It's Canadian Thanksgiving

which means, in effect, that almost no one exists in residence. They've all fled to Kingston and London and Hamilton and Sackville, places that sound mysterious and foreign but can actually be found by throwing a handful of darts at southeastern Canada. So it's just me and a handful of Americans and Vancouverites, bonding in solidarity over being left behind.

Actually, I really like it - being left behind that is, as my thirteen-year-old self used to rail against President Bush's child education policies. I like the strangely quiet feeling of a student residence when the students have left. There is no beer pong on the kitchen table. No one is blasting the trance remix of Beethoven's ninth from the second floor. The television room is empty even though there's a hockey game on. The few of us are like survivors marooned on a ship that even the rats are leaving. Together we are still loud and ebullient, but our cries sound hollow against the walls of a castle meant for more occupants.

Tommorrow it'll be back to the strange and sometimes surreal normality that is cohabitation with two hundred people, but for now we'll watch the silence for signs of movement.