Don and Roddy

IFOA officially opened last night with the PEN Canada 25th Anniversary Gala, the showcase of which was an on-stage interview between Roddy Doyle and Don McKellar. I have been to a number of these staged conversations over the years, and I've always wondered how the participants manage to overcome the undeniably odd set-up: two interesting people talk to each other as if they are alone, as if they aren't on stage at the biggest literary festival in North America, as if 250 other people aren't also in the room. McKellar tipped his hat to the hilariousness of their situation right off.

"We're supposed to have a spirited conversation," he told Doyle. And then this: "I'm worried you're not going to live up to my expectations."

And away they went.

The two were lovely together, especially considering they'd only just met for the first time at the reception beforehand. To his credit, McKellar let Doyle do the majority of the talking, and the audience was taken on a fascinating trip through 1980s and modern-day Ireland, the writing life and Doyle's new book, The Deportees.

"The problem with being Irish," said Doyle, "is it's like having Riverdance on your back." He quickly followed up to make it clear that he does not consider himself an emissary, or a cultural envoy, from the Land of Green. "I'm me, not Ireland," he said.

What I noticed most in Doyle, and what surprised me the most, was how much he reminded me, suddenly but surely, of David Foster Wallace. Though on the surface the two have little in common, Doyle has a a broad measure of the self-deprecating humility that we all so loved about DFW, both as a celebrity and a writer. Doyle took great pains to make it clear that his opinions were his - he was not speaking for Ireland as a whole - and every time he used the word "we" he stopped and apologized. For someone so intelligent (he weighed in on everything from immigration to texting in Gaelic), and so damn funny (again, he could be Dublin's DFW), Doyle is remarkably "street," confident but modest and far from snooty. Or at least that's how he was last night.

McKellar, for his part, had a good lot to add, and a few probing questions I really liked. Sadly, I was so drunk from the reception that I forgot to write them down (see below).

The last word goes to Roddy:
"Who says the art of conversation is dead? I say the art of getting people to shut-up has died."

TONIGHT: A big reading, with such headliners as David Adams Richards and Nadeem Aslam. Don't miss it!

Playing squash with M.G. Vassanji

Upon arriving last night for the PEN Canada 25th Anniversary Gala reception, I found myself surrounded by faces I recognized but didn't know why. There were the two tall, elegantly dressed women who clearly knew everyone in the room (editors Ellen Seligman from M&S and Louise Dennys from Knopf). There was the small man of South Asian heritage with a perfectly trimmed beard and a cozy sweater on (M.G. Vassanji). There was the slim Sri Lankan man wearing a gorgeous baby blue tunic (Shyam Selvadurai). There was the equally slim but twice-as-tall guy who seemed always to be smiling (OK, I knew this was Evan Solomon right away).

Il Fornello was jammed with a who's who of Can Lit, and I knew nearly nobody. And then my lovely editor, Dinah Forbes from M&S, showed up out of the blue with a certain small, bearded, besweatered man on her arm.

"Andrew, this is Moyez."
Moyez? I thought to myself. The "M" actually stands for something? Of course it does. I wonder what the "G" stands for.
"Hi Moyez," I said calmly.

Dinah was very gracious with her introduction. The problem was, her intro was so good that she'd left nothing for us to say. We stood in silence. My mind flicked back an hour or two, when I'd made the terrifying discovery that most of my dressy clothes were now too small for my slowly expanding waistline. Writing this book has added at least two inches of flab to my gut.

"So Moyez," I said, "How do you stay in such good shape while writing?"
Moyez, by the way, seems like a terribly healthy man.
"Squash," he said. "Once, maybe twice a week. And when it's nice out, tennis."
I immediately pictured M.G. Vassanji rushing the net and placing an effortless drop-shot just inside the forecourt lines, while I lay breathless on my back in the rearcourt, having tripped over my ridiculously long legs. I'm willing to bet M.G. can run like the Dickens (and not because he writes like one).
"I play squash, too," I said, telling the first of many half-truths for the evening. "I have played squash" is what I should have said. In fact, "I have heard of people playing squash" would have been most accurate.

Don't worry, people. I did not ask Moyez Gulamhussein Vassanji for a game of squash. Give me a little credit....

Anyway, here's a few other things I learned last night:
a) Martin Levin knows more about monkeys than I do.
b) If confused as to which gourmet buffet item to choose from, follow Antanas Sileika around the room. The man knows his food. And his sausage. And his condiments.
c) You can eat more hamburger than you ever thought possible if said hamburger is served in mini-hamburger form.
d) Martin Levin knows more about birds than anyone I know.
e) PEN Canada deserves everyone's attention, donations, and praise.
f) One of the bartenders at Il Fornello must really like his boss, because that's what he calls every man who orders a drink from him. "Sure, boss." "Right on, boss."
g) Martin Levin is like that friend of ours (we've all got one) who kicks our asses at Trivial Pursuit. He actually knew that Suriname used to be called Dutch Guiana. Who is this guy?