I remember the Queen, her frail, tiny voice streaming in and out of my dad’s car radio as we drove to my uncle’s cabin; I don’t even know where that was anymore… the Laurentians? The Eastern Townships? In my mind I see the sun playing hide and seek between the trees on a beautiful summer’s day, a small country road, my sister and I sitting on pillows — that black vinyl interior could get insanely hot.
We were hearing the opening ceremonies of the Montreal Olympics and living in an era of Giants: larger than life men weaving larger than life tapestries, dreaming up projects and ideas to change the world or mould posterity. An age of ideals, however misguided.
Over the years I’ve often walked through Parc Olympique as I would through skeletal remains — or the crash site of some extraordinary spaceship. But there’s a renewed sense of purpose slowly rising from those ashes. A month from now I’ll take the kids to a new Planetarium, a jewel of design, architecture and technology. We’ll lazily slouch in our reclined seats, gaze upon an impossible night sky and travel to the stars.
And perhaps — if we're lucky — we’ll hitch a ride on the Spirit of ’76.