Home again home again jiggity jig. Right now I am of course sitting in the swivel armchair in the kitchen where I spend much of my time. Sometimes it feels like my bum is glued to this chair. Perhaps that’s why I travel — to briefly force myself to unstick.

It is good to be home, although I miss the ocean breezes and forests and all those dear friends. What a glorious trip it was. I couldn’t say this until the end but … nothing went wrong. I did feel under the weather at Chris’s and was afraid a bug would upend my plans, but it didn’t, and that was it, all went according to plan, and for once, the plan — where to go and for how long — was perfect.

The only problem: I brought too much clothing for heat and not enough for cool ocean breezes. Chris gave me a hoody which saved the day, and I bought a pair of lightweight hiking pants which are so great for travelling, I now wear them all the time in the big bad city and will wear them for hiking in Paris next time I go.

My last morning, I was in the kitchen listening while David did a Zoom interview with the New York Times. He and Tara are doing their play, What You Won’t Do for Love, at the Lincoln Centre in October. David spoke with his usual passion and eloquence about the climate crisis we’re suicidally determined to ignore. Hard to believe he still cares as much as ever, given the insanity happening in our world. But as he says, he wants to leave it a better place for all our grandchildren. And we could not be more grateful to him, and to Tara, for their efforts.

Tara drove me to the ferry. What a good friend she is, a wonderful woman, I adore her. It was hard to leave their paradise, but they are busy people.

I took a small low-flying floatplane from Campbell River, one hour back to Vancouver, an expensive luxury but it saved me an entire day on bus and ferry — and David, who feels we must as much as possible stop flying, says floatplanes are okay. (And “flying for love is okay,” in moderation.) Partway I was looking out the window at the Straight of Georgia below when I saw a big black tail splashing out of the water — a whale tail. Thrilling.

Landed on the water in downtown Vancouver and back to Judy and Jim’s, who very kindly were already preparing dinner — salmon burgers with salad and a cold glass of white wine, nothing better. Then a walk along English Bay, much needed since I’d

been sitting more or less all day.

Next day they drove me to the Skytrain, and off I went. The Vancouver airport is surely one of the loveliest in the world, with an  actual waterfall and beautiful Indigenous artwork.

I watched The Devil Wears Prada 2 which was surprisingly well-done and enjoyable, perfect plane fare. Started watching DTF St. Louis on the flight but realized, it’s definitely not a series for inflight viewing. Saw a documentary about Toronto’s Kensington Market instead, and the hopeless fight to keep it free of development. Depressing and sad.

Got the UP Express to Union Station, where my heart sank — a Blue Jays game had just finished, and downtown was inundated with humanity — forty thousand fans trying, like me, to get home. Got on a packed subway north and remembered my usual Carlton streetcar has been rerouted so got the Dundas car. There’s a stretch of Dundas Street that is dire, with unhoused people lying in the street, addicts, prostitutes. I was horrified and furious at my city.

But I was home. All was well, the cat, the garden survived. Many tomatoes and cukes and much basil to pick. Gazpacho and

ratatouille made.

The best part of the trip was spending time with dear old friends, including a few I haven’t seen for decades. But the views, the tranquillity, the forests were sublime. I did have a moment, struggling through the downtown crowds amid the noise and dirt, when I thought, Why the hell do I live here? I sent a picture of Quadra to my cousin in New York and he wrote back, Why did you leave?

Good question. Because I live here, I work here, my children and grandchildren are here, and there is much to love in the city too. But much to dislike also. Same anywhere, I guess.

So now, the business of real life goes on — tending the garden and a friend who’s spending a week in the basement suite, trying to find a tenant for the upstairs space, working with editing and coaching clients, seeing my grandboys this week, I hope. Several important issues to resolve for me and others for the fam. Getting back to the Y, where I’m so out of shape after ten days of eating and hardly moving that the classes hurt, and yesterday I left one less than halfway through.

Soon, getting ready for Lynn and Denis who are arriving next week from murderously hot France. There will be cooking.

I’m reading a book I picked up half-price at the Vancouver airport, Elizabeth Strout’s Things We Never Say. I expected to like new work by this very good writer, but, more than like, I love this book, am immersed with great pleasure. The writing is rich, crystalline, the main character, teacher Artie Dam — unlike Olive Kitteridge — immensely sympathetic and likable. Many of the other characters, whom she probes with sensitivity, are too. A few, just as well portrayed, are not.

It’s a reminder of what great fiction does — plunge you headfirst into someone else’s universe. I am so there.

And finally, one last word, the joy of the season: PEACHES!