Today: found myself awake in the wee hours, a phenomenon that's become far too common in recent weeks. Long before dawn, my body apparently still working on Madrid time (despite our having touched down on this side of the Atlantic a month ago), rousing me hours before I'd prefer to be facing the coming day. Same kind of thing happens many evenings -- early northern Vermont darkness falls, my little bod starts conking out, as if it thinks we're still deep in the Iberian peninsula, six timezones ahead with me beginning to point myself in the direction of bed. Weird.
Anyway, this morning: turned on the bedside light, opened a book, read until I thought I might be able to convince my system to drift off again. Killed the light, closed my eyes. Kept them closed, thought sleepy thoughts, my adorable bod not falling for it. Finally surrendered, dragged myself out from under nice, comfy sheets, prepared to hit the road.
Got bags packed and stashed in the car, locked up the house, zipped into Montpelier for caffeine, muffin and fast, post-drive workout. By noon, I was pulling onto the interstate.
It's a place I generally avoid, the interstate, 'cause as soon as I find myself on that long stretch of high-speed blacktop, the old Boston area driving reflex kicks in, the pedal goes to the metal until the scenery outside the windows is nearly a blur. Happened today, true to form, at least until I made it through Burlington and the road turned directly north, stretching out of sight toward the border. At which point I eased up, decelerated, enjoyed the scenery. Watched traffic thin out, then thin out some more. Until there was only me, heading north. When I made this drive last summer, traffic backed way the hell up at the border, U.S. customs making every vehicle pass the watchful eye of border agents. And today? Nothing. No cars, no trucks, no people. Just me rolling through, pulling up to the single open Canadian entry lane, where a bored agent stared off into the distance as he lay the required questions on me, doing them at sharply caffeinated speed, as if he were reading from a chart after hoovering down far too many cups of coffee. Whipped through them, made a dismissive waving motion with one hand, and I was gone.
Not much snow on the ground in southern Québec. Just small towns, bare cornfields stretching off into the distance, dramatic skies.
(Now that I think about it, the snow petered quickly out west of Montpelier. In contrast to the part of Vermont's little world east of Montpeiler, which remains under plenty of snow despite last week's thaw and yesterday's downpours. Two fresh inches covered everything this morning, the world outside white, white white.)
And traffic remained strangely light nearly all the way into Montréal, finally picking up on the approach to the bridge over the St. Lawrence. The highway dumped incoming drivers directly into the downtown streets, as it does, Vermont's looming hills long gone, replaced by looming buildings, streets filled with vehicles, sidewalks busy with pedestrians. And in keeping with a custom begun 2-3 years ago, during my first attempt to navigate the thoroughfares of Montréal, I found myself unable to locate the street I needed, cruising city streets in search of my destination. Winding up on an avenue I had no interest in, funneled west along with far too many other drivers, finally squeaking through a traffic light just as green became red, leaving everyone else behind. Then able to locate a street heading vaguely in the direction I thought I wanted, without the company of a crowd of wacked out drivers shouting into cellphones or working their horns.
Found myself heading up through Mont Royal Park, an area I'd been through on the last trip, following that long, sinuous detour up and over the hill into the Mont Royal neighborhood. Trusted my instinct from there, my inner compass kicked in, guided me to where I needed to go (the drive's denoument a two-wheels-in-the-air U-turn to make it into the hotel driveway ahead of crazed oncoming traffic, years of scrabbling my way through the no-nonsense streets of Boston/Cambridge paying off.)
[continued in next entry]
España, te echo de menos.
rws 7:30 PM [+]
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