The other day as I was minding my own business I got a curious invitation. A colleague asked me if I'd be interested in joining his group for dinner at the Rideau Club that night. So I brushed the hair away from my eyes and gave my beard a scratch (I haven't had a haircut in 2008 or shaved since I was in Whistler) before I said "will they even let me in the door?" It took a while to be convinced, but in the end I decided to accept the invitation. After all it seemed like a reasonable reason to skip yoga class.

The Rideau Club pre-dates canadian confederation and was established twenty-two months before Ottawa was chosen as the seat of government. The clubs first president was Sir John A. Macdonald who, two years later, became Canada's first prime minister. Those are some pretty lofty credentials for a club so when I was asked, first of all, if I owned a jacket and tie (apparently they won't let you in the door without them) and if I'd be interested in going, I was naturally a bit skeptical that I would even gain entry. Besides, the last time I went to one of these formal parties, I wound up across the desk of the Director of CSIS in Windsor two days later (being interviewed for a job oddly). "This could be interesting" I thought and accepted. It seemed like an opportunity that doesn't present itself too often, and besides I like to slum it every once in a while.

The Rideau Club is obviously quite old. The building where it's located, however, is not. The original building burned down in 1979 so they made a replica of its interior on the top floor of the Sun Life building in downtown Ottawa. In order to get to the club, there's an elevator which services it exclusively (how very elitist). As I got in the elevator, I found it odd that there were only two buttons: one for the lobby and one for the fifteenth floor. Secretly I was a bit disappointed that there wasn't a retinal scan machine or some such thing. Nontheless, it was a neat feeling to be in a private elevator to an exclusive club which boasts heads of state as members. I felt like I was going to a Stone Cutters meeting. Maybe I'd get to participate in decisions on world policy, affect the course of human history, and witness historical keggers, beer blasts, beer bashes and steinhoists, followed by the regimented AA meetings. This evening was certainly looking up.

Once I arrived I was disappointed to discover that no one referred to themselves as numbers that were sequentially assigned in the order in which they joined. Once again the Simpsons had let me down. The coat room, however, did not. That thing was the size of my living room and dining room combined plus within it was the men's room which was equipped with shoe polishers and other gizmos that were cool and useless.

The view from the various windows in the club was quite spectacular. It was a great vantage point to see Parliament Hill, the Ottawa River, random high-rise living rooms (it gave me a bit of a voyeuristic feeling) and off in the distance, the Gatineau hills where my home resort, Mont Cascades, can be found (oh I miss the winter already). In spite of the majestic view, however, there seemed to be something missing. I realised what it was when reached into my breast pocket to adjust my hanky which I made out of a Spanky's Whistler trail map. It was the mountains that were missing. Having just been in British Columbia not two weeks before, I had grown accustomed to seeing large mountainous objects in the horizon; clearly these are missing in Ontario. In the time I spent in B.C. and Alberta, I had stopped noticing the giant masses of rock, earth and snow all around me. I was de-sensitized to their majesty and this thought disappointed me. It made me realise two things:

1. Never take what you have for granted. You'll miss it when its gone. This seems to be something that I have to be reminded of every once in a while and I'm now reminding all of you.
2. You can take the snowboarder off the mountain, but you can't take the mountain out of the snowboarder. I thought using a trail map as a hanky was a nice touch. None of my companions seemed at all surprised when they realised what I had done. A dirtbag in fancy clothes is still a dirtbag.

So if you ever get a chance to go to the Rideau Club, I highly recommend it. It's steeped in history and is a good place to take stock of who you are and what you have. Speaking of what you have, all you dwellers of the mountains out there, raise your glasses to them, they are precious indeed.

Keep Shreddin' the GNAR!

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Published by jr_barns: 5:35 AM
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