Happy Canada Day everyone. To mark the conceptual birth of the second-largest politically defined area of soil on the planet, fellow Canadian (the man they call) Pants and I met for a laundry date. Roughly 500 metres from the hotel, via a zig-zag of narrow streets, we came upon a humble laverie, in which the weekly holy grail of touring was found. There’s not much to it; throwing some clothes into the machine — I let a white shirt loose among my predominately black clothes because that’s how this gangster rolls — and walking around in the while before dryer time.
The real subject of this diary entry, the genuine topic of topics, has much to do with a café we came across between wash and dry cycles; I didn’t think to document the name of the place or even its location, favouring rather to share the delightful accompaniment to my decaf Earl Grey; I hope you enjoy viewing it as much as I revelled in its resplendence.