The next day I got up early, as my team, Chain Gang, was due to help out serving the breakfast. I’ve been able to gauge the time during the days, and oddly enough, at night by simply looking at the sky. Daytime its easy, because you can tell by the sun. It’s the original Big Ben. At night, I can usually tell by how bright the sky is getting. Its very different at five a.m. than it is at three a.m. Although it gets tricky around four. But still, if you pay attention to these things, (and evidently I’ve been enough of a nightowl in my life that I had) you can learn some useful tricks. I didn’t have a watch on me, or any other time-telling device, and to tell the truth, really didn’t need them, as my guesses, when I officially confirmed them, were never that far off.
Breakfast was fun. We ate earlier than everybody else, and then came and helped dish it out. I was Raisin Bran Guy. Its popular stuff. I ran through two or three boxes. Which was better than Guy (Yes, that was his name) who was working beside me. He was Cottage Cheese Guy. At six a.m., that is definitely not the guy you wanna be. Have you seen it? You must have. I know its good for you and is ludicrously high in protein and all that, but I still think it looks like lumpy, regurgitated albino cat-sick. The cottage cheese I mean. Not Guy. He looks like a god. He may be high in protein too, but I wouldn't know. If Ken was Apollonian, then this one is definitely Dionysius. He’s got that sleepy-eyed, laughingly evil “I just got laid while you suckers were playing Bingo for peanuts” look. Sigh. There is little justice. Whenever I attempt that look, all I get offered are Rolaids.
I finished off breakfast duty, helped clean up, and then ran back to take down my tent, (I had packed all my other stuff in the bins already) only to find that Gilbert, sweetheart that he is, had already done the job. AND packed the tent-fly. His reasoning was, that I was already helping out with breakfast, it was the least he could do. What a gem.
We had our announcements, where James won the best facial award and I tried to convince him to wear it into Kingston, but he came up with some foolishness about it being hard to see through cucumber slices or some such rot. Holy face-peeling divas, Batman. We did our stretches, (always important before putting your body through any rigorous program, like say, 50 – 100 km bike rides) and I seem to be getting better at them; I’m not falling over so much. One of the awards was the “Better Late Than Never Award” which this guy Yves got as he joined us at 2:00 in the morning, after flying an emergency refugee plane back from Lebanon. He then slept four hours, got up and biked with us to Kingston. People constantly amaze you on this trip.
Today was Superhero day, and there were a few hither and yon, Ian went as Superman, and David K., went as SOMEthing, not quite sure what, but he was in some yellow print dress that a widow from Texarkana with a beehive wouldn’t be caught dead in, and was a visible beacon from MILES away. It was another beautiful morning, and the ride out was largely by water. Until we got to Kingston and its outer environs, you only had to look to your right to see the water and smell the breeze, which was slightly intoxicating. I think at this point, we were still on Lake Ontario, and hadn't yet progressed on the St.Lawrence seaway proper. I think that there must be something to the air from off the water, in that it must give you some sort of endorphin rush, as I was grinning the whole ride there. I had the same experience, the first time I stood in front of the Pacific Ocean when I went to Victoria. Then I just thought it was the sea air, but now I think its all large bodies of water. It must do something to the spirit, or at least the chemical whatdoyoucall'ems, to quote Noel Coward. I found myself grinning a lot on this trip actually, either near the water or not. The people made it fun for me, and their energy and enthusiasm had a tonic effect on my spirit. I'll never forget it.
I biked out with Gilbert again, which was great, because we basically go the same speed, although if the truth be told, he's much faster than me. Thank God he's got a heavy old mountain bike or I'd never catch up with him. It was neat, as we'd pass other people in tandem (I never pass ANYBODY, in fact, there were times on this ride where I seriously considered changing my name to "LEFT!" or "ON YOUR LEFT!", as I kept hearing it so much when people would go gliding by me...) which was a novelty for me. James would tell me later how he and Bruce, Bill and Luis and Henry had this revolving kind of ride thing going, where they would ride (while going forward, don't get confused yet) in a clockwise circular motion, where somebody would block the wind at the front, leaving the person behind him free of headwind. They would then rotate, one would move ahead and to the right, while one would fall back. It sounded fascinating, but unfortunately I never managed to do it, as I couldn't keep up with anyone! Next year I'll give it a whirl, and pray the hypnotic motion of it doesn't lull me to sleep.
At any rate, the ride into Kingston was warm and sunny and fast. We went up a large hill towards the prison (after coming down an even larger one with directions to watch ahead for the sudden light changes at the base of the hill) which was on the other side of the university. I hadn't known what to expect of the prison, and it was forbidding, but not as Bastille-like as I'd expected. Perhaps my visions of heads mounted on pikes above the prison walls, was a little overwrought, or perhaps I was really thinking of the university after a football game. Nevertheless, we made a few more turns down sun-dappled streets, and then voila! We were at Queen's in front of the residence we were to stay in. A large grey edifice dating from the mid-sixties or thereabouts, I'd guess. We all met up out front, got our rooms, and went to the cafeteria next door for free pizza. The cafeteria puzzled me because it was obviously, brand spanking new, and it seemed familiar, and then it hit me. We built this sucker! The architecture firm I work at, I mean. DSAI. We built it. So THIS was the Queen's Cafeteria I'd sent out so many invoices on. Cool. James took a picture of me writing in my journal seated in one of the booths that could easily seat 20 people, and I put it on my desktop screensaver when I got back to work. Everybody was like, "What's HE doing in that picture? Was there a site visit to Queen's we missed? Where's his hardhat?" Ah, architects. Gotta love'em.
My room was quite exciting. Evidently I lucked out because I had my own bathroom, c/w bath and shower and I DIDN'T HAVE TO SHARE!!! After three days of communal bathrooms this was an unheard of luxury. AND I was on the ground floor, so it didn't swelter at night, AND it was easy to haul my stuff out to the loading area the next day. After my pizza, I showered, wrote in my journal and wandered down into town with Jeff, bought a book at a cute little bookshop (yes, there ARE some independents left! Hoorah!!) and had an ice-cream cone. Walked back, Jeff took some pictures, and then I changed and headed out to see if I could find James. I ran into David, Jodi, Deb, Rodney and a guy I didn't know named Bruce waiting by a large garbage can to catch a cab. I don't know if this is how one routinely gets public transportation in Kingston, but I wasn't about to show off my gaucherie by asking. They invited me to dinner with them, which was sweet, they were going to eat at a Best Western restaurant that Jodi's cousin was a sous-chef at. The latent snob rose in me and seized the reins. Now I don't know really what a Best Western meal would taste like, I'm sure its rather good. But I imagine its like any other Best Western you go to. I had never been to Kingston before, and call me crazy, but I thought it would be novel to actually EAT at someplace distinctly exclusive to Kingston. So I declined, and said I was going to go and find James instead. I DID have tentative plans with him after all. Then Rodney said Bruce was waiting with them to catch a cab into town to meet James at this mexican restaurant. I said I was going to walk, so Bruce said he'd come with me. He seemed a little intense, and a bit irritated, and then after we walked away, he swore for five whole minutes about how slow the %$#@!! cab was in getting there! I smiled and nodded and agreed, as who was I to argue with a certifiable maniac? Especially one who cussed as well as he did? I just skipped along on beside him, and did my wide-eyed waif smile, all the while wondering what kind of sociopathic case with rage issues I'd got myself stuck with THIS time. Well, he was fine. In less than five minutes, he was smiling and within seven he was laughing, partially because James kept phoning him on his Blackberry demanding to know where we were every two minutes. We couldn't find the place, which James swore was called TACO GRANDE, (it wasn't, it was something like NACHO LIBRE or something completely different) and why weren't we there yet? James has patience issues sometimes. Ahem. We finally arrived to find him, Luis and Bill on their THIRD margarita. These weren't small, tiny, little glasses either. These were blue fishbowls with stems, that held sixteen ounces of booze each! Hell, they could have had reef sharks swimming around these suckers and still had room for ice! I promptly had two, Bruce had two and the other three lushbags had a third and fourth! At the end of the night Bruce thought he had had THREE, but I showed him the bill and said it only FELT like three. I couldn't find a bank machine on the way over, and he thoughtfully spotted me until I could find one. What a mensch. At any rate, after James declined a fifth margarita, at some point during all of this, a dubious enterprise entitled "THE RUBY SLIPPER THROWDOWN" was born. Don't ask me to explain it, I can't remember it, (time and tequila have destroyed too many braincells in the ensuing weeks) except that it warn't pretty kids. I believe James came up with the term. It became a nom de guerre for the rest of the trip. Not long after, we all ate some delicious fajitas, served by the most grateful gay waiter I'd ever seen (possibly the only gay waiter in all of Kingston) named Chris, (I knew he was gay at once; he had Ava Gardner eyebrows) and then we headed over to a party that was being held for us in (I believe) Kinston's only gay bar, the Grad Club. It was housed in a lovely old mansion (think of the Keg mansion as a gay bar, and you'll get the idea) and the four of us piled out onto the deck where James started to quiz this quiet, shy guy named.....can't remember, (I was onto beer by this point) and grilled him so full of questions that I asked him where he thought we were, a W5 stakeout? Which I suppose, would have made him Hana Gartner. I met Ken again, and his bug bite had cleared up considerably. Charming, soft-spoken, wonderfully funny, gorgeouser than ever, and of course, yes, you guessed it, still happily hitched. Sigh. Anyway, it was all great fun to be hanging out in a bar and drinking with this bunch. They were as much fun at a bar as I thought they'd be. Of course, in the midst of all this frivolity, the thought did dawn on us that we still had to get up and BIKE the next day!
I got back to bed at around one o'clock. An unheard of hour, considering what we've been doing all this week. Nonetheless, I was up at an ungodly early hour, finished all of my devoirs, and was basically waiting for something to happen. All of my stuff was packed up and there I was, looking oh-so glamourous at six in the morning, (NOT!) so I met up with Luis, and we sat out front and waited for the festivities to begin......
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