Sometimes memories aren’t serious. They can be silly, too. Here’s one from my Revelstoke days in 2011.
I lean my bicycle against a snowbank outside of the Revelstoke post office. The sun is shining with all its strength, which isn’t much in B.C. in early December. It’s not too cold, but it’s not warm enough to melt anything other than some icicles hanging from the building.
Inside the post office, I stand in a long line up. We’re all waiting for something. I look at people ahead of me and invent a story for each one. The woman carrying her ski poles, maybe she’s a ski patroller. Maybe she found two people who skied off the resort and found themselves stranded in the drainage – no way out? They could have spent a freezing cold night in the snow but they didn’t have to – thanks to her.
Oh, my turn! I head to the counter and pay for a stamp. Then I put it on the Christmas card to my parents. I turn to go but the clerk calls out.
“Why did you do that?” she asks.
“Put the stamp on sideways.”
“I don’t know,” I say, taking a step towards the door. “I didn’t mean to do it.”
I don’t mean to squish the ant crawling past my boots either. Oops.
Perhaps this ant was on its way to his or her friends. Perhaps she was at her tiny mailbox and found out some good news. Perhaps this ant was about to tell them about it.
“I’ve won that language scholarship,” she would have announced. “I’m going to Paris to live for a year.”
“You can’t speak French, Antina,” says another ant. “Formicidae are strictly English and chemical communicators.”
“Well, I speak French and I’m going to France.”
Little Antina has always dreamed of going abroad and learning to speak the romantic language better. In Grade 4, she wore a blue beret to school. All her classmates laughed at her. The wasp students especially stung.
“Hahahaha!” they sneered. “Hahaha! Antina thinks she’s French. She’s nothing but an insect.”
“Shut up!” cried Antina. “One day you will see. You will see me going to France.”
She tilted her blue beret at a jauntier angle, stuck her antennae high in the air and scuttled away.
“The nerve of those Vespoidea! Jerks.”
From then on, Antina made it her mission to excel in French . She got top marks in school all the way through and she graduated head of the class. It didn’t hurt that she lived in the Canada Post office, which is bilingual, so there were many things for her to read, translate and learn.
University was in the cards for Antina. She thought seriously about her career options. There were a few she was interested in. She could see herself involved in sciences: stuff like research or fieldwork. However, she didn’t like the isolation of being in a lab. How about something in social science? How about a Bachelor of Ants degree?
“Je sais! I’ll be a French teacher.”
Unfortunately, before Antina had a chance to attain higher education, her whole family was eradicated one day in July. She came home to the colony and no one was there.
She searched and searched and searched. She found her brother and father withering and dying in a corner. They told her that her mother and two sisters had first escaped the dusting of pesticides but ended up breathing in the noxious fumes when they ran inside to help the rescue.
“Antina,” sighed her dying dad. “Go to Paris. Live your dream. I love you.”
“Oh papa! One day I will. I will go to the City of Lights. I will climb the Tour Eiffel. I will mange fromage et pain et vin et beaucoup des choses. Bien sur.”
She never did. How could she? Antina was all alone now and needed to make her own way. With no money for food, how could she pay for school?
Antina took up a labour position in the post office. Her job was to travel the line of customers and pick up anything they dropped. Well, not everything, but items of value such as bagel crumbs, cookie pieces and the occasional apple core. She was vital to rebuilding the population.
The work was hard. The work was dangerous. Often during a single day, she was almost smushed. She stayed because the pay was good. To reward herself, she applied to language programs. It helped keep her dream alive, it kept her hopes up.
When she got the reply about the scholarship in the mail, she was ecstatic. Finally, finally all her aspirations, hard work and desires were coming true. Antina was off to tell her supervisor the good news. Anthea was a good friend and would share her happiness.
Unfortunately, Antina was in such high spirits she let her guard down. This one time. This one and only and last time. Because that’s when I took a step from the counter – towards the door.
If only I had put the stamp on correctly, then the clerk wouldn’t have stopped me. I would have walked past Antina. I would have walked out the door and hopped back on my bike and spun off through the piles of snow.
Au revoir, Antina.
A Facebook meme went around last week asking people what restaurants they remember from childhood and if the joints are still around. I remember the usual because they were unusual in many Nova Scotia towns in the 80s. (There was no McDonald’s in New Minas in the Annapolis Valley until the mid-eighties.) The other night, another restaurant popped into my head, a place that has almost been eaten away by my brain.
The Colonial Inn was on Main Street in downtown Wolfville. It was a 10-minute walk from Wolfville Junior High, where I attended Grades 7 to 9. As a student who was bused to town every day from the countryside, I always brought my lunch: a nutritious meal prepared lovingly by my mother. However, sometimes I didn’t want my milk or apple or sandwich. Sometimes, I wanted to go to the Colonial Inn.
For two dollars, my friend Angela and I could get a hot and greasy plate of fries to share. At 14 years old, two bucks was a lot of money. It was such a treat when one of us had the cash or we each had a dollar to chip in for an oily mid-day meal. Off to downtown we went.
My parents had never specifically told me that downtown was off-limits. I was probably told to stay on the school grounds. While town students got to home for lunch, rural kids like Angela and I had nothing to do for an hour. We were allowed to eat lunch in our classrooms and then we had to go outside, rain or snow or shine. That often meant walking around Wolfville.
Wolfville is a quaint and cute university town (home of Acadia University), and the Colonial Inn wasn’t a seedy bar or a filthy diner: it was a nice brick-faced restaurant. The servers wore long mustard coloured skirts, peasant blouses and “Colonial-style” white caps. I only remember women as servers and one in particular because she used to ride the bus with me. To me, she was an adult but she would have only been at most, 18. Her name was Dora and she often brought Angela and me our one plate of fries that we split down the middle. Angela smothered her chips in ketchup while I liked mine plain.
We hoovered down our shared lunch, always aware that time was ticking away and we had to go back to class. After the last chip was gone, we’d run up the hill to school, wondering where we’d get two bucks for tomorrow’s fries.
When we moved on to Grade 10 (high school), we moved schools and communities. I didn’t go back to the Colonial Inn and one day, it wasn’t there. There was a new restaurant in its place. Angela and I had moved on too and met new friends. We’ve never lost touch though and I see her when I go home. Maybe next visit we should go get some fries.
When we spotted two beagles on the side of the dusty Nova Scotia road, we thought they had escaped from someone’s cottage. When we saw them a couple days later, we knew they were strays. It would be a couple of weeks before the dogs were captured and given a home with my parents. That was 14 years ago and this past Friday, we said goodbye to the brown and white member of our family.
Ali McBeagle Storry was just six months old when we found her, along with her mommy. I brought mom, Madeleine, to live with me in Sackville, N.B. Ali stayed with my parents and went from a skinny little frightened girl to a mostly-confident lady in a couple of years. Madeleine died several years ago after being hit by a car. Ali was a connection to my own beagle, as long as I had her, I also had my dog.
For a small dog, Ali’s bark was enormous. It was deep and powerful and if you were standing on the other side of the door from her, you’d think she was a Great Dane. Her bark was worse than her bite. I don’t think she ever growled, let alone bit at anyone or anything. She even let Tomas, her cat-nephew, bat her around the ears from time-to-time.
Despite being in a loving home, with lots of food, a comfy bed right beside a warm woodstove, pats and belly rubs, Ali never got over the abuse she must have suffered as a puppy. She didn’t like men at first and was wary about my dad (he eventually became one of her favourite people). She hated going outside in case she never got back inside. She never missed an opportunity to eat. (That’s almost all dogs, though.)
She loved going for walks. We’d walk in all seasons to the lake, to the bridge over the canal, to the pond. In winter, she wore fancy sweaters or jackets over her own shiny coat. In summer, no matter how hot it was, she never ever wanted to go in the water to cool down. In August, I was in Nova Scotia. The last night there, Ali and I sauntered up the long driveway and got a couple of metres up the dirt road until she wanted to turn around. That’s when I knew it was the last time I would see her at home.
Before I left, I gave her lots of kisses and belly rubs and told her I loved her. My family will all miss Ali, also known as Micky, Micky B, Baby Girl, Beagles, Beagies, Old Lady Baby and many more nicknames, Just because she’s a dog doesn’t mean the loss doesn’t hurt us any less. She was part of the fabric of our lives for many years.
It’s going to be hard to go home and not have her greeting me at the door, barking so loudly it hurts my ears. It’ll be hard talking to my parents on the phone and not hearing the clack of Ali’s nails on the hardwood floor or the roar of a snore erupting intermittently from the tiny girl sleeping by the stove. My parents have an empty house but our hearts are filled with love and memories of our beagle girl.
Did you ever go through a phase as a young teenager, then look back, and ask, “Why did I do that?” Well, my snake jewelry is a product of one of those times. Why did I like reptile rings so much?
I don’t know. I must have had a reason when I was 13 but it has slithered away now. The rings on the picture on the left are only a few pieces of my large-scale collection. I also have earrings and at one time, a golden snake belt. It had red fake-stone “ruby” eyes and its mouth clipped on to its tail. It was awesome. (I found it at Frenchy’s – a second-hand clothing franchise in the Maritimes.) I gave the belt away but I wish I still had it.
I came across the snake stuff after unpacking some boxes that had been sent from my childhood home in Nova Scotia, to my new home in Edmonton. I laughed out loud when I saw the rings coiled in a handcrafted wooden box my dad made for me. The snakes have been hibernating for over 20 years and awoke many memories. I remember how I got each piece: one I bought at the Olde Curiosity Shoppe in Port Williams (the store no longer exists). Another – a Christmas gift from my family. (My parents indulged my reptile fascination.)
I was only charmed by the snakes for a short period. Snakes shed their skin when they grow. I shed my rings. What do you remember leaving behind?
I used to be a competitive swimmer for Ryerson University. Swimming is great exercise and the water always feels like home to me. It’s because no matter where I am, pool water never changes. It’s always wet in South Korea, The Gambia, Fort Smith and Calgary. Since I just moved to Edmonton, I thought I’d head to something familiar in this unfamiliar place.
I decided to go to an outdoor pool. Even though it hasn’t been that warm here, the pool remained open up until yesterday. I walked to the pool in the cold rain and cursed myself for not wearing mittens (it really was that cold) or bringing a tuque for the stroll home. I started hemming and hawing about continuing.
“It’s raining and it’s cold,” I said to myself, “why are you doing this to yourself?”
Really, there was no argument. I knew why I was going. I wanted some exercise and I wanted to do something regular – routine, in a day that had started differently from the last seven years in Calgary. I wanted to focus on my breathing and stroke count and seeing if I could beat my 100 freestyle (four laps of a 25 metre pool) time from last month. I didn’t want to think about unpacking and what went where and what didn’t fit there. I wanted a break from new spaces and spots and streets with strange numbers.
Despite the icy rain, the gate to the pool was wide open. As I walked onto the deck, the chlorine struck my nostrils. I took a deep breath in. Ahhhh! (I liked it.) That strong chemical smell of the water never changes either. The wisps of fog swimming over the pool didn’t make it look inviting. I shivered in the mist and then picked up a flutter board.
I headed to the edge of the pool. There was someone in the lane already splashing up and down the 25 metres. I jumped in beside him and said hello when he surfaced for air at the end of the lane.
“Hi,” he said before disappearing under a wave.
I pulled on my googles. The water was warm on my skin. Not at all cold, like the air around me. I pushed off the wall and struck out for the other side. Something I’ve done over and over again in a few different places.
I love seeing people’s “first day of school” photos (especially those of my niece and nephew). While I was home in Nova Scotia last week, Acadia University students were moving into residence, some for the first time.
It has been more than 20 years since I was a student at Acadia, set on changing the world. I was going to be a foreign correspondent who would fly herself (in her own plane) to troubled regions and report the news. I would spread the word about terrible atrocities and make the world understand that it needed to help right away. I would force people to wake up and start caring. Yep, that was my plan.
I was reminded of these naïve aspirations a couple of weeks ago while visiting a professor / mentor in Halifax. Dr. Marshall Conley is a globetrotting human rights expert whom I first met when I was in his introductory political science class at Acadia. He also spearheaded a youth international internship program that paired volunteers under 30 with human rights non-governmental organizations (NGOs) as well as governments. In 1998, I was one of Dr. Conley’s interns.
After finishing my degree at Acadia and then the journalism program at Ryerson University in Toronto, I was sent to the African Centre for Democracy and Human Right Studies in The Gambia as a publications officer. During my recent trip back to Nova Scotia, Dr. Conley (I still can’t call him by his first name even though we’ve been friends for years) invited my husband and I to his lovely home for lunch. When we arrived, I saw he had set out a photograph of the 16 interns he had sent around the world the year I went to The Gambia.
I blinked at the picture of young adults lined up in two rows. I had always thought that I would never forget the people in my intern cohort but here I was, blanking. While I remembered their faces, I couldn’t remember many of their names. It worried me. If I let these fine details escape from my brain, how many other things am I forgetting?
Dr. Conley came over and once he said who each person was, a light bulb went on inside my head.
“Oh, yes,” my brain said. “I remember now.”
I do remember. I remember tidbits about each person too. I remember where they all went, one to Estonia, one to Paris, two to Bangladesh, two to The Gambia (one was me), etc. I remember the excitement we all had when we were about to take off to exotic and strange locations. I remember the nervousness of heading into the unknown. I also remember trying to find a mosquito net in Halifax long before Mountain Equipment Co-op was a thing. I remember booking my flight that took me from Nova Scotia, to Iceland, to London and then to Africa. (Björk was on my plane from Reykjavik to London. She wore a white butcher’s apron as a dress and flip-flops with socks. The whole ensemble looked uncomfortable.)
I remember thinking that this internship would lay the foundation for my career as a foreign correspondent. In Gambia, I would get experience in human rights, NGOs, politics and policy and be introduced to new ideas and ways of life. With all these tools and insight, I would jump to an exciting and fulfilling journalism career.
I did learn a lot about human rights and statecraft and met all sorts of people from all walks of life in The Gambia. I also learned how to barter (my roommate was better, though), how to find my way through sandy streets and that unripe mangos make a tasty mango crisp. All these lessons and moments added up to a truly life-changing experience. I was on my way to making my goal a reality.
Then the real world got in the way.
When I returned home from my many months aboard, I needed a job. I got one in Calgary working as a news writer for a television station. I didn’t like working in TV and three years later, I left to be a pilot. Flying my own plane was the second piece to my world reporting aspirations. However, 9/11 happened and people were afraid to fly and the demand for pilots dropped. I did get my private licence but didn’t go on any further. I got a job at Mount Allison University and somewhere throughout the years, my dreams of being the flying foreign correspondent drifted away like clouds I flew through in my Cessna.
Last week while looking at the picture of the interns, I realized I hadn’t thought about my first life goal in a long, long time. It wasn’t that I had forgotten about it, I just needed a reminder about that “first.” But that’s why it was a first, because life isn’t linear and lots of other goals came after it. I’d still like to say thanks to Dr. Conley for giving me a step up on my way to changing the world. Because we all have in some way. While attending a pan-African human rights conference in Gambia, someone said, “’If you think you are too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito in the room.” (That quote has also been attributed to the Dalai Lama but I heard it attributed to an African proverb.) It’s true. We’re all making a difference.
Looking out across Victoria Harbour in Hong Kong, I see lightening split the sky. It’s only noon but it’s as dark as a Calgary winter evening. I had hoped to be shopping right now but my friend, Digger, just texted and told me to stay in.
“Don’t go out in the storm,” she said. “Wan Chai can wait.”
I’m glad I listened to her because minutes later, the wind is easily plucking palm branches off trunks and the rain is as thick as a velvet curtain. It’s hard to see through it to the other side. Thunder is loud and shakes the floor of the apartment. I sit in front of the open patio door and watch as the storm takes over the city.
Nothing slows down in the tempest. Buses keep going. People keep walking. Vehicles splash through the new streams snaking down the street. Nothing is keeping this energetic city down. (Digger said when there is a typhoon warning, Hong Kong does stop. A tropical cyclone is comparable to a major snowstorm in Canada.)
Well, if the locals are out, I can go out too.
Digger had already taken me to Hollywood Road. Hollywood in North America connotes celebrities and movie stars. In Hong Kong, it’s a great place to find trinkets and antiques. It’s also dotted with art galleries and is home to a Man Mo Temple. The shrine is used to worship two gods, a civil/literature god and a martial god, by students. We visited the Sheung Wan area temple that was built as a place of worship in 1847. It’s now a monument and a popular tourist attraction.
After viewing the wonders of the shrine, Digger and I headed straight into the heart of Hollywood. Shops and vendors are lined up along both sides of the street. There’s so much to look at that I couldn’t stop from swivelling my head this way and that. There are pretty blue-and-white porcelain bracelets, animals intricately carved from mammoth bone, posters with Mao Tse-tung (Mao Zedong), the founding father of the People’s Republic of China, and other communist leaders saluting each other (to my horror), and so many other interesting bits and pieces and odds and ends of shelf life.
I didn’t buy anything the first time I went to Hollywood Road because I was waiting for Wan Chai. Wan Chai is a shopper’s paradise. It has anything and everything. It’s only a hop, skip and a bus ride away from where Digger and her husband live. My friend said I could get colourful china bowls and lovely iron dragon locks for cheap. (Well, cheaper than Hollywood Road.)
One Hong Kong dollar (HKD) is .17 to the Canadian dollar. Goods, like a decorative comb, start at 9 HKD (about $1.50 CAD). I get my cash ready for Wan Chai, got an umbrella and head out in the warm rain to the trusty Bus #15 stop. I don’t have to wait long before I’m hopping aboard and on my way to Wan Chai.
I get off at the wrong stop and have to backtrack about ten minutes in the rain to the main shopping area. But even though the rain’s steady, it’s not cold.
I wander through the crowds, lifting up my umbrella to avoid hitting people in the face. My first stop is at the Wan Chai wet market. I had been warned about some of the smells. Digger said it could get rank at the wet market and the odours would hit me right in the face – just like the umbrella of a passerby. However, it isn’t too bad. I’ve been other places overseas that were worse. Saying that, the air is pretty pungent, steeped in a ripe produce, ripe meat and wet spice smell, but it’s all part of the charm.
From the wet market, I head out onto the street. There are tiny shops as well as booths set up along the sidewalks. I saunter from stall to stall, looking for the best bargains and deals. There’s a lot of outlet clothing for sale from names such as Adidas and Ann Taylor. There are also a few no-name shops that have the most delightful skirts screen-printed with shimmering butterflies and flowers. However, when I stand in front of a mirror to see if a skirt fits, it’s yanked out of my hands by a shop clerk.
“No fit,” she says.
Then no buy.
I’m not really interested in clothing anyway. I’m interested in dishes. When I lived in South Korea in 1998, I used to buy delicate green ceramic bowls from women who would set up alongside a residential street. In Wan Chai in 2017, I have dreams about finding some of these beautiful treasures.
Alas, I never do — although I do find some brightly-decorated porcelain bowls and soup spoons to buy and send home as presents to my family. I start collecting a pile and add and subtract to it. There are many lovey patterns and colours and I’m finding it hard to choose. At last, I’m done. Now I have to pay up.
I had heard that I was supposed to barter in Wan Chai and I did. However, I guess I look desperate to keep my stash of pretty plates so I don’t get too much of a bargain…only ten HKD are dropped.
Strolling around in the rain, I go up and down and down and up and all around the Wan Chai market. I look at thing and touch things and buy a few things. The rain has tapered off and I decide to go downtown and try and find some beer to bring back for my husband. He’s a beer writer (on his down time) and I want to get him some local HK brew. Easier said than done.
I had googled beer stores before I left the apartment and found most places are delivery services instead of walk-in stores. I get that. HK is busy and traffic is constant and so it’s hard to jump into your car to grab a case of beer. It’s much better to have someone bring it to you. Well, I wished I had gone that route too.
I have the address of HK Brewcraft and I know (sort-of) where it is. I walk here and there and up stairs and then when I’m tired of climbing stairs, I go left and I’m in a school playground somehow. Dead end. (A lot of HK’s famous escalators were being repaired.) I continue up the stairs and then back down and over there and under that and.. is it in this apartment building?
I open the door to what I think is the small lobby of a family condo building. Hit the button for the elevator and get it. There’s the sign for the shop. Phew. I talk to the knowledgeable beer guy and get three beers for my man. Then, with my aching feet and bag filled with goodies, I go home.
A few days later, Digger and I head to Temple Market, a night market in Kowloon. I’ve been to a night market in Richmond, just outside of Vancouver, but the Temple Street Night Market is a different kind of experience. The Canadian night market is full of offerings of food while the Temple Street Night Market is full of electronics and counterfeit designer handbags: good quality counterfeits.
To get to the HK night market, Digger and I take the MTR (Mass Transit Railway – subway) to Kowloon, an area across the harbour from Hong Kong Island. (The MTR actually goes underneath Victoria Harbour.) The night market is more than purses and wallets, it’s fortune tellers and cards that when opened, show you worlds you’ve only seen in your dreams.
Don’t expect the vendors to be light and fluffy about their prices. Here, they bargain and bargain hard. I want to get six cards and Digger turns into my middle-woman. She barters with the seller to gets them down in cost. She also helps me secure a handbag. Thanks to her, I now tote a nice floral handbag all over Calgary. And it’s not a knock-off: it’s Kowloon original.
“Can you get to Vancouver on Friday?” texted my friend late Wednesday night. “I can get you to from Hong Kong from there.”
“Sure!” I said, from Calgary. One perk of being self-employed is that I can work from anywhere, any time, 70 per cent of the time.
Two days later, on Friday April 28, I started the voyage west, waaaay west. I landed Saturday night and was immediately whisked away by my long-time friend Digger and her husband, VC, to an 80s dance party. It was a lot of fun grooving to the tunes of my youth. (Am I old?) The action didn’t stop there. I was constantly on the move seeing the Hong Kong sights and eating the Hong Kong delights.
Hong Kong was incredibly different from what I had imagined it to be. I thought it would be one massive city with tall buildings everywhere, traffic honking all the time and people crowding the streets. However, it is not like that.
The city pulses and breathes along with the waves surrounding it. It’s a city of energy and is always awake. There’s a lot of steel and skyline made up of many skyscrapers that are surrounded by lush green hills. There are hiking trails and beaches and quiet spots right in the city. The weather was fantastic and a little bit humid and a little bit hot: not super moist and suffocating. My friends took me to Repulse Bay and I swam in the China Sea. The next day, we hiked the MacLehose Trail, a trail that crosses the New Territories, and played Frisbee on Tai Long Wan beach. I swam here too and kicked something large and soft under the water.
“There have been shark attacks here,” said VC and we quickly kicked to shore.
After an afternoon of surf and sun, we took a boat back to where we had left the car. I think bull riders at the Stampede get gentler rides. Let’s just say the ups were up and the downs were very hard downs. Nevertheless, it was a good way to get the sand off your towel and get a facial scrub at the same time.
From boats to buses, I took the #15 to Victoria Peak almost every day. The peak is an incredible look off over of the city and harbour from the top of Mount Austin – if the fog, humidity and smog don’t drift over the view out of the view. Before vehicles wound their way up the steep road, residents who lived at the top used sedan chairs – chairs that had poles on each side that people used to lift and carry up hill. That would be one tough hike for the porters.
Besides the bus, you can also take your own car or a taxi or the train. When you arrive at the peak, there are two malls and many places to eat and get out of the heat. I didn’t mind the warm temperatures (around 27 C) and humidity after surviving a cold and dry Calgary winter.
The summit is great for getting the blood pumping to the legs after a long flight (although the dancing from the night before was good for that too.) The walk I did was mainly Harlech Road, a paved and flat loop that goes around the peak. Early in the morning, the path is used by runners and dogs and their walkers. Later in the morning, the path is full of tourists. (I was one of them on my first day.) The loop is about 3.5 km and took me an hour to complete.
One day, I went off the beaten path … and into the path of a wild boar. Some seniors warned me about the big pig and while I didn’t see it, I could hear it crashing through the forest. Another time, I took Plantation Road and saw some amazing houses. The peak is known for being at the top of the luxury real estate market.
Hong Kong is renowned for its food and I sampled a lot, thanks to Digger and VC. We went to hotspots like Little Bao (bao is a steamed bun) and Ho Lee Fook (which means “good fortune for your mouth”). Both places had fresh and interesting cuisine that I had never tasted before. From Fish Tempura (fish in a bao) and Prawn Toast and Okonomiyaki – it was all spectacular.
For a more traditional experience, we went for dim sum at Maxims. It was my first time for dim sum and it was amazing.
Maxims is in city hall and constantly full on Sundays, when we decided to go for brunch. But there’s an app that lets you get a number and wait at home instead of waiting in line. But I’ll wait in line all day for Maxims now that I know what dim sum takes like. Why haven’t I had dim sum before? I don’t know. It’s just nothing I’ve ever thought about.
Servers walk around with trolley full of mouth-watering treats. Some servers are nicer than others but the glares are part of the charm. There are hundreds of dishes to choose from and we only had about nine of them. It was filling and delicious.
Next week I’ll tell you my shopping stories. Oh goodies.
Reads the start of the e-mail message sent to me.
Beatrice is not me.
J’ai essaye do t’envoiyer des photos de ton sejour avec nous il y a asse longhtemps maintenant et j’ai cru que tout alle bien, mais peut-etre pas!
(The gist of the note: I tried to send you photos of your time with us but they didn’t go through.)
Still not me. Nevertheless, I’m happy to read further down in the message that Beatrice sent a lovely card to the writer and she is writing back to thank her.
This isn’t the first time I’ve received an e-mail for Beatrice. It has been happening for many years. I’ve been privy to gossip and travel plans and even a weekly French clothing store newsletter, from which I unsubscribed after a month. (Although the clothes were tres chic.) When I started receiving Beatrice’s personal e-mails, I always replied to the sender:
Vous avez la mauvaise adresse. Je suis une femme qui vit au Canada.
SVP, essayer une autre adresse pour Beatrice.
(Hi, You have the wrong e-mail address. I’m a woman who lives in Canada. Please use another address for Beatrice.)
Usually the person e-mails back and says thanks for letting her know. However, once someone accused me of being Beatrice and told me I wasn’t being nice. If I wanted to cut ties, I should just say so. That was just a one-off thankfully.
Since most of Beatrice’s friends know to use her address now and not mine, I haven’t had any of her messages end up in my inbox in two years. Until yesterday morning. It was a surprise and kind of like hearing from a long lost friend. Except I have no real connection to this woman. The only tie we have is through an electronic address: not even a physical space.
I guess Beatrice and I have similar personal e-mail addresses. There are many stories on the web these days about mix-ups with people who have the same name. (There is another Lea Storry but she spells her first name differently. We were Facebook friends for a while.) While I was searching for some stories, I came across this website. It’s a U.S. site that tracks how many people have your name: first and last.
Pretty cool. I hope Beatrice gets her merci card in the mail.