Bonjour ma famille et mes amis! Comment ça va?The subsequent narrative is a recalled account of my visit to Montréal from 20 March to 25 March 2007; some interjections and commentary from the present are added in to intentionally cause the syndrome known as ‘weary eyes’.
Tuesday, Mar 20Today is a tad bit more exciting than the usual—for I will be disregarding the remainder of the week’s classes after the day’s morning fencing class (one in which ignorant individuals will later refer to me as a ‘samurai’ since I am the sole Asian-American). The drive back to Houston, a little over an hour is not tedious in the usual sense, since I have finally uploaded a new assortment of music onto my personal music device (as some of you may recall, I have had the same music on it since June of last year). My updated assortment of more recent music includes the Decemberists, Norah Jones, and various jazz songs; the latter is heavily influenced by my recent visit to New Orleans. Did I mention that I intend to return to New Orleans the week after finals? Anyone is welcome to come along and volunteer.
Later, the stop-over flight to Chicago is delayed for about two hours—I assume there are technical difficulties with the express airplane which seats somewhat over thirty or sixty. This however, gives me time to catch up on my leisurely reading of Haruki Murakami’s
Kafka on the Shore—which later turns out to be by far, the most complex and interesting of his works I have thus read. In recent months, I have been reading more books for leisure and my own personal development; I rarely read for classes unless it becomes mandatory. My brother dozes off in the meantime, and the frozen foods which my mother has packed for our family in the Midwest are in fact still frozen.
Time passes at a relatively quick pace while I am reading; soon enough, we are on board and the airline peanuts are dispensed with drink. Flying through the nighttime clouds, and seeing the stars above the stratosphere frequently puts my reading on pause—I stare through the condensation at this passing scene for what seems like hours. There is a sort of peace here; for those who are too busy with the schedules of their daily lives, I would make the suggestion to just sit there and stare off at something and soak it in.
Once grounded, I put on a sweater which I remove from the luggage I have carried aboard—the weather in Chicago is chilly unlike Houston; I can see my breath as I exhale. When entering the airport gates from the outside on foot, I indirectly advise my brother to hurry up; unfortunately, I do not yet notice that an elderly man is moving slowly in front of my brother by use of a walking cane—at this point, I would have taken back these undirected spoken words. Minutes later, this elderly man refuses the use of a wheelchair offered by one of the airline employees at the gate; I commend him for his display of vigor at an age where society expects him to become feeble.
Outside the airport in the drizzling rain, my two cousins have come by way of car to take my brother and I back to their suburban abode in Glendale Heights for the duration of the stop-over time until the next flight. To our mutual content, our considerate cousins have purchased some food from Chicago’s Chinatown—beef chow fun and fried shrimp balls. Classical music is on the radio as we reminisce of old times and the new. At the house, my aunt greets us through sleepy eyes; everything is pretty much as it was when I was there in early January. Hours later, our cousins’ father drops my brother, cousin, and I back at the airport to catch the early flights to Montréal.
Wednesday, 21 MarThe flight arrives in Montréal some time after nine—it feels like Canada again; the obese work-a-holics and poorly dressed are gone from sight, but the difference is that this city’s citizens speak predominantly French. My brother and I wait on a bench at the luggage claim for our cousin’s flight to arrive, before an airport employee informs us in a serious tone that it is not a suitable area to be waiting. Surely, the airport’s placement of the bench was by mistake, since there are no signs posted in English, French, or any other language stating that it is unacceptable to idle there. Down in the front after the security check, my brother and I resume our wait; meanwhile, I purchase a cup of Van Houtte Café (Le goût de l’Europe dans votre tasse). Alas, this does not taste much like Europe in my cup, but the caffeine contained within does work.
The flat rate by taxi to the downtown area is thirty-five CDN; it is not bad when divided by three. It would have been interesting to speak to our ethnic African-Canadian taxi driver about living conditions in Montréal, but none of us were adequately versed in French to carry on an in-depth conversation. At our hotel located near a local university, VIP Loft on Rue Ontario, we arrive too early and decide to walk around the area for a few hours in order to get a general sense of our new environment. Back outside, there is layered snow along the sidewalks’ edges and fresher mounds where human foot traffic does not frequent. The city is aesthetically beautiful—its architecture and layout are well planned. Graffiti is tagged throughout on buildings, but somehow it feels like it belongs in this urban landscape. Here is a picture of me with Presse Café on Rue Ontario in the background.
Soon thereafter on the walking expedition, we locate the Vietnamese restaurant on Rue Amherst, Phở Việt, owned by my cousin’s mother’s friend. It is a lively sort of place—mixed media paintings, drawings done by local children, and other oddities hang on the painted walls. The owner, well acquainted with my cousin’s mother from school days past in Việt Nam, treats us to a meal (by ‘treats’, I mean she does not allow us to pay for the food we order). After this filling lunch, we thank her for her kindness and make our way back to the hotel to check in.
The hotel itself is what some would call trendy; the room was well designed and visually crushes the likes of the similarly priced accommodations back in the states. To our dismay, the room initially only had sleeping space for two instead of our group’s three. However, this was soon remedied when the ethnic Indian receptionist brought up a folding bed—this bed was initially mediocre until it is replaced with one of sturdier quality on the subsequent day.
In the ensuing hours after this, my brother, cousin, and I visit the underground shopping district—which reportedly stretches on for miles much to those consumed in materialistic delight—near the metro stop at Place McGill. This quickly becomes a loss of interest, and we head to the streets of Ste Catherine where actual daylight exists. Of particular notice are all the nonchalant strip clubs with contact dancing which are located in every direction; other than these are restaurants, tourist gift shops, clothing stores, and convenience stores. The temperature in this district is below freezing; several beggars and homeless peoples live here in these conditions—later in the day after sunset, I give the remainder of my raisins purchased from a book store to an individual layered in clothing and blankets whom appears to be asleep.
Some time after wandering the streets of Montréal, the three of us locate the University of McGill. The road there is of interest—‘Urgence Kyoto’ is tied to trees, ‘Truth’ on a no parking sign, and ‘Je Vote’ on green colored signs throughout. Class still appears to be in session, as students who speak both French and English gather around toppled recycling containers where textbooks and other reading material has been discarded—I claim a copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s
The House of Usher rather than children’s books or a hefty French-English dictionary. The visit to McGill concludes with being denied access to a museum where a lecture is being held for chemistry students, purchasing raisins at the campus book store, and stepping into the warmth of the library and underground cafeteria where diverse students amass. For reference, here is a photo of the university.
Upon leaving the University of McGill, my brother, cousin, and I stop in at a Presse Café located within close proximity. I almost pass for a French speaker when placing a simple order—the cashier discovers my ploy when I am unable to respond to unknown vocabulary. Time passes here at a leisurely pace; I cannot remember what we talked about exactly—I do remember eating raisins and looking at the posting board where the locals posted roommate requests and offerings of French tutoring lessons.
The sun sets on Ste Catherine, and it grows deathly cold—our next self-defined mission is to locate a suitable eatery. After walking a few blocks, I break off from my brother and cousin and settle upon Lebanese fast food at a place called Bahsa. The meal is good—vegetables, spiced chicken wings, humus, pita bread, and garlic mayo—it’s just what I needed. Half way through, my brother and cousin appear; evidently they have given up on walking in the cold to search for food.
The night ends with beers in the hotel room from the convenience store across the street and a late night adventure where we walk on ice.
(…to be continued)
