this morning, i finally meet my airbnb host. a short interaction, but very interesting – we talk politics and hockey. my host is pretty pumped because the conservatives have just lost in alberta and the flames are still in the playoffs.
meanwhile i am very hungover. the night before is less than clear: i know i drank copious amounts, starting with a stout along with lobster lunch at the waterside warehouse, and then, in order, the halifax alehouse, argyle street pub, the loose cannon, the bitter end, the loose cannon again, the neptune theatre (having been convinced to go there by the chief mic technician i met at the loose cannon, who recommended i go watch his production of the addams family), the loose cannon, and then a pizza joint along spring garden road.
my host cannot hide his amusement.
‘and where else have you been around halifax, i mean, apart from the pubs and the theatre?’
‘uh, the citadel?’
‘is it open yet?’
‘nope. but it’s so much less crowded. you can walk around the ramparts without pushing an old lady to her death, or something. plus the honor guard and the artillery crew are practicising their parade motions. that’s pretty neat.’
‘true. in summer at twelve they fire the cannons. 10 years living in downtown halifax and i’m still not used to it.’
at this point i neglect to mention my one abiding thought from the citadel, which was that since the cannons are facing scotiabank, the province could just blow the roof off the scotiabank building in a demonstration of postmodern financial regulation.
‘and i tried to get into the old burying grounds because i wanted to take a picture of the grave of that general who burned the white house down, but the burying grounds are locked.’
‘ah. you know what happens in summer?’ he shakes his head. ‘people look for the graves of the titanic victims. especially jack dawson. people go there to take selfies with the headstone. imagine what he’d be thinking. i’m not fucking leonardo dicaprio. or something like that.’
‘true. you know, i just wish i could spend more time here. halifax is such a beautiful place.’
‘yeah, it’s a pity.’
my host stands up to leave – a high school teacher headed out for work, looking like a high class sort of hippie.
he shakes my hand. ‘halifax,’ he says, ‘is the lovechild of boston and brooklyn.’