The other night I almost gave in to the Olympic burnout Remy recently wrote about. For a brief moment I considered jammies-bath-and-early-bed.
And then I heard an American with a strong Chicago accent gushing into her cellphone about how she was going to the Place de la Francophonie on Granville Island to see Garou–aka the handsome guy in black who sang in French during the opening ceremonies.
This was too intriguing–an American raving about a French-Canadian singer I’d never heard of before Friday–so I switched gears and jumped on the first bus that could take me over the Granville Street bridge.
I arrived at the Place de la Francophonie (the so-called French Quarter just a stone’s throw from the Granville Island Hotel) in time to see mogul champion Alexandre Bilodeau receive his gold medal on the big screen.
Things got a little loud.
And then Garou was introduced and they got even louder.
This guy–apparently adored by moms and their teenage daughters equally–sings like a cross between Louis Armstrong, Leonard Cohen and Paolo Conte: all gravel and gallic charm. The multi-cultural crowd approved heartily of what they were hearing.
I regretted I had to bail early but I wanted to catch the 9 o’clock show at Atlantic Canada House on the other side of the island.
The shows change daily but don’t fuss too much about what you’ll see. They all look good.
Afterwards, I really wanted to join the nightly “kitchen party” (Sloan was playing) in the adjoining Backstage Lounge.
But the line-up was long–like, hours long thanks to the Globe and Mail‘s ranking of this pavilion as the don’t-miss entertainment venue of the Games–and it was raining hard and I wasn’t in the mood to flirt with the world anymore.
Somehow I don’t think they missed me.