23 March 2012

So I had tea with my psychologist, in a lovely teahouse down a small alleyway in Gastown. They brought pots of tea, and he ate a cookie, confessing his appreciation for lemongrass and teas that taste like dessert. Other things he likes are the farmer's market, where he buys expensive produce, people who are high on themselves from doing yoga, and, purportedly, new age music. With synthesizers and orcas piped in. He says that he would go to a workshop on life given by the Breton man who makes crepes at the market, and that for a certain segment of Vancouverites, when a marriage breaks up one partner must start running marathons, which is a phenomena that should be put to communal comic effect. In the end he told me about how his street fighter ally cat cat died, growing thin and then becoming prone to falling over, and how two days before he died he finally broke into a box that he and his wife had and tore everything out of it. I shared the second steeping of my tea leaves with him, and then we walked up the street to the university where he does his research.

No comments: