Writing Outside At The Anchorage Cafe

You know how you have those romantic ideals about certain scenarios or adventures. Like a mini fantasy that has become stuck in your brain after seeing it on a TV ad, cheesy show, or reading about it in a book. Well, I have plenty of them.

I’ve got the one about horse-back riding  on a deserted Caribbean beach at sunset. Hunky soul mate optional.

The one where I am enjoying a glass of wine and reading a book for pleasure, leisurely, with nothing more important in the world that needs to be done, in a spotlessly clean and peaceful house.

And then there’s the writer one, where I am in a Parisian cafe, you know - one of the cafe’s that you are allowed to linger at your leisure over a strong and ridiculously overpriced cup and that attracted the likes of Sartre, Hemingway and other genius writers in the twenties and thirties. In my version I am writing a few well chosen “bon mots” in the late afternoon - genius always sleeps in you know - absentmindedly chewing on a biscuit, my concentration only broken to  give a polite nod to Gerard Depardieu, who is chainsmoking his way through a script in the corner, or to give a high five to Feist as she strolls in for a soup du jour.

Ok, so I am not in Paris, but I am in Newfoundland to write, so I finally decided to take the laptop out to a cafe here in St. John’s. You know, show it around.

After walking the downtown strip, I ended up at the new Anchorage cafe out on Water Street. I don’t know exactly why, but I think I am drawn to it because of its old house vibe, and nice natural lighting. I am nuts about the latter.

It’s not over remodelled, or too shiny, so the old house bones still show. It’s what I would call my fave kind of cozy. Not that it matters - I am sitting outside. Why? But it’s Sept 4th and the rain has stopped and I have this other thing where I have to stay outdoors as much as possible before winter - to get my fill before we get cooped up inside.

I am sitting outside on the sidewalk in a tiny aluminum bistro table, somewhat conspicuously typing on my 17 inch laptop. Tourists heading down from the Big Fairmont, Hometel and Battery hotels on the east side of the city pass me on the narrow sidewalk and stare - just a bit.

I don’t care. It’s nice outside. Which is another ideal of mine - to be able to sit outside in the afternoon, writing away on something of my own choice, rather than to sit in a downtown office under flourescent lights where the windows don’t open.

I can see the harbour water out of the corner of my left eye as I type which is too cute. The Anchorage has  wireless and so I can type directly to this blog.

i just had a pizza. Pretty cheap at $4.50. More like a toaster oven pizza where you melt the toppings over ready-made pizza crusts, so it was nothing special, but it was cheesy and crisp and and it hit the spot. The young man behind the counter laughed at the joke I made when I asked him about all the different coffees.

It was a perfect afternoon.

NB. The photo above is the from the upstairs at The Anchorage - not the outside patio where I was sitting.  I will be retreating there when the cold comes.

A Year Under the Newfoundland Sun

[On traveling, review of A Year in Provence and Under The Tuscan Sun ]

While I was getting ready for my big move to Newfoundland, I let myself do some non-censored wild mind dreaming, and a thought came up that I entertained for a bit. My thought was  - why don’t I write about my travels? You know, a travelogue - or travelblog I guess, of my move and adventures out east, then turn them into a movie.

I told my life coach, Sue. Yes, I had one at the time. She said “yes” “brilliant” “of course.”  I like talking to Sue much better than my family members who said “maybe you can get a government job out there.”

Yes, yes. I’ll write a book and a film -  “My Year in Newfoundland” or “Under the Avalon Peninsula Fog.”

And I ran with it. Yeppir, it’ll make a great movie. It’ll be a hit all over the world, and it will make me a millionaire, and I’d never have to work again. Nope, I’d just ride my horses on the beach, read books for pleasure, and travel for the rest of my life, sitting  in various cafes where I’d feign writing.

I am nothing without my dreams.

So in May, I picked up “A year in Provence” by Peter Mayle.  I paid full price for it so you know I was serious.

I had known about the book for some time. It came out when I was still married to that Belgian guy, and I was curious and will have to admit, jealous. You see, I do not know how to be a writer. I was trained to be an employee.

But I never read it back then. Man - never had the time. Didn’t know how to make time either.

So, when I finally got it in May, I was a bit apprehensive. I had read tons of reviews, and was worried it might be a bit twee or precious, or perhaps a tad arrogant, in that English way of thumbing their nose on the common people. And I thought I might hate it because of that.

But I am happy to say I liked it. Oh, there was a tad of twee to the book - a jolly English superficiality. Mayle doesn’t go very deep and we never learn much about him, not even his wife’s name, but he described the rich earthiness of the provencal landscape beautifully  and and made fun of the visitors who came and fell ill at the whiff of a garlic bud.

Wow. I do the latter too. Cool.

I was too cheap to splurge on Under The Tuscan Sun so almost freaked out when I found it on the bookshelf of the house here in St. John’s where I am staying. Yup - right there on the shelf tucked in between Ray, Klute and The Magdalene Sisters.

Ok. Now that one was harder to like. Syrupy. Shmaltzy. Predictable. Unbelievable. And what was it ultimately about? I dunno…it bounced all over the place, changing direction at whim, leading to the inevitable ending where she finds her dream man in the last few frames.

But here’s the thing. In both the stories - remember I read one and watched the other - the protagonist moves to a foreign land, buys a rundown manse of a house that needs a bit of work, then proceeds to spend the rest of the year renovating it, without having to do any real work.

Come on!

Not only that, they get to employ a motley crew of renovators who work full time for them. Yup, they pay the salaries of 3 people full time - and they don’t work. And they drink fine wine and eat at great restaurants.

Who are these people?  How did they get so loaded? They’re writers forchrissakes. How come I am not so loaded?

Come on!

I want that. I want to buy a house and have my big dilemma be what colour tile to put in the kitchen, contractors that become family, have one heartbreak, learn to let loose a little, and find my soulmate at the end.

Ha ha. Shoot me if that’s the plot of my movie.