The plan was to go bowling.
But the place was tiny. And packed. And smelled like Value Village. Which is fine if the establishment is Value Village. But it was not. It was league night, filled with the amusing sort of characters often relegated to hick towns and low-budget indie films. Where they came from, I have no clue. But I like mysteries.
We were turned away.
I will return one day, notebook in hand, and write my great Canadian novel at the shoe counter. I won't bring the MacBook. Too glaringly out of place.
The bowling night quickly transformed into mutual-fund talk over a glass of merlot at a rather upscale pub nearby. I jump economic classes quite easily.
I want to bowl with Lars. He's even wearing plaid.* Which I love. I will plug this film until the end of time.
Lars and the Real Girl
*On Sunday, a guy I'd never met before sat a few seats down from me. I felt my friend's elbow nudge me: "He's wearing plaid. Your favorite." Yep, the whole world knows I'm dreaming of plaid. It's becoming a problem. A few minutes later I hear her whisper, "I just heard him say he's 22. Never mind."