Bound for Glory

* * *

It started with a phone call.  A birthday greeting from my friend V. 

V n’ me been through this ceremony many times before.  I met V in grammar school, roughly fifty years ago.  A friggin’ half-century ago!  Amazing to contemplate on many levels. 

Anyway, long story short, I was bemoaning the fact that the few friends left standing in my corner of the world weren’t all that enthused about burning midnight oil.  V asked: “Why not come to Toronto?”

Why not indeed? 

And so it came to pass that I had me a Toronto adventure...

 * * *

 

Tell your story

Roll the truth around your head

Bound for glory

I ain't getting out of this bed

The sun comes struggling on

Yesterday's dead and gone

Tell your story

Put the night back in your veins

Bound for glory

I ain't coming to again

The sun comes struggling on

Yesterday's dead and gone

And I feel I'm bound for glory

Dreaming in a cowboy song

I feel I'm bound for glory

Can you feel it?

Bound for glory!

Can you feel it?

Glory bound!

Can you feel it?

Bound for glory!

Tell your story

Roll the truth around your head

Bound for glory

I ain't getting out of this bed

The sun comes struggling on

Yesterday's dead and gone

And I feel I'm bound for glory

Dreaming in a cowboy song

I feel I'm bound for glory

Can you feel it?

Bound for glory!

Can you feel it?

Glory bound!

Can you feel it?

Bound for glory!

* * *

Some people believe that language is best taught by the “immersion method.”  I kinda get it.  If you want a lesson to stick, make the learning an intense experience. 

It came to pass that I just had me an “immersion method” experience.

I arrived in Toronto on Thursday afternoon.  V and I took off walking.  We walked for hours.  Wolfed down amazing tacos and cool beers at a nondescript street side taqueria.  Peeked into countless shops and galleries.  Paused to refresh at an open air cafe.  

We walked a lot.  Walked so much, in fact, that the tendons in my left foot self-destructed. 

Dined that evening at an upscale, white linen establishment.  Drank many glasses of fine wine.

Woke determined to experience an urban cycling adventure.  Had said adventure.  Loved it. 

Chicken grilled expertly.  More fine wines.  Subway ride to concert in the city.  Tedeschi Trucks Bands rocks my world.  Tendons in left foot screaming in agony.  Good vibes trump everything.

Next day: Stratford Festival.  Drive for hours to view a presentation of “Much Ado About Nothing” in the town of Stratford, a bucolic village situated on the banks of the (you guessed it...) Avon River.  What an amazing venue!  The Stratford Festival folks are celebrating their 60^th season!  Me?  I celebrated my first.

I was overwhelmed by heartache in the last act, as Benedick and Beatrice found their bliss.  It grieved me that I had not had the presence of mind to treat my parents to a holiday in Stratford decades ago.  My parents, you see, fell in love while playing the roles of Romeo and Juliet in the Lithuanian National Theater.  They would have loved the Stratford Festival. 

Grilled steaks.  And by grilled I mean grilled to perfection.  Fine wines.  Room filled with music and good conversation.

Wake to adventure.  Haul the bikes through the subway stations.  Two graying gits acting giddy.  Cycling for hours through hidden Edens and intriguing cityscapes.

And...well...yeah...there was a spill.  A consequence of carelessness.  Got no complaints, though.  Saw a lot.  Experienced a lot.  Learned a lot. 

Loved it all.

Another white linen experience.  Fine food.  Fine wine.  Fine day.  Fine friendship.

All good.

Beyond good.

Truly fine.

Came home one day early.

Didn’t think I could survive another day.

* * *