chocolate for breakfast

O Saskatoon. I’m not over you.

It’s so nearly time to move on and I’m not done.

I don’t have a low-wattage level of experiencing things. It’s all or nothing, crave or shun, love or despair. Here it’s most definitely all, crave, and love, love, love. I can’t just stroll around the city; it has to be both sides of the river, every bridge in both directions, walk walk walk, from the top of town to Lakeridge and back. I can't scratch the surface; I have to jump in with both feet and get kind of dishevelled and dirty and exhausted and exhilerated. Who could want to be a person who experiences things at a middling, it’s-okay-I-guess level, really? – but this is difficult to sustain without getting a bit overtired and nerve-raw and bright-eyed and breathy.

When this was my home, I ran into another expat Brit and we fell to discussing the fortuitous accidents that brought us here. He leaned in close and whispered, "if the rest of England knew about this place, we'd never get any peace". Someone should pass on our details to the tourist board. We'll be their happy-immigrant poster.

I’d like to say I saw everyone, but I didn’t. I did see almost everyone, breaking bread with divine divas, drawing soul-food from my incredibly diverse non-family family, hanging on the words of the people whose loveliness weakens my knees even more after a year of non-exposure (the fainting couch? Very handy, thank you). I feel as if I’ve had chocolate for breakfast every day for two weeks.

There’ll be tears before bedtime, but it’s worth it.