“Remember to get off the bus at …… and …….” said Shannon as she dropped me off at the mall.
I knew the street names had something to do with animals… or food, that much I remembered. But sitting on the bus I was completely clueless about how to get home and yet stubbornly determined to do it myself. Finally we turned on to a road called Fisher avenue and I listened intently for the conductor to call out another street with an edible name.
“Tunis Avenue” …Tuna? Could this be my stop? There’s no time to consider my terrible seafood reasoning. And with a push of the button and a swing of the door I am released into unknown territory. I recognise nothing. But I do what any lost journalistic traveler would do; I don my safari hat and delve into the suburban wilderness around me.
I wander among vegetable patches, nice cars and quiet neighborhoods and finally admit defeat after reaching the end of a fifth cul-de-sac. Then in the distance I spot a lone dog-walker. I bide my time and pounce when she is close.
My saviour of the day was possibly called Trish but as this post clearly illustrates I am inadequate at remembering names. With the aide of her lively dogs, Trish guided me to the refuge of a friend’s house. There we swapped passing tales and life stories under the pale pink sky. Trish tells me that this neighbourhood was made for Canadian war veterans and as I look around I can understand why; it’s a beautiful place for heroes to grow old.
As the conversation turns to wars and nationalities I discover that both my new friends are descendant from Scots and in the spirit of shared homelands (and inevitable distant relatives) they draw a map to guide me home. Though in the light of this past week, with the kindness and love that Canadians have shown me, I am no longer certain where my home is anymore.
Oh and in case you were wondering, my actual bus stop was Deer Street…