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Found Dead in his Tub

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Written by: Rod Boyle

Category: Blog

Published: 02 October 2025

Hits: 68

Meanwhile, since getting back; coworker, sick, rumour has it she's had more sick days over my vacation than I had vacation days. How this is possible is anyone's guess, but I don't doubt it. She's texting me, still not feeling well, would I work for her tonight?

***

And M***, at the cafe, doing well, but do I know so and so and he describes him, another cafe regular, his girlfriend, and I do, by sight only - not that it matters since apparently he was found dead in his tub just before I left for vacation, probably the same day I last saw him...

I have a theory but it's wrong to speculate upon the deceased...

***

M****** is working a Flea Market this weekend and I've committed to dropping off some of my ties with a view towards lessening my load and paying off some of the costs of the vacation. And, given the sheer number of ties I have, maybe even of taking another.

So I sort through them, choose about 30 (leaving some 4 or 5 hundred left), drop them off, M****** is filled with admiration, it's true, they're beautiful things but no one out here wears a tie...

I should start wearing ties around town the next few days, inspire the competition that can then find their own ties at M******'s stall...

***

And B***, wearing the coat I gave M****** who then regifted to B***, running into him at the Kootenay Co-Op, and he's laughing, makes me try it on, we're the same size, catch up, he's interested in some of my ties and I refer him to M*****.

***

Today, another day off that hasn't yet been thwarted although I have to live under the shadow that it may yet be, this morning diverted from my regular cafe by an inane gibbering woman that would not let go the ear of the barista, head down to another, it's been there a couple of years but of such erratic hours that I've never stopped in. Today is the day, and - inside, clean, contemporary urban layout, 1 other customer, 3 staff. It takes 10 minutes to get a double espresso. They don't do filter coffee, (POUR OVER is their equivalent), don't have cream, sugar (although they serve the espresso with a spoon, which to me seems useless). How they've managed these couple of years is as much a mystery as any of the businesses in the Lower East Side of Vancouver, the lead Barista, a man of my age and clearly strong opinions (although this from his demeanor, not his speaking), his venture, behind the bar to take my order because the other barista isn't yet capable, then relaying it to her, then back to tidying empty shelves, ...

***

And the neighbour, texting me first thing in the morning that she's certain other neighbour (Kramer) is a Prostitute, saw her coming in this morning dressed like....(fishnets, high white boots). No surprise there, we'd all speculated, and why she sees fit to tell me is a bit odd...

***

Which brings us up to speed, time now for a Baker Street stroll, thrift shop (or 2), make some lunch and get started on a few creative projects...

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? - Philip K. Dick

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Written by: Rod Boyle

Category: Books

Published: 28 September 2025

Hits: 74

Funny that I'd never read this. 

The book that inspired "Bladerunner" - the plot - and characters - borrowed from the book, but otherwise completely different entities.

Good. Philip K. Dick is a surprisingly competent Sci-Fi author. Somewhere in my childhood I thought I read something by him that put me off him for life, but that may not have been true. 

Anyways, some thoughts and inspirations; not like seeing the film - again, different entities - but that's fair, that way there's no false comparisons.

Toronto 2025

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Written by: Rod Boyle

Category: Blog

Published: 28 September 2025

Hits: 121

Saturday morning, off early to Kelowna. A ride from a friend, who generously offered her time for the price of the gas and a fancy dinner, she has a cousin she can visit.

Stopping, at every antique and thrift store we happen across, my flight doesn’t leave until midnight so there’s no particular rush. And, shopping, shopping, but nothing of consequence, nothing I’d consider packing on the voyage or picking up when I got back.

The much-anticipated Flea Market at Oliver, much hyped by a colleague Matt at the Thrift Store, “Talk to K****, he has a ton of watches….”

And he does, those big Wal-Mart tubs filled, but they’re all junk, neither old nor collectable. In a case much obscured he has some older Seiko’s, not vintage, just older, and the prices, $200, $250, they give you an idea of how much success you can expect. The best, I find a vintage 70’s direct read manual winder, cool, retro, but not working, I ask what he wants, he thinks about it for a bit - $50. Now, with about $300 worth of fixing and $50 worth of strap it might be worth $50, but I have plenty of other examples of this, I don’t need another and Matt’s in for a bit of a scolding…

Kelowna, 3:00, and I’m antiqued/thrifted out, so we break for a lunch/dinner at the “El Dorado”, a fashionable lakeside restaurant/hotel. The decor is marvellous, it’s everything the old restaurant wasn’t - a destination, for sure, and we’ve arrived in the midst of Saturday Afternoon Tea. Watch the people come and go. Wedding parties, bands of groomsmen and bridesmaids, all dressed to the nines, most of the customers as well, it’s got a real roaring-20’s Great Gatsby feel to it. It must be this way all summer long. Boaters pulling up to the Marina, nubile nymphs in bikinis cutting through the restaurant, rednecked plumbers and tradesmen who’ve done well with their money pulling their boats and families through, drunk 40 year-old cougars in slinky silk dresses cha-cha-cha-ing through the restaurant with embarrassed boyfriends in tow, the invariable retirees (for what is Kelowna but indolent retirement, spend the remainder of your days gawking at others and squandering the last of your savings), this place has it all.  The menu, a wide range of fashionable items, 72 OZ Tomahawk Steaks at Market Price, all manners of fish, it’s impressive..We share the BBQ for 2, an immense platter of BBQ chicken and Short Ribs and Pulled Pork, fries, coleslaw, pickled onions and blanched Asparagus.

I soon discover (I knew, just didn’t know in this instance) that you can have too much of a good thing, and that BBQ really doesn’t interest me. Not a bit, not at all.

We follow with dessert, Baked Alaska, which I know only from its outsized reputation in the 70’s as being a fancy-fancy high end dessert, probably popularized by Julia Child or some such.

It’s not, but having seen it on the menu of course we had to try; it was largely as described and never to be ordered again. 5 stars on the Decor & Clientele, 5 Stars on the Menu, 2 on the execution. 

Kill time, there’s no rush, and eventually we run out of things to chat about and she’s got her cousins to get to and I’m left at the airport, scroll my phone, watch “House M.D.”, smoke my cigarettes until it’s time to go through security where once again I’m selected for the Special Security Inspection, they have a machine, it’s pretty easy, I have a feeling they just wanted to see my junk, hit the bar for a couple of shots to get me through the flight, board the Airbus, I was hoping it would be empty, but it’s not, it’s fucking packed, the Air Canada Red Eye Kelowna to Toronto…

The Airbus, this airbus, they’re packing us in like sardines, the seats, tight, with my legs down I have maybe an inch of clearance, there’s no stretching out or flopping to the side, that’s a liberty only permitted the Window or Aisle seats, the aisle, 14 inches wide tops, never mind the 2-4 inches lost with feet, elbows, heads tilting and nodding into it. The stewardesses, well, the Glamour stripped of Air Travel has defeated them as well, the kind of service you’d expect at 3:00 AM in a Waffle House, there’s no Pan-Am here, there really isn’t even a “Bus” for any bus you’ve ever ridden has had far more legroom, comfort, amenities than this.

Seating is a sham, it’s a means of conveyance, just put 600 straps on the ceiling and let everyone hang themselves…

5:30 AM and I’m in Toronto, the Train and a hike to the whereabouts I’m to be meeting my friend.

***

Coffee, we catch up, go for the big walk in downtown Toronto. The St. Lawrence Flea Market, antique markets, a few vintage watch vendors and looking through their selection I’m realizing mine isn’t so bad, pretty damned good in comparison. Visit the botanical gardens, grab another coffee, and I’m noticing (a trend, as it turns out) that there is a real world out there, the cafe, it’s tipping options are 2-5-10%, low in my estimation (but I can correct, and it’s a damned sight more welcoming than those cafe’s that try and solicit 20-35-30% for counter service on a filtered coffee, and bus your own cup, thank you very much.)

Walking, walking, around the CN tower in 4 KM Spirals, to the STACKT market, Toronto’s lame-ass version of the Kootenay’s, but there’s another vintage watch vendor, again - my collection, still better, and I’m not seeing the vintage moon-phase I’m looking for. On through the Kensington Markets, again nothing, past the Royal Ontario Museum, then time for dinner.

“Eatalia”, a giant 2nd story Italian market with various restaurants and cafe’s, fancy-fancy, we have the Pizza’s, fine, exactly what I’d expect. And then see her home and I pitch my sleeping bag in the ravine.

***

The night before, no sleep - not a wink, and so come 9:00 I’ve downed my ration and am well and truly passed out. And then the rain. Not a bit, not a mist or a sprinkle but a full on deluge, the kind that makes it’s way into holy books, and I’m packing up my shit, on the high street, grab a cab, take me to a reasonably priced hotel, the Cab Driver, very helpful, although probably he just wants me out of the cab bedraggled as I am, the smell of Vodka on my breath, the first hotel, I quote them the Expedia price in the hopes they can do better, the tell me (in so many words) to piss off, the next, well, the meters running and fucking around is costing me money.

Inlaid marble floors, a giant crystal chandelier. Pleasant Sikh checks me in, “4 nights”, I give up.

The rooms, small, dingy, the walls, thin, I can hear banging from my neighbour, the bathroom, poorly tiled shower, no shelf for your soap or shampoo. And a bed that takes up all of the next room, excepting the TV. I’m out of Vodka, get on my phone, order delivery for more, if I’m going out let it be in style, the delivery guy wants $80 a bottle, they read the desperation in your voice, but I haggle him down to $60, then make it up in a tip. Damn, these mobile bartenders, the back of his van is stacked - he’s got it all, carefully concealed under a blanket, and I didn’t think to ask, should have asked, what else he had stocked…

***

DAY 2

Morning, a Continental breakfast, on offer fried potatoes (with choice of Ketchup or chef’s own proprietary hot sauce, chilli flakes in Ketchup), breakfast sausages, scrambled eggs, some honeydew melon, baked goods, and a waffle iron. The “Chef”, she’s an elderly Jamaican woman; watching me work the waffle iron with a look on her face that clearly says “You’re not the one, Neo”, giving me instructions, sure, it’s morning, I’m a little rough but look what I’m going through….

It’s her birthday and she has a plan that involves us spending the day walking around Yorkdale Mall. She’s worried it’s going to rain. Of course it doesn’t. The mall, some upscale boutiques, Rolex, Omega, Van Clef and Arpels, Tag Heuer, Tudor, Mont Blanc, Tiffanies, every boutique brand offering a watch that looks identical to it’s competitors, no creativity whatsoever, merely “The Fashion” of the moment.

Bubble tea, a smart franchise, tipping again 5-10-15% for counter service - keeping it real. And the tea, delicious, this would be a hit anywhere….

The day passes wandering the mall and looking at nonsense.

For her birthday dinner I let her choose, Moxie’s. I don’t know that I’ve ever been, a chipper waiter that clearly is not overrun and harried, look over the menu, some bullshit note in the menu that it’s “Fusion Cuisine Inspired by the tastes of various cultures”. I settle on a couple of appetizers, she on a coconut-prawn noodle soup.

It’s shit, but she likes it, I try her soup; shit again, I’d ordered a couple of appetizers, “Ethnically Inspired”, nope, or rather  if ethnically inspired means “Marinated in my ass for 2 days”, not to overstate it, most mall food courts offer better food and more inspiration, but so rarely does she get out to eat that to her this is delicious.

“Moxies”, like “Earl’s” and “Cactus Club” and “Milestones” among countless others, they’ve nailed the formula for mediocrity.

For her birthday she got me a couple of books and a Hindu oil lamp she’d found on the curb - the books, well - good luck anyone buying me a book, but the lamp, old, very tarnished brass or bronze and I can’t make out the deity but in this she knows me well…

Travel For Idiots

Now I’d been taking cabs in and out from the hotel, it’s somewhere North of the airport and a long ways from anything I’d be interested in. But she shows me how to use Google Maps - - I’d been using to navigate thrift shops, museums, sights of interest, but she shows me how I can get directions, and bus routes and times, and I’d been using it to find my way but this is new entirely, new to me at least, any idiot can get anywhere in less time than ever, and if I make my connections I’ll get back to my hotel in less than an hour…

Brilliant. I make my plans for the tomorrow.

Tap On & Off

Just a note on how Toronto impressed me with its tap-on tap-off subway/bus/transit. You don’t need to  buy a pass or pay when getting on, you can tap your credit card/debit and a transfer is automatically applied to your card. And, if the situation requires - you just tap off to ensure you’re not overpaying.

DAY 3 & The Hotel

She’s working, good thing, I need a vacation from all this vacationing. This hotel; it’s an oddity. A 9 minute walk from a lonely bus stop through industrial wastelands, under miles of tangled crackling wires and steel girders vanishing into the rain, your phone charging every step of the way, past parking lots full of rental cars, cars for sale, empty parking lots, vacant lots, parking lots filled with shipping containers, parking lots that are empty, small buildings surrounded by giant lots, weed filled lots, and then the hotel, a full acre of hotel surrounded by 8 acres of almost entirely empty parking lot. In the morning everyone assembles in the inlaid marble ballroom under the giant crystal chandelier, to sit at throw-away tables and chairs and eat their indigestible breakfast of rubber sausage, eggs and waffles. Rarely on my hours here do I see anyone other than at breakfast, once - Queen Lativa, thick Black woman coming up the stairs with a jewelled gold tiara, another even curvier short African Queen, their consorts, no others, but linger over breakfast - Hindu’s, Sikh’s, Jamaicans, Somalians, some down-on-their luck white salesmen, a construction worker, maybe 65, in his vest telling me he can speak English, French, Punjabi and Filipino. The tenants, odd costumes and proportions, all look as if their responding to a “Rocky Horror” Casting call…

But after breakfast when people clear out for their day, and the few cars in the parking lot disappear, there’s no one. No one in the halls, on the stairwell, elevator, just the concierge, it is as if it’s the antechamber to hell, that the people are all dead and need to figure it out to receive  sentencing.

As it is in the evening. Occasional voices in the hall, banging on walls, distant mutterings in other languages, patois, door-slammings, the “Overlook” hotel, but step-out for a cigarette and you’ll see no-one…

Liminal Spaces.

My day, I walk to the rental car agency and hire a car for the day. I’ll hit up a few thrift stores and take a tour of the greater Toronto area, and I’m off. The car, a sporty Nissan, no satellite GPS on the radio, and so I have to pull over every half hour or so to plan my route, but I make my rounds. Through Mississauga, other places, down all manners of roads, checking every thrift shop I come across.

I find nothing. In general, of course a better variety of merchandise, and - being as I am rather limited to what I can carry in a carry on bag I’m missing out on a lot in terms of the knick-knacks (do I need more?) and art supplies (always I need more). But treasures, as in watches or sparkly things or ultra-fashionable shirts, vest or blazers there are none. I did have better hopes.

Lunch I go for Vietnamese. The menu - hundreds of variations of the same fucking thing, 30, 40 pages, the owners are of the belief that “Choice” is essential, and while they could do as much with a 1 page menu and a page of “Optional Add Ons” they’ve chosen not to.  It doesn’t matter, I know what I’m here for and find it after a bit of searching.  A 5 Gallon bowl of Pho for 8$ less than a litre of Pho ‘inspired’ broth would have cost me in Nelson. I’m impressed. It takes me an hour to swill it all down, and then I have a hankering for a couple of Vietnamese spring rolls, also half the price they’d be in Nelson.

On the list of things Nelson needs - a proper Vietnamese restaurant.

I’m amazed I ate it all.

Then back to the thrifting, the success of which I’ve already given. I notice the neighbourhoods, how you go from the “Wealthy” big-box stores, an acre of store, surrounded by 8 acres of parking and a hedge, to  the less desired chains, progressively smaller shops, independent convenience & variety stores, unsavoury restaurants, the row-housing, Psychics and Astrologers, Payroll lenders, “Cash for Gold”, the down-on-your luck hoods, now a few more vacant row houses, then the neighbourhood begins gentrifying again. The scenery, a bit turning fall, largely flat with occasional valleys; but for the trees and humidity it could be Saskatchewan.

The day passes, I’ve seen nothing of interest, found no treasures great or small, time to return the car, and back to the Liminal Hotel.

***

Well into my cups and I’m talking to the boy, he’s called, is stunned to find that I’m in Toronto and I explain as best I can, that this friend, well, she needs a friend, and explaining with some self awareness that when I’m your fucking ray of sunshine you know you messed up your life in a big way…

He’s laughing, this, he says, is going to be the title of the musical he bases upon my life after I’m gone, he doesn’t want my censure….

After the call there’s a knocking at the door, an irate Somalian complaining of my guest, I apologize, no guest, thin walls, and promise to be quieter in the future…

***

Day 4

Rather than let her make the plan I’ve bought a couple of tickets to a play of interest in the Distillery District. “King Gilgamesh”, an adaptation of “The Epic of Gilgamesh”, a favourite of mine, “Rave Reviews”; “Fills you with enthusiasm for Life”, I could use a bit of this, we’ll see. We meet at the CN Tower, she’d been planning on taking me but the top is lost in the clouds and she’s been and really, really, what is the point. We make our way to the Distillery District, she’d been once before with her husband, they charged admission, a Christmas thing and it pissed him off and they’d never went again.

He’s very economical, Aldo, and begrudges every nickel he spends, sucks the joy out of every occasion by complaining of the price, and so she’s glad to see there’s no admission now.

I’d never been, wandered most of Toronto but somehow this quaint area eluded me, lunch in a cool Mexican restaurant, then the play.

King Gilgamesh

A 2 hander, with 5 or 6 musicians playing in the background. The Premise, an exiled Iraqi just granted permanent residency in Toronto, meets an American Actor living in Toronto following a failed marriage who’s about to land the role of a lifetime back in LA…

Nonsense. It’s a little convoluted, a little too “Woke”, Gilgamesh needs no contemporization, no added “layers” to make it relevant to a modern audience, or backstories on immigration, tolerance, etc, if anything the opposite, and while the actors, they’re doing their best I’m pretty sure, sat where I am in an empty theatre with maybe 24 other patrons, I know they can see the disappointment in my face. And when they’re doing their call-and-response with the audience, trying to pump everyone up, get their enthusiasm on side, - well, I’m not responding, dead-eye them, just not buying it at all, I’m let down, faint applause for the damned…

That said I feel for them, they’re doing the best with the material provided, but they also provided the material.

***

This was a play that needed less, not more. A set projection from behind, 3 hands, Gilgamesh, Enkidu, and a third to fill in as Shamhat, Ishtar, Shamash, Aruru, Humbaba, Utnapishtim, etc. 2 screens with a narrow slit for central entry, a projected desert, cedar forest, Humbaba (a puppet danced in front of a projector behind the screen would work well), the ocean; a projection of waves. The places, they are universals, archetypes, mythic landscapes, and a modest animation of these universal symbols would suffice. And been a heck of a lot cheaper. But - inspiration sometimes in unexpected places and were it not for their interpretation I would not have been inspired…

***

She works tomorrow, on our wanders and discussion after the play we find a nice Italian Trattoria, an outdoor patio that quickly fills after we sit down. The owner, an elderly Italian, just greets the guests, chats up the regulars and quality checks, the waiter, a proper professional, well coifed and immaculately dressed, professional demeanour, and his trainee, a rough-as-nails looking waitress in black tee-shirt and trousers. An incongruous couple.

The menu, wine menu, similar to the Italian place I worked at in Calgary, and my hopes are raised only to be dashed by the food.

We both have the Tortellini Burrata. Grey minced sausage, store bought tortellini, the cream sauce was not cream, merely milk thickened with flour and salt and frozen peas. This is shit, $28 for not even $2 worth of ingredients.

She has no complaints, and so I conceal again mine.

See her off and again make my way back to the Liminal Hotel.

Toronto is a Liminal City

This - this city, Toronto, it’s a Liminal Space, entirely, waiting, always, at crosswalks, for the bus, for the train, waiting again on the train, on the buses, walking to remote destinations, via underpasses, pointlessly through malls, waiting for meals largely joyless, flavourless, taken merely to nurture you through the journey and this journey, this journey, where are we going? The hours to get to the airport, downtown, to a play or museum, to get to and from Kelowna, waiting in airports to ride the plane and wait again for the destination, really a full day each way, all of this in Liminal Spaces. This travel, less a vacation than a pilgrimage  on your knees done to a long ago memory that has shrivelled and faded.

She’s joyless and it was an expensive trip to bring a small light into her life, but - really, never again. Toronto, next time it’s business, a pleasure it’s not. She leads a small life in a far flung suburb, forbidden from going out or spending money, enjoying a Play, Opera, Museum, Concert, all “too expensive”, and all these fiduciary obligations to her marriage have shrivelled her soul. It hurts to see her like this, but you can’t let her know, she’ll defend it with everything she’s got, I don’t know everything, and I can’t tell her, she doesn’t understand she has nothing worth having let alone defending…

***

Day 5

The check out, I doubled the chambermaid’s tip with empty vodka bottles overflowing the trash and the bathroom, “Remember Jack Kerouac” I tell myself, a cautionary tale, the vacation’s gotta end sometime.

One last shop, an “Occult” shop I’d passed last time I was here in my wanderings, only last time it was closed and this time it’s not.

It is of course less an “Occult” shop and more a new age / metaphysical nonsense store, the most “interesting” thing about it was the ritual genitalia candles, and they weren’t that interesting. A big HO-HUM and walk up to St Claire, I remember this from my last visit, down St. Clair, into a couple of properly dire thrift shops, onward to Christie and then down to West Bloor, a couple more thrift shops and I’m done, wandered my few hours, get on-board the train and head back to the airport.

***

Another airbus, a trifle more spacious than the last one, an extra 2 inches legroom, the plane, again packed, the Stewardesses specially bred to walk the 12inch aisle of economy-minded hell and demons, no sleep is possible, merely shut your eyes and wait for it all to end.  I open them from time to time, track our progress, it takes a few minutes, there’s internet but you have to pay, every little thing now is a “Premium” and a luxury….Through Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, the Dakota’s, Montana, finally, near or barely in to Idaho we cross into BC and we’re on our descent…

Funny. I think of getting to Toronto via the provinces, whereas the reality is completely different. It shows how just asking the question will give you an answer.

Kelowna, 11:00 PM, a few cigarettes in the outside parking lot, lying on the benches, waiting for morning so I can get my thumb out and back to Nelson. I get no sleep.

7:00 AM, thoroughly sober and entirely annoyed I’m on the highway. It takes 5 minutes to get a ride to Vernon, a very pleasant Indian guy, young, we chat, and when he lets me out he offers me some of his lunch, it’s in the back seat; I politely decline but his hospitality is touching.

Now, almost 8:00, walk up to Dollarama to buy a piece of cardboard and felt and make a sign for Nakusp. 

It’s  “Nakusp or Bust”, to be let out anywhere else would be folly, there’s nothing there, nada, your face would be on Milk Cartons no one would ever see; it’s a long lonely road and if not Nakusp you’d long since wander into the forest and disappear.

Why Nakusp? Because it’s the same distance as the other road, and from Nakusp there’s a bus.

So “Nakusp or Bust”

3 Hours later I get my next ride. L***, a handsome older woman, very flirty, she tells me she had an intuition she would be meeting someone on their way to Nakusp, and then coyly requires I reassure her  I’m not a serial killer or rapist. She seems almost disappointed.

Very flirty, talkative, and the bit about intuition, I’m not sure, the seniors night-life in Vernon probably isn’t what they’d like, she lets slip that she saw some homeless guy around the corner on the side of the road but he definitely was not going to Nakusp, which she found odd, then rounded the corner and saw me and knew….

That’s a slip. Someone tipped her I was on the side of the road and she came out to rescue me and spend the morning flirting…Predatory Older Women, I’ve had my share.

Chat and chat, Nakusp is a couple of hours with a long wait for the ferry (all those bastards that waved past me for 3 long hours were as well going to Nakusp), I get her life story. Married young, moved abroad for over half her life, 4 children and more grandchildren in 3 different countries, divorced, ex-fiancees, boyfriends….

She’s prone to grand exaggerated gestures, suggestive poses, is very animated, attractive, fit for her age, she tells me she’s a children’s author, published, X# books, and this intrigues me….

(When I got home I googled her and yes, she is, under a pseudonym but that’s definitely her and she certainly does look good).

We arrive, goodbyes, and I find a bathroom, I’m fit to burst, then grab a small coffee (running into her yet again), and I’m off to find my bus.

Now, however, what with all that time (3 hours) waiting for the ride, all the buses have left.

Walk up to the highway, thumb out. 20 minutes to get a ride from a local mechanic to the top of the hill, a better spot to hitchhike from he assures me, and if I’m still done when he finishes work he’ll see me through to New Denver.

Inch by inch…

It’s another almost 3 hours before a Sikh delivery driver pulls over, he’s almost finished his route, a couple of packages left, and he’ll take me to New Denver. I’m texting for an extradition, she’s waiting, knew it was possible, so she’s heading to New Denver to save me. Chat to the driver, he’s not much English but he’s super pleasant and has the brightest smile I’ve seen. In New Denver he stops at the gas station, takes me in to buy me a bite to eat, thinks I’m hungry, need feeding, I don’t and thank him again, profusely, for his kindness, with some cultures, religions, all, really if you look at them, there’s a sense of community, involvement, charity, “it’s a mitzvah”, good deed, and funny that the two that wanted to feed me today came from different cultures. Not ours. So not all notions of our cultural superiority hold true.

The circumstances of their immigration, however, are tragic and offensive, like most of these foreign workers are trapped in minimum or lowly paid jobs, working 6 and 7 days a week, long hours and just to survive and send a little bit of money home. We’re becoming a little bit like Qatar, exploiting the foreign workers, and while we’re getting some lovely people the means by and the reasons for which we’re doing so are appalling, and the prejudice they’re met with -well, we know. We know.

Leslie shows up, a trooper, I owe her a fill on her gas-tank, but it’s OK, it was never about the money it was about the people you’d meet, the adventure and quests, and the late night meant only more misadventures sleeping by the side of the road and I’m so fucking exhausted, 2 nights in 1 week with not a wink of sleep, 36 hour stretches of waking; my place, bathroom clean, but the strips for the paper mache have blown everywhere else, the windows been left open, at first I thought I’d been burgled, then I realized that it is exactly how I left it….

***

The chilis, neighbour, a former grower I’m sure, has taken to pruning them, only the tops remain, a pot trick to force them to fruit I’m thinking, the days have been cool and the nights are getting cooler. I get two tiny red chilis, Carolina Reapers, not even a half inch long, others still flowering, some green and colouring hiding amongst the leaves, but there is a very little time left and it will be a very small harvest.

I’m curious to try them, and save the seeds to try again next year…