone horribly wrong. Thankfully the threat of gunplay turned out to be idle.
5. Showing French Panic around Hinton town.

After these little side adventures, I spent 2 and a bit weeks on a crew of two; me and a rookie driving around and burning piles of wood on a strange and ultimately useless mission of reducing the threat of a forest fire eating up a small community surrounded by dangerous trees.

I don’t think it will work.

You would think that lighting things on fire would be fun. It is. For about a day, maybe two. Then, as with most things, as it becomes routine, your senses dull and you start day dreaming of better places and things to do.

So when that was over, I visited my in-laws in Edmonton. This was not one of the better places I had day dreamed about. Still, they seem to really like me and I helped out with computer related tasks. I’m their tech support. In exchange, I got free room and board and a ride to the airport. A pretty good deal.

The airplane took me to Saltspring Island which is where my parents live. I was there for 10 days. I think 2 visits a year is more than enough for an adult child to make to parents that live on the other side of the country.

The problem, as you likely all realize, is that no matter how old you are, when you come to your parent’s home, which they insist is your home too (even though it hasn’t been for well over a decade) you become a 13 year old in their minds first, and then in your behaviour shortly after.

After that long visit, I got back on a plane, with my bike in tow, after receiving a stern lecture from a Westjet check in clerk (Westjet isn’t always the happy, fuzzy airline you thought it was), and headed back to happy Montréal.

Well, I’m happy anyway.

There is an election and the cops are angry about something and therefore wearing blue jeans and ball caps (wow. What a pointless protest. Try no pants). Somebody is kidnapping cats in my neighbourhood. And it’s still hard to get a smile out of a stranger busily staring and evaluating your wardrobe choices.

Still, it is very good to be home.