I haven’t been a student in many years, and with that status loss, one also generally loses their local watering hole, too. Let me explain. I graduated in 1996 from the University of Western Ontario — in London– with my undergraduate degree in English, then I went on to journalism at Ryerson. I worked at a bar on campus: The Spoke. It was a basement bar, dirty, plain and unruly. But I loved it. The Hip, Lowest of the Low–a few regular bands that came by. I also met one of my best friends at the Spoke. Today, the bar is located on the main campus; it sells sandwiches and flavoured coffees. The stage is gone, and with it, the mystique.

When I grew up, got a job (freelance), and decided to stay put in London (because of my love interest), I found myself without a local watering hole. You can’t go back to Kansas, so to speak. With a student population of over 30,000, students take over the downtown. They line up for hours, in chilly winter, outside Jim Bob Ray’s, or The Ceeps, but they also find their way into newer establishments. Don’t get me wrong, I love students, but as an instructor, and a 30 something woman who has moved past beer funnels, I don’t feel part of that crowd anymore.

So, when my partner and I found the Alex P. Keaton’s on Albert Street, we felt at home. Serving International beers, sweet potato fries and deep fried pickles (you read correctly), without a hint of Dance mix 2008 crap music, we were in heaven.

We went on Sunday afternoons. After walking the dog in the park, we’d head out for a few beers and a few plates of non-traditional pub food–’discerning pub grub for wanna-be foodies,’ I called it. Amongst my favs (the fries), I also liked their sliders with Spanish onions and motza on one, maybe a goat cheese and dill on another. Stevie Wonder’s Songs in the Key of Life playing in the background. Sipping a nice Merlot, and munching with my man, this was a perfect Sunday afternoon. Until Black Saturday.

A colleague at Western informed me that Saturday, March 21st was the APK’s last night of operation. Stunned. Disbelief. I went through all the stages. Denial. Why?

The following Sunday I stayed home. I think I watched Sideways, for the millionth time. “I will not drink F**king Merlot.” Anywho, I moped around the house looking for things to do.

That is, like most funks, one, hopefully, pulls themselves out of it. I got up and went out. This time with my dad, visiting from Nova Scotia, and “T” of coarse. We went to the Convent Market to get some wicked organic steaks, then stepped into Waldo’s on King next door. It’s a restaurant, but the bar, and tall stools, says “Cheers” all over it. We sat for a few drinks. I could see myself here.

So, the next weekend, when funk sets in, I grabbed my bag (loaded with The Rough Guide to Sardinia and The Bigger Picture, Elements of Feature Writing) and got out of dodge. I sat on my stool, sipping away at a crisp Sauvignon Blanc, writing down ideas and talking to Greg, my bartender. But, don’t get me wrong. This is no pub. This is a bar inside a casual fine dining restaurant.

Waldo’s. I relate more to the name APK, but Waldo’s it is, for now.

Melanie

Weeks to go before the end–it was a long haul. Teaching grammar and academic essay writing–I had to go back to school to teach this. My world is journalism, not bibliographies.

Sardinia is less than a month away; I’m looking forward to the food just as much as the riding–miniture pasta pies filled with sheeps’s cheese and drizzled with honey, homemade pasta.

Right now I’m finishing up my story about DR, as well, I’m writing a news story for the Medical Post; I haven’t written for them in years. While I was getting an emissions test for my car, I read the London Free Press–a rare occurrence. The front page story talked about patient tracking boards used in the St. Thomas hospital. It’s similar to a departure/arrival board at an airport. Family can see where patients are in the surgery process. Simple but effective.

I’m also writing about selling ’stuff’ online (think Craigslist or Kijiji). I’m throwing in used books to the mix. I found a cool book store in Winnipeg www.aquabooks.com. I loved his no BS candor regarding his guidelines: “So you want to sell your books, eh? This page will tell you how we do that. (If you’re too impatient to read this whole thing, at least read these first two paragraphs so you don’t waste your time [and mine]. Don’t get mad at me later if you haven’t read things right.)”

He talked about how Winnipeg has a culture of recycling goods–Halifax is also like that. Ah, my old stomping grounds.

ok–off to java time. I can’t believe I wrote this decaffenated!

Melanie

When I told friends I was going to DR, they asked: which resort?  Monticristi isn’t even mentioned in most guidebooks. Rough Guides call it ‘the boonies.’ Christopher Columbus called its craggy coastline ‘il sapato’ for its shoelike shape that juts into the Atlantic.

I went for a week with a group of Western students as part of the Alternative Spring Break Program. We lived at an Orphanage and walked to the public schools every day to teach English. I won’t go into too much detail–as I’m writing about it for Homemaker’s Magazine–but suffice to say, we all feel in love with the locals and the kids.

On the walk to school, kids ran out of their homes screaming: photo, photo! One afternoon, as we came over the hill near the school, the kids were hanging on the chain link fence screaming like monkeys. We felt like rock stars.

We also got back to basics. To conserve water we took cold navy showers–in and out–and we only flushed when necessary (you know the saying: when it’s yellow, let it mellow; when it’s brown flush it down). The ‘holas’ from locals and smiling kids seemed to replace the need for anything else. I felt so connected–to our Western students and our new community.

I’m slowly adapting to routine, and teaching, but I’ve already planned my next adventure: cycling across Sardinia, Italy. I did a small three day cycle trip last year, but if left me wanting more… At the end of April I will head off to ride 450 kms of some of the island’s most inaccessible, nasty, and steep mountains. Bring it on! To see more details visit the site www.ischnusabike.it or www.transardinia.it.

I can’t wait to meet up with my Italian friends. After my ride last year, Marcello and his entourage took me around through Cagliari’s coolest bars; my favourite was a Sinatra style bar –think red velvet curtains and tasty Manhattans.

Adios for now my friends.

Melanie