[continued from previous entry]
Yes, the home of an online friend. A human I've known for quite a while, with whom I've had many thoughtful email conversations. But one I hadn't yet met in 3-D.
She lives across the river from Ottawa in Hull/Gatineau, Quebec, where most folks speak French. On a tidy suburban street, many of the houses looking a bit streamlined in a 1950s way. I get out of the car, note her lawn (manicured), her shrubbery (trimmed and cared for), her house (spotless). Seemed like I might be dealing with a high-functioning grown-up, not the usual funky, countrified Vermont types I've grown accustomed to.
I stagger up the walk to the porch, feeling rumpled/spindled/folded after a day in the car, stretching muscles in dire need of attention after hours locked in driver's position. I ring the bell. No answer. Behind me, someone calls out in French. I look around, a 30ish guy's addressing me from the window of a van, a painter or carpenter, something like that. He calls out a question, it appears he's asking about the location of, er, something -- a street? A business? The location of the local Frank T.J. Mackey S&D seminar? Dunno. None of my seven or eight words of French will help out, I respond with a big shrug, hands out to my sides to add an "I have no freakin' idea" nuance to my communication. He mutters something, disappointed, and drives off.
I ring the bell again. No answer. I look around, scoping out the neat, grown-up environs. Inside, footsteps become audible, hurrying my way. The door swings open, revealing L., a diminutive blonde in an outfit far nicer, far more presentable than my current post-travel duds -- an ankle-length dress, slit up the sides. Artfully applied make-up. Intelligence shining from eyes looking a bit wild, their owner having come from a phone call in which the other party tenaciously refused to disengage. I enter, we babble at each other, the visit commences.
This was not, by the way, a romantic visit. L. already had a going romance, of two or three years' duration. So when the time came to bring my bags in from the car and find out where I'd be sleeping, I learned that the house had no guestroom, just her one bedroom. I immediately assumed I'd be sleeping on a sofa -- L. produced a negative response to that (and indeed, the living room sofa -- the place's one and only sofa -- looked too clean, too showy, not the kind of comfy for a sleepover). I asked about a place on the floor, L. wouldn't hear of it. I'd be sleeping in her room, she said (my teeny brain going Huh?). She, she went on, would be going to sleep at a friend's place.
My jaw dropped, I refused to put her out of her house. She refused to do anything else. She indicated it was normal, even traditional in her part of the world that the host gave the guest the alpha bed. (Got me remembering the single time I'd done that for a guest, when a woman I knew had nowhere to stay for a night and I offered an evening's shelter. I had a sofabed to resort to, though -- loaning out the flat's only real mattress was no hardship.)
When it seemed like me going to a hotel might genuinely offend or hurt feelings, I gave in, figuring if the situation felt truly uncomfortable, I'd see about relocating to a hotel the following day.
We sat at her small dining table and talked, the time slipped by. She made an excellent meal, we ate and continued talking. Had dessert, talked some more. Time slipped by. At some point, I began to fade, she said good-night and left. I found myself alone in the house, feeling strangely... something. Adrift, displaced. Having displaced the usual occupant.
Went to bed. (Her bed.) Slept. Woke up in the wee hours, felt I wouldn't be getting back to sleep right away. Turned on the light, found myself in someone else's bedroom. Read for a bit, turned off the light. Slept.
Got up at a reasonable hour, showered, etc. She came home, had been awake for a while but stayed away, not wanting to roust me. Seemed surprised to find me up and lurching slowly toward wakefulness.
We sat at her small dining table, talked over good coffee and croissants. Time slipped by. Conversation came easily with L., a smart, interesting, extremely capable person who's lived an interesting life.
Blah blah blah. Went out, did touristy stuff. Made a trip to Gatineau Park, did plenty of walking. Had lunch. Found a parking space near the river, walked across the Portage Bridge, stopped in at the National Gallery, discovered a heap of excellent paintings by the Group of Seven, a bunch of arty types I'd never heard of before. Went up to the Parliament buildings -- closed by that time of day, though L. tried gamely to wangle entry. Walked to the marketplace, found a spot for coffee and talk. Walked more. Way more. Tried to find an Indian restaurant, got lousy directions, leading to much more walking, during which we witnessed one of the more spectacular sunsets I've ever seen. (See entry of 9/10.) Found the Indian joint, it featured a major buffet of very decent chow. Made me extremely happy.
During all of this, we had language stuff going on -- comparing words in French and Spanish, and L. working on her English, which is pretty good to begin with. Whatever driving needed to be done, I did, in-car time producing certain moments of major hilarity -- examples: (a) L. learning the expression 'stick shift,' a word combo whose vague sexual imagery had her nearly speechless with laughter; (b) me enjoying French signage. Signage example: the name of a local video store, Video Super Choix ('Choix' pronounced 'shwah,' meaning 'choice'). Say it out loud, overdo the French accent on 'Super Choix. Then repeat it. Then repeat it again. Sure fire entertainment, at least to the easily amused of my pitiful calibre.
[continued in entry of 9/16]
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National Gallery, Ottawa (yes, they actually have an exhibit of clown paintings currently on view):
Madrid, te echo de menos.
rws 7:43 PM [+]
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