“Have you ever been to the Cathedral Forest on Vancouver Island? It’s really sumthin’, let me tell ya. The trees are some kinda mutants, they grow larger than anywhere, a thing’a real beauty.”
The singer, Lennie Gallant, had a reverence in his voice as he spoke, something that made me listen a bit more carefully.
“They’ve grown there for hundreds of years. Human lives are a blip to them. They could tell us so much about what the world is really like, about what life on this planet is supposed to be. They’ve withstood fires, storms, winds, stone, and man. They’re built to survive, and they give life back to the world. Now they are facing their greatest challenge yet. Let’s see if they can withstand Donald Trump.”
The crowd of mostly Canadians tittered and groaned at the joke that wasn’t a joke, and it gave me a taste of how they must view America and the way it is hitting the news. I had to laugh right along with them.
And then Gallant started to sing. He sang of sequoias. There was a reverence in his voice, a mysticism, an abiding respect. In the chorus, he sang the word ‘Se-QUIO-a’ over and over and it sent chills down my spine. I closed my eyes and felt goosebumps on my skin.
The entire evening had been magical so far. The show, called the Argyle Street Kitchen Party, was sold out, but I’d walked in and asked for a ticket for 1 and they worked me in to a seat on the stage. Literally on the stage. I was seated with about 12 other audience members behind the band as they performed for the crowd, all of them facing me. The stage was set up to look like a comfortably home kitchen, with haphazard and poorly upholstered chairs, a kitchen table, a fridge, shelving, and linoleum floor. It was… adorable.
Four performers sang through most of the show, all of them from north-eastern Canada (Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick), all of them insanely talented musicians, performers, and songwriters. Ian Sherwood, Celia Koughan, Malia Rogers, and Karen Lizottle. They played fiddles, hand drums, tambourines, piano, guitars, and a saxophone. They clogged and danced. They harmonized. They cracked regional jokes that I didn’t understand but the audience laughed at. I clapped in rhythm, sang harmonies, stomped my foot, and clapped my hand against my leg. It was amazing.
The evening was spent listening to slow jazz, blues, bluegrass, and folk songs of the region, some classics and some original. And I’d never heard a single one, but the entire crowd chimed in on many of the choruses. I didn’t speak to anyone really, but I felt completely one with them.
It was the perfect end to an incredible day, one where I’d spent a lot of time searching my soul while walking through the new city. My walk covered shops and shopping, enormous public parks full of flowers, and beautiful shoreline.
In my head, I resisted the urge to compare communities like this in Canada to similar ones in the United States. I said in a Facebook post that Canada feels like America without all the arrogance. And I meant it. People are more polite here, in my experience. They is a much greater effort at inclusion and understanding. Canada has similar dark parts to their history, but there is a lot of work at owning that history. For example, just tonight, in the very theater I was in, there had been an opening announcement about how this land had originally been owned by the First Nations people in Canada; with a few words, they mentioned local tribes by name and told the audience where to learn more. As I walked the streets, there was a sense of safety as I looked over people from all different backgrounds and lives. There were Pride flags and rainbow crosswalks everywhere. It was charming, inclusive, accepting. I felt safe here. The sense of xenophobia, that undercurrent of gloom and doom that exists in America these days, seemed to be missing. The world here feels hopeful, not like it is slowly going to hell. (SeQUIOa).
I ended the night at a local gay club, bizarrely called Menz and Mollyz. A drag queen with a name like Sharon Shenanigans did an I Love Lucy routine. A DJ in his 60s blasted old hits from the 90s and early 2000s (I actually danced to Karma Chameleon) as a small crowd of men and women danced. It was after midnight (still only 9 pm back home) and I danced my ass off while sober, interacting with the crowd, getting hit on and loving the attention. I was exhausted and my heart was full.
And then it was back to the Airbnb with the open windows and the ocean breeze and the quiet. I needed this trip. I needed it.