Harrison Cruikshank (3L)
Greetings, dear readers. This shall be my final correspondence, and it is quite the yarn. By the good grace of providence, I stumbled upon a wondrous place whilst exploring Toronto. The existence of this ancient metropolis has long been speculated by philosophers and ancient astronaut theorists alike, but I write now having experienced its majesty first hand. That’s right my friends, on March 5th 2016, I found the Lost Pavilion of Atlantis!
Hidden in plain sight, and fully above water, I discovered Atlantis somewhere no law student ever dared venture before: south of the Gardiner Expressway. However, locating it was but half the battle. The entrance to Atlantis was obviously designed to keep outsiders at bay. A long, narrow shaft, no doubt littered with booby traps, stood between the Pavilion and me. Invoking the skills of my name sake to safely traverse this wretched corridor, I reached the Pavilion’s foyer with Indiana-esque finesse. There, I was greeted with a spectacular sight: soaring glass walls, and carpets stained with the ghosts of weddings, mitzvahs, and proms past. Atlantis!
To my astonishment, the Pavilion had not been abandoned. I was welcomed by a grand political figure, known only as President King, who mysteriously knew me by name. After confirming I was on the scroll before him (a list of the worthy!?), he beckoned me enter. My coat was taken, and I was immediately attended on by citizens of Atlantis. Local delicacies were on offer, including little spoons filled with a fine tomato dish. And heed! The spoons themselves were edible! Clearly an advanced civilization. Within the Pavilion were also three stations where libations were generously doled out. The cost? Nothing. Atlantis has developed beyond the need for monies.
It was like a dream, and I, like a Dorothy, could swear you were there. Dining among eerily-familiar faces, I feasted to contentment. The Atlantisians (Atlantizens? Atlantanians?) informed me that I should save my appetite for the traditional late-night poutine and candy, but I did not heed them. The gravy and sweets never reached my lips. Indeed, I was occupied with other festivities. The Atlantarians, fueled by liquid ambrosia, queued up to have their likenesses captured on 4×6 cards and engaged in traditional dance. Unfortunately, cultural isolation has taken a toll on the Pavilion. The music of choice was poorly curated, as if a discus jockey simply slapped a list of songs together based on random suggestion.
But hark! I was not the only foreigner to enter Atlantis. The renowned Andrew Francis Bacon, who himself has written extensively on the legendary Pavilion, was mingling with the citizens. I approached him, his arms open, and we rejoiced at the good fortune of our jointly and severally creditable discovery. I asked him what he made of it all, to which he replied, “the Atlantis Pavilion is a venue that inspires generosity and enlightenment, dignity and splendour, piety and public spirit.” I could not have agreed with him more.
Yet be still, friends, for here my story takes a dark turn. The music flowing through the city, heretofore benign, took a sinister turn. Words cannot describe the monstrous noise that filled the Pavilion, but know that the shrieks of thirty thousand banshees would have been preferable. This is how I was reminded of what this place really was—lost, and with good reason. Though many of the citizens seemed unfazed, senses dulled by wine, others joined me as I dashed toward the exit, like a ballerina in the final act. I was halted by guards demanding I not leave before retrieving my overcoat. Not wishing to anger them, I obeyed. Some around me heedlessly fled without coats. They were the bravest souls of all.
What remains after I departed is but a blur. Try as I might, I have not been able to relocate Atlantis since that fateful evening. Did I truly discover the lost Pavilion? Was it all a dream? Did I just drink too much at Law Ball? We may never know dear reader. We may never know.
