The fellas at the next table

Two fellas at the next table are bullshitting about the Stones and the Beatles, the way they probably did forty or fifty years ago.  One guy's in cycling gear; the other is in a jean jacket and jeans - the Canadian tuxedo.  Short grey hair on both, well-groomed.

They don't really know that much about the Beatles.  They're saying Ringo was never that good a drummer, that old chestnut.

Oh yes.  I'm in Victoria.

I look out at a city I haven't seen outside of summer for seventeen years.  The Pacific moisture in air makes it feel colder than it is.  I thought I might not need my trusty Ottawa commuter coat, but I pull it around me -- and still feel the chill.

From the airplane, I saw mounds of white mist collecting in bays, caught between the Gulf Islands, spilling on to the land.  Like the foam in my cup.  (Clouds in my coffee?)

The aging adolescents across the way are now talking about their first cars. 

Some things don't change.