[continued from previous entry]
The light went off at 11, I conked out almost immediately. Next thing I knew my head had jerked up from the pillow, I found myself in an unfamiliar (though extremely comfy) bed, a phone ringing. In the darkness, the bedside clock radio read 11:30. (11:30? Phone ringing?) Groped around, found the light, turned it on. The phone continued noisy obnoxiousness, my body -- barely awake -- somehow pulled itself out from under the covers, found its way across the room, grabbed the thing that wouldn't stop with the racket. I found me watching what was going on, my little brain seemingly conscious and clear, but unable to get the physical mechanism up to speed. My mouth said "Hello" into phonal mouthpiece, barely able to wrap itself around the letters and produce an intelligible product. Must have done the job because someone on the other end responded, the voice belonging to a Montreal friend I'd called earlier (not home at that time, his son took my message, neglected to relay the part that said I'd call back another time), asking if he'd woken me up. I confirmed the unfortunate waking-me-up thing (providing full dispensation), we arranged a time to speak the next morning, rang off, me putting on a fair imitation of a high-functioning human.
Stumbled back to bed, killed the light. Pulled the covers nicely up, buried head in comfy pillow, waited to sink back into sleep. And waited. And waited. Drifted in and out of shallow, restless sleep at times, but managed nothing more. At some point, gray light began seeping around the edges of the room's curtains, announcing morning, the sounds of traffic on the avenue below indicating the world outside coming to.
Gave up, got the day underway. In leisurely, lacking-sleep fashion. With the world outside cold and gray, I felt no big desire to toss myself out into it right away, this being a vacation weekend and all. (One side-effect of a comfy, spacious hotel room: less need to go outside when laziness beckons.)
Shower, shave, phone calls, reading. Noon approached -- I pulled on coat, scarf, ventured out to a restaurant that had been recommended: an Indian buffet, conveniently situated a block away from the hotel. Walked in the door, they asked me if I had a reservation, stopping me dead. I answered no, my smile hopefully obsequious. Restaurant folk conferred, looked around (as did I, noting that most empty tables bore plaques reading 'Réservée'). An index finger was raised in my direction by one waiter, indicating, 'Wait! Be hopeful!' I waited, hopeful (ever obedient when the payoff involves fragrant, fine-looking chow).
And soon found myself seated at a small table of my very own, equipped with my own little glass, my own napkin, plates, eating utensils. Secured a bowl of tasty soup, a plate of salad. Dug into them, watching the restaurant around me fill up with an array of locals, mostly office workers, the air filled with French and English. Three business types took seats at a small table to my right. One appeared to speak only French, one only English. The third, bilingual, shifted back and forth, acting as translator as they all did the verbal equivalent of the laughing, back-slapping business bonhomie thing.
To my left sat three women, all looking to be office personnel, all speaking French. Directly ahead of me sat a college-age couple, him in sweatshirt, backward baseball cap, talking loudly in English and not sounding like a mental giant. Ah, well.
Two more plates of pretty decent fare later, I headed out, eeling my way through packed tables and a long, long line of diners waiting to round up piles of the kind of stuff I'd just tossed down.
Back out in the cold Montreal air, I walked the downtown streets for a while, plenty of other folks about, the air filled with conversation, abundant shopping bags testifying to consumers enjoying the January sales.
Returned to the hotel, took advantage of the place's free internet access. Read, hung out. Relaxing before the evening's activity: an actual date with a female type person.
Yes, that's right. A date. With a card-carrying representative of the other gender. Or she at least claimed to be, er, carrying. A card. Unless I misheard. (Mutters to self: Lard? Bard? Yard? How could she be carrying a yard? Had to be a card.)
A genuine female is what I'm trying to say.
[continued in entry of January 27]
España, te echo de menos.
rws 10:54 AM [+]
Comments:
Post a Comment