The PVC tryouts in the gym at Plamondon's Ecole Beausejour last Monday night were fun to watch ... for a bit. But after an hour, it was time for a stretch.
My daughter was one of 30 youngsters trying out for the club volleyball team. As with most community events involving family members, I brought my camera for the 'over-all' photo. Having snapped the image that says a thousand words, I sat to watch as the coaches evaluated the young players who hit serves, bumped and set, jumped and blocked. They did a lot of that as the coaches watched. Did i mention that they bumped? How about setting? Ok. So after about half an hour, the ever-so-proud ... but slightly bored dad in me realized I'd 'been here' and 'done that' and I started looking for the kiosk where I could buy the T-shirt.
Sitting with other volleyball parents in the little set of bleachers in the school's gym, I found myself looking for longer and longer periods of time towards the gym doors, and a little sliver of the school foyer and front doors leading to the night beyond.
I think I made a yearning moan at one point. That was it. Time to move. I stretched my arms, made it seem like I was an Air Canada passenger just waking up from a little snooze at the midway point of a trans-continental flight, and got up. I Ninja-stepped past a few folks with a quick' "scuse me, 'scuse me, scuse me," slid along the gym wall to the first corner, watched out for errant volleyballs, and picked up the pace along the back wall to the awaiting doorway ... and freedom.
It smelled so good. Not that the gym smelled bad. But the school's night-custodian had just finished his tidy-up, and there was a nice smell of oranges surrounding me as I headed for the front doors. I had made it.
Outside.
And once I was out, I thought of a good way to stay out.
Plamondon, for the next 45 minutes to an hour of this chilly night, you are mine.
I started to walk, without a plan of where I was going or what i was going to do. It was exhillerating. I had a feeling of ... Well, i don't know exactly what it was. Just a — je ne sais quoi. Oh my goodness, had a little bit of the francophone community found me? It seemed like it had. Mon Dieu.
Feeling a bit like a tourist and a little less like a dad abandoning his kid, I slung my camera strap over my shoulder, adjusted my beret — err, baseball hat — and started walking into the village. (I know it's a hamlet, but that just have the same cosmopolitan sound. Village sounds quaint. So off i walked into it.
For the next hour or so I roamed; stopping to take a few photos and get up and close with a few places I hadn't really paid that much attention to before. I looked at houses shapes, signs, pathways, the church, businesses, a guy having a smoke outside the Peli ... you know, the night-life. It was nice to take the time, to stroll, the meander, to look at things from a different perspective compared to driving past them in a vehicle or being too pre-occupied to really notice much.
Here's a few more images of what i saw...
PHOTO GALLERY
But like all good excursions, I had to get back. And fortunately for anyone wanting to take a walking tour of Plamondon, nowhere is too far to get back to; it's kind of a small circuit ... but interesting, très intéressant.
Sure, my little stroll may appear to have been based loosely on shirked fatherly duties, but I'd recommend it for anyone — even those not looking for an excuse. There's something fun about familiarizing yourself with things that should already be familiar. That said, if anyone reading this is a little upset with me for walking in Plamondon at night rather than watching his daughter's entire tryout, well — excusez-moi.
