Paralyzed By Choice

In what is quickly turning into our weekly ritual, we once descended on Bloor Street to pay a visit to our favorite shops and interact with the people that run the stores. This is becoming immensely satisfying as we’re starting to get recognized as “that nice artsy couple” and are being treated like well-liked regulars. There’s just something innately charming about getting to the cheese shop and realizing forlornly that we’ve missed their operating hours, only to have the nice old Slavic guy that runs the place come out, waving at us and saying “For you… I cannot stay closed. Come, come!”

Today was the also the day that I finally did the deed and went on down to Suspect Video to get my membership, where I was immediately overwhelmed with how many things there were I really, really wanted to see. In the end, my indecision ran waaaaay over time and so I settled on these, a couple of first volume DVDs to get my feet wet:

Samurai Champloo is one of those series that most anime fans keep saying, “Dude, you HAVE to watch this!” and so, finally and at long last, I am. If only to tell these people to shut the hell up. If I like it, I’ll add it onto the list of “things I like which I shall collect when/if money permits.” The other thing, and far less “mainstream” is Gilgamesh, which is supposed to be dark, grim, obscure and frequently baffling. Most of the “pedestrian” anime fans that stick to the action titles will probably be completely alienated by the title. But since I was able to watch the Evangelion series and actually LIKE the ending (Not mention actually enjoying the Tangential-Fest that was Serial Experiments Lain) there’s a chance I may actually be able to appreciate this series, so we shall see.

There was another odd moment during the visit to Suspect Video. I was using my passport as one of my forms of ID, and the girl at the counter (henceforth known as the Weekend Girl, since that seems to be her shift) asked me if what I had was a Singapore passport.

I said, “Uh… noooo… It’s Canadian.” But, already suspecting where this was going, I asked her, “Are you Singaporean?”

And of course, she was. And like most Singaporeans I know who travel a lot, she had completely annihilated her Singapore accent in favor of whatever country she happened to be in. This, to me, is a completely amazing skill. Ten years in Singapore and my Canadian accent was as potent on the day I left as it was when I arrived. And I failed utterly to grasp the bizarre rhythm and cadence of the Singapore speech pattern. Singaporeans, on the other hand, can take an accent spoken over an entire lifetime, and bury it in a matter of weeks.

I introduced the Wife and said, “Well, she’s Singaporean…”

To which the Weekend Girl smiled and said, her local accent slipping up ever-so-slightly “Wow, what a coincidence!”

And then they smiled at each other and there seemed to be an eye-contact moment where they non-verbally agreed “We shall not speak of that hell hole from which we came.”

It turns out that Weekend Girl is a literature student. I suspect she gets a huge kick from working at a store where she’s surrounded by movies that her home country would find either politically, violently or erotically objectionable. Not mention all the tentacle-ridden hentai in the joint. However, being a student, that means that she has no legal way to stay in the country, though that is something she’d very much like to do.

“Your parents are going to freak when they find you don’t want to go home,” I said to her.

She sighed and nodded. “Tell me about it…”

I hope it goes well for her. And if I don’t see her in a few months, I’ll know exactly where she is; 90 miles away from the equator, sweating, surrounded by people who’s only joy in life is driving a Mercedes and trying to figure out how to get back to a Real Country where people may be colder, but also know there’s more to life than buying a new cellular phone or saying that you shopped in the newest mall.