Things we're all too young to know

Sometimes, when I'm journalling (or just putzing around) in the coffee shop in the morning, I really can't stand the playlist.

Most of the time, it's fine, or at least, ignorable, but when it's just damn irritating, I slip in the earbuds and listen to a few of my 1490 "liked" songs on Spotify.  (Coincidentally, that's about the same number of posts I've submitted so far on this blog.)  I put the playlist on "shuffle" and usually get a pleasant surprise, because when you have nearly 1500 liked songs, that means you won't have heard some of them in a while.

Recently, this one came up.  I stopped scribbling and listened.  

 The book of love is long and boring. No one can lift the damn thing.  It's full of charts and facts and figures and instructions for dancing. 

But I love it when you read to me, and you can read me anything.  

The book of love has music in it;  in fact that's where music comes from. Some of it is just transcendental; some of it is just really dumb.

But I love it when you sing to me, and you can sing me anything.

The book of love is long and boring, and written very long ago. It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes, and things we're all too young to know.

But I love it when you give me things, and you ought to give me wedding rings.

Peter Gabriel and Josh Groban have performed lush, romantic versions of this song, but I must say that I prefer Stephin Merritt's dry and spare version.  After all, he wrote the damn thing.

Accio, mask

Today, it is the fourth anniversary of our flight from Hades.  Three time zones away, elder daughter, having attended a thrice-postponed wedding, is leaving Ottawa herself, returning to her new life in London.

As is my practice, when I find myself masked, distanced, and at the head of the line at the coffee shop, I turn to ask the person behind me if I might slip in, drop my packsack on a table, and resume my place.

This morning, it's a rather dapper gentleman.

"Do you happen to have a mask?" he inquires.  "I seem to have dropped mine somewhere on the way here; I had it when I left home..."

"I keep a spare in my packsack," I say.  "Give me a moment."

I plop my packsack on the table, and paw through one of the side pockets, before returning to the door, with the mask dangling by its long strings. It's a double tie design, purchased early in the pandemic.

"Make sure Harry Potter is right-side-up," I advise with an apologetic air.  He fastens it cheerfully over his neat moustache.  It looks a bit incongruous with his impeccable navy raincoat.

"I like your mask!" I hear one of the baristas greet him.  Fortunately, she has the disposable kind on hand, and I think he and I are equally relieved when I reclaim Harry Potter.

After all, I need him for Hallowe'en.

Being seen

I may have mentioned that, as I navigated my way around during my seventeen long years in Hades, strangers rarely addressed me.  

This was probably due to two factors:  1) Ontarians are a bit on the reserved side; 2) I was female and over forty.  I noticed, with some amusement, that, when I was walking somewhere with either daughter,  men, particularly fellows of my vintage or older, would approach and ask directions of my daughter, rather like I wasn't there.

As I've also mentioned, people in Victoria do talk to me, even young men, who, on the whole, greet me cordially. It's not deep, but it's pleasant.  I feel visible again.

When I go to the coffee shop, I'm still visible, but, because I have journals and pens spread across the table, I'm rarely approached.  I'm occasionally asked if I'm a writer, and I issue a brief and (I hope) polite denial, knowing that there are actual writers within hearing.

I arrive fairly early in the morning, when most of the clientele are male.  They enjoy calling pleasantries and questions to the baristas. The young women respond warmly, never letting on that most of these fellows are the same age as their fathers and grandfathers.  It's harmless.

Over to my left, three Billy Connolly clones are gathered around a table, chatting amiably about tools and rat infestations - a hazard of living in Victoria. None of them have Scottish accents.

The real Billy Connolly

Across the way, a young fellow with a beard is interacting with his laptop, a Bluetooth glowing in his ear, luckily for us -- and him. I think people who watch sports, television programmes, or gawd help us, music videos without earbuds in coffee shops should be strung up.  Or do you think I'm being too harsh?

Tight in a corner, a middle-aged guy is talking to a woman.  It might be a date, or a meeting.  He's describing his career, using words like "passionate" and "balance" which seem to be the early 21's century's versions of "meaningful".  She's not saying much.  To give him his due, he does ask her the occasional question.

Over to my right, a stranger clad in a woollen poncho greets me cheerily and volubly, somewhat to my confusion.  (This never happened in Hades: the greeting from a stranger - especially to a non-youthful non-barista - or the poncho.)  He's from Saltspring Island, which I could have guessed. It turns out the reason he's calling over to me if that he thought he heard me tell the staff that I'm from Saltspring.

'I don't think so," I tell him.  "Because I'm not!"

He thinks this is funny.  Very chatty.  Very Saltpringy.  He's feeling homesick, he says.

I tell him about my husband's birthday, and he says it makes him happy when older people celebrate birthdays, "because they've worked harder for it".  He could take a page from the baristas' diplomatic code, but I take no offence when none is intended.  

"It's actually pretty simple," I smile.  "You don't die."

He thinks that's pretty funny, too.  Give him time.

Chilled to the bone

During the numbing, rather frantic weeks that followed Demeter's fall, I found that my morning hour at the coffee house was my only oasis.  One late January dawn, I asked the barista what song was playing.  (Shazam, I've discovered, takes up too much space on my phone.)  I can't remember the song, but I do remember the barista's advice:  "Do you know you can just ask Siri?"

I rarely use Siri, but this was a god-send.  For the past eight months, I've been quietly muttering to my phone, as I scribble in my journals:  "Hey Siri, what's this song?"  

She'll answer:  "Hang on, listening." Or, "Name that tune."

So far as I know, she's only been wrong once, although, occasionally, she has to say, "Sorry, I don't recognise that."

Lately, I've been making an effort to identify music I loathe.  Moka House, much to its credit, runs a variety of playlists, and every now and then, the music will bore me, and bore into me, encouraging me to drink up and leave.  I figure it's just as important to know what I don't like.  Sometimes it's a surprise.

I was astonished to learn that I hate the Arctic Monkeys, because I've heard them on television, and didn't think I minded them that much.  Last week the coffee shop either played an album or a playlist of the group, and it set my teeth on edge.

However, usually the track I can't stand is by an artist unfamiliar to me.  I note the title and artist and look 'em up.  Similar terms keep popping up:  "chillwave", "chillhop", and often in the same sentence, "lofi".

"Lofi"?  Wait a minute...

About a dozen years ago, I began to be aware that a number of my favourite restaurants were putting me off my food with, what was to me, irritating, repetitive, thunk-thunk sort of music.  In both Hades and Victoria, as well as, I presume, many cities, eateries were being pervaded by this stuff, which, frankly, made my ears itch.  Finally, on a quiet afternoon in Cook Street Village, I asked our server what the hell was playing.  (I may have used different words.  I hope so.)

She explained to me that it was a type of music called "low fidelity", and it was supposedly designed to be an unobtrusive listening experience.  In fact, she said, one of the local bakery/coffee shops used the same music service.  I made a mental note not to go there.

When I got home, I googled "low fidelity" and "dining music".  Nuthin'.

Two years later, I have the answer:  it's "lofi" -- or "chill".

Shudder.

The unnerving ossifying body I'm in

Damn, it's late.

I'm tired.

I like this song.

 

Can't ya hear them singin'?

 I like Sam Cooke as much as the next person.

The trouble is, the next person happens to be a pink lady with a decent enough singing voice, but only a vague grasp of the lyrics.  I'm not even sure she's aware that she's singing along -- well, not so much along, as in sudden jolts, ambushing me with snatches of song.

She came trundling into the coffee shop with a small suitcase on wheels, clad in pastel pink.  Her hair is drawn up into a fluffy pony tail on the top of her head, it's grey, but I'm pretty sure she was a blonde.  She has a blonde vibe.  In a girlish voice, she calls to the barista for the WiFi code, as she sets up her phone and laptop.  I guess she's going to be here for a while.

And the playlist is Sam Cooke's greatest hits -- which she almost knows.  She knows one line of "Wonderful World":  "Don't know much about biology...", and sings it to each verse.  She also knows bits and pieces of "Cupid",  "Another Saturday Night", and "Twisting the Night Away".

Then we're into "Chain Gang".  Pink Lady thinks the back-up singers are chanting "Work!  Work!"

I look down at my own work, and lament the fact that I left the house without my earbuds.  

After a while, I notice she's not singing along, and venture a quick glance to my right.  She's wearing her earbuds.  Small mercies.

Rest in peace, Sam.