Ahh, Monkeytown!

The train arrives in Moncton around noon. A boy waits on the platform with a bouquet of flowers hovering by his side. He fidgets a little, bites his lip, excited or nervous to greet his traveller.

Our bags don't take as long as they might -- there is a lot of baggage on this train, an increase in travellers by rail and bus it seems, with gas prices being so high. We grab a cab to the UdeM residence . . . where writers and poets and all forms of starving artists eventually come to roost. There is some laughable confusion at the front desk, two nights for one, one night for two.

A quick lay-over and we're off to get paparazzi wedding shots processed. Headed downtown. I want to walk on the bicycle path . . . the cyclist thinks it's not a good idea, advises me of risks . . . I don't see any cyclists, like taking risks . . . can't sue if I'm in the wrong, move to the soft shoulder. On the bridge I start to feel weak, a little faint, that feeling I get on bridges over highways sometimes, like I'm going to jump and I won't be able to stop myself. I move to the outside away from the railing, just in case. I don't like walking on some bridges. Others are okay. This one is not okay.

A crazy man stands in the trees reading, spots us and comes our way ranting in French, waving his book. He is a little frightening, maybe more so if I knew what he's saying, and I wonder again at all the truly mad people who seem to be loose on the streets of Moncton these days. I follow the navigator on blind trust because I don't recognise these streets, am not familiar enough with this part of the city to know where I am. He has a map he consults occasionally, gives no outward appearance that we may be lost. And we are not lost. Thar she blows! The great green roof of Stupor Store.

Film is deposited for one hour. Thief detectors buzz our arrival and departure. We decide on cheap stupor deli rather than heavier restaurant fare. I need juice and water. I'm dehydrated. My third breast is not as delectable as I imagine the other two, rather dry, still I enjoy a little before discarding. Time to kill before photos are ready. We walk to the Chateau hotel, the one with the jumper awhile ago. Cross the parking lot, ogling Harleys all the way. Walk into the middle of another bridge. This is a good bridge. I like this one. "I should move to Moncton." The water in the Chocolate River is an insane swirl of tide movement, funnels sucking things under, ducks taking the express route. It's an awesome force, scary. People pass on bicyles, on foot, walking their dogs . . . but nobody else stops to witness today.

Time's up and we're off for the pics. Branded thieves again by alarms, but everyone just laughs. I think, what a great opportunity to really slip something into my purse. I eye dvds I know I mustn't buy, but should I steal? We leave and try to get run over in various parking lots as we scan pictures and walk toward the downtown. Can we sue if we get hit in parking lot? Who's wrong is that? Great shots of Jar coming right at the camera. The bride is beautifully soft with her father in tow. The Underhill circle has never been captured, let alone in such a revealing way. The reflection of me in the train window is better than the physical being. Which one is really me? Sometimes I feel like I live in glass, like I am but a mere reflection of something else I can't comprehend. Nice pictures all around. I'm pleased.

Much time to kill before poetry as we amble up Main Street toward Felix. "Well, what are we going to do now?" I ask. And God answers with sirens. Many loud sirens blaring by the Rodd Parkhouse. Not one police, not one ambulance, not one search and rescue vehicle -- but many. We stop on the corner and turn, shading our eyes against the sun trying to see what's happening. It's too far away. A helicopter hovers over the river. The Chocolate River with the swirling wicked tide. "Oh my God! Do you think someone fell in?" Flashing lights come into view as the sirens approach. We wait for the answer . . . and then we hear it . . . the unmistakeable roar of a thousand Harleys! It's a Hog Rally! Joe can't get the camera out fast enough. It is incredible! Bikes from all over the States and Canada passing our corner, waving to us. A sea of motorcycle leather. Beautiful paint jobs in sienna, plum, topaz and more. Absolutely amazing and I can't believe our good luck. "I should move to Moncton!" Right place, right time. No easy rider handlebars. But it's all good.

We take our high spirits to the Pumphouse brewery and enjoy an afternoon of drinks on the patio ("I really should move to Moncton.") before heading to Felix for dinner and poetry. It's difficult to focus on poetry with Hogs running freely in the downtown. Some readers don't speak loudly enough. Others are flamboyantly overbearing. And still others are just a little . . . mad scientist-like? Joe reads poems that make me laugh out loud . . . though nobody else appears to get the joke . . . why is that? It's funny, right? Apologies for being made into a mystery woman are brushed off. I really don't care. Prefer the witness protection program over full-identification any day. I don't need any unsolicited PR . . . yet. Dinner is pork loin with apple/cranberry chutney and WAY too much rice . . . apparently pilaf, but not very impressive. I keep ordering disappointing rice dishes everywhere I go. I need to embrace potatoes again I think. I drink much wine, again. Am exhausted. Could maybe suck it up for downtown bar time if prompted, (Maybe, I should move to Moncton.") but really would rather have quiet time.

A poet delivers us to the dorm, where we load up on supplies and head out for a campus stroll. Another poet from Felix claims things have been stolen from his room. First only adapter for computer. Then camera and computer itself. Everytime he leaves and returns, something else is stolen. He is WAY worked up. WAY! Too worked up to be rational, we think, something else is going on, he's been going into different rooms or putting things away without realising it . . . there's got to be a rational explanation. We find a gazebo at the edge of campus overlooking the highway and buildings in the distance. In the darkness it is an amazing view. And a dry place out of the scattered rain. I drink another half-bottle of wine and wonder why I'm so wobbly on the walk back. Do I stumble? I think so. But I don't fall. Weebles wobble . . . I'm asleep before the light is turned out, dead to the world until morning. I hear nothing. See nothing. Dream nothing. And it's fabulous!