Today on my lunch hour I stopped by the Hartman’s YIG at Bank and Somerset to buy a lime, plum tomatoes, ACE bread and dark chocolate. (One of the best things about living alone is you can have whatever you want for dinner.)

I saw the happiest woman at the grocery store. She might even be the happiest woman in all of Ottawa.

I spotted her immediately, as soon as I entered the store. She was magnetic.

“Who is that happy old woman dancing by the salad?” I asked myself.

She was very old – so old that old people would probably describe her as old. Her old spine had curved so that she could no longer stand up straight: she was hunched over and she had to look down at the floor. But she was dancing. Dancing! And conducting an orchestra!

There was a classical guitar player at Hartman’s today, and he had a special guest, a drummer. Sometimes there’s a piano player instead, but today was the classical guitarist. The old woman danced to the music, and she was radiant and joyful and oblivious to everything except the music.

And about half the people were oblivious to her, while the other half were enchanted by her. I felt a little sorry for those who couldn’t see her.

I took some pictures and then I wandered through the aisles, gathering my plum tomatoes and ACE bread and lime and chocolate. On the way out, I saw her give the musicians some change, and then she moved on, still dancing to the music and smiling at the floor. She was lovely.

Yesterday on my lunch hour I went to the mayor’s place.

There was an open house at 700 Sussex, featuring two condos for sale and one for rent. I was greeted by Cindy, the Happy Realtor, who managed to extract a fair amount of personal information from me just by asking. She got my name, street, employer, job title, marital status, education…all stuff that would allow her to roughly assess my economic status.

The only thing I lied about was my job title: I ramped it up from webmaster to IT Manager, just because it seemed more conceivable that an IT Manager might be able to afford to live in a luxury condo. (In retrospect, I wish I’d lied about everything, because I don’t think I want this woman tracking me down. She didn’t write anything down, so I hope she promptly forgot it all.)

When I pulled out my camera and started taking pictures, she seemed to take me more seriously and treat me like a potential client. Sort of.

She said I should move there because I’m single and there are lots of interesting single men living in the building. She was pretty sure I’d hit it off with John Roese, for example, who is single and available and a wonderful charming man. He’s the Chief Technology Officer at Nortel. “He’s accomplished so much for his age,” she said, “and if I were his mother, I’d be very, very proud of him. You should google him. John Roese. R-O-E-S-E.” (I googled him: he’s a blogger.)

I wonder if she dangles him in front of all the single women who contemplate moving to that building? I wonder if he knows?

I reported in an earlier post that Alannis Morisette lives at 700 Sussex, but she doesn’t. (The agent did give me her address though, if you’re interested.)

She also told me that Zita Cobb, the Chief Financial Officer of JDS Uniphase, the company that made me theoretically and temporarily wealthy until the high tech bubble burst, lives in the penthouse with her partner, David Frere. I asked if he was in high tech too, and she chuckled and said “No, but he’s a very good partner.”

I don’t know what she meant by that, but just the way she said it, it was like a dirty little inside joke, so I didn’t pry.

Who else lives there? There are a few political lobbyists in the building, but they mostly rent. Gary Duck (also of JDS), has a penthouse suite. The mayor used to live in one of the garden units, back before he was the mayor, but he has since upgraded. Apparently his ex-wife lives there too.

She also showed me the party room, exercise room, and rooftop garden and explained the biometric security system to me: you use your fingerprint to open doors. “But of course it’s not perfect,” she said, “If someone wants in, there are ways.” (And she told me what those ways were, but it would probably be irresponsible of me to publish it. It’s a matter of Municipal Security, right?)

So anyway, what are the places like? They’re nice, but I was kind of surprised that they weren’t exceptionally nice. They were, however, exceptionally expensive. The rental unit was $2700 a month unfurnished, or $3000 furnished. The two units for sale were $475,000 and $575,000 (and don’t forget the condo fees – they’re over $600 a month). These pix are all of the $575,000 condo.

I thought the fireplace was kind of dinky and squishy-looking. None of the rooms were particularly large, and the flooring looking kind of cheap. The windows were nice and big, though, and they all had two bathrooms and ensuite laundries, and the bathrooms were deluxe. (Not as nice as my mom’s new bathroom though – it’s super deluxe.)

They were definitely more upscale than anywhere I’ve ever lived. But if you put one of those condos on my street, it would probably rent for about $900 a month. I guess a prestigious address is worth a lot of money. (“It’s very reasonable!” she said, “Do you know what these places would cost in Vancouver or Toronto?”)

The location is pretty much perfect if you want to live in the heart of downtown and you don’t mind homeless people sleeping on your heating grates at night. Personally, I don’t think I could sleep knowing they were there, especially in the winter time; I’d have to go downstairs and get them. Fortunately the mayor doesn’t seem to suffer from compassion or empathy, so he should be okay. It’s that cognitive dissonance thing again. If you convince yourself they’re pigeons, not human beings, you don’t have to care about them. (For now we’ll just leave aside the question of whether I could starve a pigeon.)

At the end of the tour the Happy Realtor did something kind of bizarre: she grasped my forearm and pointed me towards a clothing boutique. “You can buy the cheapest outfits there,” she said, “and they’re all made in Turkey so you won’t have to wonder whether you’re coming or going.”

I have absolutely no idea what she meant by that.

Did she figure out that I wasn’t of the desirable class? Was it some kind of snobby put-down, designed to go over the heads of ordinary people with ordinary incomes? I’m grasping, really. I’m mystified. If anybody has any theories on what she could possibly have meant, I’d love to hear them.

Oh, and here’s a weird little coincidence. Today at lunchtime I went to an Indian restaurant. While I was waiting for my friends, I glanced at the guestbook, and the most recent signature was that of The Happy Realtor. She actually signed it that way too, right under her name.

I went to the Folk Festival with someone who likes to make fun of it. He jokes about the ageing hippies and their tofu specials and their tie-dyed hemp clothing and political slogans, and the fact that the coffee lineup is longer than the beer lineup and the smokers go for off-site strolls so nobody will know they smoke. (This guy here is the exception that proves the rule, but we wondered if he somehow ended up at the folk festival instead of the demolition derby.)

It’s kind of hard to participate in something while simultaneously mocking it, but I did my best. I just happen to be a fan of Ray Bonneville, Kris Kristofferson, Karen Savoca and Eliza Gilkyson, so the lineup was practically tailor-made for me.

My friend was appalled at Kristofferson’s lack of vocal range and guitar skills.

“If his name wasn’t Kris Kristofferson, do you think all these people would be freezing their asses off to listen to him?” he chuckled, “He’s just not that good.”

He had a point – it was very cold out. Unseasonably and unreasonably cold. And Kris sounded okay but not great. But he’s still Kris Kristofferson, he still looks good, and I still love him. It was worth it just to see his long black coat-tails blowing in the wind.

Karen Savoca’s got great lyrics and the sweetest bluesy voice and rhythms around, even though her husband looks a little goofy when he’s playing guitar with his eyes closed and his mouth doing that thing that it does. (And because I love them, I did not take a picture of him with his eyes closed and his mouth doing that thing.)

Ray Bonneville is a one-man band with his guitar, harmonica, voice, and beat-keeping feet.

My biggest disappointment of the festival was I kept missing Eliza G. I wanted to catch all four of her performances and I missed them all.

Not everybody looked like they were totally into the musical experience. A few people even looked a little bored. Fortunately there were plenty of things to do at the Folk Festival if you didn’t feel like listening to music.

You could have a little nap.

You could build a fire to warm yourself up.

You could shop for new clothes.

You could read the newspaper.

You could talk to old friends.

Or meet new ones.

You could even create art:

This is my friend Art II. Seriously, that’s his name. Art II. His last name is pronouced Too. He’s a talented artist and musician as well as just a guy who hangs out at Irene’s Pub. His role at the Folk Festival this year was to engage the folks in some participatory art on this wall. And it worked because this is my friend Carole engaging in some participatory art on Art’s wall.

Anyway, I think that’s it for the 2007 festivals. It’s hard to believe summer’s coming to an end already, but this morning I saw the biggest, noisiest flock of migratory geese flying low over my house. I think it’s time to start psychologically preparing ourselves for the inevitable.

On my lunch break yesterday I headed over to Parliament Hill to visit the cats again. But I got distracted by the sight of hundreds of bums up in the air on the front lawn of the Peace Tower.

Upon closer inspection, I recognized those bums as Downward Dog yoga bums.

This of course got me reflecting on my yoga days at the Plant Recreation Centre, when the hot male yoga instructor got us all into Downward Dog pose and then said “Imagine your anus opening up like a flower.”

The Yoga on the Hill class was led by a man with a megaphone, and he didn’t mention anuses or flowers. But he didn’t have to: I will never again see anyone in the Downward Dog pose without thinking of their anus, and mine, opening up like a flower. It’s a curse. And it’s contagious, so you probably have it now too.

Not all yoga poses are equally glamorous. This one, for instance, lacks a certain elegance and dignity.

It’s nice living in Canada, where hundreds of people can simultaneously strike a Warrior pose on the front lawn of our government’s legislative buildings without getting arrested and incarcerated on suspicion of terrorism.

Not everybody can fold themselves completely in half, but some people can.

It helps if you have a helper.

More bums.

This is called the Corpse pose. It’s a terrible name, but it does feel good at the end of a yoga workout.

I thought the Peace Tower looked unusually good, basking in its yoga afterglow with that cool cloud behind it.

I really love Canada.

I saw this as I walked through my old neighbourhood on the way to work this morning. This particular block (Somerset Street between Booth and Rochester) seems to be plagued by catastrophic fires, often of a suspicious nature. This is where five members of the Thach family, including three children, were killed in a horrific fire in 2005.

Dozens of people and animals live in these two buildings. I hope they all got out safely.

Robin has more photos over at Watawa Life.
I’ll be posting more here tonight.

I blogged about my bus ride to the Lumiere Festival, but forgot to blog about the festival itself. So here it is, a few days late and a few words short – some of the things I saw at the Festival.

A belly dancer:

Another belly dancer:

A princess:

The refrigerator box fort:

Dancing girls with freaky nails:

Stroller boy playing video game:

A puppet:

Another puppet:

A water-boiling opportunity:

A portrait of a self-portrait in the making:

I love the magical quality of the Lumiere Festival, but this is the second year I’ve gone to it alone and felt like an outsider. I could easily spend weeks alone at home and not get bored or lonely, but some events – including this one – give me that “lonely in a crowd” feeling.

Maybe it’s because there are a lot of families there and families-on-outings tend to meet all their own social needs internally so they don’t talk to strangers.

Next year, dammit, I’m going to borrow or rent some children for the Lumiere Festival – small enchanting children with wings and princess dresses. And they’re not going to play video games while I push them around in a stroller. They’re going to dance and catch fireflies in jars and talk to strangers.

I booked today off as annual leave, only to find out later that the roofers were coming today.

They arrived at 7:30 and busied themselves with all kinds of things like booming the shingles off the flatbed. I busied myself with taking a few pictures, learning a little roofing jargon (like ‘booming the shingles off the flatbed’) and being nice and friendly to the roofing crew so they’d like me and want to do a good job.

I know, that’s weird. It probably doesn’t even work that way. But they were being nice and friendly too, probably so I wouldn’t complain if they didn’t do a good job.

Before they could get started, we had a little conversation about where to park the trailer. It went like this:

Stephane: Can we park the trailer in your front yard? It would make things so much easier for us.

Me: Will it damage my lawn?

The Voice in My Head: OF COURSE IT WILL DAMAGE THE LAWN. REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED WHEN YOU LET THE MOVING TRUCK PARK ON THE LAWN?

Stephane: Oh no, it won’t damage your lawn. It might sink a little bit, but it’s not like you’d have two-foot-deep ruts in your lawn.

The Voice in My Head: SAY NO! SAY NO!

Me: Yes, if it will make things easier for you, you can park on the lawn.

Stephane: Thank you.

The Voice in My Head: ARGH!

Me: Shut up.

Stephane: Excuse me?

Me: Oh, nothing. I was just talking to myself.

Then they started to back the trailer up onto the lawn and one of the tires was on my neighbour’s lawn – it’s a row house, and the lawns are pretty narrow. So I told them they couldn’t do that, because deep down I knew the voice in my head was right, there would be damage, and I couldn’t let them damage my neighbour’s lawn. So they moved all the materials by hand from the middle of my lawn to the edge, and squeezed the whole trailer onto my little bit of lawn. (I should have asked them to park it on the goutweed, as part of my Invasive Weed Eradication Program.)

Then they got set up and climbed the ladder and the noise began. I could never handle living in the midst of renovations, because I get stressed by this kind of thing, even when it’s up on the roof and not in the house. I’d like to say I’m the kind of person who rolls up her sleeves and grabs a hammer, but the awful truth is I don’t even like it when other people do that kind of thing around me. At 10:30 I just couldn’t handle it anymore and I went to work. On my day off.

I got home around 4:45, hoping against hope that they’d be gone, but they weren’t. I went down to the basement and sat in a corner, rocking back and forth and mumbling to myself. (Okay, that’s not true, I’m not quite that bad. I went straight to my computer and played a nice soothing game of Scrabble.)

Finally, around 6:00 they left and I went out to see how it looked. Maybe it’s just me, but does my new roof look a little not-quite-right to you? Like it’s not lying flat in places? How’s a person supposed to be able to tell if they got a good roof job or not? Can you tell by looking, or do you just sit around and wait to see if it leaks?

Yesterday I emailed my sister Kerry and suggested we take her kids to the Lantern Festival – they’d love it and Arrow could wear her princess dress. She said the kids were with their dad this weekend, but she and Mom would come with me. But then at the last minute Mom cancelled, Kerry had no way into town and I had to go alone.

I took the #14 to the Rideau Centre. Elvis, the Elvis Impersonator, got on with some friends on Gladstone Street. Elvis is a man who fills all the space available to him – physically, socially, verbally, anyway he can. He had barbecued burgers for dinner, he forgot the garlic, he doesn’t want anything to do with one girlfriend because she hasn’t finished getting rid of her husband yet, there’s a 21-year-old girl after him. Yack yack yack. He couldn’t even yawn quietly. He’s one of these people that vocalizes his yawns: “eye eye eye eye – arrrhhh.” His friends barely said a word. They didn’t smile or feign interest or anything.

An 11-year-old boy with a basketball got on the bus near Bank Street. He admired Elvis’s tattoos. This earned us ALL a shirt-raising so we could enjoy ALL the tattoos. (I wasn’t fast enough with the camera, otherwise you would have to see it too.) Elvis announced he was going to have weight-loss surgery to get down to 160 pounds, and the tattooed dancing girls on his chest would look better then. Apparently those girls used to dance whenever Elvis rippled his pecs. Not so much anymore.

I got off the #14 at the Rideau Centre, and waited for the #7. While I waited a drunk woman unleashed a nasty screaming fit on whoever was on the other end of her cell phone. A man sitting on a wall told her to shut up. She handed the phone to her girlfriend and went over to the man and told him to go fuck himself. He told her to go fuck herself. She told him to go fuck himself. I started counting. Between the two of them, they shouted “Go fuck yourself” 34 times. Then she walked away, took her phone back from her friend and screamed “Go fuck yourself!” to the person she’d put on hold.

Then the #7 arrived. I got on, and sat near the front, in the first forward-facing seat. Right in front of me, in the sideways facing seats, was a family. The pretty little girl was wearing black jeans, a black t-shirt, a black baseball cap, and black wings. Wings! She was going to the Lumiere Festival. I smiled at her. She smiled at me.

The I looked at the little boy in the stroller. He was adorable. I smiled at him. He smiled at me. He looked familiar. I wondered if maybe he was famous – a child star or something. And the more I looked at him, the more familiar he looked. And then I started thinking how much he looked like my nephew, Max, only Max has a scuff on his nose. And finally that brain cell fired and I realized this was my nephew Max and his nose had healed and the little girl was my niece Arrow and the grownups were my former brother-in-law and the Other Woman.

I couldn’t really see my former brother-in-law, since the others were between us. The Other Woman looked very different from what I remembered: she was older and her hair wasn’t long and blonde anymore and her face was kind of chipmunky and she was pregnant. But I think she had recognized me all along, which made things a bit awkward once I finally figured out who they were. I didn’t feel awkward about not recognizing the grownups, but really, it shouldn’t have taken me five minutes to recognize my niece and nephew. I don’t see them often, mostly because Kerry lives in Chelsea and neither of us drives. But I did see them just last weekend. I’m just not that visual a person, and I often don’t recognize people out of context. But still.

Anyway, since I’d been sitting there treating them like cute strangers for the previous five minutes, I figured I better just keep doing that. Because, you know, it would be kind of weird to suddenly recognize them and start treating them like family. So that’s what I did.

The Parliament Hill Stray Cat Colony is my very favourite tourist attraction in Ottawa. I was up there yesterday at lunchtime, visiting the cats, raccoons, groundhogs, squirrels and horses.

This is Ike. He’s a 17-year-old horse who retired from the RCMP’s Musical Ride and now works as a tourist attraction on Parliament Hill. On the front page of today’s Citizen they said that due to some confusing controversy, the Mounties will no longer be riding horses on Parliament Hill. Instead, they’ll be riding them in a small pen over by the Stray Cat Colony, which is where I saw Ike yesterday.

As you can see, Ike has a maple leaf on his butt, and the Parliament Hill Stray Cat Colony has its very own blog.