[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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