Earlier today -- Katrina passes through northern Vermont:
Madrid, te echo de menos.
rws 4:11 PM [+]
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Wednesday, August 31, 2005 Earlier today -- Katrina passes through northern Vermont: Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 4:11 PM [+] |
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Thursday, August 25, 2005 This part of Vermont's been doing the late-summer schizo thing lately, the days veering between classic, golden late August fare and gray, cold autumn. Rainfall coming and going, countryside green and moist, sky clearing long enough to dry everything out before the next bout of showers. Allowing me to drag out an the extension ladder from the garage and scrape paint, caulk seams, etc. Homeowner stuff, me in work mode, ready to do things that need to be done. And just in time, 'cause there's a pile of stuff waiting to be done. When not flailing about around the outside of the house, I'm inside flailing away at the piano, attempting to get enough of a handle on J.S. Bach that he can stop spinning wildly about in his grave. Or at the computer, pretending to be a writer. Or attempting to organize my little life so that I can head back to Madrid in six or seven weeks without my material existence on this side of the Atlantic falling apart. Every couple of days I drive to Montpelier, stop in at the gym and pump up my manly self, drop wads of cash at the grocery and hardware stores, maybe stop somewhere to toss down an iced coffee. Today brought one of those excursions, getting me up and out of the house at far too reasonable, far too grown-up an hour. For some reason, self-talkers were sprinkled all over the town's diminutive downtown, taking advantage of beautiful weather -- a multi-ethnic array of individuals carrying on loud conversations with themselves, one of them an Asian woman who had the look of a high-functioning adult until I heard her spewing a slightly surreal, fairly paranoid narrative about, well, something she didn't care for. Down the street from there, a college-age busker had taken over a stretch of sidewalk, whanging away at an acoustic guitar in accompaniment to the angriest, thrashingest street singing I've heard in quite a while. I passed, aiming a smile his way, he briefly paused the angst to give a courtly nod in return. Seen/heard today at the gym: -- A mid- to late-60's woman, completely rigged out in sweat gear and leg warmers, doing a long, elaborate, disciplined workout, clean and jerk style. Preparing for a competition, it turns out. -- A small, serious, glasses-festooned 70-something woman quietly doing floor exercises, one renegade foot practically stomping in time to a Ten Years After song playing on the in-house stereo. (The music at the gym during the week tends toward hits from the 60's-70's-80's, and while I've heard enough classic rock to last me several lifetimes and then some, I'll take that over the generic big-hair/heavy metal stuff they crank up on the weekends.) -- A baseball discussion in the locker room between two 40ish males morphing into a heated exchange, one saying he'd heard the 50's Dodgers referred to as Murderer's Row, the other claiming (in the outraged tone of a true believer) that only the Yanks had been called that, only the Yanks deserved to be called that. Which got me remembering my father telling me he'd seen Jackie Robinson play at Ebbets Field, the pleasure in the parental unit's voice offsetting the scary realization on my part of how old that memory made him. Fine, the 'rents had me late in their lives and the old man was a young goofball in the Ebbets Field years. Even so. Goddamn. But I blabber. And there's work waiting to be done. ********* Unlike other years, leaves around here have not yet started the autumn color thing despite September closing steadily in. Today, however, brought the season's first pumpkin sighting:  Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 3:16 PM [+] |
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Sunday, August 21, 2005 Today, after a night of rain:  Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 12:35 PM [+] |
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Saturday, August 20, 2005 [continued from previous post] So, yeah, a good day. And real damn interesting in a way I hadn't anticipated. To wit: I've passed this summer in fairly solitary fashion -- me, here at the house, out in the country, surrounded by extreme beauty, floating through my days doing whatever needs to be done. And as just about any homeowner knows, once you have a house/land to take care of you can find work needing to be done any time you're in the mood to get busy. Add what might loosely be called business-related work to that, it's produced a summer that's kept me well occupied, between one thing and another. Essentially alone during the days spent here (not counting phone/email contact, occasional trips to town). Which has been just fine with me -- balancing out months spent in Madrid, in the middle of densely concentrated humanity. All of a sudden, friends show up -- people equipped with furry, four-legged adjuncts -- and I'm not alone in the space any more. I get to see my way of living contrasted with how other humans carry on here, and when one spends a lot of time on one's own, one develops ways of living, of doing things. Watching someone else here doing things their way provides the opportunity to observe me noting and reacting. Noting where I get the impulse (or not) to impose a way of doing things. Good information. And the first day had some bumpy moments along the way. Not, I hope, excessively bumpy. Not the kind of bumpy that gets friends running the other way, I hope. Informative. Entertaining. (Nighttime hours featured the pitter-patter of kitty feet as they did the nocturnal exploration thing, now and then slowing by the door to my bedroom, peering in at the strange human in bed there before running off for further snooping around.) Next day: much better, me having adjusted to sharing the space with other beings. Independent, well-intentioned beings I liked having here. Another morning of food, talk, waking up slowly. Whole different kind of day going on outside -- gray, cool, rainy. Nowhere near as user-friendly, though good for the Earth and all that. (Grumble, grumble.) The kind of weather that gets me ready to curl up with a book or something good playing on the idiot box. Went out for a hike in the woods with S., up into the woods across the road, along the series of paths that wind through the local hills. Paths apparently little traveled this year -- overgrown, with detours due to a couple of downed trees. Everything damp, soaking pants and hiking boots in no time flat. With many hungry mosquitoes about looking for a donation. I returned home within an hour, leaving S. to continue on solo for a while. Found myself with the desire to get the TV cranked, shove something into the DVD player. Managed to mostly stave it off until after lunch and friends' departure. At which time the tube went on. And stayed on. Reminding me all over again of television's time machine aspect: crank it up, suddenly it's hours later. How I sometimes react to intense bouts of time spent with other people: an immediate post-socializing immersion in book, computer, television (and/or food). Decompression, sometimes lasting quite a while. Monday: Another round of hacking/digging away in the garden, like every Monday morning for the past month. Becoming less and less diverting with time. More like, er, suffering, penance, something along those lines. Not the way I prefer to live. Think I might be reaching the end of that kind of activity for this year. After that, the traditional August cold snap settled into these parts. Days pretty, nights real damn cool. Temperature at 7 a.m.: 40 degrees. Couple of days worth of that, just to remind us of where we are and what lurks not too far off in the future. Last couple of days, that eased up, summer more or less edged its way back in. Gray, damp, but milder. Tonight, my uphill neighbors -- the local writing celebrities -- throw their annual 'neighborhood' party, an excuse for the six households scattered around this hill to get together, eat, drink, carry on. Probably provide all sorts of wholesome entertainment. Later. Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 5:09 PM [+] |
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Thursday, August 18, 2005 Yesterday morning: woke up around four from vivid, involved dreams, the last one featuring snakes. I like snakes, generally have several encounters with them in teh course of the short warm season here -- garter snakes, mostly. Inoffensive creatures. Neighbors, putting in an appearance now and then, getting some sun or hanging out near where I'm working in the garden or mowing lawn, melting away into the greenery when I get too close. The snakes in the dream were bigger than those, three or four times so, though not threatening. Until the final one, a small, green serpent, more or less the size of a garter snake -- but clearly dangerous, poisonous, and fixed on me. Intent on coming at me, readying itself, my efforts to put some distance between me and it having no effect. My eyes opened as it lunged at one of my legs, I found myself in bed. For a while I remained prone, trying to shake off the dream's vivid intensity -- without success, finally turning on the light, getting up, moving about the house until my head cleared. Times like that, it's nice to wake up and find your sweetheart sleeping next to you, hear her soft, steady breathing. In those moments, I notice that particular gap in my current existence. Got back into bed, picked up a book and read for a while, the world outside moving slowly toward dawn. It's been an interesting, active week. Last Friday afternoon, I made the drive over to Burlington to meet up with the Latino group [see entry of July 23], spent a couple of hours speaking Spanish. A small turnout that time, me the only honky for most of it. The Chilean couple were there, sitting at a sidewalk table with a 60ish Puerto Rican woman I'd never met before. Juan Carlos showed up, personable and chatty as always. Off beyond our group, a shaggy college-aged 20-something male in shorts and sandals sat on a towel by the front of the café, back against the building, sometimes strumming a guitar, other times talking to himself. Another self-talker happened by, accosted a skinny fella standing in the café's doorway. In unpleasant fashion, apparently, his voice rising as the exchange progressed, the guy in the doorway, asking him to back off, go away, finally retreating into the café. The acoster stood staring into the café for a while, then moved on. Light spritzing rain came and went, attractive women passed by, most wearing what seems to be the unofficial warm-weather outfit in much of the northeast (including Montréal): shorts, t-shirt/tank top, flip-flops. A car pulled up, a guy got out, reached back in and slowly extracted a string bass (in carrying case), the instrument looking so oversized that removing it from the vehicle (and therefore stuffing it in at some earlier point) appeared to defy the laws of physics. Around 7:30, the rain -- providing more atmosphere than moisture to that point -- decided to get more serious, sending the rest of the group indoors. I had friends arriving later in the evening, so headed homeward. Rain. More rain. A bit of an adjustment after the recent weeks of spectacular, rain-free weather. But good for the Earth and all that. (Grumble, grumble.) Friends arrived around ten -- G. and S., a couple who brought along their two cats (with my blessing) for the adventure of it. A lesbian couple, together now for twelve, thirteen years, something like that. Two of my favorite people, both attorneys. (I'm aware that there are those who would write them off as human beings for being (a) lesbians, (b) attorneys, or (c) lesbian attorneys. To that part of the population I say: get over it.) G. and S. set up camp in the downstairs guest room, let the cats out, put together a temporary litter box that resembled a small, cardboard doghouse. One of the cats immediately disappeared under the bed. The other remained out in the open, cautiously dealt with finding itself in a strange living space. G. and S. joined me upstairs for a bit of blab, we retired to our respective bedrooms, calling it a night. Next day: a long, lazy morning spent catching up, a field trip to a swimming hole in the afternoon (another perfect Vermont summer day, the water in the pond clear, cool, filled with schools of curious fish), a trip to the circus, each part of the day better than the last. The circus -- the performers between 10 and 18 years of age, the entire gig happening in one ring in a small, intimate big top, the audience at least 60% kids, all of whom seemed entranced -- turned out to be a ball. Inspirational. The greatest circus-type thingy I've ever been to. I covered the circus tix, G. & S. bought dinner afterward. A fine wind-up to a fine day. [continued in next entry] Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 12:12 PM [+] |
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Saturday, August 13, 2005 Northern Vermont, a mid-August Saturday morning (far too early) -- the air sultry, crickets singing everywhere:  Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 7:26 AM [+] |
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Thursday, August 11, 2005 This morning -- a monarch pays a visit:  Thanks to Spacetramp for the Nat'l Geog. link. Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 9:59 AM [+] |
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Tuesday, August 09, 2005 Dusk, yesterday:  Dawn, today:  Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 7:04 AM [+] |
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Sunday, August 07, 2005 [continued from entry of August 3] Did not sleep as well Friday night as the night before. Don't know why. Found myself awake in the wee hours, the kind of awake that means no returning to the realm of shuteye any time soon. Turned on the light, read for a while ('Last Train To Toronto'). Finally edged off to sleep as dawn lightened the sky outside, woke up after eight to sounds of kitchen prep. Got up, pulled on sweatpants, shuffled out to the bathroom. I'd had the bog to myself the first night. Not any more -- a lodger had arrived, someone who didn't get the simple system for determining whether the bathroom was in use or not. (When not in use, leave door open -- if the door is closed, don't enter. The bathroom door did not have a locking mechanism, making the door open/door closed system key in minimizing the possibility of untimely intrusions and unintentional, embarrassing comedy.) Sure enough, post-shower, me at the sink scaping away the morning's stubble, I heard the door of the neighboring bedroom open, followed by a hand gripping the bathroom door handle, trying to push it open. My body weight against door stopped that, my warning, "It's in use," prevented a second attempt. Back in my hideyhole, pulling on clothes, etc., I heard voices out at the dining table, laughter. When I made my appearance, I found four people there -- the two young women of the previous morning had given way to a middle-aged French-speaking couple (him: slim, an academic, with glasses and thin black hair spreading out from a bald spot; her: plump, white-haired, a bit shy, with a bright smile), a bi-lingual woman from Toronto, a 30ish French-speaking woman with decent command of English (dark-haired, skin slightly olive-colored, pretty, with the barest trace of hair on her upper lip). For a while they talked mostly in French, giving me time to slowly feed myself and continue the ascent toward consciousness. The woman from Toronto -- an academic, intelligent, with a kind manner and an accent suggesting English may not have been her first language -- finally Every seat at the table occupied, conversation going at full throttle, swinging back and forth between English and French. A real good time. The couple who ran the joint tried to leave us be, finally gave up when the party showed no sign of winding down, began clearing dishes around us. When the time neared 10:30, I got to my feet and spoke with the proprietors, letting them know I'd be vacating my room early the next morning, too early for breakfast. The idea that I might hit the road on an empty stomach produced expressions of such concern from them that I found myself momentarily not knowing what to say. They instructed me to take whatever I needed from the refrigerator, make whatever I wanted before heading out the next morning -- a degree of menschness I'd never experienced before in a B&B. By the time I'd gotten myself out the door, another spectacular day was underway. I navigated the several blocks to a bus stop, planted myself on the bench to wait for transport. Montrealers strolled by, bicyclists zipped past. Saturday traffic came and went, now and then pausing when the light turned red. A dead ringer for Jerry Garcia sat in one small car, staring straight ahead, expression serious, taking off when red switched to green. Dylan sang from the stereo of another car at a moment when no other vehicles were around, the sound of The Times Are A-Changin' rising into the air, until the light changed and the car took off. A hefty 60ish woman passed, accompanied by a small fuzzy dog on a leash, the little critter dancing and bouncing about with the joy of being out on a beautiful day, walking with its human. The bus showed, life swung into motion. Did the art museum thing, afterward found myself back out in a beautiful Saturday. Hopped the Metro, got off in a French neighborhood. Walked around, found a sidestreet with a bunch of restaurants, tables spread in front of each. Grabbed a seat at a middle-eastern joint, ordered a dish of chicken and couscous. A pair of musicians materialized, stationed themselves not far away. Him playing guitar, her whanging away on a washtub bass, singing older stuff, St. James Infirmary and the like. Good. Really good. Made up for the weekend's only so-so meal. Headed back to the B&B, gave my feet a rest. Called Tom, made plans for a late afternoon rendezvous. Looked like we were going to do an Indian meal, a kind of cuisine I hadn't had the pleasure of gobbling down in a long, long time. I was ready. An hour later: hit the street, hopped two buses, bringing me to Tom's neighborhood. Found his place, skipped up the stairs, rang the bell. No response. Knocked. Rang again. No response. I'd told him I'd get there between 4 and 4:30 -- pulled out my cellphone, checked the time. 4:20. Hmm. Called his number, heard the phone ring. No answer. Knocked, rang doorbell once more, gave up. Pulled up a patch of grass on the lawn by a tree, settled in to wait, watching the swallows put on a show in the sky over the houses. Five minutes later Tom hove into view, along with a friend of his, a woman named Kelly. Did introductions, went inside, Kelly and I grabbed stools in the kitchen area while Tom hovered around. We were apparently going to an especially authentic Indian joint, the kids were coming with -- we waited on them to return home from wherever they were, talking about this and that. The boys showed, Ben sporting a beret and a t-short adorned with the ubiquitous image of Che, his hair and features bearing a startlingly strong resemblance to the image. More conversation, and then we were outside, squeezing into Tom's little car, me assigned to sit on the, er, hump that swelled up out of the middle of the rear seat, between Max and Kelly. Leaving me with nothing to hold onto for support, swaying heavily about every time the car rounded a curve, first against Max (who took it impassively, in a way that suggested he might be feeling less than ecstatic about our sudden intimacy), then against Kelly (who seemed unconcerned), over and over again throughout the drive, at times having no choice but to extend an arm in front of Max's face, groping for a bit of door to provide some stability. The restaurant was located without problem. Parking turned out to be another matter, though, as hunting for a space down a sidestreet lead us around the block, the block turning out to be enormous, endlessly huge, extending on and on and on in a way that may have indicated a worrisome breakdown of the laws of physics. The restaurant: in keeping with many Indian joints, the set-up was just this side of a cafeteria, the walls adorned with some combination of what seem to be standard Indian restaurant design elements: wonderfully tacky paintings, tinsel, Christmas lights, etc. Most tables were occupied, the variety of diners as impressive as the variety of Montréal's population in general. A not-quite-life-size cutout of an attractive, sari-garbed Indian woman stood by the counter, hands together palm-to-palm, greeting us valued customers. And beneath the counter lurked a display case stacked with Indian desserts, tray after tray, each one piled high, a showing of sweet-tooth bait like I've never seen in any Indian restaurant anywhere. Eye-catching. Impressive. Plates of good-looking fare were being dropped off at other tables, menus appeared on ours. We read, discussed, pondered. Gave our orders, waited, watched the ongoing show. A steady stream of take-out customers arrived, disappeared bearing bags of chow. Ben and Max claimed to be nearing dangerous levels of hunger, the kind that might produce auto-cannibalism. [Continued in entry of August 10.] Mural -- Rue Ste. Lauren, Montréal:  Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 12:22 PM [+] |
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Friday, August 05, 2005 Since the return from north of the border, life here's been packed. Not packed in a city way. Low-key, but going from morning to evening. Have been taking the first steps to convert land along the sunny side of the house from a formless, weed-dominated, small-scale Bermuda Triangle (things disappear into it) into what I hope will be a garden. Pulling up overgrown undergrowth, dumping compost and peat into the soil, planting stuff to finish out this season -- flahrs mostly. Annuals, the kind of greenery that will croak when the cold season rolls around, leaving a brand new plot to slave and toil away at next year. Found a local high school girl who's hiring herself out for work like this -- a genuine sweetheart -- she's come out here the last two Monday mornings. After she bolted this last Monday, I spent the balance of the day laboring away solo -- more with the digging, etc, followed by a bout of lawn mowing. By the time I'd given up for the day, the sky had darkened, rain began coming down. Lightly at first, until the drops turned fat and heavy. A few minutes of that, then the clouds opened up, some serious wind got blowing. I'd retreated inside, begun washing off the day's layer of dust and topsoil that had accumulated on my bod, when I heard clattering. Took a look outside, saw marble-sized hail bouncing off everything. Three or four minutes later, the storm turned back to simple wind/rain, that continued for a while. Then it all moved on, clouds gradually giving way to sunshine, late afternoon turning to evening. And it's August. The culmination of June and July -- flowers everywhere, crickets and their cousins in the grass making music 24 hours a day, cicadas keening from the treetops. The birdsong that filled the air here from dawn to nightfall has quieted down, a sign that southern migration has begun -- the thrush that sang in the woods across the road has moved on, several different kinds of birds that summered over in the windbreak at the near end of the house are gone. Hummingbirds are still making appearances at the feeder, but will likely be out of here soon. Even the robins have begun slipping away. (Sniffle.) I've spotted the occasional praying mantis hanging about, however, which gets me all excited. (Glad you don't live with me, aren't you?)  The evenings are coming on earlier now, the days clearly moving in the direction of autumn. Boggles my teeny mind how quickly it all passes. Went into town a couple of evenings back to join a packed house viewing Ladies in Lavender. Nice to see that kind of turnout for that kind of film. And the movie? Well... nice. A nice story, nicely told. Nice seaside scenery, nice music, blah blah blah. But no big deal, really. (Probably a low-budget affair -- how else to explain the boom mike that intrudes above the actors over and over again throughout the film? Someone needs to be given a serious beating for allowing that.) There are two good reasons to see it, however: Judi Dench and Maggie Smith. All by themselves they make it worthwhile. Right. Enough with the blabbering. On to the day. Beware: more on Montréal will follow. Northern Vermont, storms coming and going:  Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 11:12 AM [+] |
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Wednesday, August 03, 2005 [continued from previous entry] Friday. Woke up after a long, lovely night's sleep to sounds of breakfast prep. (I'd been given a hideyhole right off the B&B's dining room/kitchen. Any activity out there sounded like it was, er, right outside my door.) Stumbled out to the shared bathroom I had to use, showered, etc. Wandered into the dining room, still groggy, sat myself at the empty table. The he of the couple that owned the place said a friendly 'Bon jour!', set a cup of fruit salad in front of me. I marshaled motor functions, picked up a spoon, began transferring fruit to mouth. A young woman appeared from a rear bedroom, college-age, exchanging happy-sounding good-morning greetings with the host, clearly Quebecois. She sat down near me, I managed to get my vocal apparatus working, said good morning, she responded in nicely accented English. We talked a little then lapsed into silence, me nowhere near awake enough to simulate real, substantial conversation. Another young woman appeared, seated herself across from me. Younger, wearing braces, also Quebecois, saying not a word of English, not looking in my direction. Conversation in French ebbed and flowed around me, now and then a question or comment in English came my way, I mustered concentration, managed to respond. At some point, I apologized for my near-comatose state, expressions of understanding coming in response. Drank a cup of coffee. Drank a cup of tea. No change in consciousness level. Tossed down one of the best omelets I've ever had the privilege of stuffing into my mouth (made by the proprietor, a kind, capable guy), finished up toast, yogurt, blahblahblah. Told the women it had been nice meeting them. The younger one looked at me for the first time, they both responded nicely in English. Got up, retreated to my temporary lair, fell back into bed, back to sleep. Later, post-snooze –- me walking downtown. Happier. Awake. Grabbed a cup of coffee, read a local weekly alternative rag. Found myself in an area where the streets had been cordoned off, a sizeable performance stage set up in front of a plaza. Looked like festivities were planned. Saw the Museum of Contemporary Art off to one side, went in on an impulse. Saw some interesting stuff, walked around the galleries, content. Came across a large room consisting of nothing but a huge screen hung diagonally across the center of the space, showing a video of 20ish Japanese women taking part in a kyudo ceremony, apparently in this case a coming-of-age style ritual. Intimate, the camera in close on one individual face after another, no talking, just concentration, slow movements, the sounds of arrows being released. I watched. And watched. Then sat down and watched some more. Beautiful. Spectacular. Hypnotic. (At least to freakish types like me with disturbingly high geekitude quotients.) Sat through the entire thing twice. Roused myself, headed back outside. Walked around Montréal. Walked and walked. And walked and walked. Found an internet joint, went online for an hour. [See entry of July 29.] Saw some funky neighborhoods, some quirky sights, loads of interesting people, lots of interesting women. Tracked down a place that sold Spanish language stuff, picked up a copy of the latest Sunday El País. Finally found my way back to the B&B, gave my feet a rest before undertaking the evening's assault on the city. Funky neighbohood: the Plateau Mont-Royal district, Montréal:  Quirky sight: outside the Mont-Royal Metro station, Montréal:  Post-time-out: tried to get into the city's art museum. Without success. [See last entry for details.] Pondered the evening's possibilities given the change in the situation. Consulted a map, saw the city's tiny Chinatown, looking to be a brief, cheery downtown hike. Saw Old Montréal just beyond Chinatown. Two destinations I'd felt ambivalent about investigating, given their big-time touristy orientation. Suddenly found myself walking in their direction, me apparently having decided to take advantage of the open evening that lay ahead. Walked and walked. Walked and walked and walked. Gradually realized this had proven to be yet another case of the difference between how close things can look on a map as opposed to the big-distance 3-D reality. (D'oh!) Heavy traffic streamed through the rush-hour streets, people packed the sidewalks. The Friday evening restaurants and bars were alive with happy humans, eating, drinking, talking, laughing. Nice, all that, the city continuing to demonstrate that its people know how to enjoy themselves. I passed through the area I'd seen around the contemporary art museum that morning, traffic blocked off, many, many people out enjoying music, food, the evening's perfect weather. A band with a female vocalist played onstage, their music sounding like a pleasing Patsy Cline/Cowboy Junkies hybrid. I listened for a while, my feet finally turned me around, got me moving toward Chinatown once more. I passed two 40ish black women with two kids, a boy and girl, 8 or 9 years old. The women wanted to watch the performers. The kids wanted out of there, the boy with the tip of an index finger plugged into either ear. I didn't hang about to see who prevailed. The guidebooks use words like 'compact' to describe Montréal's Chinatown. They're not kidding. Small, rough-edged, bunches of it clearly aimed at the numerous tourists, that last detail not exactly what I was looking for. I didn't feel drawn toward any restaurant I passed, continued on to Old Montréal, my feet beginning to complain about the miles they were accumulating. The old part of the city: way more oriented toward tourist money than I'd been looking for. I moved along, lingering nowhere, my interest by that point reduced to the simple task of finding a restaurant that might provide a decent meal. Checked the menus at one place after another, nothing grabbed me. Saw one last establishment off at the fringes of the district, on the corner of Ste. Laurent, decided to take a fast look, see how it felt. If it didn't appeal, I'd grab a bus, head back toward the B&B, trawl for dinner there. To my surprise, the menu looked all right. And the place had live jazz, starting soon. Stepped inside, spoke with a young woman who had exactly the right vibe, who went out of her way to find me a free table near a window. The woman waiting on me turned out to be solicitous, good-humored, kind. And the food? Good. Real good. Decent jazz, too. Passed a genuinely agreeable couple of hours there, stepped out afterward to find a beautiful, fiery sunset happening in the western sky. Groped around for my camera, saw that my bus had just arrived at the nearest stop, a block away. Took off in that direction as fast as my feet could carry me, forgetting about camera/photo op., tourists giving me the hairy eyeball as I sped by. Made the bus before the doors closed, dropped into a seat, watched the city begin to move by. Four Quebecois women got on at the next stop, looking to be in the late 60s to early 70s age range, acting like four college girls. Talking loudly back and forth in animated French, bursting into frequent laughter, one snorting comically when she did, increasing the laughter from the other three. One got off a couple of stops along, prompting a flurry of good-night cheek kissing. The others quieted down after her departure, the bus began filling with folks out for Friday night. When I got off, I found myself walking through crowded sidewalks, past crowded restaurant terraces, music and loud conversation coming from open doorways. The weekend getting underway in Montréal. I eventually returned to the B&B, everything quiet, no one about. Entered my room, turned on the bedside light, got horizontal. Pulled out a good book, read for a while. End of day two north of the border. [to be continued] Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 10:55 AM [+] |
