More Thunder!

I'm not sure what the occasion was--Canada Day, perhaps?--but they exploded fireworks over the harbour this evening. I was pursuing my dorky little evening, adding Spanish moss to the trees of the zombie forest and listening to La Sonnambula, when the first one went off behind the Pacific Press building. I dropped everything, of course, and rushed out to the solarium for a better look. The press tower was in the way, but I still got quite an eyeful. There were--oh, it was spectacular! It was a bit like one might imagine the last few moments before dying: a world fading rapidly to black, reduced to smoky shapes and showers of neural sparks. Ragged clouds of smoke trailed across the sky, illuminated, by turns, in green and blue and red. Little soaring rockets gleamed and then detonated, cascading earthward in fountains of gold. (Not, one might note, golden showers. Ha, ha.) Flocks of panicked packbawkies flapped, shrieking, between the skyscrapers. I grinned and clapped my hands. Someone in the glass elevator across the street pointed me out to a companion. I stuck out my tongue, hoping the rude gesture was visible from that distance.

The elevator passed, and I returned my attention to the sky. Enormous globes of light sailed gracefully through the smoke, reminding me of diamonds. A burning smell crept up my nostrils. Stella shifted nervously in her cage, not liking the snapping and banging. Down by the water, spectators went wild--dozens, maybe hundreds of them, all applauding at once. Whistles and hoots echoed through the night.

Words--my words, at any rate--can't do the fireworks justice, unfortunately. They were really exciting, is the best I can do, certainly the most brilliant thing that's happened to me in ages. I didn't even get to see them properly, what with the buildings in the way, and all, and I was still completely bowled over. The cheers and shouts of the crowd by the harbour added to the thrill. Enthusiasm is one of those things which only grows when shared. (I was up in my tower, of course, and the cheering folks were several stones' throw away, but I felt like I was down there, nudging and elbowing for the optimal viewing position. The gleeful voices infected my brain, egging me on as I climbed up on a box for a better look.)

All too soon, the show was over. The crowd dispersed into the streets. Stella went back to sleep. I got down off my box, careful not to stub my toes. I wished I'd had a camera, then remembered the way photos of fireworks never quite capture their glory. It's the movement that makes them exciting, and the crackling, and the blinky wee sparkling bits. You just don't get that in a photograph. The falling sparks turn into coloured streaks, and the trails of smoke vanish in the blackness behind.

I was in Québec City some years ago, having a bite under a monument to General Montcalm. It was a few minutes past noon, perhaps, at the height of summer. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. I'd just come from an exhaustive (and exhausting) tour of the Hôtel du Parlement, and wanted to rest up before returning to my hotel, which was conveniently poised atop an enormous bluff. I leaned on Montcalm's foot, enjoying my sarnie and gazing reflectively at nothing in particular. All of a sudden, I heard a crackling of gunpowder from on high. Looking up, I saw a scattering of twinkling lights, a solitary firework. I waited, all hopeful, to see if there'd be any more, but that was all. I wondered who'd set it off, and why, and if they'd got in trouble. Then, a seven-foot man walked by, and I dropped my sandwich, overcome with astonishment. Two small marvels at once were more than I could stand, apparently.

At any rate, before I lost my sandwich in the dust, and before the tall fellow walked by, I tried to snap the firework. Well, I did snap it, but the results weren't quite what I'd hoped. When the shots came back from the drugstore, the little marvel of glitters and smoke had been reduced to an ugly cloud, reminiscent of swarming midges. My disappointment knew no bounds. Of all the photos on my roll, I'd been looking forward to that one most. I mean, you can get a picture of the Château Frontenac or the boardwalk anywhere. Every postcard shop in the province carries dozens. It's not every day there's a firework over Montcalm at noon, on the other hand. His ghost, haunting the handsome statue, probably thought the war had started up again, and reached for its musket (or whatever they used to kill folks in his day).

Québec City--now, there was a perfect vacation spot: luxurious hotels, museums and monuments everywhere, and restaurants serving the most unabashedly fattening fare. I ate snails in garlic sauce every night, which came still in their shells, so one had to scoop them out with a silly little fork. I was too young to have wine, so I washed them down with coffee instead. After the snails, there was meat of some sort, and steamed vegetables, and a series of improbable desserts no-one ever ate more than a bite of. (After snails and beef, who's got room for cake?)

I took home, of all things, a set of kinetic balls as a souvenir. You know the ones--they're tied into a little silver frame on thin strings, and if you drop the one on the left, the one at the right jumps up. I'd wanted a set for years.

I should still be working, though, and here I am rambling on about some half-forgotten vacation. Off with me!