Reykjavik: A Place I Didn’t Know I Loved Part One

Summer was coming to an end, and as usual, there was a sense of last-minute panic, especially when it came to traveling. This worry was based on the not so incorrect assumption that starting fall, things would start getting busy both work and life wise, so it was a final attempt to fit in a bit of fun and relaxation before the merciless routine kicked in again.

This year, since we both had passports, my son suggested to travel internationally instead of our local excursions to Whistler and Kelowna. He had his first taste of visiting London as part of a school trip, but the question for us was where to go? Places that were on my list were not ideal or it was just not the right time to visit them: Cuba was one of the places of interest; Universal Studios has been on our list for a while and would have to wait for a while longer, and so it boiled down to two potential candidates to the left and to the right of us respectively: Iceland and Japan.

The latter was a country that my son has been interested in ever since discovering anime; he had even learnt a bit of Japanese including some impressive reading skills. Iceland was my baby and has been for a long time; it was an item on my bucket list. How it got there I’m not too sure. I remember playing a board game in my youth where you could fly to Reykjavik so this desire may have perhaps unconsciously been planted and formed way back then.

So what to do when you have two conflicting choices? Ask Chat GPT of course! And it told me, taking into consideration my 17-year-old travel companion, it would recommend Japan as way more exciting for a younger mind. I think Chat GPT broke it down 70% to 30% so not a close call at all. Yet as I asked around by canvassing humans, everyone seemed to discourage traveling to Tokyo in August, including the travel agent I went to see. He added that Europe was equally a bad idea considering the heat waves and forest fires, so there was little left to work with. Plus, a Japanese friend gave a clear and unequivocal “no” to this plan.

But what about Iceland then, we asked ourselves. As the weather was mild, their summer tends to lack heat, and it was quasi and technically Europe, it became our destination of choice. I mean this is the birthplace of Bjork and Sigur Ros we are talking about, so it would be interesting to see how the landscapes may have influenced their music, which is unique and distinct from anything or anywhere else. The night before and the day of I decided to learn some basic phrases in Icelandic, just in case. It turns out that it was not necessary at all as almost everyone, except one guy (more on him later), spoke English fluently.

Security Check and Flight

No matter where I go, security checks are a source of worry and stress. This time, at least in Vancouver, there was nothing of note, except the agent telling me that my fly was open. Yeah, flying with your fly open is not something that was recommended but it was something that was easily remedied. In fact, I was grateful that this was pointed out to me sooner than later. We had a connecting flight in Calgary, and then it was straight to Keflavik, a place about an hour away from Reykjavik itself.

The arrival was not smooth. There was no gate, so we were told to descend from the plane and get on a shuttle bus. From there on, there was a lot of confusion and not enough information, but we ended up in a long line to enter the country. They did the biometric fingerprints and took our photos, and the border agent asked the reason for our trip. Tourism, I said.

“What places are you going to go to?” he wanted to know and all that came to mind was The Blue Lagoon, incidentally the one place I did not end up going to.

“How long are you staying in Iceland?” I responded, one week. Then he asked, if we had intentions of staying in Iceland. I was a bit surprised and taken aback by the question, but I said that I did not.

He then smiled and told us to pass through and enjoy our stay. Yet it took us another half an hour walking in circles, tired and jetlagged as we were while desperately trying to get outside, and for a moment I thought we had lined up again at the same spot to face another inquisitive border agent. Yet once outside, we followed the many tourists and took the bus that drove us to the Bus Terminal in Reykjavik and found our way into the downtown part.

 

First Impressions and Later Things of Note

We entered our first Icelandic café, a very nice and artsy place, which was right next to the National Art Gallery (but we did not know this yet), and after the initial shock of the price once converted into Canadian dollars in my head, I was thirsty and had a sip of water and almost fell off my chair! Damn, it was the best-tasting water I have ever had topping even the Swiss by a mile in that regard! I could not wait to get into our room and drink it nonstop from the faucet like a cherished and endless supply bottle of quality wine.

The people struck me as a bit reserved but friendly, and they would not give unsolicited help or advice, unless you asked for it, then they would do so freely. The city was beautiful. I loved the Tjornin lake and could not wait to take long walks there. The colorful houses were just as I had imagined or seen them depicted in pictures before the trip.

The food was also quite good, albeit incredibly expensive. It was twice, sometimes triple the prices I would see in Vancouver, but it tasted very good. On the first day, I saw this sign and knew that I would have to try Icelandic lamb burger sooner than later. This was in addition to their famed hot dog stall that you were supposed to order as “one with everything” and which included crispy onions as a delicious condiment.

The ice cream at Valdi’s was amazing. Just like the frog in boiling water, at that point, I was not too shocked to shell out a 1000 Krona, which all things considered with the new lens and framework of reality in place seemed like a good deal to me. Considering that fast-food cost almost triple that amount and that you got big portions of ice cream, it was certainly worth it. Mine was Kinder just in case you were curious to know.

The absolute necessity and lifeline for survival was the kitchen that our accommodation included. Strangely enough, there was no microwave in the unit, but the electric stovetop and basic kitchenware and cutlery made things slightly more affordable for us. Breakfasts were not on the house but rather made in the house: we ensured and were proud to confirm that we managed each day’s first meal at our new adopted abode. It was interesting because in my regular routine, I would always skip breakfast as part of my intermittent fasting regime but since I had my young travel companion with me, I had to adjust to his at least three meals per day schedule, which I did not mind in the least.

We found two supermarkets in our area. Our preferred option was Kronan, which would be the North American equivalent of Safeway. They had a good assortment of food and groceries, and I bought eggs, milk, cereal, pepperoni sticks, and burger patties to name a few items. The other store was called Bonus and that one did not look as polished and reminded me of the Canadian No Frills chain.

Their emblem was a large pink pig. I was tempted to buy their sweater as a souvenir but then I was not ready to hand over more than $ 50 CDN for an image of a pig, a reference that only Icelanders and people who have visited the country would get. Everyone else would be wondering why on Earth I was wearing a pig sweater as there was no other writing or information on it.

It was in that store that my son encountered the only non-English speaking individual in perhaps all of Reykjavik. We were inseparable throughout but, on that day, he ventured to the nearby store looking for some hairspray and had PIN issues with his credit card (technically it’s not his; he spends the money and I pay the bills) and he could not communicate with the clerk. It was fine in the end as he did get his hairspray and was able to pay in cash.

To be honest, I am a bit sad to see that cash is becoming obsolete all-around; there are even places that do not accept it in the first place. And with high denomination of bills and even higher costs, it felt like paper money had lost its value. All payments were contactless and I noticed that using my phone eliminated the need for adding my PIN, which I was not 100 percent sure of. Something that I was told before heading to Iceland and that Icelanders kept me reminding me of was the practice of paying in their local currency as opposed to in mine as you would be saving a bit of money in that transaction.

Final note and piece of advice on buying food: double-check the labels. Pretty much everyone does speak English, but the labels tend to be in Icelandic. Well, you can’t have it all now, can you? Although there were some similarities between English and German and I could make out some meanings, some of the other words looked and were indeed completely foreign to me. Do not buy items based on what they look or appear like! Right before consuming the patties, I was wondering if it was indeed beef and not fermented shark meat or ground bull testicles, so I did a Google translate and was relieved that it was indeed beef!

Less luck with what I assumed to be potato salad. It turned out to be coleslaw but with an Icelandic twist: it contained pineapple for some odd reason. I could not adjust to that and was not able to eat it. My son did not even attempt as I had already lost him at coleslaw. The second item was yoghurt. Now the milk, eggs, and ice-cream had been a great success, so I had even greater expectations for Icelandic yoghurt. And it tasted pretty good at first until the after taste kicked in. I thought maybe it was an anomaly and had another spoon, but the same thing happened.

I checked the translation and it turned out to be both sugar-free and lactose-free, and this is why I highly encourage to translate labels for your own safety and sanity. Except for sausages. Those were always and everywhere delicious and rumour has it there is lamb in it, but I do not wish to know the ingredients or the process of making sausages. I have been traumatized by a Simpson episode once and since then, I do accept and eat hot dogs without any need for additional information or details.

 

Sightseeing, Galleries and the One and Only Museum

We had the chance to see pretty much all of Reykjavik, at least the downtown part. It was not very big to begin with, and you could easily and conveniently get around on foot; they had two wonderful pedestrian zones, one of them the rainbow walk, which lead to their famous church, the Hallgrimskirkja that you can climb to the top.

Well, not sure you can climb it, but we took the elevator. The view of the city was quite impressive, and all this time, I was wondering about the architectural style and inspiration of the church. This was because I had recently partaken in a series of talks and debates on the link between philosophy and architecture in my beloved monthly philosopher’s café and was now slightly more aware of choices and differences in architectural designs.

Speaking of architecture, their convention centre Harpa was an amazing modern glass structure that was impressive to look at from both inside and outside. They had a Volcano Express activity that was a distant cousin to FlyOver, the flight simulation, except in this ride (if you can call it that) you get “dangerously close” to lava. You even feel the heat on your face and the seat does go up and down in often unexpected ways that made this 4D event quite memorable.

The Volcano Express was short – and yes, expensive – but I appreciated the videos and installations around it as they were not only educational vis-à-vis Iceland and their fascinating and often troubled history with volcanos but also showed us the sense of awe that Icelanders have regarding the power of nature. In a way, it feels like they are living on top or under a ticking time bomb and they are not necessarily afraid but accept and take it with a stoic Viking spirit (but which may also explain their particular interest and belief in elves!).

It so happened that Bjork had an exhibition called “Echolalia” in her hometown at the National Art Gallery. Or in fact, she had three separate exhibits. One of them was the amazing nine-part acapella piece entitled “Sorrowful Soil” that she composed right after her mother’s death and that she sang alongside a choir with 30 individual speakers emanating each single vocal track; they were all spread out in the gallery room as walls of sound. All the while, a video of Bjork was playing on the screen. It was certainly the most impressive installation there.

The other was a video made with the help of AI, something that my son disappointedly pointed out to me, and I was worried he would lose the respect he had been building up for this Icelandic iconoclast. AI or not, it was still quite good and unique, and she’s still keeping it real, at least musically and lyrically.

The third exhibit was just videos of her in a live concert given in Reykjavik interspersed with strange sounds and odd dance moves; some of them were very impressive. Yet the most memorable thing of them all was a sign that encouraged photography! I had never seen or experienced such a thing in an art gallery before. In Vancouver we have stuck personnel that does not let you breathe close to the paintings and artwork, let alone dare to snap a shot.

Their other gallery, The House of Collections, was also quite fun and entertaining. I know galleries are not really supposed to be that, but Icelanders not only appreciate their art, but they try their best and with success to make it interactive. We went to this gallery because access was included in the ticket I got, plus, anyone under 17 could enter for free, and that was music to my ears proving to me that we had planned this trip just at the right time.

The paintings and art exhibits were quite good and the floors were separated by themes of land and water, and the latter one had a rowing boat that you were again encouraged to use; it made splashing sounds and with the visual effects of waves projected on the walls around you, you really did feel at sea but without becoming seasick. And apart from daily walking, that was the only other exercise I did in that whole week.

The third museum was not included on the ticket, and we were hesitant to go there at first, and no, it was not just about the exorbitant ticket price but more due to its subject matter. In fact, I was adamant at not going there at first but reconsidered on the next day. I just did a thought experiment of going home and not having been to “the only penis museum in the world” and imagined how I would regret it on my deathbed saying with clenched teeth and a broken voice, if only I had been to the Icelandic phallocentric museum when I had the chance and opportunity in Reykjavik! Now I shall never know what it looks and feels like.

Well, I do know, and it was still shocking despite the mental preparation for it. It was also silly and surprisingly educational. Something like this could only occur in Iceland and although we were both traumatized, we do consider it worth a visit. One of the claims of fame was an authenticated cast of Jimi Hendrix’s member and I got to see it with my own eyes and cannot unsee it anymore.

And then, there’s Elmo – no, definitely not the one that you are thinking of! - and best for you to check out the bizarre but outstanding documentary entitled The Final Member. Watch it before you enter the museum and you will have an even greater appreciation of animal and human male anatomy.

The final comment I would like to make here is about the fashion and lifestyle in Reykjavik. The fashion was rather colorful and taken from the 60s or perhaps even more the 70s, especially when it came to the women. It did not look bad or anything, but it felt slightly odd and out of place for our era.

The second thing was the shocking popularity of e-scooters. Now they are popular around the world, I’m sure, but over there, people would dress up while being on it; a business suit or a fancy dress was not out of place for them and it was often accompanied by - no not a helmet - but a drink of sorts be it a bottle of beer or a glass of wine, champagne, or a mimosa. The other thing was how easily they would discard the scooter whenever they were done with it, and it would be left behind often in the middle of the sidewalk or at other more improbable spots like this one encountered before dawn in front of their trademark church.

 

Jung’s Different Stages of Life Plus Midlife Crisis as a Wake-up Call

So I recently stumbled (and that occurred via various detours, signposts, and coincidences) upon Jung’s essay on the different phases of life. Let me state though that neither Jung nor myself actually believe in coincidences, so this essay found its way to me at the right moment or rather at the right stage of my life.

More on this later but suffice to say that the essay is a more condensed and somewhat rudimentary version of psychodynamic development as it is lacking the fullness and detail of Erik Erikson’s explicit stages. Nonetheless, Jung’s approach has its own rather interesting flair with the focus being more on main themes of life as opposed to outlining specific conflicts and struggles within certain life periods.

From the get-go, Jung states his views on the differences, distinctions, and dynamic interplay between instinct and consciousness. Instinct is how we respond to events and our surroundings and it is set by nature. Yet it is consciousness that represents a different and perhaps more unique and individualized way of doing things. Jung contrasts consciousness from instinct and nature and equates it with culture, which represents moving away from both instinct and nature.

In that sense, culture as a form of growing consciousness is something that has refined itself over the many centuries and may even challenge natural processes or ways of doing things as it continues to evolve. Culture is richer and more sophisticated in thought, reflection, and action whereas nature is more passive, counts on reflexes, prefers routines and rituals and tends to be less progressive in outlook and philosophy.

None of this should be confused with society, which may confuse itself and others throughout the process. Society may aid but often tends to block and hinder consciousness. For instance, society prizes achievement as opposed to personality. Achievements tend to be things you do but does not really take into account who you are.

The latter occurs posthumously where personality would be acknowledged and recognized since achievements have now run their course. Such and such was a kind and wonderful person is heard more on funerals than in real-life situations. Hence, we can see that money, status, social standing and even family are not elements of culture but rather of instinct. They are driving us toward survival but less so towards growth and thriving.

Interestingly, Jung is not particularly interested in the first phase, namely that of childhood; no wonder because it is such a vital complex stage upon which there is already tons of excellent psychanalytic literature in existence. He also adds old age as a coda that he barely fleshes out except to say that it functions in the same vein as childhood. Both stages make us dependent upon others; in the case of children for bare survival and that can also be reflected in older age especially if there are deteriorating health conditions involved. Those phases tend to be more instinctual in outlook and lifestyle and more often than not mandated by necessity or biological parameters and determinants.

Hence, Jung’s principal focus is on the adjacent stages of young adulthood as well as midlife. This is mainly because of the previously mentioned distinguishing characteristics between instinct and consciousness. As instinct is our natural operating process, we do not need reflection or evaluation but act like reflexes according to our physical and mental needs.

We sleep when we are tired and eat when we are hungry. Generally speaking, this automatic status does not involve much thought or struggle; the child depends upon others to feed them and is dimly aware of any potential dangers and difficulties and does not have to make specific choices. In fact, they may not be aware of any other choices or alternatives.

In contrast, the youth becomes more aware of their surroundings and must begin to not only make decisions but also distinguish themselves from other beings; hence, the seed of individuation is planted within the individual’s psyche. It is this consciousness, which leads that person to reach their zenith; young adulthood may propel us on making it in the world, i.e. attaining success and social standing and of potentially taking care of a family.

As we can see the focus is on the outer world and material aspects are brought into the foreground. Money not personality is the factor that is highly correlated with success and distinguishes one person in society from another. This is part of the drive of the instinct and survival, which includes everything from money to social standing and even starting a family.

To reiterate, instinct is linked to nature, while consciousness is the stepping away from both instinct and nature and is more closely tied to culture. It becomes interesting that social values are often aligned with instinct and nature and not so much with consciousness at least not in their individual form and format.

Sadly, as Jung notes in his essay, personality is not encouraged nor celebrated enough during a lifetime; in fact, it is often underlined posthumously when people claim how such and such person was very good, responsible, or caring. During their lifetimes, we are a work of progress, and our personality plays second fiddle, and especially in our current climate a simple faux pas or a few misspoken words may quickly unravel a whole of life of dedication and moral fortitude like a house of cards.

With this in mind, we can now enter the meats and bones of Jung’s argument. Barring the first and the fourth and final phase, where we tend to be more limited and restrained in capacity and capability, young and middle adulthood are the most fruitful and productive stages of our lives.

In the former, we are making a name for ourselves, but we are also prioritizing certain aspects over others. The values of success gain dominance over those of personality. Certain wishes and desires are driven into the unconscious. For instance, childhood dreams may be ignored, and more importance is given to more practical solutions and outcomes. Becoming an artist, writer or filmmaker does not cut it and instead we look for more stable professions that guarantee a certain amount of income.

At the same time, we may make romantic choices more upon feasibility and suitability and less on love and passion. Any time we make a decision, it comes at the expense of something else, so it involves a certain kind of compromise or rupture, whether this is done consciously or unconsciously is up for debate. Incidentally, with decisions, we engage in a type of cision as we cut away all the surrounding potentials and end up with a certain piece that is concrete and rather limited in its form and scope.

Yet all the decisions we do not make, all the dreams we do not pursue continue to be lodged in our unconscious. This may be when we have everything we wished for, a family, a house, a car, a job with a stable income but something is definitely missing. And yet, we cannot put a finger upon our malaise except that something is off.

Most of the things we were striving for do not cut it for us. We still see value in them and appreciate them, but we also realize that it came at a cost. There are two options from here on. Middle age can be the time where we continue to ignore those nagging desires and continue and march on. This can then carry over into old age that is filled with regrets, resentment and a feeling or sense of missed opportunities.

Unfortunately, at that point, it may be too late to do anything. Jung even provides a French quote here: “Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait” to demonstrate the dilemma, if youth only knew and had the answers of our mature state and if only old age had the power and prowess to make it happen. And at that point, especially if you do not believe in an afterlife, you may come to believe that your life had little to no meaning and did not serve a purpose, and you might get the impression that your life has been wasted.

The other choice is to take action. In that case, what is known and referred as “midlife crisis” can propel us to initiate and even create some kind of transformation. It could be minor or major in its scope and outlook. This is when people drastically change their status quo for something entirely different and something that resonates more with their heart’s desire. It can be actively crossing off our bucket list or a reset to our lives, a new beginning, a new start and lease on life.

At that point, we may also care less about what others think, what society thinks of us or how a life should be lived, a time where we reject to a certain extent the plausible and real for a world that is filled with magic and dreams. Please note that this last part is more about me than Jung, but it is what his essay provokes and ignites in me.

Midlife crisis does not have to be a crisis but rather a message to our psyche that life is too precious to undergo and limit oneself to compromises and sacrifices. It is most important to ground and find oneself not by looking for outward recognition but by looking within and then to live not by the dictates of others, be it parents, loved ones, friends, society or even one’s community but living and thriving according to who you truly are, your very own core sense of being.

Remembrance of Joyful Times Past: The St. John’s College Experience

Last weekend, I had the pleasure of attending the SJC Alumni Celebration Weekend at my previous UBC residence. The place is St. John’s College and although it was wonderful to get to see and reminisce with fellow residents some of whom I had not seen in over two decades, there was a somber underlining to it all: We were about to say goodbye to this landmark building, and we had this three-day event to cherish and celebrate our experiences and to bid adieu to the place that houses many unforgettable memories for each of us.

I have spent two and a half years (I prolonged and extended my degree to as long as I could) and they were some of the happiest times of my life. Why, you may ask and the answer could fill up volumes of novelistic writing; in fact, it could even make for a miniseries, sitcom, soap opera, or telenovela (love, romance, marriage, heartbreak, infidelity, deception, all of which were not unheard of at the times) but my own simple answer is two-fold: first off, I loved studying and was studying what I loved (French literature) and then we had an amazing, buzzing, bubbling, and vibrant community.

There was no time for boredom. The community was fostered organically, that is we were forced to sit together and eat, that included breakfast in the mornings and dinners in the evenings. Breakfasts were a rather subdued undertaking. Not everyone would show up for different reasons; some would trickle in at different hours and when they did, they would not be necessarily in the mood for chatting or they would be hung over or half asleep. I myself would need at least a couple cups of coffee to barely function at that ungodly hour.

The dinners, however, were a whole different story. Everyone showed up at pretty much the same time hungry for food and for social interaction. We were excited to have finished the day of studying, reading, writing, or what-have-you and were there to chew the fat with our meals or share and listen to the latest gossip and anything else under the sun.

Most tables had various often recognizable voices reverberating through the community dining hall. It was always a joy to see and talk to familiar faces, but when that was not the case because you or your friends were late and the tables had already been taken, you did have the opportunity to meet and to talk to new people. Nothing unites people more than breaking bread together and sometimes, we also bonded over bad food. Certain items on the menu - something we were privy to at the beginning of each week - were not exactly among our favorites but that was fine and made us appreciate the good and tasty food items even more. 

For instance, on paella days – that distinct smell still haunts me to this day - I would suddenly turn vegetarian. It succeeded for a while but soon enough, the kitchen assistants grew suspicious, checked their lists, put two and two together and realized that this was not necessarily true. I was outed as an imposter: a non-vegetarian posing as one. You could of course miss the dinner and ask for vouchers but then again, you would not see your friends on that given evening. And that was not an option for me.

What I loved at the time was the list of contact information we were provided with on day one. It included all the names with their room numbers and phone numbers. At the time, we did not have cellphones (I’m carbon dating myself now) but it was wonderful to be able to call up anyone one wanted to see, or you had taken an interest in. No more awkward asking for phone numbers; we were supplied with them already.

In fact, there were visitors coming in and out at pretty much any time of the day. We had a revolving door policy. It was especially interesting to see and notice who walked out of whose room during night hours. I remember some of us getting caught in flagrante a few times crossing the courtyard at night where smokers would nod and acknowledge us with a grin and then share the intel with everyone at the next dinner event. Yet at least whatever happened at St. John’s did stay there. Not that it had anywhere else to go for that matter.

Yet I remember vividly the various events that enriched the whole experience. It was often ideas proposed by residents, but the office also had several interesting initiatives of their own. This ranged from regular speaker series where we had a chance to share our interests, research or otherwise and then there were informal language courses offered by residents for residents. As if that was not enough, we also had movie nights, hiking and sports events, choir, Improv, theater, coffee houses, and many more. There were some others after my stay and sadly I cannot comment upon them.

I very much enjoyed my Improv experience, and it was something that helped me with my teaching. It was instructive to be on your feet, be alert and respond quickly. Comedy is all about timing and through this experience, teaching was not just sharing knowledge and information but responding to different situations and questions more spontaneously and without overthinking. It is a theory I tried to develop as “framed spontaneity.”

And yes, it also made the class much more fun and me funnier in the class. And our Improv group performed a few times in front our own community, but we also did a show to welcome undergrads, and we each got a T-shirt for it as a token of appreciation. This was to date my only official payment for doing Improv and I hope that we did not scare off the new students at the event.

At SJC, I did delve into sports too but with varying success. We had a field hockey team that ended up being the worst in the league – this is not hyperbole, but we were literally dead last just like the Vancouver Canucks this year. I remember at one point asking the ref for the score and it took him half a minute to count all the goals we had accumulated against us. I immediately regretted wanted to know. We also brought in a contraband goalie, my brother, to help our chances and it ended up destroying his confidence for good. He never was a goalie after this, and I take full responsibility for this outcome.

Yet, we also had two volleyball teams: there were the Eagles and the Eaglets. One of them was in it for competition, the other one was in it to have fun. I was in the fun category of course. Losing did not faze us, and we shrugged it off skillfully (some might say masterfully), but we did have one memorable showdown against our own competitive team. And that night, against all odds and perhaps because it came upon the heels of a gala dinner night where wine made me less scared of the volleyball, we won against our fellow Johanneans.

Some of the players in the competitive team were upset and did not talk to me for a whole week but that remained such an unforgettable event for us. I remember celebrating with R. (more on her later) that same night. Moral lesson: Never lose hope because one day, you will beat those who are better than you.

Apart from scheduled and impromptu events – quite a memorable one would be the infamous room crawl, but memories are hazy on that account yet I remember it was a blast and we may or may not have ended up dancing and potentially stripping on the pool table and there may or may not be a photo of this somewhere - there was also the monthly gala dinner where we all dressed up semi-formally and formally ate delicious food with a copious amount of wine.

Many pictures were taken at those events. Again, we are talking about an era before cellphones and digital cameras so there was effort involved in getting the film developed etc. and they were snapshots of precious moments. As I was reviewing them, there were some names that have been forgotten but it was wonderful to have a chance to check with residents at the SJC celebration event and most of those names have been fortunately recovered.

There are some faces I will never forget. Apart from dear friends, there are also my more than half a dozen crushes (you probably know who you are). There were a few I had the fortune to date very briefly but most of them remained out of reach due to my shyness at the time. Some of them could have turned into something more lasting but in one case, let’s call her R., I was not at my best. From the get-go it was casual and was not meant to be serious; that said, I appreciated her very much, but I don’t think I showed it enough. As she said to me once, SJC was my world and I was so enmeshed in it that I could not perceive any other place outside of it.

I might have denied it at the moment, but she was absolutely right and hit the nail on the head. SJC was my go-to fairy tale place that blurred the lines with reality. To get me out of my cocoon, R. devised a wonderful adventure. I was supposed to leave the premises and all I needed to take with me was a toothbrush. I was given a note with clear instructions (again no cellphones), and I had to follow them to the letter. I did so and for a moment the world outside of my residence came into focus. But the moment we returned to SJC; I fell into my trance and slumber. I was both hopeful and terrified to see R. at this final reunion, but she did not make it.

It is still hard to imagine that the building will no longer stand. When I moved in, it was still new; now there were some natural misgivings. Aging may be good for wine and even certain people but as a rule, this does not apply to building structures. I was told nay warned that my hallway had a peculiar and strange smell around it and our current tour avoided it like the pest. But I could not resist and had to see it or rather smell it for myself. And yes, there was something funky that had not been there in the past.

As mentioned earlier, the event was a three-day affair that included a pizza reception on Friday evening, a gala dinner on Saturday and a brunch on Sunday. I signed up for all three but was considering skipping the brunch. When I arrived at SJC, I noticed my name tag was missing. I assured them and I assure you now that I did register and pay and felt a bit sad that they had not included my name there. However, as I looked through the tags, there were certain names that I recognized and was looking forward to talk to those fellow alumni soon. I got to use a makeshift one for oneself.

As I sat there, more and more familiar faces trickled in. Most of them looked very similar to how I remembered them, one of them, don’t ask me how, looked even younger than I remembered him – yes, I’m looking at you Kent! – and it was interesting to hear that among those that had kids, they tended to be of the same age as my son. This created an interesting common bonding experience, a sort of biological rhythm with people I had not talked to in two decades. It was also great to see what they were up to and to update them on my own exploits and adventures.

This was quite the event after all and I even met someone amazing who moved in after me but like me had gotten a good portion of her studies and readings done at Wreck Beach! Although she went to see the beach again, I'm still slated to do so sometime soon. 

I did not skip the brunch after all. Unlike the breakfasts, this one was well attended. We were encouraged to do graffiti on the building and off the record were told that we could scrape off our room number sign. Although there were still a few people residing at SJC, they might be confused but would not have issues finding their room without the attached number. Or so we were told. Well, I sure hope so because I could not resist to take this lasting souvenir with me as a physical reminder of a very precious time in my life.

The old building will be gone, and the clocktower will be no more, which served as a quintessential meeting place – “meet me at the clocktower” was a common and easily understood phrase that facilitated our meetings and get-togethers. And I want to thank everyone directly and indirectly associated with St. John’s College: Chef Clarence for feeding and taking care of us all over all those years (he is happily retired now), my fellow Johanneans from the past, the current ones and those yet to come, and each and everyone for making this vibrant community last and prosper since time immemorial and for a long time to come.