Definitely Not Scientologists

Things always get worse just before they get better.

I really wanted to let this whole “friendship” thing go, but as I lay awake on my mattress, in the middle of my bedroom, the fan on, the moonlight streaming through the window on to my rumpled sheets, I couldn’t think of anything else. I rested my arm on my forehead and closed my eyes, mind spinning. This was all terribly embarrassing. I had painted a picture of summertime in my head: I was on a beach on Toronto Island, surrounded by friends (yet to be given faces and names), laughing, sipping cocktails, listening to live music, the works… meanwhile, reality was giving me a very clear message that this was not going to happen, not if I just sat back and did nothing about it, anyway.

I don’t want to sound like a stuck record, but this is, by far, one of the most difficult things I've had to deal with, moving abroad. I'm sure a lot of you who've been in similar positions will agree. People are weird creatures — and not just others, but myself included. I was contributing massively to my own isolation as the week progressed, skulking around my neighbourhood myself, not reaching out to anyone, and not making an effort to match anyone’s attempts.

So the next day I was sitting in a cafe, after a night of little sleep, Skyping my sister. The wifi in my apartment was still iffy, and I wanted to get out and talk, which led to me catching up with Harriet about my feelings and worries as of late in this espresso bar down on College. I was wearing headphones, but the rest of the cafe wasn’t, probably meaning that they were also getting my life update just as my sister was. At the end of the conversation, we both agreed that I had to get out and really make an effort more, despite how bloody hard it seemed.

We hung up, and I sat back in my chair. Time to write a little for the book I was working on. Just as I got into a rhythm, a girl who had been sitting at a table in front of me turned around.

“Hey, are you new to Toronto?”

I blinked: “Sorry, what?”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” she said, looking a bit sheepish, “but, I heard you talking and it sounds like you’re new to Toronto?”

And that’s how I met Nora. We had a brief conversation in the cafe where she told me how she’d moved over to the Big Smoke from Nova Scotia about a year ago, and was somewhat familiar with the Friendship Crisis I was going through at the moment. We exchanged numbers and she promised that she’d hit me up sometime before the weekend, inviting me out with friends somewhere, “if that’d be something you’d be up for, of course.” I told her that sounded great. She smiled and then started packing up her work at her desk, saying she’d see me later.

As the door closed behind her, I’m pretty sure I had to shake my head to make sure that the encounter had just actually happened. As someone who is new to a city and fairly lonely, that kind of meeting is definitely something that we all dream about — the mysterious stranger who sees you and your plight, and offers to help. I wasn’t about to jump out of my seat for joy, waving my arms about chanting “I HAVE A FRIEND” like Grandpa Joe with a golden ticket in his hands, but I was silently chuffed.

I told my sister and Mum and of course, Mum being Mum, the first thing she said was “make sure she is authentic — not part of a religious cult or anything.” I scoffed when I read the message, but for a few moments my head entertained the idea that Nora may be some Scientology recruiter...

So on Friday evening, I was sitting in a taxi, my stomach doing backflips as I was driven to Liberty Village, to meet Nora and her friend André in a restaurant, called — I kid you not — Mildred’s Temple. This hilariously fit in with the whole “religious cult” thing that my mum had planted in my brain. Arriving at the restaurant, I was happy to see a bright space, no long black cloaks or blood sacrifices to be seen anywhere. Nora, André and I sat down, and got chatting. At the cafe beforehand, I didn’t have much time to learn very much about Nora, so this was our first proper getting to know each other. I learned that Nora works as a freelance graphic designer, designing toys, and André has a job at the restaurant we were dining at (free dinner!), but also teaches and has founded a magazine recently. I told them that I’d wondered if they were part of a religious cult, they laughed. “No, the blood-letting part of the evening comes along a little later.” We ordered cocktails, mussels and wine, and as the night progressed I began to feel really happy and confident with these people who had been essentially strangers only a few hours beforehand.

We talked about Scotland, and I went off on one about ceilidh dancing (which is a great and noble pastime and if you have anything bad to say about it I will fight you), we came to the conclusion that ceilidh dancing is definitely the next thing to be appropriated by hipsters, and we could be the pioneers. I mean, bicycles, farmers markets, vinyl records, vintage clothes, we’re definitely progressing backwards, so ceilidh dancing is definitely the only way forwards… or backwards, really. Hipsters, I don’t know.

André was telling us about how his magazine was going to feature reviews of bathrooms in fancy restaurants (which sounds like a GREAT idea, I don't know about you but I do love a good fancy bathroom), and mentioned how in this restaurant, Mildred’s Temple, the bathrooms played boarding calls from Air Canada flights in the cubicles. There isn’t really an explanation. I experienced this first hand when I popped to the toilets, having “this is the final boarding call for Air Canada flight…” playing over my head. I found myself feeling vaguely stressed as I washed my hands. I hate flying.

After the restaurant we headed to a bar called Get Well, what André described as a “hipster meatmarket.” The place was dimly lit, with arcade games lining the back walls and a peculiarly large mural of Stalin. We all speculated as to why there was a painting of Stalin on the wall — “you wouldn’t have Hitler on the walls, you know?” I then said that Stalin was the Hipster Dictator, to which Nora and André gasped, You’re Right!, as if this was something that was completely obvious, but no-one had said it out loud yet.

We drank beer and made friends some other people in the bar, going back to Andre’s apartment after last call to have some Scotch as things wound down. Nora and I left around 3am. As André closed the door he said, “well, Olivia, you’re officially part of the coven now, I’m afraid.”

There’s only one thing you can really count on, and that’s the fact that you can’t really count on anything. The events of my Friday night occurred completely because of chance: one sleepless night and rant in a coffee shop, and now I’ve got the promise of new people to meet and befriend.

And if they do turn out to be Scientologists or part of a Satanic cult, then I guess there’s a good story in that too. But for now, I think we’re good.