You Can't Fool the Camera

June 22nd

Dana is waiting for me at the corner of Elizabeth and LaTrobe, arms tightly wrapped to brace against the cold.

"Sorry, ah-nee, but tha place eez closed."
Dana is from Venice. She often calls me honey, which comes out as ah-nee. (She's also taken to saying, "Love you long time" when we part company, I assume because it nearly kills me every time she does.)

It's been over a week since we've seen each other -- practically unheard in the three months we've known each other -- and the plan was to meet in the city and catch up over cheap wine. It was, in fact, over cheap wine on Chapel Street that we first bonded, back in March. "$3 a glass?! Ah-nee, I mean, ca-mon!"

I mean, ca-mon! is another favorite, as is her habit of saying "blah" exactly 9 times in quick succession, although of late I've noticed she occasionally abbreviates this to 4.
["Come on" or "ca-mon" became something of a joke the summer I worked in an Italian restaurant nearly 10 years ago, as it was Chef Morau's most frequently used phrase. By far. Maybe it's an Italian thing.]

"Well, what do you think?"
It's 10:45pm on a Monday: our closest options are limited to a noisy sports bar and an overpriced hostel pub.
No promise of cheap wine in sight.

"Listen, ah-nee: I have a bottle of wine in my bag."
"Perfect. So do I.

Not that we typically carry bottles of wine around with us. Dana picked up groceries after work on the way to meet me -- as an Italian, wine qualifies as a staple. I had been at Sally's for dinner, not that I usually take leftover wine with me, but she was leaving for China in two days and insisted. How lucky for us.

***

And so we find ourselves on a bench outside the Queen Victoria Markets, bathed in the glow of a street light, our fast-paced frenetic conversations interrupted only by swigs from the bottles.

Not long after settling in, a security guard walks by. We see him approaching and, without missing a beat, the wine is tucked away. A polite nod-and-smile and, after he's gone, we heartily congratulate ourselves for our quick-thinking deception under pressure.

And the wine's back out.

Round two: Dana gets creative with some planted evocative questions as the security guard comes by about 10 minutes later. When the coast is clear, she tells me it was to throw off suspicion. I'm impressed by her style.

The third time, I take it upon myself to comment on how late it's getting, we should think about going.

By the fourth time around -- one bottle down and the second well on its way -- we go the uproarious laughter route. Because clearly nothing speaks higher to one's innocence.
That's the wine's theory in such matters. Needless to say, wine rarely knows what the hell it's talking about.

Our performance at this point is abysmally amateurish, so imagine our surprise when again the guard keeps moving without pause or comment.
Brilliant. Obviously, this demonstrates we are above reproach.

Round five and neither of us are fazed.

"How much longer do you ladies think you'll be here," the guard asks, standing across from us at what feels like an unnecessarily far distance, as though we may have foreign cooties.

"Oh gosh, not much longer... we both have to work in the morning and it's getting late," I say with biggest eyes, in sweetest voice.

"It's fine, but can you move to that bench over there?"
"Um... OK?"
"Just 'cause of the camera."

I look to where he's pointing: a surveillance camera angled directly at our well-lit bench.

***

I have to say, top marks go to this guard for his out-of-sight/out-of-mind approach to security (almost Canadian).

Hopefully, our ridiculous and hilariously transparent charade brightened his night.