Times have changed, and times are strange/Here I come/But I ain’t the same/Mama, I’m coming home . . .
Monday, September 2, 2024: It’s beautiful but chilly last morning in Rouyn-Noranda. The temperature has dropped into the low 40s. Many of us are dressed for late fall, despite the fact that just a few hours south of us, it’s still summer.
I’ve already been up a few hours, downing a mediocre breakfast buffet and drinking several cups of coffee with all of my stuff together. I’ve essentially checked out of my room. For the first hour or so, it’s library quiet until a couple of my festival friends come down for breakfast and coffee. I’m throbbing and thrumming in pain. But man, I had fun. About a day or two before, a friend asked me how the trip was going. My response “It has simultaneously been a frustrating, lonely, wildly stupid, hilarious fever dream.” Sure everything hurts. And sure, I almost lost a memory card wallet. I also almost lost my passport. But I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Goodness, the people and the stories alone were worth every single second.
The Anglophone Canadian publicist stops by the hotel. We chat, hug and laugh. He and a crew of folks are making the seven hour drive down to Montréal and they’re picking up a fellow journalist for the drive. The publicist, a proper Brighton lad is bitterly joking about how this journalist, who is also a good friend, is always late. It seems like a very funny, yet very familiar routine. The publicist also says goodbye to a few other folks, he didn’t get a chance to the night before. The journalist finally comes down, rolling his eyes at his friend.
The van comes a few moments later. There’s some confusion. Do we all fit in the van? Can we all fit our stuff in the van? We quickly become real-life Tetris masters. “Put your suitcase on top of that one,” one says. “Put that duffle bag in the front,” another says. And so on. We then all pile into the van — with me groaning in discomfort.
We ride to the airport in silence. One person is busily responding to emails on his phone. A few of us are posting on Instagram. Most of us are looking at the window, lost in our thoughts. I’m reminded of countless towns I’ve driven through or somehow wandered around in North Central New York State. Places like Broome, Jordanville, Herkimer, Ilion, New Baltimore, Troy and on and on and on. . . .
We get to the airport and go through security. Someone forgot their laptop. A few folks quizzically look through their backpacks with expressions that seem to say “I hope I’m not that dummy, who forgot their laptop.” An industry pal of mine, starts to do the same. I tell him, “I saw you put your laptop in your backpack.”
It turns out that it was a new Queens-born-and-raised festival friend, who forgot her laptop. Some of us burst out in relieved laughter.
When the plane arrives, we’re all aware that a wild adventure is coming to an end. We’ll disperse with the hope that we’ll reunite for FME 2025. I certainly hope so.
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From the sky, Québec is breathtaking. La belle province, “the beautiful province,” indeed. Je t’aime Québec. Au revoir.
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