Hostel Kitchen

The hostel’s heating system had broken during the day, so we sat in our coats in the second floor kitchen, watching a bitterly cold Edmonton wind tear down the dark street below. A greying Newfoundlander, eyes droopy with sixty years and one very hard night, weakly swayed in his chair and rambled aimlessly across the steel strings he’d forced upon a tiny classical guitar. An enormous smooth-headed Djiboutian, wrapped to the chin in a new pea coat and matching black scarf, sat back with his hands in his pockets, quietly observing from across the table. Between his smattering of English and mine of French, we exchanged names and a few broken sentences before lapsing into silence. The drunken rambling took on words and direction: it had become an improvisation on love, directed at the only dedicated audience member, whom I now knew as Pierre. Pierre flashed a black Cheshire grin and chuckled. “I love you too.” We exchanged an amused smile as the Newfie struck out on the theme of a heartbroken girl. Pierre felt around for the right English: “He makes up his own music…directly,” he said. The singing stopped. “No, no…” slurred the musician. “It’s ahff de coff.”