[Continued from entry of August 7]
And then the waiter (a relaxed Indian 30-something in casual duds, complete with baseball cap) materialized, plates of food appeared, most of them large, circular metal affairs reminiscent of mutated TV dinner trays. Each bearing helpings of two different entreés and a pile of basmati rice. I dug into mine, took the first mouthful, found myself quickly immersed in a state of mind I often experience when tossing down good Indian food: an intense, tightly-focused state where not much exists apart from chow, mouth and implement ferrying chow to mouth. A transcendent place where the velocity of the action seems to increase at a steady rate until the plate reaches food-free status, me staring at it in despairing surprise.
The waiter had mixed up my order of bread, bringing some fancy-ass paratha instead of the simple, plain version I'd requested. I let him know. And, not sure my words had registered, I let him know again. And again. And bless the guy's heart, he dealt with my slightly overdone tenacity with grace and admirable attitude, the paratha I'd wanted showing up quickly, followed soon after by a complimentary helping of a lentil dish (which went down just fine).
One of my meal's two entreés had some real kick, my mouth tingled long afterward, my body feeling wide awake and then some. The waiter brought cups of tea, everyone else at the table went for dessert, balls or small ovals of sweet confection, good enough that Max went for another, then another, steadfastly ignoring Tom's counsel for moderation.
While the others inhaled that last course, I watched the parade of customers coming and going -- families (including a fair number of mixed couples of various configurations), black folks, dreadlocked types (both black and white), two or three young Indian women, white hipster-geeks all dressed in tattered, oversized black gear. All sorts of people, providing great viewing.
The bill arrived, I started to dredge cash out of a pocket, Tom informed me my food was paid for. Which somehow made everything I'd eaten taste even better, despite being after the fact. Freed from financial hooha, I stepped out into the early evening to get some air, my bod feeling SO happy, as if it were floating slightly above the sidewalk.
Back in the car, me again crammed between Kelly and Max, riding the, er, hump in the rear seat. Conversation took an entertainingly foul-mouthed turn, I found myself explaining a top-notch Spanish insult, "Que te den por culo." (More formally: "Que le den por culo.") Translation: may they give it to you up the butt. An earthy sentiment capable of getting people real upset, not to be used lightly around folks who might not care to be given, er, it. (Up the butt.)
It's possible that of all the time I spent around Ben and Max, explaining that may have been the only moment they truly paid attention to me.
At the homestead: hung idly about with Tom and Kelly, finally pulled myself together, began the hike back to the Metro station, T., K. and Jack the most excellent family dog walking with for a while. We did the farewell thing around the halfway point -- Kelly kissing both my cheeks, which endeared her to me like you wouldn't believe -- they disappeared down a sidestreet. I continued on, catching the last part of a fine sunset near the station. My bus was just pulling out as I showed, I waved my arms hopefully, the driver made a sad face, a polite shoulder shrug indicating I was too late. I showed her and took the Metro instead, emerging aboveground in a downtown active with people out enjoying Saturday evening. Music wafted from the performance stage a couple of blocks away, couples passed, talking in French and English. I had plans to be up and on the road around dawn, so resisted the temptation to wander and enjoy the nightlife. Headed home, packed, went to bed, slept little, probably in anticipation of getting my adorable patoot up and out at an unwholesome hour. Which is just what happened.
Early-morning Québec countryside zipped by, few other cars about. Traffic moved slowly at the border as a customs agent emerged from his cubbyhole to drag a bunch of stuff out from some poor soul's car. I wound up dealing with a different agent, one in a fine, relaxed mood, who asked a few friendly questions then waved me on.
And here's the thing: I love being north of the border. I loved investigating Montréal, and I want to do more of it, want to explore Québec more seriously, in more depth. And then I cross back into Vermont and I'm in love all over again with this tiny corner of the world. I cannot describe the feeling of finding myself back among this green countryside, the hills rising out of it, growing larger, more dramatic as they stretch off into the state. It's literally beyond my pathetic facility with words. So you won't have to wade through me flogging lame attempts to draw the picture.
I'll just go back to anticipating future times up north. And future stays in Madrid. And future seasons back here. And the August days will continue to unfurl and blow past, me surrounded by the almost unearthly loveliness of Vermont at this time of year. Planted on a hilltop in the middle of it all, in a place that feels like home for now.
Montréal sidestreet -- detail of a long, hyper-elaborate graffiti mural:
Madrid, te echo de menos.
rws 4:47 PM [+]
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