I made a new friend last night. His name was Alan.
Alan was sitting alone reading the Globe and Mail and sipping a pint of Stella when Dave and I wandered into the Toucan pub in Kingston last night, killing time between two movies at the Kingston Canadian Film Festival.
We got to talking, as strangers are wont to do in a bar, the conversation starting with Trump and the situation in the US, then veering into Alan’s fascinating life.
A son of a diplomat, Alan spent his childhood living around the world in countries like Afghanistan, Pakistan, the Belgian Congo, Lebanon, Portugal, Spain, and Sweden. He shared one story from the time when he was a boy in Pakistan of one of the British dignitaries’ wives separating the children into teams of colonials versus locals for games at a British garden party.
When he graduated from university, he became a land technician with the Ministry of Natural Resources, a job he said he absolutely adored. One project he led was researching all the treaties to create Petroglyphs Provincial Park in Peterborough. He shared how for thousands of years, the various Indigenous peoples of that region took turns scraping the moss from the Teaching Rocks, passing down the teachings from generation to generation.
When I had jokingly said we’d be better off if women were in leadership positions around the world when we were talking about Trump, he smiled and leaned in and talked more about the belief of Indigenous Peoples in Gitche Manitou, the “goddess of supreme being” and how women in Indigenous cultures were tasked with the most important role, taking care of the home and children.
After his time with the MNR, Alan founded his own communications company and started doing documentary work. He travelled to the Congo in 1995 to document the outbreak of Ebola. The stories he shared were fascinating. He said both the US and Russian armies were present, but not to help the dying and suffering. They were there to see if they could weaponize the virus. That never made it into the film.
Over the course of a few hours and pints, we talked about fishing, travelling, our children, the Montreal Canadiens, Canada-US relations and how lonely it can be living alone.
As we paid our bill and gathered up our coats to head out into the chilly February night, I gave Alan a big hug and said I hope we meet again. Two barflys, no longer strangers, now friends after sharing a special bond in a bar.
This week’s #HappyAct is to wander into a bar and make a new friend. Here are a few bar jokes to leave you smiling:
Three vampires walk into a bar. The first one says, “I’ll have a pint of blood.”
The second one says, “I’ll have one, too.”
The third one says, “I’ll have a pint of plasma.”
The bartender says, “So, that’ll be two Bloods and a Blood Lite?”
A bartender says, “We don’t serve time travelers in here.”
A time traveler walks into a bar.
A three-legged dog walks into a saloon, his spurs clinking as he walks, his six-shooter slapping at his furry hip. He bellies up to the bar, stares down the bartender, and proclaims, “I’m looking for the man who shot my paw.”
Happy Act 