I was all set to do something completely different for this instalment of Around the World: beer, books, hot dogs, (all my favourites in life) but I realized I still had a lot of photo of dogs, and dogs always win.
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12 years ago, I was getting ready to start another day at high school; it was my first week of being in Grade 12, my first week as a prefect. It was picture day, so I had woken up early to spend a bit more time on my hair and makeup, make sure my shirt and blazer were ironed properly. I was in the kitchen when my dad called from work.
“Something happened in New York, ” he said. My mum and brother were there, too, so the three of us huddled around the TV and watched with horror as the towers burned. My hometown is an hour behind New York, and so we had been sitting there, eating cereal, chatting about the upcoming day, without knowing what had happened, without knowing that the world was falling apart.
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A beautiful mural depicting social change versus a random tag on a random brick wall – how do we approve one, but disregard the other? The line seems to be drawn somewhere between construction and destruction; the work must take on some form of cultural significance, or, well, at least just look good.
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I went to Burning Man in 2011, and stayed the full eight days. I camped in the desert under the big clear sky, my days spent riding the playa on my bicycle, making friends, cooking grilled cheese sandwiches, my nights a hazy blur of stilt-walkers, fire-breathers, mutant cars shaped like scorpions and jellyfish. I wore outfits I threw together from a garbage bag of costumes in the trunk; I wore saris and glitter, fake fur and angel wings, tutus and sometimes nothing at all. When I first reached the gates on that very first day, a girl wearing pink fishnets made me roll around in the playa, coating my hair in the greyish dust. “Welcome home,” she told me, and hugged me. I was instantly in love with this alternate universe, this utopian dream of creativity and art and acceptance.
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“What do you got under there?” The man asked me. The tone was lascivious. I doubted he would have asked the question in the same way if it were a man sitting behind the wheel, but perhaps he would have, I don’t know.
“A V8,” I responded, hardly taking my eyes off the road in front of me.
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“I can stitch up your chin if you want,” the young woman told me as she pressed yet another alcohol-soaked cloth onto my bleeding face. A monkey peered at me from the window. I could hear the cries of exotic birds. My clothes were still covered in mud, and everything hurt.
“Have you…” I struggled to find the right words; I didn’t want to offend her or seem impolite. “Have you ever stitched a human face before?”