I arrived in Montreal on a Thursday afternoon. It was cool
and damp enough that a light jacket was necessary. The ride into downtown, from
Dorval was strange. The driver wasn’t the friendliest of people, an angry
stocky Quebecois. He proclaimed annoyance that with the warm weather a horde of
rude Americans invade his ancestral lands. These people, he informed me,
polluted his province with their loud presence. He turned up the radio and we
drove into Montreal without speaking.
The irony: the radio was playing American classic rock from
the 1970s. The sky was several shades of gray. Through the odd crack of blueish
sky an occasional flash of silvery lightning. It was so strange because for all
the light show that we got treated to, there was no thunder. Silent lightning,
who knew that was even a thing? I’d never seen such a thing.
The taxi deposited me in the Latin Quarter, at a quaint
Victorian house. I was again at the bed and breakfast I stayed at whenever I
dropped by my favorite city. Run by a lovely couple, Alain and Colette, in
their home. I’d arrived as Colette’s daughter Aurélie finished cleaning the
rooms.
She was rushing down the stairs, to meet up with friends
somewhere along the rue Saint-Denis, I bet. During festivals, groups of
youngsters gathered and hustled cigarettes from the tourists. The American
tourists were the easiest. First they'd venture past the areas on the maps
pointing to concert venues. Then, they'd try to explain in English they'd lost
their way, and the kids would feign knowledge of the language, except for one
who’d offer to help them find their way back . . . for a cigarette or two.
Sometimes they even sent them back in the right direction.
“Bon jour, Aurélie!”
“Rory,” she said through clenched teeth.
The face emerged from a curtain of hair that covered exactly
half of it down to the chin in a neon red. I peeked a scowl, then a huge grin
accompanied by an uncharacteristic embrace.
Her mother, shocked, sucked her teeth and muttered, “Incroyable.” She watched as her
generally surly girl volunteered to grab my bags and ran up the stairs. Colette
shrugged and smiled at me. Her smile was always warm and sweet. “Bienvenue, mademoiselle,” she said as
she handed me a key. “I reserved your usual room.”
“Merci,” I thanked
her. “It is always good to see you, Colette.” I handed her my credit card and a
small gift bag. I knew she loved floral fragrances, so I always stopped at the
duty free and grabbed a new bottle of perfume for her.
I headed to the third floor, the family quarters as it were.
Aurélie/Rory was sitting on the bed waiting for me.
She said a string of words so fast that it sounded like a
single sound. All I knew was that she was happy to see me. I had been a staple
in her life since she was a gawky pre-teen. Along with her parents, I too
survived her rebellious teens. Now she was entering her slacker twenties.
I pointed to the leather duffel bag, “There’s a carton of
Marlboros in there for you.”
She was going to be the queen bee of her posse for the next
few weeks. She embraced me again. Then she ran out. Her breathless proclamation
which I understood exactly three words: je
t'aime and merci.
I did not bother to unpack. Instead, I grabbed by Gypsy bag,
the leather purse with fringe. I made sure I had the wallet with Canadian money
in it and my ID, and headed out. At the foot of the stairs, I met Colette and
she handed back my credit card. I signed the receipt, as we’d done at least 25
times before over the years.
Alain had come in the house with a box from the bakery. I
knew it contained sweets for their late afternoon coffee, and dessert for their
guests.
We exchanged a few pleasantries. They walked me out and sat
on their porch with a friend for a cup of coffee. The neighbor, Madame Boucher,
lived across the street and she did not approve of me. She never had. An
insomniac nonagenarian, she'd watch me leave in late morning and return after 3
or 4 a.m. She was sure I was up to no good. And sometimes I was, but she didn’t
know that!
Every time saw me, at least a couple of times a year, her
eyes would narrow and she’d lift a judgmental eyebrow.
“Bon jour, Madame
Boucher,” I said. ”Comment allez vous?”
She harrumphed. Alain became very interested in dissolving
sugar in his coffee. He stirred it with vigor and unprecedented focus. Colette
stifled a smile and sent me on my way on a friendly note, “Have fun, my
friend.”
So I headed up the hill to Sherbrooke. I knew after I
crossed the boulevard I’d enter a whole new realm. Then back down the hill to
where all the action was. Already the Latin Quarter was electric, and it was
still early. After sunset there would a general atmosphere of pure merriment
with hundreds of people. Music everywhere!
I cut through the square, a small community park. Despite
the grayness of the day, pockets of young hippies gathered around. Some singing
and others smoking; some reading or writing or painting; and a few sleeping on
the grass. Once I made it across the park, through old and beautiful trees and
bushes, I had shed all the stress I’d brought with me. I was in my happy place.
I headed to my favorite café, and was very pleased to see
that it was still there. I found a small empty table, and sat. A few minutes
later a waiter came by. He introduced himself and asked if I was ready to
order. I’d been fantasizing about this moment since the moment I boarded my
flight to Canada.
“Chocolate cappuccino and madeleines, please,” I said and
smiled. He seemed a little confused, a little disappointed, almost as if he did
not expect me to answer him in English. I took it as a compliment.
Finally, a clap of thunder in the distance, and a cool
breeze swept through. Inside the café, a young man with a guitar sang French
ballads. Outside, the wind battered umbrellas flapped and made the sound of
castanets.
A few minutes later, my waiter reappeared. He had a small
plate of madeleines and a heaping tall glass of cappuccino.
“It will start to rain soon,” he alerted me. “Perhaps you
come inside, oui?”
I shook my head and handed him twice the amount I owed him
and waved him off. “I’ll be okay,” I told him.
“It’s too much,” he said almost regretting it immediately.
He tried to give some of the bills back.
“No,” I told him. “That’s for you. I’m staying and won’t
need anything else.”
A tall and thin young man with a mane of brown curls he
looked unsure how to react. Or he thought I was insane. The jury is still out
on that these many years later.
“I don’t mind the rain,” I said. “But I don’t need you to
serve me in the rain. I have what I wanted… Go in before it starts coming
down.”
He shrugged and ran for the safety of the café as it began
to drizzle. It was soft and cool and misty. And it had its own soundtrack. My
cappuccino was exactly as delicious as I remembered it. Crème de cacao, maple
syrup, ground cinnamon, whipped cream and dark chocolate shavings. The
bitterness of the dark chocolate counterbalanced the sweetness. The whipped
cream--fresh, cold and unsweetened--added a decadent richness that was
heavenly. A sip sent waves of pleasure from my palate down every inch of my body.
It felt like falling into a velvet cloud and riding it until you became one
with the chocolate. It was almost a religious experience. I was grateful I only
had this when I came to visit, because I’d be the size of a polar bear if I
lived in Montreal!
The rain picked up in intensity. It splattered against the
cobblestones, some of it splashing back in my direction, but I was happy. I did
not mind. Montreal rain was magic. I sat back, under my umbrella with my
cappuccino and my little cakes. I watched as the cobblestones changed colors
and became a glistening mosaic. And in the distance, behind now closed doors, a
young man sang of love lost.
Soon enough, the lulling sounds of the rain and the muted
guitar entranced me. The sun retired for the day and I unfocused my vision
until it felt as it I was in the middle of a Leonid Afremov painting.
Twenty minutes later, the rain had stopped. Soon thereafter the square began to bustle again. But now, that enchanting scent of petrichor added a musky richness to the air, and my vacation had officially begun.
