Why am I thinking of Ottawa in the seventies?
The French Quarter: a night club, ringing with jazz that future generations would find only on vinyl; a second-story balcony from where I gazed through the lace of elder trees onto a sidewalk show of possibilities; the face of a young man with dark, mischievous eyes.
Canada was wild in the early seventies. I had just hitchhiked from Victoria, a five day trek that included a Cadillac, a Volkswagen bus and a hop on a freight train between bum-fuck, Ontario to the slag-land of Sudbury. We made it to Ottawa at midnight. It was endless summer; the scent of cleome and roses floated on a breeze of silk.
I can smell them now, the flowers of before; I can feel that satin breeze on my aged Portland skin. A vignette from time.