We had fun. Tres amusant!
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Montreal Day 3-Oy, more stairs!
Mark Twain once said of Montreal that you couldn't throw a stone there without breaking a church window. This was one thing I noticed even on the bus trip in from the airport. The city was dotted with green copper spires and domes, mile after mile, neighborhood after neighborhood, easily competing with Lubbock for being churchier than thou. They all seemed to be Catholic, naturally, but I assumed there were a few teeny Protestant churches around, maybe some synagogues and mosques, but they didn't have the same visibility.
We did indeed visit one more church on this last day, but first I needed a bagel. Glenn had already scouted out the bagel cafe we were going to, in yet another quaint busy district, along the Metro. I kind of lost track of exactly which district we were in after awhile, what with traveling like moles underground and just popping up in another place. Anyway, charming cafe, bagels, lattes, what more can I say? Afterwards we headed over to the Mont Royal area to see a huge church called the Oratorio of St. Joseph (see above), at the highest point in the city and boasting the second largest dome in the world, EVER, after St. Peter's in Rome. Getting there involved as much stair climbing and levels as the pyramids in Mexico, but after panting our way up we were rewarded with a really nice view of the city. The church interior itself had actually been described in a travel guide as either inspiring or forbidding, depending on your taste. It was definitely massively masculine in nature, whereas the previously described Basilica of Notre Dame was much lighter and more feminine. This interior, by comparison, was grey and monumental and quite modern, looking like it might have been designed by Howard Roark from The Fountainhead. (this is not in any way an endorsement of Ayn Rand---puhleeeeze.... merely an observation). The walls had large wood carved apostles that were each about 20 feet tall, looking solemn and aescetic, and a giant abstract metal sculpture crown of thorns hovered over the altar, like a spacecraft. I felt small and insignificant and slightly chastised. However, we later went outside and walked among the hilly gardens built around and behind the church, and they were absolutely beautiful. We followed a leafy, shaded path up past beautifully tended plants and flowers, and every few feet there would be a grotto-like space with a stone sculpture from the life of Jesus, and a place to sit and contemplate. I felt so much more comfortable out in this lovely, secluded place then inside under that heavy stone and concrete.
At this point we had decided to check into a hotel our last night, as the dorm was, well, a dorm, and a little plain and a little drab, so Glenn found a reasonable place online called Hotel Labelle Suites. It was downtown a block from a Metro station so we packed up and hauled our things over there in a taxi, since many of the Metro stations did not have escalators, only stairs, and I didn't want us to be hauling three suitcases, two shoulder bags, and a computer laptop bag, up two flights of Metro stairs, not to mention trying to drag them into the train before the doors closed. The hotel, even though in a bustling part of town, turned out to be on a block of abandoned businesses so it just sat there at the end looking all alone, and all very Sixties. It must have been built to accomodate the crowds who would show up for the Expo '67 World's Fair. I expected it to be worn and shabby inside but it had been updated recently and was clean and respectable. It seemed to cater to college students who wanted an upgrade from a hostel, or to families on a budget, since each room had a small kitchenette and cooking supplies provided. The lobby was very small, and the brown leather chairs were so old they were cobwebbed with cracks and creaked loudly when sat in, but the staff was friendly and efficient, and the room was simple but decent.
Our final meal in Montreal was at a lovely restaurant named Express. Glenn knew the way and he knew the menu. It was a white linen tablecloth kind of place, but still very reasonable considering the quality of the food. I enjoyed the fact that Montreal is a place that does not suck the dollar bills out of your pocket, and that good food is not overdone and overpriced. Glenn and I shared a perfect quiche for an appetizer. It's all in the flaky crust, and cooking the eggs not one second too long. For the main course we had ravioli, but this was definitely not your Fazzoli's ravioli. It was thin, thin delicate pastries enveloping spinach and chicken, then covered in a luscious mushroom and red wine sauce. Magnifique! And for dessert a triangle of chocolate tart so rich I had to muffle my yummy sounds.
That evening we went down to the promenade at the edge of the river for the gathering parade of families and tourists, street performers and teenagers, all enjoying the long twilight of summer. We saw a juggler who had gathered a crowd, a bit of a comedian, who was talking so rapidly in both English and French that he would start a sentence in one language and finish in another, and still we all understood him. Since we had to get up at 4:00 a.m. to catch our flight out, we made it an early night and didn't stay to see the fireworks that apparently are set off every night over the river during the summer. We did, however hear and see them from our hotel window later that night, lighting up the sky. Bon Soir Montreal.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Montreal- Day 2-Avast! Pirates!
Completely fooled by the grey light of dawn I woke up at 4 a.m.. Thanks, summer solstice in a northern country. Attempts to fall back asleep were not helped by a growling stomach. So eventually Glenn and I walked down to a local neighborhood breakfast spot, in a light drizzling rain, and had a nice little egg and bagel/coffee wake-up. Soon we were back on the Metro spilling out again at the edge of old Montreal and walking uphill to the Basilica of Notre Dame. This was the church that had the gorgeous, colorful interior space that dazzled the eye.
I will take a short sidebar here to mention that I am very...I guess the word is psychically or intuitively..... affected by buildings and interior spaces. I don't know how else to describe it. I just get an emotional reading from them. Many years ago when we took the kids to San Antonio we went to the Alamo. At one point we tourists were all shuffled into a small side room where all the women and children had been sent to huddle during the big battle with Santa Anna. I was only in there a few moments when I had to bolt and go outside to breathe. The space made me afraid and sad and uncomfortable. Even the Alamo itself made me feel agitated. I can walk into any place and feel safe, excited, repelled, sad, irritated, calm, etc. I never know. Stepping into churches is always interesting because many make me feel uncomfortable or oppressed or judged, some I get no reading at all, like they are spiritually flat, (and don't get me started on mega-churches with my anxiety around crowds and my suspicion of showbiz theatrics) but this Basilica felt calm and happy and uplifting. Good vibe, great maintenance and paint job.
After our tour we continued walking down to the archeological museum (see above right photo) along the river front. This was the day we actually walked our legs off, or at least down to nubs, but we came here to see the pirate exhibit, and a good thing too, because the permanent exhibit at this museum is a bunch of crumbling walls from the excavation of the old city, and pirates are always more exciting than crumbling walls. Yar, matey, the exhibit was designed to feel like you were walking the deck of an old ship. It was kind of cramped and darkly lit for atmosphere, plus there was a crowd already, but it was well-designed so that at various stations on the 'deck' you could read about pirate life and history, as well as learn sea terminology, view historical objects and weapons, and learn about daily life as a buccaneer. One exhibit showed various Jolly Roger flag designs, and when you flipped over to the back side it showed the pirate that flag was associated with and some of the dastardly deeds they had done. Yes, they were a scurvy bunch.
After the tour we went into a large Imax type auditorium to see a film presentation about the history of Montreal. This was entertaining in a detached, ironic way, because it was basically a propganda film for French Canadians. I have grown up on so much British and American propoganda/history lessons that it was amusing to see the world through proud French eyes. I learned all about the wonderful French explorers and settlers, how they and the local Indian tribes lived side by side (in fact, the French did actually co-habitate a lot better with the locals than the British, Spanish, or American settlers ever did), how those evil British invaders with their bad cooking and lack of fashion eventually stole Canada from the French, and then how many other nationalities all came to Montreal (Scottish, English, Irish at first, then everyone else in the 20th century) and all got along famously, making it the wonderful city it is today. I guess they skipped many barroom brawls, workers' strikes, and immigrant ghetto uprisings, but they only had 20 minutes to make their point.
We were released from the film to go down into the excavation area in the basement, which, as predicted, was a long warren of old, crumbling walls. Not even a dinosaur bone to liven it up. Still, it was a nice museum in a cool, modern building, with a lookout tower to gaze out over the St. Lawrence River.
It was time to be hungry again so Glenn took me to another cafe he had already sampled called Marche de la Villette. (see above left photo) This was my favorite place, or maybe it's a tie with the last place we ate before going home. Anyway, it was a deli-like atmosphere, but a deli more out of Provence, France than the U.S. Cheeses hanging everywhere, warm red walls, clutter, quaintness. It was small, busy, warm, and bustling with energy. Plus the waiters were friendly and cute (Glenn said the Frommer's travel guide listed the waiters here as "flirty"). Ours' had dimples, a charming smile, and dark tustled hair. No complaints. I ordered a cassoulet, which was glorified beans and sausage, just really well made and chock full of flavor, along with the standard crusty bread and wine. I kept thinking someone would start playing an accordian somewhere and sing an Edith Piaf song. "No, rien ne rien, no je ne regrete rien"..........If anyone goes to Montreal and wants atmosphere, this is the place to go.
Sometime after this, foot fatigue set in so we got on the Metro to head back to the dorm. We went underground at Victoria Station, which turned out to be an endless warren of shops and Galleria-like malls all strung together beneath the city. A shopper's delight, especially in bad weather. If I hadn't been so tired I would have explored more but the feet had failed me now. And it was here after we got on the Metro that I saw "the lovers". We were sitting there hurling along through the tunnels, trying to look blank and non-focused like everyone else when I saw a couple get on the metro in front of me then stand together as we took off again. The boy was young and tall and facing away from me. His partner was this tiny, petite woman with a tiny, boyish body and very short pixie haircut, who looked at least 15 years older than him. Her face was crinkled and slightly whizened, an odd face, both old and young at the same time, with tiny, almost beady eyes, like a mouse. She was leaning back against the door facing my direction but blocked by her boyfriend's body, and their arms were wrapped around each other. I only mention this non-incident because she was gazing up at him, with her old woman/young boy mouse eyes, and I have never seen anyone so obviously in love. It was almost like she was glowing and her eyes were on fire. Sometimes I read descriptions in books of people madly in love but I've never seen it so dramatically displayed in real life. I can still picture her face and its expression exactly in my mind because it had such a startling impression on me. I'm even puzzled that I'm writing about it, but I can't shake the image: "lovers on the metro". I hope he felt the same.
That second evening Glenn wanted to take me to a district near Mont Royal that had a street scene. It was near one of the universities and it was Friday night so everyone was out to party. One thing about all the neighborhoods and districts we visited weas that there were no free standing houses or residents anywhere. Like most urban cities people lived in apartments, but these were street after street of townhouses and row houses all locked together block after block in a collage of various architectural styles, from grey parisienne stone with mansard roofs, to 1930's Edward Hopper-like red brick, to Sixties boxy and plain, all glued together one after another. Many also had stores, cafes, and bars at the street level with all the residences above. We started at a terraced bar and just sat watching all the people slowly gather and begin the evening 'pub crawl', a mix of students, tourists, locals, and panhandlers. One very drunk, very stoned young man kept us amused for a long time reeling in front of our bar as we sat on the patio observing, until he saw two girls in mini skirts veer into the entrance and began a clumsy, futile trek after them.
However, we were soon hungry again and our waitress gently dissuaded us from even ordering their crappy food, since we were older than the rest of the clientele there for beer , nachos, and fries. So we took off wandering through the melee, the street feeling like a cleaner, less tacky version of Bourbon Street, New Orleans, minus the vomit and trash. We eventually went into a Sushi bar, a Sushi bar with bright pink crushed velour seats at the tables, and the worst service I have ever had in a restaurant. It was the only bad experience of the whole trip. An hour and a half waiting for sushi, long after our saki was gone (even though the food was pretty good) and having a waitress who seemed to spend her time chatting with the guy at the check out counter, as if she had the day off, was not the way to end such a nice day.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Day One-'Napoleon's Unlucky Hat'
A cup of coffee was calling me when I woke up so we dressed and took the Metro downtown, where we found the Canadian version of Starbucks called Second Cup (not that we didn't also see many Starbucks). It was cloudy, cool, and beginning to rain but we sat outside under an awning and watched the downtown scene. Montreal looks more European than New World, with a mix of centuries all meeting up that included high rise glass towers next to massive cathedrals next to Greek revival or Victorian government buildings next to 19th century Parisienne style townhouses. The people on the side walks ranged all the way from elegantly dressed women to hip young people to beggars. A man sitting at a table nearby looked stereotypically French in his Gaelic features and world weary eyes, ("you have seen me now piss off!") smoking a cigarette and reading his paper. Many many people smoke here even though it is banned from all indoor areas.
After a nice jolt of caffeine we made our way to the Museum of Fine Arts for a little culture. The museum is actually two large buildings facing each other across the street. One is traditionally Greek looking with huge columns and classical temple style, the other is sleek and modern stone with steel and glass. Both are connected by an underground passageway. We started in the modern building where we went into an impressive touring exhibit abo
ut Napoleon, through art and artifacts. There were many paintings from many periods in his life, all somewhat romantically portraying his rise to emporer and his attempt to conquer the world and make everyone enjoy good food and wine (hey, that doesn't actually sound too bad). There was a grand marble bust of him wearing the laurel wreath of the emporer, which was so huge and bold and so dramatically lit, it was as if he were a Roman god.( And still, he was shorter than I am). But finally they had to get to the parts of the exhibit that documented his defeats and his two exiles. In one case was the actual hat he wore on the fatal Russian campaign, in worn black felt, but quite well preserved considering all the snow and cannon smoke it must have survived, plus a very nice silk shirt with barely a mark on it, and his white leather gloves. There was also a death mask in which he looked quite handsome and unravaged, but since he was only 53 when he died he didn't have time to get decrepit.
From there we looked at various other exhibits including some nice impressionist paintings (Monet, Van Gogh, Degas, Pissaro, Renoir). We skimmed a bit in the medieval era because one gold-plated Madonna and child starts looking a lot like another. Sacrilige, I know. But don't tell me you haven't skimmed through medieval art either. Then we ended up in another visiting exhibit, which was about John Lennon and Yoko Ono. This one was very cool and modern, even if you don't like Yoko. I personally think she is one of those people who gets a bad rap in the press but is actually more interesting to speak to, and nicer in person, but then I never had a teenage fit about thinking she broke up the Beatles. Plus, she's an artist, albeit a very conceptualist one, and I kind of get a bit of what her intent is. Anyway, the exhibit was a series of stark white rooms documenting their campaign for world peace in the late sixties. In one room there was an installation piece by Yoko which was a long white table set with many long white chairs, and a chess game at each setting, only all the chess pieces and squares were white only. Her idea, I presume, was that there was no conflict or need for opposition because all the pieces were the same color. On the walls all around were various maps of all parts of the world. The visitor found their country or state then picked up a rubber stamp placed on a ledge below which said "Give Peace a Chance". We were invited to stamp on the place where we came from. My favorite room though was one in which there were a series of ficus trees in pots, all about eight feet tall. nearby were white tags with white strings and some pens. Each person was invited to write a message of hope or peace from wherever they came from and tie the tag to the tree. I liked the ambience because John's music was playing in the background and everyone there was solemnly tying their tags to the trees, so they were festooned brightly on the green leaves and rippling gently under the breeze from the air ducts. I drew a picture on mine and signed my name.
After the new building, we went to the more traditional building and saw more paintings and sculpture there, after which I began to suffer from sensory overload. One can only take so much art before getting stuffed. It's like eating too much cake. Plus by then we were hungry so we took the Metro to old Montreal near the waterfront, where the most historic buildings are, and went to a cafe Glenn had already visited called Le Bourlongueur, which means Traveler. It was mid afternoon so we were the only ones there for awhile but that was fin
e. It was quiet and charming, on a narrow, cobblestone street, and it served great food. Most of the cafes we found offered what was called Table Hote (with a tent over the letter O) for a reasonable price of around $13.00 which included soup, main course, bread, and dessert. I ordered haddock, since I couldn't even recall if I had ever eaten a haddock, although the taste reminded me, in a Proustian way, of being onboard a ship as a child either going to England or returning to Africa. The haddock came with rice and a sauted red cabbage, plus I had a nice white wine with it. And a baked apple for dessert. Very elegant. Another couple came in later. They were from Clevelend, Ohio and were seated nearby so we began talking. At some point earlier on the street a group dressed as midieval monks, in white masks, and carrying the Quebec flag, all marched by. I commented that it looked like a scene out of The Seventh Seal, and the guy from Ohio said I was loftier than him because he thought it was more like Monty Python. At that we all laughed, and I also commented later to Glenn that it was rare that you could joke with strangers who got both an Ingmar Bergman AND a Monty Python joke. The couple told us they were about to embark on a cruise up the St. Lawrence which would take them to Ottawa and later up to Prince Edward Island for the Anne of Green Gables tour. Sounded lovely.
By the way the Quebec flag, which is everywhere there, much more so than the Canadian flag, is light blue with a white cross dividing it into four sections. In each of the four blue squares is a white fleur-de-lis, the Iris, which symbol I once learned the story behind but it now evades me. I'll look it up on Wikepedia.
More tomorrow. I am typed out.
Love, Val
After a nice jolt of caffeine we made our way to the Museum of Fine Arts for a little culture. The museum is actually two large buildings facing each other across the street. One is traditionally Greek looking with huge columns and classical temple style, the other is sleek and modern stone with steel and glass. Both are connected by an underground passageway. We started in the modern building where we went into an impressive touring exhibit abo
ut Napoleon, through art and artifacts. There were many paintings from many periods in his life, all somewhat romantically portraying his rise to emporer and his attempt to conquer the world and make everyone enjoy good food and wine (hey, that doesn't actually sound too bad). There was a grand marble bust of him wearing the laurel wreath of the emporer, which was so huge and bold and so dramatically lit, it was as if he were a Roman god.( And still, he was shorter than I am). But finally they had to get to the parts of the exhibit that documented his defeats and his two exiles. In one case was the actual hat he wore on the fatal Russian campaign, in worn black felt, but quite well preserved considering all the snow and cannon smoke it must have survived, plus a very nice silk shirt with barely a mark on it, and his white leather gloves. There was also a death mask in which he looked quite handsome and unravaged, but since he was only 53 when he died he didn't have time to get decrepit.From there we looked at various other exhibits including some nice impressionist paintings (Monet, Van Gogh, Degas, Pissaro, Renoir). We skimmed a bit in the medieval era because one gold-plated Madonna and child starts looking a lot like another. Sacrilige, I know. But don't tell me you haven't skimmed through medieval art either. Then we ended up in another visiting exhibit, which was about John Lennon and Yoko Ono. This one was very cool and modern, even if you don't like Yoko. I personally think she is one of those people who gets a bad rap in the press but is actually more interesting to speak to, and nicer in person, but then I never had a teenage fit about thinking she broke up the Beatles. Plus, she's an artist, albeit a very conceptualist one, and I kind of get a bit of what her intent is. Anyway, the exhibit was a series of stark white rooms documenting their campaign for world peace in the late sixties. In one room there was an installation piece by Yoko which was a long white table set with many long white chairs, and a chess game at each setting, only all the chess pieces and squares were white only. Her idea, I presume, was that there was no conflict or need for opposition because all the pieces were the same color. On the walls all around were various maps of all parts of the world. The visitor found their country or state then picked up a rubber stamp placed on a ledge below which said "Give Peace a Chance". We were invited to stamp on the place where we came from. My favorite room though was one in which there were a series of ficus trees in pots, all about eight feet tall. nearby were white tags with white strings and some pens. Each person was invited to write a message of hope or peace from wherever they came from and tie the tag to the tree. I liked the ambience because John's music was playing in the background and everyone there was solemnly tying their tags to the trees, so they were festooned brightly on the green leaves and rippling gently under the breeze from the air ducts. I drew a picture on mine and signed my name.
After the new building, we went to the more traditional building and saw more paintings and sculpture there, after which I began to suffer from sensory overload. One can only take so much art before getting stuffed. It's like eating too much cake. Plus by then we were hungry so we took the Metro to old Montreal near the waterfront, where the most historic buildings are, and went to a cafe Glenn had already visited called Le Bourlongueur, which means Traveler. It was mid afternoon so we were the only ones there for awhile but that was fin
e. It was quiet and charming, on a narrow, cobblestone street, and it served great food. Most of the cafes we found offered what was called Table Hote (with a tent over the letter O) for a reasonable price of around $13.00 which included soup, main course, bread, and dessert. I ordered haddock, since I couldn't even recall if I had ever eaten a haddock, although the taste reminded me, in a Proustian way, of being onboard a ship as a child either going to England or returning to Africa. The haddock came with rice and a sauted red cabbage, plus I had a nice white wine with it. And a baked apple for dessert. Very elegant. Another couple came in later. They were from Clevelend, Ohio and were seated nearby so we began talking. At some point earlier on the street a group dressed as midieval monks, in white masks, and carrying the Quebec flag, all marched by. I commented that it looked like a scene out of The Seventh Seal, and the guy from Ohio said I was loftier than him because he thought it was more like Monty Python. At that we all laughed, and I also commented later to Glenn that it was rare that you could joke with strangers who got both an Ingmar Bergman AND a Monty Python joke. The couple told us they were about to embark on a cruise up the St. Lawrence which would take them to Ottawa and later up to Prince Edward Island for the Anne of Green Gables tour. Sounded lovely.By the way the Quebec flag, which is everywhere there, much more so than the Canadian flag, is light blue with a white cross dividing it into four sections. In each of the four blue squares is a white fleur-de-lis, the Iris, which symbol I once learned the story behind but it now evades me. I'll look it up on Wikepedia.
More tomorrow. I am typed out.
Love, Val
Montreal
It's been two years since I was out of the country, in Mexico, so it was time to dust off the passport and visit Canada. Glenn had been in Montreal a week and a half already with his TTU architecture students, studying at McGill University. Normally Glenn would have been back at UDLA in Puebla, Mexico this summer but swine flu paranoia got the better of everyone so since the students had already paid the fee for their travel abroad semester they were off to Canada instead. Glenn had been housed in a small apartment-like dorm with a kitchen so that's where I would also be staying, free, on Texas Tech's travel budget. For the price of an airline ticket I could be living cheap in a foreign land.
The flight up was pretty easy and efficient, an hour to Dallas, then a direct three hour flight from Dallas to Montreal. My seat companion on this trip turned out to be a young Australian boy named Rob, who was the same age as Ian. He was flying from Sydney to meet up with a friend, also Australian, and after Montreal they would visit New York. He reminded me a lot of one of my cousin's sons, Arthur, and he was smart and well-informed. He was also walking with a limp and using a cane, which was rather a sad story. Apparently he had broken both bones of his lower leg clean through in a soccer game. While recovering in hospital he developed an infection in the muscles which wasn't caught in time. By the time they treated the infection and operated on the leg, all of the muscle below the break had atrophied and died, and there was no way to restore it. Faced with a permanent limp, being unable to do his job efficiently as a surveyer, and just waiting for more convalescing, he decided to take off and travel. I told him that since he was young that in a few years, with some stem cell research and modern medical advances, they might be able to restore his leg or at least give him a super-bionic one. He seemed fairly cheerful and accepting about it, nevertheless. I even got his e-mail to drop him a line. We talked about many things, including politics, family, Radiohead, and American TV shows and he was even aware of who Buddy Holly was when I told him where I lived. Those two words seem to always have an effect. If someone abroad has never heard of Lubbock just say "Buddy Holly" and they'll nod and smile. I enjoy those little moments where you meet someone from another side of the world and form a little mini-friendship even though you will never see them again. It gives you a sense of connection, a larger view of humanity. And now I feel connected to a boy named Rob, somewhere out there in the world.
Montreal, as I discovered, is actually an island, with the St. Lawrence River flowing south of it, and the Riviere des Prairies cutting across on the north. It's name is derived from the central mountain (actually a large hill) called Mont Royal. That, and a number of other hills give it some nice topography and some energizing walks, but none of the hills are as steep as San Francisco is. The Pierre Trudeau airport is west of the city, so when I landed, and after going through customs and saying good-bye to Rob, when he found his friend, I caught a bus to the downtown bus station where Glenn would meet me. Montreal is the second largest city in Canada, and is in the province of Quebec, which is French speaking. Anyone from Quebec is called a Quebecois (pronounced Kebekwa). I loved that sense of being dropped in a foreign country where instantly everyone spoke French and all the signs and billboards were also in French. Charming. On the other hand, to avoid a lot of gesturing and trying to sound out awkward French phrases based on three years of high school French,everyone there is bilingual, so as soon as you respond in English, they do as well, in a lovely French accent.
At the bus station Glenn found me then took me underground to the Metro to catch our train to the dormitory. We used the Metro so many times in my stay there that I think I spent more time underground than above, racing across the city in one place, only to pop up like a prairie dog in another part. Glenn purchased week long passes so we could just buzz through the turnstiles at ease and then be on our way within minutes to another stop. There were three major underground routes, or lines, so even a transfer was as easy as a flight of stairs to another platform. Living in a city like Lubbock that barely has any buses for mass transport, it was a fairly new experience just being able to whiz along so quickly in a city so large (about 3 million). As in any big city though, the metro has that kind of grimy weariness and urban seediness to it: the seats all warm with the contact of thousands of derrieres, the poles and handles to hold on to, a germaphobes worst nightmare, the faces of people blank and unfocused, but it was a great way to actually see the variety of residents of the city, a very cosmopolitan city, where every part of the world is represented: Africans, Europeans, Asians, Middle Easterners, Hispanics. Montreal also has a large gay population, but not very overt. I only saw one male couple holding hands. And gay marriage is legal here, which seems to have worked out just fine. I saw no signs of the apocalypse or the crumbling of civilization.
Meanwhile back on the Metro we got off about a block from our dorm, which was actually a couple of stops away, a few miles, from the McGill campus, and was, in fact, a remodeled warehouse. This was obvious in the structure of the dorm rooms, which all had about 16 foot ceilings. With the smallness of the living spaces this gave the effect of being at the bottom of a fish aquarium. Still, we had our own mini apartment and Glenn had stocked the refrigerator with nice cheese, crusty French bread, and wine, so that we could have a light, Bohemian supper.
The flight up was pretty easy and efficient, an hour to Dallas, then a direct three hour flight from Dallas to Montreal. My seat companion on this trip turned out to be a young Australian boy named Rob, who was the same age as Ian. He was flying from Sydney to meet up with a friend, also Australian, and after Montreal they would visit New York. He reminded me a lot of one of my cousin's sons, Arthur, and he was smart and well-informed. He was also walking with a limp and using a cane, which was rather a sad story. Apparently he had broken both bones of his lower leg clean through in a soccer game. While recovering in hospital he developed an infection in the muscles which wasn't caught in time. By the time they treated the infection and operated on the leg, all of the muscle below the break had atrophied and died, and there was no way to restore it. Faced with a permanent limp, being unable to do his job efficiently as a surveyer, and just waiting for more convalescing, he decided to take off and travel. I told him that since he was young that in a few years, with some stem cell research and modern medical advances, they might be able to restore his leg or at least give him a super-bionic one. He seemed fairly cheerful and accepting about it, nevertheless. I even got his e-mail to drop him a line. We talked about many things, including politics, family, Radiohead, and American TV shows and he was even aware of who Buddy Holly was when I told him where I lived. Those two words seem to always have an effect. If someone abroad has never heard of Lubbock just say "Buddy Holly" and they'll nod and smile. I enjoy those little moments where you meet someone from another side of the world and form a little mini-friendship even though you will never see them again. It gives you a sense of connection, a larger view of humanity. And now I feel connected to a boy named Rob, somewhere out there in the world.
Montreal, as I discovered, is actually an island, with the St. Lawrence River flowing south of it, and the Riviere des Prairies cutting across on the north. It's name is derived from the central mountain (actually a large hill) called Mont Royal. That, and a number of other hills give it some nice topography and some energizing walks, but none of the hills are as steep as San Francisco is. The Pierre Trudeau airport is west of the city, so when I landed, and after going through customs and saying good-bye to Rob, when he found his friend, I caught a bus to the downtown bus station where Glenn would meet me. Montreal is the second largest city in Canada, and is in the province of Quebec, which is French speaking. Anyone from Quebec is called a Quebecois (pronounced Kebekwa). I loved that sense of being dropped in a foreign country where instantly everyone spoke French and all the signs and billboards were also in French. Charming. On the other hand, to avoid a lot of gesturing and trying to sound out awkward French phrases based on three years of high school French,everyone there is bilingual, so as soon as you respond in English, they do as well, in a lovely French accent.
At the bus station Glenn found me then took me underground to the Metro to catch our train to the dormitory. We used the Metro so many times in my stay there that I think I spent more time underground than above, racing across the city in one place, only to pop up like a prairie dog in another part. Glenn purchased week long passes so we could just buzz through the turnstiles at ease and then be on our way within minutes to another stop. There were three major underground routes, or lines, so even a transfer was as easy as a flight of stairs to another platform. Living in a city like Lubbock that barely has any buses for mass transport, it was a fairly new experience just being able to whiz along so quickly in a city so large (about 3 million). As in any big city though, the metro has that kind of grimy weariness and urban seediness to it: the seats all warm with the contact of thousands of derrieres, the poles and handles to hold on to, a germaphobes worst nightmare, the faces of people blank and unfocused, but it was a great way to actually see the variety of residents of the city, a very cosmopolitan city, where every part of the world is represented: Africans, Europeans, Asians, Middle Easterners, Hispanics. Montreal also has a large gay population, but not very overt. I only saw one male couple holding hands. And gay marriage is legal here, which seems to have worked out just fine. I saw no signs of the apocalypse or the crumbling of civilization.
Meanwhile back on the Metro we got off about a block from our dorm, which was actually a couple of stops away, a few miles, from the McGill campus, and was, in fact, a remodeled warehouse. This was obvious in the structure of the dorm rooms, which all had about 16 foot ceilings. With the smallness of the living spaces this gave the effect of being at the bottom of a fish aquarium. Still, we had our own mini apartment and Glenn had stocked the refrigerator with nice cheese, crusty French bread, and wine, so that we could have a light, Bohemian supper.
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