Today dawned bright and sunny here on the banks of the Rivière des Outaouais. It was cold as all get out. but it was lovely to look at. I felt unwilling to spend another entire day alone in this empty house, just me and the silence. Downtown is suddenly closer than I think this week, so I dressed myself in a weather-appropriate manner and set off for the library, the feedbag, and the confessional.
I had already spotted two or three attractive, athletic young people wandering about in their white, expensive-looking "Official Torch Bearer" tracksuits before I had gone a dozen blocks. After I left the library I passed near Parliament Hill, heard the hubbub, and spotted the crowd and the massive outdoor stage. Ah, Olympic madness. After all the build up, it was finally starting to happen for real. Whatever. I trudged along the Sparks Street Mall, devoid as it was of human life, without giving it any further thought.
Too early yet for confession time, I stopped to drink a latté and write an actual letter to a friend. Sufficiently caffeinated, I left the café and headed east toward my appointment with God's mercy. I had only a few blocks to go when I saw the flashing lights of several police cars up ahead. The last street I needed to cross was closed off to traffic. People lined the sidewalks, excitedly clutching flags with the logo of the impending Winter Olympics. Official Olympic vehicles were pulled up at the intersections. The torch was going to be passing this way!
I have never been even remotely near any sort of Olympic event. I may very well never be this close again. Ordinarily I would be curious about such an opportunity; I would want to have the experience,
qua experience, for no other reason than it was one I had not previously had. But as the details of the scenario came into focus, I knew with absolute certainty that my recent conversations with friends had not been mere prattle. I sincerely did not care a fig about the Olympics. And I certainly wanted no part of this contrived little scene. I looked up and down the street, and when the signal changed to "walk" I headed across under the watchful eyes of Ottawa's finest.
As I reached the opposite corner an exuberantly-grinning young man—who, bizarrely, had sold me a Big Mac not two hours before—attempted to hand me one of his fistful of little "Vancouver 2010" pennants-on-a-stick. I shook my head, politely I think, keeping my scorn on the inside. I didn't scream at him: "Haven't you people done enough? You want me to smile and be a part of your overscripted shenanigans, too?" I didn't tell him where I thought he could put his little pennant. I didn't shout anything about Miga the Sea-Bear and the other infuriatingly-nonsensical mascots festooned on every postage stamp I stick to every letter I send back home. I didn't even punch myself in the head.
I just moved along, against the flow of people rushing to get in place before the big moment they imagined was going to come jogging by. I just walked away, and went on with my day, and went on living my life, a stranger in a strange land.
