Monday, February 28, 2005

And on the third day, she rested.

Saturday: fly, wait, fly. Land. Customs. Purpose here? Tourist. What do you plan to do? Be a tourist. Customs official looks irritated. Drive to the market. Taste breads and cheeses. Buy flowers and a tart. Home. Bread, cheese, beer, nap. Nuit Blanche. Art museum. Video installation, sculpture, interpretive dance installation. Breakdancing exhibition, but the line was too long. Jazz. Home. Sleep.

Sunday: bread and cheese and coffee. Vieux Montreal. Brunch of jamon et fromage crepes with maple syrup (?!)--odd but good. Lunch tab: $74. A musical piece played on ships' horns and train whistles, still attached to the ships and trains. Tugboat-as-icebreaker. Science museum. Magda's for pate and spinach pastry. Home. Oscars. Did anybody else notice that Pacino seemed drunk as a skunk? Sleep.

General: the silence at the airport, and the walk from the gate to the new terminal. Church bells on Sunday. French of a type I can barely understand, spoken at breakneck speed, and the feeling that I ought to be following it. My own fumbling attempts greeted very politely. A huge amber necklace in a shop. Very strong coffee. Green domes of churches and tall, slender windows. The mountain on Saturday, with the cross on top, and every shaggy-friendly dog in Montreal coming over to pay their doggy respects. The park with ice skaters.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

This is like something out of the New Yorker. I mean that in a good way.