[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 [+]
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