And after weeks of silence -- the longest stretch of blessed quiet for this journal since its start nearly eight years ago -- I'm back. In Montreal, released from the
No details now about the final weeks re: house/land, nothing at this time about the closing and its aftermath -- too tiring and angst-ridden. This morning I fled north, crossing the border into Quebec with no fanfare at all (Canadian customs dude casting an uninterested glance at my passport/drivers license, asking a few perfunctory questions, waving me on, me happy to go). An hour later, Montreal -- me in a studio flat on the top floor of a high-rise building just off Sherbrooke (a building with no 13th floor, the numbers after the 12th all painting a picture of a structure one-storey taller than its actual height).
Mid-afternoon clouds slipped away, the afternoon turned summery. I walked local streets, bits of fluff from trees drifted in the sunlit air, specks of golden light. Lovely women seemed to be everywhere, light, warm weather clothes moving gracefully as they walked. Bits of conversation in French, English, Spanish, eastern European languages came and went as people passed.
I had a camera case slung over a shoulder, carried a Spanish-language novel in one hand. Overhead, swallows cut across the late afternoon sky, singing as they went. I bought groceries, took photos, walked familiar streets.
Dinnertime rolled around, I ducked into a Chinese joint on St. Laurent. The owner gave a friendly nod, took my order. A short time later one mean-ass plate of deep-fried tofu landed on my table. The kind of dish that would wipe the smirk off the face of anyone accustomed to spewing derogatory remarks about tofu. Big, crispy dark-brown cubes, awash in onions, garlic, flakes of red pepper. Maybe the single greatest batch of tofu I've ever dug chopsticks into (disclaimer -- this writer is not a tofu fiend; the dish was ordered on impulse, the menu being short enough, lacking in options to the point that bean curd seemed like a risk worth taking). The main course showed, not what I'd ordered. I sat and contemplated, finally gestured to the waiter, let him know I'd ordered something else. He stared at me perplexed, took the plate hesitantly, turned to the owner who stood watching. The waiter explained the sitch (in Mandarin, sounded like), the owner made amazed, outraged noises, barked out a few statements that sounded like they might have been expressing genuinely unkind sentiments about me. The waiter veered off to get what I'd actually ordered, the owner stared at me, expression unfriendly. I stared back calmly, repeated what I'd told the waiter, not really giving much of a damn about his puffed-up show of... whatever it was. The owner continued staring, finally looked away. I re-commenced enjoyment of deep-fried bliss, a short time later the correct main course appeared, balance was restored in the universe.
Through all of that, soul music pulsed loudly on the in-house stereo -- Barry White, James Brown. When 'Kung Fu Fighting' started up, the owner began dancing, singing, all unpleasantness forgotten. Beaming, cutting some 70's dance moves. Another James Brown anthem followed, the owner shouting joyful Hey!'s, cavorting goofily. (I am not making this up.) I demolished my main course -- good, but not the towering monster of low culinary satori the appetizer was -- enjoying the entertainment. Finished, paid up, headed out into an evening as beautiful as one cold ask for, sidewalks crowded with people. Made it back here in time to grab camera, head up to the rooftop terrace for a fine sunset.
I've been liberated. Or that at least is how I'm feeling.
Next up: a good night's sleep.
Later.
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Moonrise, Montreal:
España, te echo de menos
rws 11:19 PM [+]
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