Definitions Deconstructed
Port Manteau
S. G. Lacey
Waving the taxicab away with a distracted flick of the wrist, I shoo the loud, diesel motorcade off along the dusty road. I’m still dumbfounded by how cheap that rural fare from the tiny regional airport was, but am definitely not complaining. Granted, the two-decade old rusty ride was a piece of carbage.
Based on my best guesstimate, I’m 1,400 kilometers northeast of my downtown Toronto condo home. Based on my eyeballs, I’m staying right on the water. Unfortunately, the motel I booked on Travelocity looks like it might collapse at any time. Not exactly glamping, but I could care less. I’m not here for the flair, or the amenities.
It feels great to get away from the smog of the city, and enjoy the clean, fresh air of the coast. A few days of chillaxing are just what I need, after my 12 hours days in the finance district trading swaptions over the past fortnight. I told my colleagues I would be evailable, but on account of the inept modem connection here in the boondocks, don’t plan on doing any actual work this weekend. There’s no doubt I’m a workaholic, so need to make a conscious effort not to squander this precious downtime.
Having successful checked in, despite the rural slanguage used by the toothless desk clerk, I examine the heavy metal key I’m handed with skepticism. Written in unsteady hand on the metal is an alphanumeric code. “A1.” I’m no brainiac, but based on this secret code, the resort is probably pretty empty. Fortunately, I refrain from any snarky comments, and take my leave from the skitschy lobby. Irregardless, I’ve found my remote destination.
Finding my room, predictably at the end of the building, my endorphins rise as I test the key’s functionality, then push into the new, foreign space. A wave of anticippointment sets in as I survey the sad scene. Beige linoleum floors, dark faux-wood paneling, gaudy ochre colored paint. The 70’s want their aesthetics back.
Tossing my luggage on the rock-hard bed, I instinctively flip on the tiny, old-school, Sony tube TV. After scrolling through a terrible mix of newscasts, mockumentaries, and infomercials on the 7 available channels, I quickly concede defeat. No Comcast digital cable out here apparently. That’s fine, I didn’t travel up to this remote province to sit inside anyways.
I fire up my portable speaker with some rockabilly, my favorite music genre. Having listened to multiple edutainment podcasts on the journey north, I’m ready for some relaxing musical sounds. And hopefully the soothing lap of clear blue water on rocky shores. Time to get comfortable.
I open my leather clasp on my portmanteau, adorned with stamped metal corners, and a faded red flannel fabric covering. A hand-me-down from my grandfather, this is my go-to suitcase for weekend road trips. For once, I left my goatskin work murse at home.
Emptying the contents onto the ground, I peruse my floordrobe. The decision is easy. I select a pair of tattered jorts, and white and red tie-tied tank top, with the abstract image in the center roughly resembling a maple leaf. This is a ridonkulous outfit which I haven’t worn since college, but who cares. I’m on vacation. I disrobe out of my business suit, and get comfortable.
Just as I finish donning my beach attire on, a buzz emanates through the room. Initially confused, I realize it’s an intercom. How old is this shanty!? At least that means the Foodora order placed from the taxi has arrived. Perfect timing, I’m starting to get hangry.
Easily powering my bulky frame through the holey screen door, constrained by heavily worn Velcro which now relies on stiction, I meet the approaching delivery. Having already paid online, I flip the pimply faced tweenager, who definitely isn’t old enough to drive, a couple toonies as a tip.
Less than half an hour from arrival in this waterfront town, and I’m already sitting in a folding rocking chair, drinking a Budweiser Clamato, and looking out over the St. Lawrence River inlet. No glitz, no glamour, just uninhibited gorgeous scenery.
Looking out towards the beach, I spot a young couple strolling along slowly. The woman is clad in head-to-toe matching black athleisurewear, the man sporting tight jeggings, and a stonewashed jean jacket. The new aged Canadian tuxedo apparently. I chortle under my breath at the image. A hipster couple from Montreal, no doubt drinking Frappuccino’s with non-dairy Silk. Per this modern persona, behind them bounds a labradoodle puppy, a furry bundle of energy and neediness. Nobody’s surprised.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out hesitantly. It’s either my work, tormenting me with a trivial request, another in the seemingly perpetual stream of robocall spam, or my girlfriend, sexting me because she’s bored. Either way, it’s an unwanted distraction from this state of relaxation, staring blankly at the water.
It turns out to be the latter, as a few sensitive photos, supplemented with some exited emoticons, load slowly, a single bit and individual pixel at a time, on my screen, on account of the spotty Wifi out here in the country. So much for discretion. At least she’s not emailing these images to my work laptop. I snap a phone screenshot for documentation, then delete these incriminating texts.
This entire trip is a product of happenstance. Earlier this morning, I realized my plethora of airline milage points were about to expire. My lady friend and I have been trying to come up with a summer vacation plan, with no clear resolution. She was advocating for a staycation. To me, that sounded like two shopaholics, sitting on opposite ends of the couch, watching romcoms. This fresh air is way more productive.
Amused, and aroused, I reach over, grabbing a ginormous, mutant piece of fried chicken from the bucket on the flimsy, folding table next to me. A jackalope would be proud to have legs this big. The old ball and chain never lets me get KFC at home. I should take these mancations more often.
Dipping into the tub of mashed potatoes and gravy with the tiny plastic spork, I transfer the steaming mound to my mouth, savoring the flavorful explosion of starch, grease, and spices that meld on my taste buds. Unfortunately, half the scoop falls off the hybrid utensil, splattering on the rotten floor boards of the deck. No damage done there.
This Frankenfood may not be healthy, but it’s damn tasty, and definitely better than the blandiose brunch spread they are serving at the only formal restaurant in town. According to my Yelp research on the quick flight, dining options in these parts are limited. What this locality needs is a gastropub, with some craft beer on tap, sports on TV, and poutine on the menu.
Putting my bare feet up on the second folding chair provided, I gaze out over the bay, and draw in a deep breath of the salty air. Taking another swig of 22 oz. mocktail, then wiping my oily fingers on the front of my shirt, I take stock of the situation. This is a craptacularly good holiday. Now I just need to find a budtender around here who delivers pre-rolled joints, and maybe a few bags of Funyuns.
Definition:
Portmanteau | pȯrt-ˈman-(ˌ)tō
1: A large suitcase.
2: A word or morpheme whose form and meaning are derived from a blending of two or more distinct forms (such as smog from smoke and fog). [REF]
Deconstruction:
The amusing anecdote above includes 85 literary portmanteaus, per the second definition above, plus the businessman’s luggage, as an actual noun.
The origin of portmanteau can be traced back to Lewis Carroll, an author who was famous for making up words. In his piece “Through the Looking Glass”, Humpty Dumpty explains portmanteaus to Alice, while justifying the numerous invented words in the poem Jabberwock.
“It’s like a portmanteau – there are two meanings packed up into one word.”
Ironically meta, the word portmanteau is itself one, combining the French words “porter”, which means to carry, and “manteau”, which is a form of cloak. Join these together, and you’ve got a sturdy suitcase for toting around your fancy clothes.
Port du Manteau is an actual place on the southern coast of France, between Marseille and Nice. Unfortunately, the lovely, relaxing bay view described above in Northeast Canada is fictional. At least in name.
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