Life after midnight

The first of July has very special status in Quebec. It's Canada Day, but you'd never know it. Not unless you mistake abandoned furniture, parking impossibilities and U-Haul ubiquity for a party. I know I've mentioned it before, but not in a way that fully communicates the essence of a singular mass moving day in a city of 3 million.

I, fortunately, did not have to pack all my worldly belongings this year. For once, I've decided to continue my lease for a second year. The junkies, Urinators (yes, I capitalized the title intentionally as I suspect they are organized criminals), the Hippies (another malicious group aiming to drive me to insanity with pan flutes, mouth harps and bongos), and the party-time neighborhood have grown on me---like moss---soft, comfortable and strangely familiar.

Some good friends of mine, however, had to move from one end of town to the other. Since I have access to a car, we decided to make it a little adventure. The so-called adventure lasted until 3 a.m. By the time the move was done, it had become more like a night of the living dead.

The first load was fun. With the car full, my rear view blocked completely by a variety of objects threatening to impale me if I stopped too suddenly, my friend and I set out to settle into the better part of town. What really kept me going was Doug. He, an object of the move, sat perched on her lap and looked as safe and comfortable as an antique stuffed crow can. It was inspiring. Deader than dead, his spirit and ability to spook everyone who glanced in our direction was quite impressive.

If Doug can keep his cool after twenty years of thrift store existence and mediocre taxidermy, I can handle one night of hauling crap across the city.