Morning, late August, northern Vermont:
España, te echo de menos.
rws 4:45 PM [+]
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Friday, August 24, 2007 [continued from entry of August 18] I began writing this entry in a B&B in Montreal, seated on the bed in my cosy rented room, rain falling outside, the faint sound of vehicles passing on raindamp streets drifting in through the open window -- me back in this sweet city two weeks after the jaunt I've been slowly (so painfully slowly) describing in recent entries. Back in part because it's a lovely city that strikes a chord with me -- an interesting, liveable, homelike place. And in part because things went so nicely with I., the woman mentioned in the previous part of this narrative. It's a bit wacky, the B&B experience. You never really know what you're in for. At this one -- operated by a friendly, older Québécois woman -- I found myself alone at breakfast, being served sugar, starch, caffeine. Fruit, fruit juice, bagel, english muffin, tea. Just as I finished with the small plate of fruit, turning my gaze toward the kitchen (hoping to see some protein gliding my way), two older women stepped in the front door, calling out Boujours. Friends of the owner, both looking to be in their 60's. They entered, laughing, removed shoes, appraised me, interested. The owner introduced us, they came over, each gave me a firm handshake, seemed to lose some interest at my lack of ability with French. Moved to the living area right outside my room, sat down, shrugging off light jackets. The owner lay a small plate in front of me (containing bagel/english muffin), told me nicely to ask if I wanted something more, then sat down with her friends, began chatting. My room contains an alcove with a sink, but no shower or toilet. To get to the loo, I'd need to pass through their get-together, not exactly how I was looking to start the day. Settled for shaving in my hideyhole and decamped with laptop to a nearby café to wake up, pull myself slowly together. Which is where I am now, slowly swimming toward what passes as full consciousness, the air full of French being spoken by attractive women, James Brown cranking out Hot Pants Pt. 1 on the in-house stereo (not my typical wake-up soundtrack). Montreal is positively heaving with places to get a decent meal, with caffeine peddlers pushing good coffee, with all kinds of people (excellent for high-quality people watching), at least half of whom are female people (excellent for high-quality female people watching). Which brings me back to a big part of why I'm back in Montreal: the sweet female type person I spent time with during the visit two weeks ago. The one who waded through two hours of crossed wires to have dinner with me, then carted me around far too much of the city the following day, showing me neighborhoods I'd never been through, showing me the Oratory (complete with flight after flight of steps that pilgrims can ascend on their knees if they're so inclined, and rack upon rack of crutches/canes left by pilgrims -- post spontaneous healings -- along with sweeping views of Montreal). Meals, cups of high-octaine joe at sidewalk cafes, plenty of conversation. A nice time. Nice enough to get me back there two weeks later for more. [continued in next entry] España, te echo de menos. rws 12:11 PM [+] |
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Thursday, August 23, 2007 Morning, late August, northern Vermont: España, te echo de menos. rws 4:45 PM [+] |
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Tuesday, August 14, 2007 [continued from previous entry] The door opened, there stood Himself, waving me in. We exchanged hellos, I stepped inside, pausing to lavish attention on the family dog (the result: big doggy smile, happy doggy groveling). T. and I began catching up, him with some big-ticket items to report (gratifying well-paying work with a respected cable channel, excellent-sounding fraternizing with a member of the opposite gender), at one point we stepped out onto his back porch where he slipped into parental mode to deal with something his younger son and a friend were up to. I saw a large sword in a scabbard laying on a table to one side, turns out M., T.'s son, has been studying martial arts, meaning ways of fighting, maiming, killing. Eek! T.'s older son came home soon after, T. herded us all out to the car. A short time later we were parking on a main drag in another part of the city, the sun dropping in the western sky, a cool breeze blowing. A short walk -- along stretches of sidewalk festooned by election campaign ads that older son found hideous -- brought us to a Vietnamese restaurant, packed with a short wait. While T. and the boys talked, I scoped out the clientele. All kind of people, including two Montreal police officers, the usual big, bulky male and a very cute female, in full regalia: guns, walkie-t's, what looked like bulletproof vests. A table in the rearmost corner opened up, we sat, perused menus, ordered. A lot of food, turned out, the boys also ordering drinks composed of red beans, mung beans, coconut milk and something else. They arrived, top half milky white, bottom half milky red. T. prodded one of the boys to allow me a sip, I sipped -- extremely sweet, turned out, the bean and coconut flavors harmonizing better than I expected. (Mmmmm.... the oversweetened goodness of beans and big, hairy, hard-shelled fruit) I could see some might find it pleasing and handed it back, mouth still evaluating the strange concoction that had just passed through. Food arrived, course after course, the main attraction being big tureens of soup, replete with noodles and meat. Good, but next time I'll go for Indian. The drive home: darkness falling, conversation turning to music, T. slipping an old Lou Reed CD into the player, cueing one tune I could only agree with. Once back home, the boys headed inside, T. and I walked a few blocks to a café, joined the crowd seated outside, talking more, sipping at espresso. Somewhere in there, talking about my plans for the next day, T. suggested me making a trip to the city's botanical gardens. Beautiful, he said -- an agreeable hike of maybe 25 minutes from the B&B Sounded like a nice idea. Next day, with a free afternoon stretching out ahead, I pulled on hiking boots and got walking. The gardens are on Sherbrooke, I zigged through local street until I emerged on that major avenue and followed it east. And followed it. And followed it some more. Went through all kinds of neighborhoods, some seeing good times, others looking sad and neglected. Passed parks, lots of them, some large, some tiny, all welcoming, all well taken care of. Realized all over again as I walked how green this city is in the warm season. Passed old-age residences, big buildings with old folks ranged around outside on benches, sitting quietly. Passed shopping centers, passed big boulevards, passed train tracks. The 25-minute mark slipped by, I found myself far from the gardens. An hour-plus after starting out, I arrived, the sleek, slanting, slightly surreal spire of the Olympic Stadium visible first, followed by the stadium dome, then finally by the green of the gardens themselves across Sherbrooke.  And the gardens were lovely, extensive, intense with color. And crowded, with all sorts of people: tourists, gardens staff, arty camera types.  I wandered. Down wide blacktopped ways, passing groups of people waiting for shuttle carts (seated, silent, staring around). Through pavillions. Through garden areas -- some austere and spacious (packed with people), some lush, overgrown, fragrant with flowers (nearly empty). Spent an hour drifting like that, then saw the time, realized I needed to return something to the owners of the B&B. Pulled myself together, headed back out into the world of concrete and traffic. Hopped the Metro, made the return trip in 15 short minutes (my feet giving thanks the entire way). [continued in next entry] ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lily pond, Botanical Gardens, Montreal:  España, te echo de menos. rws 7:26 PM [+] |
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Thursday, August 02, 2007 Vermont, early August:  España, te echo de menos. rws 12:42 PM [+] |
