When I was practicing law I hadn’t much opportunity for vacation. In addition to the expected weight of my professional calling, I also was a sole proprietor – which meant I handled every other imaginable detail related to the conduct of the business from staffing issues to emptying the ashtrays and cleaning the brass plaque. I also owned the office building (which meant endless property management); and, I was a landlord of three additional units (with all that that entails). Accordingly my time away from the office was infrequent and generally confined to statutory holidays to allow me to escape behind the facade of commercial suspension. When these holiday opportunities arose I took deliberate advantage of them.
I recall in particular one instance when I was “between relationships”; that is, alone. It was Easter weekend. I booked a room at the Ritz-Carlton on Sherbrooke St W in Montréal. I normally would have stayed at the Four Seasons further along the same street but I recalled the Maritime dining room and lounge at the Ritz with its panelled mahogany walls and red leather chairs. It was but a moment’s reflection for me to create the ideal meal in that muted atmosphere; viz., a martini for starters; 1 dozen oysters on the half shell (with another martini); consommé soup (with a small glass of Dry Sack sherry); steak tartar (with a demi-bouteille of Veuve Cliquot champagne); finishing with black coffee and a glass of VSOP cognac.
By the end of the meal I was animated to go to a club perhaps in search of society or other mischief. By the time I landed at the club however and positioned myself at the bar my only interest was a tall glass of Club soda on ice. Not long afterwards I retired to my suite at the Ritz. More Club soda. Once there I telephoned a lawyer friend in Ottawa, a chap whom I knew would recognize my peril and commiserate with me. He was a sybarite at heart and appreciated my misfortune.
The following morning – no doubt to expiate my guilt from the previous evening’s epicurean adventure – I wandered along Sherbrooke St W and passed an historic Anglican church. It was before eight o’clock in the morning. I ventured inside; and, sure enough, Matins was about to begin. As usual the small crowd of early morning worshippers congregated in the chancel by the choir stalls at the front of the church adjoining the pulpit. It was a communion service – in which I participated. We were of course spared having to sing; but listened to a brief and fitting sermon from the minister. Not long afterwards – and thus refreshed and realigned – I rejoined the heathen on the street, feeling quite smug about my unwitting accomplishment.
The texture of this episode reminds me of the value of religion though I am now otherwise uncommitted. But the recollection preserves me from contradicting people who think otherwise. Basically it’s whatever works, martinis or mysticism. There are equally good and bad to be said of both. The perversion of the Easter expression to include chocolate bunnies and multi-coloured eggs is fine for children. Again, who’s to say who’s wrong? There are many ways to escape one’s daily routine and to punctuate the alternative.
By only other undying recollection of Easter is my late mother’s assertion that the sun always dances on Easter morning. Most often she was correct. She blended this conviction with moderate traditional involvement in the church. Though once I recall when visiting the Costa Brava she invited a young priest from Stockholm to join us for a month’s holiday.
