Zombified as a result of waking up every 2 hours all  night long, of anxiety about not waking up keeping me up, of confusion about a new place and new experiences, and the great uncertainty of whether or not any of this is worth it, I lurched over to the shower closet and cleaned my sticky body. Then I dragged my corpse downstairs to the dining room where there were wee pastries and coffee, a selection of breads. Sadly this place has shite for yogurt (it’s that Yoplait Source thickened chemical milk with gelatin and pectin and sucralose and artificial everything – at 35 calories a container it isn’t even worth the energy it takes to lift the spoon to your mouth), and doesn’t serve a hot breakfast as I was hoping.  Not that I should be upset: I don’t eat *usually* breakfast anyways! And the establishment is so affordable that I don’t have a need for vindication the way I would back home, all those “get my money’s worth” pieces come to mind.

However it is blessedly peaceful. As I sit drinking my coffee I am shocked at how utterly silent it is. it really is like living alone. I am aware of the ghosts in the walls, hear creaky footsteps and sometimes the sound of a television or water running, but not a soul to be seen. The only voice is the CBC, serene constancy of hypnotic voices describing unknown music with interest.

Did I mention it was 730am, EST? That’s -uh- 430am Pacific Time. Nope, not enough sleep. 

I lurched down the street, backpack strapped on, in the general direction of the hall. It only took about 10 or 15 mins to get there, even highly distractable as I was.

The conference, well, there’s nothing to note other than the plethora of sweet snacks and foodstuffs available for half hours at 2 hour intervals. 

After they replaced all my brain fluids with sugar syrup and coffee, they let me leave the conference. I wandered without direction all the way to the Museum of Nature where I paid 5$ to see a lot of dead things. Hundreds of dead (stuffed) birds behind glass, moose and buffalo, beavers and the bones of ancient monsters.  Everything posed as you would find it in nature, only pouncing without skin, or eyeing prey with glass eyes. I find it impossibly ironic that the two ancient exhibits – the ice age and the dinosaurs, are both sponsored by Fossil Fuel companies! The most wonderful part of the exhibit was actually a whole set of portraits by F.H. Varley – probably mostly of now-dead people posed as they did in life.

He did something spectacular, or perhaps I’ve never noticed before, but oil paint is alive. It moves, it reflects, it pulls you in. Each stroke is like a moment of awareness, a glimmer of the person whose soul is revealed.  These portraits are nothing in reproduction, but right there you feel like you are staring into the eyes of someone who actually lived, actually felt like that, actually looked across the room with that very look in his eyes. There’s one spectacular one of a little boy called “James” and something about that eternal gaze… I couldn’t stop staring. And wondering if he survived the wars (portrait painted in 1920).

For dinner, I had barely passable vietnamese noodle soup. Elgin street seems to have a bar every two doors, but I don’t feel like sitting alone in a tavern getting pub fare. So, I go for fast and cheap, and return home to knit.