[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]
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Lily pond, Botanical Gardens, Montreal:
España, te echo de menos.
rws 7:26 PM [+]
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