During my last couple of days in Montreal, the city closed off most of Boul. Saint-Laurent, one of the main drags that cuts across the Plateau. Booths and tents appeared in front of stores, restaurants, bakeries (mmmm, bakeries....), cafés, but with the weather turning gray and wet, they mostly remained empty, a street usually alive with traffic and pedestrians looking a little sad and ghostly.
That changed on Friday, as rain stopped and people slowly began creeping out into the open, blinking hopefully up at skies of a lighter, more benign-looking gray. A long, long stretch of the street had been closed to traffic (except at intersections, where one had to watch one's ass if one wanted to continue on without getting clocked by passing cars). Music got cranking at different spots along the avenue, food and drink appeared, happy humans began eating and drinking.
And I walked, searching for a production that was part of the fringe festival happening then. Walking and walking and walking. Found the show, slipped into my seat just as the lights went down, nearly ran out the door an hour later, beating the other six members of the audience out into the fresh air (all of us practically sprinting toward the exit the moment the lights came up, leaving unspoken editorial comments on the performance drifting in the air in our wake).
Back out on the street, sky still gray but, happily, rainless. Aimed myself up the boulevard, walked as far as traffic had been closed off, well into a Portuguese area, banners indicating a 40th anniversary related to the neighborhood's ethnicity, that somehow related to the weekend's street fair.
Turned around at the limit of the street's closing, wandered back down the avenue, picking up food an drink along the way, then more food and drink (then still more). Enjoying music, people-watching, passing conversations in various languages. And finally stumbled across this gent seated by the curb in a folding chair, wailing out a great blues number, gradually collecting a small crowd. The blues number came to a close, a few people drifted away, then the performer launched into a down-and-dirty version of "Billie Jean," more people stopping to listen, faces reflecting the realization that they were present at something special. And as the musician began picking up steam, three women done up in identical pink outfits, carrying pink parasols, wandered by, lined up behind the performer. The singer knew a great, slightly surreal moment had taken shape, asked for people to take pix -- cameras immediately appeared everywhere, the street suddenly awash in the sound of photos being taken.
At one point during the number he aimed a stage whisper at the women in pink, asking if they knew how to moon-dance. They couldn't deliver, and it was a genuine shame -- this guy deserves a bona fide concert venue, real production values, a larger audience.
Next morning I was up and out at an ungodly hour, across the border, back in Montpelier, where I've been ever since. The days slowly unfurl, June gives way to July, I watch it all pass by.
Next up: July 4th hooha. My current squat is close enough to the route of Montpelier's Indy Day parade that my concern is not getting run down once the event starts up. We'll see how it goes.
España, te echo de menos
rws 11:53 AM [+]
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