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.
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| 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.
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