Woke up yesterday morning during the wee hours to the sound of rain drumming on the roof. Outside: gray skies, mist cloaking green hillsides -- Vermont looking primeval.
A drive north to Montreal was on deck, yours truly fleeing the States for three days and nights of wholesome fun. I'd avoided packing bags the night before, leaving me no option but to drag adorable ass out of bed and stuff clothing into wheeled duffel as I gradually came to, gray, weak daylight gathering outside. Surprised myself by working efficiently, surprised myself more by getting underway on schedule. Spent the morning in Montpelier (caffeine infusion, gym, errands) where gray clouds gave way to hazy blue sky, humidity high, air soft. And found myself on the interstate -- on schedule once more -- miles slipping past, green mountains looming.
Had expected a more difficult experience crossing into Canada than in years past, given all the talk there's been about intensifying border control. And traffic in the other direction was lined up like I'd never seen it before, lanes of vehicles stretching away from the customs booths and well into Canadian territory. Canadian customs slowly came into view, I saw... nothing, essentially. The customs version of ease and tranquility. Two lanes open for business, each with one car, mid-processing.
Pulled in as the car ahead moved out, no waiting. The customs agent took my license/passport, firing questions at me about my stay, voice softly accented. After a minute of that -- him looking at a computer screen as he quizzed me -- he handed me back my things, sent me on my way.
Quebec. Farms, grain silos, cornfields, the occasional house. Small villages appeared, disappeared, some featuring oversized roadside crucifixes. Reached Montreal in shockingly good time, arrived at the B&B early, dealt with changes of situation there (the room I'd been booked into had developed a water leak in the ceiling, they siphoned me off into a comfy, larger room; the downside: comfy, larger room is booked tonight, I'll have to move into the smaller room, which will by that time be, I hope, dry). Lucked into a parking space. Called friends, hooked into the B&B's wireless network. Headed out shortly before 5 to make the rush-hour slog to a friend's place.
Out on the main drag, a bus had paused to pick up passengers. My bus. The driver must have seen me coming, must have seen me accelerating my pace, must have seen the expression of hope on my face -- as I drew close, the doors closed, the bus pulled away from the curb, angling out into traffic and moving away. I watched it go, mentally giving a shrug. Rush hour, I figured -- another'll be along soon.
Half an hour of waiting later, bulging with people looking to get home after a long day, the next bus showed. I eeled my way inside, found a spot to stand, started reading. Around me, two or three people talked into cellphones, women in summer dresses looked casually lovely, passengers came and went with each new stop. Traffic surged, slowed, squeezed around clots of construction, pressed ahead. 45 minutes and one transfer later, I stood on T.'s front porchette, rapping at his door as swallows streaked overhead.
T. is someone I've had the pleasure of knowing for three or four years, via the internet at first through an online community of wackos, then in 3-D during my periodic trips north to enjoy this city. He's a person whose life is taking off -- I've spent time with the 3-D him on several occasions now, each time months after the last, and on every occasion he's looked better and better. The very first time I met him in person, he looked a big, friendly bear. Now he looks sleeker, more focussed. Life is bringing him fun along with increasing possibilities, and it shows.
[continued in next entry]
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Doorway, Montreal
España, te echo de menos.
rws 10:47 AM [+]
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