Halifax and Memory Fragments

Not long ago I returned from a walk through this city. I ventured down streets I had never set my feet upon, revisited neglected areas and took the time to fully appreciate and explore a cemetery I had only ever seen in part. Being able to see someone else experience this place for the first time during the past few weeks allowed me to open my eyes again to what I love about living here. This isn’t a fast-paced, large or obviously exciting city, but there’s so much of my heart grown under the roots and concrete of this place.
Halifax is a lover you can know for a lifetime and never exhaust her sweet mysteries. I wrote about her before, nearly two years ago.

As I’ve gotten to know this haunting place and my own internal ghosts more, i’ve come to appreciate how much a part of me this city will always be. My heart is filled with wanderlust, and I feel compelled to know, love and explore the world, but this is the home of that part of my core ever devoted to memory. I imagine I’ll take the time to live in other cities and see the world, but Halifax holds a part of my heart the back pocket of her tattered, worn jeans.

After learning the sad news that Sunday brought, I set about making donairs for Susana and I. Donairs are a food that Halifax is well known for, and the only distinctly Nova Scotian dish I could think of outside Acadian cuisine. Since Canada is so very much a multicultural country, it’s often hard to find things that are unique. This is usually a blessing because diversity is a blessing, but try picking out something found nowhere else and you may have a tough time.
I made the donairs with immitation ground beef (I’m a vegetarian) and the recipe turned out very well except for one problem. Instead of forming a loaf, the donair “meat” crumbled when I tried to slice it. I don’t know if it was the faux meat or some mistake I made in preparing it that caused the problem. I suppose I’ll have to try to make them again sometime to see where I went wrong (and because I really enjoyed having them again after a couple years without).

I slipped away during the donair preparation to buy some supplies and, more importantly to my heart, buy some roses for Susana. I had proof of my lack of domestication when I returned. We were unable to find a suitable vase for the flowers in all of my apartment. Instead, we ended up placing them in a beer mug. I can assure you I have a great deal of sophistication, truly.
Sadly, the roses have begun to wilt during this sunny day. I’ve tried to tend to them well, but I suppose they do need to dry eventually. Unlike the flowers, my memories are still fresh and I hope to record as many of them as I am able to so that I’ll always have a record of them, even if I should end up some aging, cut flower of a man. Should we not remember the beauty we encounter fondly and pay tribute to it with care?