Montréal, Thursday evening: me, heading down into the rush-hour Metro. Two packed trains and one crowded bus ride later, I'm out in the city's western reaches, in a residential area disorientingly similar to neighborhoods I know from Long Island and the Boston area, swallows streaking in and out of view above abundant, spreading trees. There to visit a cyber-friend in 3-D for the first time. Tom, a big congenial bear of a guy -- long-haired, unshaven, smile shining through the follicle foliage. Him, his dog Jack, his two teenage sons (Max, Ben), in a flat that clearly belongs to a bunch of males. Lived in, in a nicely rough-edged way, the vibe active, alive, with a healthy edge of testosterone.
Conversation as Tom made food and the boys surged in and out of the kitchen, me pleased to be there in the middle of it all, north of the border. Dinner took place in the basement, the television room -- couch, chairs, shelves of DVDs, shelves of books -- me hoovering down two plates of pasta (Jack watching me, politely hopeful), the meal taken up a level by generous helpings of seriously excellent locally-made Italian sausage. An episode of The Kids In The Hall played, punctuated by bursts of laughter. Meal over, life moved back upstairs, the evening drifted along, the kids' attention shifting to life online.
Darkness gently fell, Tom and I walked to an area of shops and cafés, loads of people out enjoying the evening, the air humming with conversation in English and French. Himself picked up a cup of his current vice, a sweet coffee topped with foam and caramel syrup. I went for a decaf, Tom seeming to find my low-octane choice inconceivable, shocking, sad, given the number of tantalizing options readily available to get my clueless ass wired in no time flat. I wasn't looking to get wired, though -- I intended to continue enjoying company and conversation until my bod began to run out of gas, at which time I'd return to the B&B, crawl into bed, sink into sleep.
It's a funny place, Montréal. What I'd seen of the city itself -- apart from downtown, where traces of European-style architecture are scattered about -- reminded me of any number of North American urban and suburban areas. The people, the signage, the energy were something else, however. A 50-something woman at a table near Tom and I spoke a mixture of French and English into her cellphone. When a young woman joined her, that mix extended to include Spanish, shifting fluidly between the three. I confess, that suits me far more than hearing nothing but English all the time -- or just Spanish, for that matter -- the same way that the wide variety of Montréal's people proved to be a source of real pleasure for me.
Like Madrid, nightlife seems to be a part of existence in the city (though not to the wild, bacchanalian extreme that they take it in the Spanish capital). Along with an abundance of good food, movies in various languages, music. And like Madrid, it appears to be a place where coffee is basic, the city heaving with establishments to sit, drink, chat, people-watch. (There's a quote attributed to Mark Twain that goes something like, "You can't throw a rock in Montréal without breaking stained glass," referring to the quantity of churches. Could be time to update it to something like, "You can't throw a rock in Montréal without smashing someone's coffee mug.")
It's a city, I realized, that feels extremely comfortable to me in many ways, like clothing worn enough that one's body recognizes it, slips into it easily, almost with a sigh of contentment. A funky, homey place, an urban center on a human scale. Almost, at times, with a small-town feel. (Example: next day, Friday, late afternoon, I make the trip from the B&B to the city's art museum, figuring to spend the evening hours getting a shot of culture. I get there, see no one about. And of course no one's about: it closes at 5 p.m. on Fridays during the summer. (Huh?) Closes at 5 p.m. every day of the week. Except Wednesdays, when it's open late. (Huh?) I get up the next morning, make the trip a second time, arriving shortly after the doors open. Once again no one about. Just me and a handful of other intrepid types. Could be because it's summertime. Or not. Got me. Strange, though. Meanwhile, I stop into a museum men's room at one point to dump the ballast, position myself in front of a urinal. I look down, notice a blue rubber strainer-mat spread over the urinal drain, see that it has the saying "'Non' a la drogue" printed across it. First time I've ever seen an ad or public service announcement placed to be read mid-whiz. Wish I'd taken a photo of it.)
Art lover? Dairy lover? -- Outside the Musée des Beaux Arts, Montréal:
Conversation with Tom moved along (women, movies, writing, women, actors, directors, life in Montréal, food, coffee, women, the various ways the city and its people were striking me), him progressively more amped up as his cup gradually emptied, the terrace around us packed with people out enjoying the evening. Later, back at the flat -- down in the basement once again, me nosing through the DVD's -- chatter continued, caffeine and love for the craft of filmmaking generating passionate movie commentary from Tom.
Somewhere in there my energy began flagging, Tom offered a ride back to the B&B via a route with better vistas than the Metro. I could not refuse. He checked in with the kids, discovered the younger one, Max, was resisting the early bedtime hour Tom had been pushing. I listened unobtrusively, thought about how clearly Tom's love for the boys shone out in his interactions with them. The kind of ongoing, unmistakable display that reflects a heart with depth, a person of quality.
When we finally straggled out to the car, Max had joined the expedition, tossing himself into the back seat, remaining mostly quiet as Tom drove through neighborhoods that could have easily been lifted from one of Long Island's older districts, placed neatly down in this northerly locale.
Tom followed roads that led through Mount Royal Park -- the lights of nighttime Montréal spreading away to the north and south -- then down into the neighborhoods north of my B&B, Himself enthusiastically plunging us into French enclaves, giving me a fast eyeful of neighborhoods I might want to investigate. At some point -- my energy-drop having reduced my part in conversation to one-syllable nonsense -- I bailed, made the rest of the trip on increasingly tired feet.
That was the first evening.
[continued in next entry]
Madrid, te echo de menos.
rws 8:20 PM [+]
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