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.

Women who stare at dolts

Write of Passage Number Seven:

So the Transitway bus is pulling into the Bank Street stop, and I've taken my place with younger daughter in the line-up for the back door. Beyond us, the seats at the very rear of the bus are crammed with students, mostly from Algonquin College. There's a strange, tinny noise emitting somewhere in the crowd, and without thinking, I scan the seats in search of the source.

"What are you looking at?"
Startled, I meet the bright blue, rather dilated eyes of a curly-haired boy seated with a giggling girl.
"Stop staring at me!"
The line is moving off the bus. I, thankfully, have only time for an askant look: "I wasn't looking at you!"
"Yes, you were. Stop staring, bitch!"
"Oh cut it out," I say, helping younger daughter down to the pavement.
"*&%$# off!" he shouts as the doors close.

I lead younger daughter to our transfer, feeling rather like I've been slapped. I find myself wondering about better ways to respond, and whether the guy's girlfriend is at risk. If younger daughter is affected by the exchange, she isn't showing it.

That evening, I drop by the supermarket. Elder daughter is stationed behind the deli counter, but no one is about, so I wander up to say hello, giving her the quirkier details on some emails that have come in from her grandmother, before scuttling off to pick up a few necessaries.

When she gets home after her shift, she says: "You really scared Jason."
Jason is apparently a sixteen-year-old from another high school who spends his shift asking elder daughter inappropriate questions. I've never met Jason and don't know what he looks like. There had been a young man further up the counter when I chatted with elder daughter, but I don't remember glancing at him.

"He said you were glaring at him, Mom."

Must've been the alignment of the planets. Or are all young men so much the centre of their own universes? Elder daughter gives notice a few days later.