There once was a boy with an insatiable thirst. Polydipsia, as it's known, had encumbered him for as long as he could remember. When he was an infant, a suckling session would physically deflate his mother, leaving her exhausted and delirious for hours afterwards. And his kindergarten peers would taunt him mercilessly while he spent minor eternities at the drinking fountain. “Leave some for the fish!” they would yell, pelting him with spitballs as they impatiently awaited their turn.
As an occasional victim of the snack attack, my wife asked if we could make a stop for a frozen treat on our ride home from the river. She disappeared into the convenience store while I minded our bikes, my face towards the evening sun, my heart dreaming of faraway lands. After a few moments, a throaty inquiry startled me from my springtide reverie.
Impromptu dance parties are a lesser known but essential aspect of Metrovino. Some of you have witnessed these unfolding, while others have innocently walked into a session—perhaps it's a customary theme of wine shops everywhere. For us, the propensity to break out into spontaneous dance has endured for many years, even transcending comprehensive transitions in employee rosters. It must be something about the building.
Canadians are prone to thinking that the first nice days of the year might also be the last. When the sun shone assertively this past weekend, we all panicked to spend the hours accordingly, myself included. My four walls closed in on me all winter, and the clement weather coerced me into pursuing the highly unoriginal idea of seeking riverside splendour. I dropped a pair of sunglasses over my dilating eyes and headed down the hill.
