Through the Looking Glass: 22. Tales From the Tin-foil Hat Hotel

Sunday, December 2, 2012

22. Tales From the Tin-foil Hat Hotel

As long as I can remember I have been a people watcher. Humanity's masks, defences and dodges are fascinating to watch and most entertaining when one leaves the five hundred channel universe behind. Characters I never recognized in grade school re-animate themselves with clarity in my voyeuristic adult pastime.

'Characters' were always part of the landscape whether I lived a suburban, rural or country existence. They were always accepted and an oft cherished oddity that added to the diversity of the human experience.

I recently moved to a small city in the mountains where characters where the norm rather than the acception. I was at a total loss when I found myself in a location where dressing, behaving and living in a generally normal fashion focused the label of 'character' on me.

Berets, middle eastern neck wraps and tights were visible at every traffic stop. Individuals climbing over hoods of vehicles that had strayed to far into a crosswalk were not uncommon. Pale white boys sporting Rasto-locks were as common as the dark eyed girls with no hair at all. Loggers, grow-op owners and bikers shared space with artists, channelers and off gridders. I truly felt out of place when I perceived looks and unvoiced questions about ME being a 'character'.

In settling here I have retreated to a small hotel six miles distant until a more regular offering opens up. Cozy and warm it is a small refuge where I can continue to observe safely and come to grips with being an identifiable minority.

Spillover from the town is to be found even here however. The gentleman upstairs whose accent changes with the day of the week... the little old lady whose large, invisible, extended family is sharing her three hundred square foot space... the neighbour who constantly calls for the puppy that no longer exists... all add to the challenge of settling here.

As I begin to move to the rhythm of the constantly falling rain, the view of the rising and disappearing frost on the mountain and the sound of locals dogs barking at bears not yet hibernating I will keep everyone posted about goings on at the Tin-foil Hat Hotel and machinations I see in the 'Character Capital' of BC.

Wish me luck or read the archives in a future life... either way I think it may prove interesting.

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Introduction

Having moved at least twenty-five times in fifteen years has opened a world of learning to me. In six decades, an education ranging from the coldness of large cities to the isolation of remote rural locations to the busybody gossip of small towns and the wonder of the prairie and it's ocean of grass have all left their impressions on me.

Recently I relocated to a small city in British Columbia. It touted itself as a historical, cultural, educational and, over-all wonderful, place to live. Once I was past the trees and the rocks, the heights and the hills, the water and the wind, I calmed down and was ready to look at the people I was sharing that space with.

Every location I have ever squatted has had it's share of characters. Players in the cities along with the wide range of tinfoil hat wearers and baggy pants skaters were a given. Pop up strangers at odd hours surprised me with their appearance in the middle of nowhere. Rumours of my serial killer past from neighbours I had never met never swayed me. The wonder of gazing on the effects of wind on the grass ocean interrupted by a landowner enquiring why I was leaning on his fence was oft forgiven.

In this new locale a variety of characters as I had experienced elsewhere was a given. The density and variety of them however gave me more surprise than I would have expected.

I had heard comments about this place being a time warp to the sixties. However I only saw few that , by their appearance, I could say lived through the sixties. What apparitions appeared were younger and more colourful than I remember from that vague decade.

Purple haired strong armed accordionists, heavy head shaved violinists clutching tiny instruments, winter coated scarf wrapped individuals in shorts and oddly calm people with large coffees wandered the streets.

They wandered in and out of new age crystal shops, expressed opinions on local radio, bought nothing but organic food. They played jazz on squeeze boxes, made strings and wood sing in ways not intended, talked to themselves as they tightened their scarves and became more serene with each sip of coffee.

Characters here are more concentrated than in any other locale I have ever lived. It is a point of interest as well as point of concern.

It remains to be seen whether I will be mugged with organic carrots, side swiped by hooligan mountain bikers, be harangued with advice on dressing warmly or kept awake nights by jazzy sounds from an errant squeeze box. Whatever the outcome I am certain I could find it in no other place on earth to explore these particular uncertainties.

Until I am transplanted again, I extend every new-ager and boarder, every subculture economist and spiritualist, every would-be and wanna-be my deep thanks for extending me the opportunity of educating myself one measure more.