Westjet is amazing. If all airlines in the world were Westjet, the world would a happier place. Or they might, at least, take themselves less seriously.

This means I am now in scenic Buffalo, NY. Buffalo, not enjoying the “benefits” of Alberta’s economy, remains virtually unchanged in the nearly seven years since I lived here. Same old Buffalo. Same old cracked pavement, disappearing beneath a slow motion explosion of sun-baked weeds. Same old rusted metal bridges. Same old rusted brick factories with broken windows. Same old sleepy summer neighborhoods, with their sagging wooden houses and Irish pubs on every corner. People lounging on their porches. Children playing in the street.

I am staying in my friend Deb’s house, a typical south Buffalo home with all ancient hardwood floors, and gorgeous oak doorframes and banisters. Last night I slept, essentially, on a porch, under moonlight, to the tireless buzz of mysterious cricket-like creatures, never seen, but always heard. Even now, mid afternoon, as I sit in Cazenovia Park propped against a towering elm older than many generations of men, that buzz is everywhere, pulsing, rising and falling, but never stopping. The soundtrack of time in Buffalo, of my re-acquaintance with old haunts. Odd that I had forgotten it – but I suppose the locals no longer hear it either.

Not everything is the same. The Shamrock, an Irish Pub also older than many generations of men, is gone, replaced by a Starbucks. People change too, and while I was prepared for this, there are some disappointments. I had visions, I suppose, of the gang all being here, meeting at the airport, or at least, gathering at Deb’s house , catching up, laughing, and reminiscing about those odd, dreamlike days when we were all together, ordinary life turned to magic by shared memory. But many of “the gang” have proven difficult to contact. Besides Deb and her lovely adopted Indian kids, who picked me up from the airport, I have not so much as spoken to anyone else, though Deb and I spent most of yesterday afternoon calling and emailing to let people know I was here, and a few of them were already aware I was coming. I will see many at the wedding, I suspect, but as wonderful as it is to trade jabs with Deb again, and as gratifying as Andrew’s enthusiasm and Tammy’s complete, innocent adoration are, there are others that I miss, and if this trip comes and goes with a handshake and a “how are you” at a wedding…it will be a bit…sad. The inevitable sadness of life moving on. A sadness that feels at home in Buffalo, a town of crumbling relics from happier days- a sort of repository of things left behind.