Quiet in the Land

The air was delicate this morning and I felt my heart ache just a little. Really? No more Olympics?

I peek through my blinds, as I always do. The blue steel fences and orange plastic barrels that were put up to extend the sidewalk across the street from my building on Hamilton Street seemed to bask in self pity, unassuming, purposeless. Gone were the glimmers of red sweaters, les drapeaux carelessly draped over shoulders, and the glint of white teeth through pursed lips from the odd passerby who wanted to start his Olympic day earlier than others.

When I pulled out of my carpark (yes, I actually drove to work today!), Robson Street seemed desolate, hesitant, almost fearful of the return to something normal. The remnants of past revelries - pop cans, beer cans, plastic cups, paper hats, blacked sticks of magnesium, recycled foam moose antlers - had been dilligently cleared away so that not one single footprint remained. And, if not for a few hearts welling up with pride, one might not ever realize that only hours ago 150,000 people had stomped and danced and woot-woot-ed on this gold pavement only hours ago. It was a ghost town.

I can't quite describe how empty the city feels, especially when those of us who remain feel somehow changed.

I wore Olympic gear today and will continue to do so everyday this week. And, I don't care what anyone says, I'm still going to buy that Team Canada scarf and wear it!

Googs said it best this evening: "I feel like I've lost an old friend."

Indeed. That's exactly what it feels like.