After pouring over the latest issue of US Weekly last night, which featured a juicy foray into Leo Dicaprio's impressive wooing of Blake Lively on the French Riviera, I awoke this morning to an overwhelming desire for something fabulous with which to start my day. The only difficulty being -- where in Edmonton can one breakfast that in any way compares to one of the lovely cafes sur mer frequented by the likes of Hollywood royalty? Only one cafe in E-town comes close to creating the vibe I was craving, so I elected to indulge Italian-style at Leva, a charming spot on the university campus that boasts ingredients sourced from the land of lovers and prices just as decadent.
The mocha was molto bene (for $6.25, I would hope so), but I've had equally satisfying for a couple bills less -- and my view was of a pot-holed road littered with frat houses, rather than the turquoise waters Blake and Leo enjoyed. Alas, as I am not strolling the boardwalk in Nice this morning, I must accept my lot in life and appreciate I have options other than Edmonton's finest collection of Tim Horton's. And if I care for a walk along the water, the mosquito-strewn Saskatchewan River's alluringly brown waters invite me.
My husband tells me he has lately grown past the point of irritation over my complaints of where he has brought us to make our lives for the duration of his residency. For a moment, I consider being kinder to the place I have been forced to currently call home until I look out the window of the cafe and am confronted with a group of empty-headed protesters, smiles painted on, carrying a giant cross, parading up and down the sidewalk wearing "pro-life" t-shirts -- and my momentary consideration dissipates. At least we had a booming pride parade over the weekend -- progress.
Having lived most of my life in Vancouver, this morning feels as if it has played out like some sick, twisted narrative someone else is writing for me, laughing, as they imagine what they will throw in my path next. Whomever is writing my story -- I know my acquiescence to move here stripped me of my own creative license for the time being -- was, however, kind (in part) to me this past weekend. My heart heavy with domestic discord, I let my time at the studio lift my spirits. Fortunately, I was teaching doubles both Saturday and Sunday, so I had a healthy dose of yoga family comfort. It never fails to amaze me how, no matter the emotional burden with which I enter the hot room, spending 90 minutes feeding off the kind of positive energy I've rarely witnessed elsewhere, helps chase away the baddies -- if only for a few hours, it's always appreciated. Interesting how the "torture chamber" quickly becomes a great escape.
A life well-lived is incomplete without escape -- reprieve from anything too responsible or dull. I'm still seeking an outlet for my artistic passions. I want to dance like everyone is watching, which I can only do in a professional school; until I can open my own, and because Edmonton's options in this respect are (for a city that boasts its support of the arts) inadequate, I'll have to settle for putting it down at the bar like no one's watching with a few like-minded girlfriends.
Most of the time, however, being the mother of a pint-sized princess doesn't allow for much exploration of Edmonton's nightlife. Some highlights from the past couple of nights include: Maya falling asleep before 10 pm two nights in a row -- major score -- and spending an hour perusing the aisles of (another taste of Europe) the Italian Centre, carefully selecting ingredients to craft our always-stellar homemade pizza. I also brought home a decent flour-less chocolate torte and made margaritas with fresh-squeezed limes and honey, which only I enjoyed because everyone knows I'm the fun one.
So, I've managed to experience a little piece of India, Italy, Mexico -- oh and how could I forgot -- a moment in one of the more conservative, intensely religious southern United States, all in the little town that (while most of the time hits and misses) at least endeavours to impress.
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