[continued from previous entry]
You know, that simple, brief jaunt to Montréal kicked up some dust, producing the kind of internal unrest that gets me withdrawing a bit -- doing what absolutely needs to be done (errands, gym, lawnmowing/gardening, making meals) and backing off from just about everything else. Staying offline. Retreating to the sofa with a book or with the tube cranked. Staring out the window at beautiful Vermont countryside, thinking (or not).
We all have ways of coping. Better two or three days of retreat than some of the ways I dealt with internal unrest in earlier years -- coping mechanisms cobbled together with little or no sane, positive guidance, producing many colorful stories along with deep, subtle bruising.
In many ways, my life is good. I am well cared for by this universe. But big changes are needed. And a fast trip to a place like Montréal -- alluring, attractive, packed with possibilities, feeling inexplicably homelike -- is just the thing to point that up in unmistakable fashion. (Finding myself in a penthouse flat didn't help.)
Change will come. My job: be ready. Or as ready as I can manage.
So. Wednesday. Late afternoon in Montréal. Me -- showered, in fresh duds, skipping through the city center. Stopped in at a museum, did the arty thing. Hopped the Metro, made the trip out to see a friend, T., who would be putting up with me for the evening. (The Metro: fast, clean, with streaming humanity everywhere, an ongoing show of wildly multicultural city life.) Showed up at T.'s, his son Ben let me in and Jack, the household door, immediately buried his nose in my crotch. T. and I got blabbing, continued blabbing for quite a while -- the usual themes: writing, films, recent personal events, writing, films, food, writing, films, women.
At some point, we roused ourselves, headed out for the evening's meal. Neither of T.'s kids came along (apparently believing they have lives of their own), I found myself in the passenger's seat of T.'s little car, cruising through Montréal streets, French signage everywhere, hopped-up drivers zipping by in every direction. I love being in the passenger's seat. It's a place I rarely seem to find myself, and I savor it when I'm there. Especially when in extra-interesting locales like this one, summer evening streets alive with interesting people, café life in full swing.
Tom eventually found his way to a largely Asian neighborhood, where we were going to toss down platefuls of Indian food. Last summer, we'd gone to a down and dirty cafeteria-style Indian joint. This time Tom suggested somewhere slightly more refined. By the time we pulled into a space across the street from the restaurant, I was ready to inhale a pile of chow, refined or not.
We got out of the car, I soaked up the beautiful August evening, sun low in the sky, a slight breeze coming and going. T. fed the meter, meaning, I realized, that city charges for street parking until 8 or 9 p.m. -- not a very people-friendly method of revenue raising.
Inside the restaurant, we moved toward a table in a corner, T. glommed on to the wall chair, meaning I would have no view of anything but the wall and, er, T. I like to be able to watch people, activity, life going on -- T. saw the doubt on my face about the seating sitch and graciously moved with me to a table by an open window. Sunlight, friendly breeze, people passing outside, restaurant life happening inside. Much better.
A friendly, middle-aged woman took our order -- wearing a comfortable-looking outfit reminiscent of designer pajamas, missing half of a finger on one hand -- the first course an appetizer on which T. had leaped lavish praise (then fretted about having heaped praise so lavish). It eventually showed, looking like a soupy, stewy kind of affair. I took a forkful, slipped it into my mouth where it burst into a nimbus of textures and flavors, my mouth tingling from the after-burn, post-swallow. Killer chow, in other words -- exactly the kind of thing I was looking for.
[continued in next entry]
España, te echo de menos.
rws 10:03 PM [+]
Comments:
I've passed through Paris a few times and liked it very much, especially one beautiful June afternoon spent walking along the Seine. At a certain point, I found not knowing the language too much of a disadvantage (though I passed myself off as Spanish, which often produced kindness and curiosity from the Parisians I dealt with) and decided not to go back until I could do so with someone who had some command of the language.
Duds = clothes.
Duds = clothes.
firstly, I didn't realize it was possible to comment on your blog.
Secondly, I just linked this entry on my blog, though I've had your blog in general linked for a while. Please tell me if you mind.
I do so enjoy reading.
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Secondly, I just linked this entry on my blog, though I've had your blog in general linked for a while. Please tell me if you mind.
I do so enjoy reading.
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by 
: 10:18 PM
: 10:18 PM