There’s a big bar in Toronto’s east end. I avoided it for a long time because it’s big and noisy. But it’s also fun and it’s where I befriended a young waitress there. Or more accurately, she befriended me.
When I came back to Canada in April 2009 from seven months in Southeast Asia, you can imagine the culture shock. You lads and ladies living in Thailand, I know, are sitting there shaking your heads knowingly. And probably wondered whether I needed my head examined for returning home. There’s this common activity in the west called work. Good, paid work. Anyway, you know the rest.
I was okay for the first couple of months, kind of languishing in the cooler temps and comfortable familiarity of home. Hey, I can read ALL the signs! WooHoo! I can actually talk with a store owner. The prices are fixed (yeah, fixed waaaaay too high . . . ). Service at retailers is okay, but I have limited experience interacting with store clerks because I dislike shopping. Intensely.
I have a lot of customer experience in bars, however. One place I had been going to was just turning into the pits. Two fellow travellers to Southeast Asia and I often met there. We have honed and polished our reactions to poor service and wrong orders in a far off place that doesn’t reward good service. We can put up with anything. Except we met our limit. Waitress arrives at table, glances at us and looks away, possibly because she’s seen something more interesting on the sidewalk, like a garbage truck, other than us paying/tipping customers. She takes the order and doesn’t say a thing. She doesn’t reappear for 10 minutes. She’s chatting with a girlfriend By the way, this blonde cutie is a knockout. If there’s a beauty pageant for small packages, she’d be a top-fiver.
After several episodes of this plus some other pretty dismissive, disrespectful behaviour, we’d had enough. Not to mention a growing trend toward short pours. In this one place anyway.
Now, where to go? Too many places have corporate entities controlling them and the service is based on pattern repetition. All the staff say the same thing when you enter, when you order, when you get the drink, when you pay up and when you leave. Gag inducing. Like when you go to a Starbucks in Bangkok. The gal or guy making the cafe mocha says the same thing the gal or guy says in Toronto or New York or San Francisco or London. “How’s your day?” “What are you doing today?” Or something very similar. Buffalo cakes!
I started going to the loud, raucous neighbourhood place. Often. There were some pretty nice girls working there and one seemed to take a liking to me. She started occasionally sitting with me when it wasn’t busy.
This went on for several months. Needless to say, that made it a very pleasurable place to go.
Now I’m starting to grow fonder of my hometown. Finally found a place where a 50-something guy isn’t someone to avoid, never mind talk to. The girls working there are extremely nice and always have a hello and smile. Good for the soul. Oh no, I’m starting to weaken. Yes, My Blonde Friend is starting to wear away my cynicism and penetrate a manner that might be described as "occupied."
For some time, I remained neutral, shall we say. Some of that could be, while she would always stop off and chat a moment, and sit with me, even do up her cutlery tasks, she never asked me how I was or what I was doing or what I did. She was happy to talk about herself. I started to be a little disappointed. Then one evening she told me about writing something on her specialty, for which she was just awarded her master’s degree. I offered to read it for her since editing is my profession. She was keen to let me see it.
On Halloween, the place was packed. She was in the bar with her friends. I bought them a round of drinks. My Blonde Friend bought me one in return. She came over and put her arms around me and posed for a picture taken by a friend. She wanted a copy and said I would, only maybe the following week when . . . and she filled in my words . . . she’d be sober. We had a laugh. She was thoroughly great company.
A few nights later and it’s back to the bar on a Monday, as I usually do. I sat off in a corner, working on some notes for a piece I was planning. Eventually, I signalled her over and said I had the picture she wanted. When I came in she was sweet and apologized for being so hammered on Halloween. What? Nothing to apologize for.
Long conversation cut short, I asked: “Do you want me to send the picture?”
She starts walking away. “What do I need a picture of me for?”Dismissed. No graceful exit. Like a simple thanks for the offer.
In summary, MBF reminds me of a type: a gal who sits on the side of a swimming pool, still dressed with her swim suit on underneath. She dangles her feet in the water but never goes in. It’s a type that is very common in the west.
I have to admit I actually had moments when I asked myself, “Is life so bad here I couldn’t find some happiness if someone liked me enough?” After the MBF episode, I hardly needed another reminder about the poor state of in male-female relations in the west. I think the answer is a resounding “no.” Never mind the state of civility and graciousness.
All in all, I still like her and she's a very nice person.
But I am really looking forward to returning to Thailand in five weeks!
[Original item edited because it was too long and boring.]
