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Free Camping "When we are capable of living in
the moment free from the tyranny of 'shoulds,' free from the
nagging sensation that this moment isn't right, we will have
peaceful hearts." After a second night at Claren's cousins, Val and CJ's, we said goodbye and slipped out the back door. We cruised a smooth bike path, surrounded by an enormity of green space, to the Parliament buildings. I had an idea: I wanted to set up our tent on the Parliament's lawn and have Sharon immortalize the occasion on film (I'd always wanted to camp on Parliament Hill). "I don't like this," Sharon hissed when I told her my grand plan. I think it's safe to assume she wasn't exactly a willing participant in my grand scheme. "You don't even have to help set up the tent," I said, attempting to persuade her. "You only have to take the picture." It was 10 am. Nine tour buses already lined the curb. A huge prayer rally, via satellite, was assembling. Hundreds of folding chairs filled the expansive lawn. Dozens of RCMP officers strolled about, making sure everyone behaved themselves. Security guards paraded around too, keeping an attentive eye on the milling crowd. Who knew how many plainclothes officers were lurking about? "You're going to get arrested," Sharon stated flatly. "Fine," I said, sizing up the situation with the determination of a SWAT commando. The best location? As far away from the crowd as possible, I thought. My plan was to pop up the tent, dive in, smile, and have Sharon snap a quick shot. I estimated (from all our previous practice) I could assemble and dismantle the tent within two minutes. Police officers, guards, and the others shuffling about, would never know. Or so that was the plan. "How about if you set up in the back?" Sharon suggested. "No way!" I exploded. "There's construction back there." "Let's get out of here," Sharon insisted. "You can't leave the country with a criminal record, you know." That was true. But I had made up my mind. Not that I'm stubborn or anything. "See the flowers over there," I whispered, nodding in the direction of a colourful display. "We'll lean our bikes against that lamppost. I'll pop up the tent in front of the flowers. Clock tower in the background. It'll be classic." "I'm not helping you," Sharon reiterated. "And I'm not visiting you in prison, either." Her eyes narrowed to slits, she shook her head and flashed me one of her "you-and-your-crazy-ideas" looks. I'm sure she figured I was a couple of potatoes short of a full sack. We pushed our bikes over to the flowers as unobtrusively as fully loaded touring bikes sporting bright pink and fluorescent yellow pannier covers with Canada flags flapping atop neon orange safety poles could be. Leaning my bike against the lamppost, I suddenly realized: I was nervous! Suppose I did get arrested? Committed to the reality that I was going to do it, I yanked the tent bag from beneath its straining bungees. Gosh. It looks remarkably like a gun bag. I dropped the bundle onto the grass, untied it, drew forth three lengths of shock-corded aluminum poles, and quickly snapped them together. Believing I would look less suspicious, I didn't glance around. With a single, spreading-a-bed-cover flapping motion, the tent unfurled. Eyes low, I threaded the poles through their fabric sleeves, popped the tent up, hopped in, and flashed Sharon a winning smile. Hmmm. Sharon seemed to be taking her sweet time in the shutter release department. Good help is so hard to find. Pay back for dragging her through the whole charade? She finally clicked the shutter. I jumped out and flattened the tent. With one pole removed, I peeked up. A woman had walked over and was talking to Sharon. We had been spotted. What? The woman, a tourist from France, was requesting I reassemble the "little house" so she could take a picture. "I don't think so," I mumbled. "For France!" she insisted, waving her instamatic. Huh? That was supposed to convince me? Not knowing why, I complied (that docile Canadian upbringing?). I popped the tent up again and plopped myself down in front of it. She was mercifully quick. But then she demanded that Sharon join me, and she'd take a picture for us. Sharon handed her our camera, and with a radiant smile skipped over and sat down beside me. I couldn't believe it! The woman pushed the camera's button. But before we had a chance to get up, another tourist trotted over. She took a snapshot of us, too. Then, beginning to border on the theatre of the absurd, an entire busload of forty or so bandy-legged oldsters, like a gaggle of squawking geese, tottered toward us, cameras winking. Bus drivers eyeballed our predicament with wide grins. The tourists encircled us, shutters snapping like alligators on two monkeys. Sheesh. If I had known we were going to be a major tourist attraction, I would have charged. "Five bucks to take a photo of the crazy Canucks about to be arrested." A trio of police officers loped down the sidewalk toward us. Sharon and I wisely jumped up and collapsed the tent in a takedown so precise even General Patton would have been proud. We swung our legs over our bikes and beat a hasty retreat - the assembled crowd parting to let us through like a suspender and garter-belted Red Sea. The throng cheered and waved. Cries of "Bon voyage!" rang in our ears. "Now this is more like the world tour departure I had envisioned!" Sharon said, beaming and waving like royalty. |
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