Flames Rekindled

Written--on paper--April 5th, 2008

An irresistibly late morning after an absolutely amazingly late night; after finally resisting the craving to climb back between the sheets, I found myself strolling down a beautifully sunlit street in the Annex towards brunch at my old haunt--Over Easy.

On the flip-side of the service coin, I stood in line, waiting to be seated. Not having been back in what could be years, I was admittedly a little nervous of what sort of welcome I would receive, if there was anyone left to recognize me at all. My nerves were quelled moments later when a familiar face picked me out of the crowd and I found myself enthusiastically greeted--kisses on both cheeks--and swiftly ushered to a table.

Old acquaintances surrounded me and after some quick introductions, I was showered with question after question in an attempt to quickly catch up in the moments to spare between taking orders and running food. Things had changed ("You've lost weight!"), things hadn't changed ("Yup, still with the lady."), and of course, things had happened ("Congratulations!").

When our orders arrived, we were left to eat in peace, but I couldn't help but take in the familiar surroundings; the hustle and bustle of restaurant serving life, the random passers-by, the enthusiastically social chatter between servers and patrons alike. We stayed long enough only to nourish ourselves and left without much after-meal lingering, but not before exchanging many contacts. Back outside and into the sunlight, I confessed.

    "I miss it. I miss the people. I miss working there. I miss being a server."
    "I can totally see why. I'd only be surprised if you said you didn't miss it."

Moving on to an office job, I thought I'd enjoy the organized routine of day-in, day-out, with a steady paycheque and a predictable schedule. But with that structure, I lost spontaneity. I lost sociability. I lost instant proof of appreciation; monetary and not. I thought I'd grown out of needing all those, but being back there even for those moments, I realized I hadn't.

I realized that my love of serving--of people, spontaneity, sociability, and organized chaos--was for a lifetime. Try to change, grow, or mature out of it as I might, it was a part of me, and at the end of brunch, I found myself hoping to go back some day.

Onward from there to Kensington Market and my next love affair. We parked the car and strolled into the heart of the market where immediately I could feel the tug on my heart strings by the vibrancy of my surroundings.

It'd been years again since my last visit, and while I suspect that back then my attraction to Kensington had been more due to conformity to the chic idea, this time it was instant and personal. The colours of wall graffiti art, the variety of merchandise, the melee of pedestrians funneling through the narrow streets and walkways, the sounds of friends meeting and music from stores, the smells of fresh food and produce. It felt as though with the appearance of the sun and warm temperatures, every pigment that painted this springtime scene in front of me had come out to stretch and shine with a vivid sort of energy that fed all who moved within the confines of that living portrait. I was mesmerized; all I wanted to do for the rest of the afternoon was find a discreet perch above, sip tea, and people watch. It felt as though when I inhaled amongst the crowd, I was inhaling life.

Having had to survive what seemed like the longest winter, I’d almost forgotten what sunshine looked like and the effect it had on me and my view of all it shone on. It was beautiful to be reminded; it was lovely to have shared the moment; it was perfect to not have been the only one to notice.

After dinner with G and company, I headed home, to feign responsibility and ensure being rested for tomorrow’s volleyball league playoffs, but my heart ached the whole ride home, longing to have been allowed to stay downtown, strolling through the nocturnal city, drinking in all the stories the spring night had to share.

I have always loved spontaneity. I have always loved people. I have always loved the city. Sometimes, it’s nice to be reminded that some loves never die.