[continued from entry of January 25]
The date:
Three or so months back, I received an email from a friend telling me about a woman she'd connected with at a seminar in Montreal, a native Montrealer. In one of their conversations, my friend mentioned she knew someone who really enjoyed the city, a charming, brilliant, hilarious male who intended a return visit north of the border sometime soon. The Montreal woman -- M., let's call her -- suggested giving me her email address, saying she'd be happy to connect, maybe get together for coffee. No pressure of any kind, no agenda apart from two nice people linking up.
A few days after receiving that note, I sent a short email saying hello, mentioning I was writing pursuant to M.'s conversation with our mutual friend, saying I intended to be in Montreal after the turn of the year. The response: silence. No answer. Nothing, not a peep.
Weeks passed, a month, two months slipped by. Until December, when a note appeared in my virtual mailbox -- from M., it turned out. Saying hello, inviting further contact. Not long after, I returned stateside, we spoke by phone, agreed to get together when I made the trek north.
That trek happened last weekend. We spoke after my arrival on Thursday, arranged to meet up for dinner the following evening, She'd swing by and pick me up at six, we'd take it from there.
And so it was that a week ago, seven days almost exactly to the hour, I found myself in a BMW, being driven through Montreal's nighttime streets. Next to an interesting, attractive woman, on the way to a meal.
We drove to one of the city's Friday night main drags, M. turned down a driveway, nosed the car down an alley and into a small private parking lot belonging to a friend. (It's good to be connected.) A thick sheet of ice covered the lot, we joined hands for mutual support, shuffled slowly out to the street.
Holiday lights shone out from front windows along the avenue. Our feet navigated snow and ice encrusted sidewalks, taking us into a Thai restaurant, where a young woman guided us to a window table. The only other diners sat at the neighboring window table, the hour being early for a Friday night (one of the ways Montreal reminds me of Madrid).
The restaurant: large, strange (a variation on the tiki look predominated, all chairs featured faux leopard skin fabric). The wait staff were almost exclusively young, pretty Asian women, the food turned out to be pretty damn good. Conversation hit a speed bump or two as dinner got underway, then recovered, cruised along from there. When we pulled on warm coats and headed back out into the cold, diners sat at most tables, the atmosphere buzzed with conversation and the aromas of good food.
I suggested stopping somewhere for an after-dinner cup of, er, something, leading to a second window table, this one in a large café. Cappucino. Conversation. Another cappucino. More conversation. She hiked off to the use the facilities, on the trip back noticed a display case featuring sweet stuff. She mentioned one tempting cake in particular, did a pretty good sales job. Next thing I knew, a waitress had brought the single largest slab of chocolate mousse cake that I'd seen in years, maybe decades. I took a taste, banking on my usual discipline and disinclination toward sweets to keep me on the path of righteousness. Turned out to be so good my hand and fork began acting of their own free will, the cake disappearing in next to no time, me scraping away at the plate when the last bits had vanished, stubbornly searching for the final remaining microns.
M. began pooping out, we called it a night. During the ride to the hotel, we talked about possibly hooking up again before I bolted on Sunday, left it to be decided the next day, said good-night.
Nice woman. Great smile. (Looks like Jodie Foster when she smiles, now that I think about it.)
Anyway.
End of day 2.
[continued in next entry]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Late January, northern Vermont:
España, te echo de menos.
rws 5:44 PM [+]
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