There are some weekends I would live again in a heartbeat. They are just so chalk full of golden moments that I can’t help but want to experience them a second time.
This past weekend definitely qualifies. I mean, it was no 27 hours in Paris, but then again, that’s gonna take a while to top (challenge accepted, btw).
Drove to T.O. Friday evening with a newish friend of mine, M. Given how tired we both were, our convo was surprisingly steady. We traded tales of teenage rock star crushes (her friend getting hugged by Rivers Cuomo at 17 story kicked my standing next to Radiohead at Muchmusic at 14 story’s ass, but who said it was a competition?) and agreed to disagree on the matter of whether too many of the tracks on my iPhone feature banjo music. The hours of driving mostly in the dark flew by. Bonus: an addition to my list of potential concert friends (when you try to attend as many live shows as I do, it’s good to have a decent roster of people to get tickets with).
After a couple of years of never quite making it there, finally got to try the Grilled Cheese restaurant in Kensington Market on Saturday. While the food wasn’t quite as yummy as I had hoped (proper uses of jalepeño should set my mouth on fire; the jalepeño havarti in my sandwich hardly made my lips tingle), the concept is so solid I’d recommend it for the novelty alone. Though if you don’t share my passion for the gentrification of the grilled cheese sandwich, it might not be as big a draw for you : )
After lunch, spent a couple hours wandering around the market slash lying in a park watching balloons float away. For company, a fellow temporary nomad, S, who made me the good kindof jealous (the kind where you’re happy for the other person) with his upcoming travel plans (New Zealand in winter, um yes!), and pretended to be impressed by my math skills. Or wordquations, to be accurate. Yummy food + good company x beautiful weather = bliss (or 3233.2).
Saturday evening, I got lucky when a random call to one of my oldest friends, N, resulted in a late evening tea and chat. A simple pleasure I don’t get to partake in often given I live in a different city than she does. Bliss squared.
Then Sunday, the interesting experience of sortof redoing a day I lived for the first time twelve years ago: moving out of my parent’s house! Having used their place as my base camp during my nomadic summer, couldn’t help but do a bit of a comparison between the process of filling my car up with my stuff yesterday, and on that Labour Day weekend in 1999.
If you sense another list coming on, you’d be right. Top 5 observations, in no particular order:
5) I apparently thought I’d need more pairs of shoes in my 3.5 months of homelessness than I expected to need all throughout my first year at uni. Truth is, in both instances I probably wore flip flops fifty per cent of the time anyway : )
4) Laundry detergent is too heavy to be moving across the province on a regular basis. I should really just plan to buy new bottles when I get there.
3) On the other hand, moving my condiment collection to Toronto last May, and now back to Ottawa this September, makes total sense. Dipping fancy grilled cheese in Argentinian mustard = worth it.
2) Way. less. anxiety. pretend moving out when you’re 31 versus the real thing when you’re 19. Last time I cried. Like, a lot. This time I smiled. Like, a lot. I know who I am. Where I’m going (to my first ever place on my own – woot!). And why (because it’s what feels right for me at this point in my life).
1) That weekend I moved out when I was 19 was a once in a lifetime experience I can never really redo. And thank god for that. When I’m lucky enough to have weekends like this past one to run through my mind when I need uplifting, why dwell on the not so golden moments?