I arrived in Montreal early yesterday morning. It was all fairly smooth despite the long journey and an unexpectedly rude immigration official – maybe they learn from the Americans? Anyway, I took a taxi to the Plateau to wake up the Gentleman Friend to be let in, and here I am.
We’re staying in a small, rather dingy studio flat in the Plateau, which used to be the achingly cool part of Montreal when I lived here for a year, about 14 years ago, and is still extremely nice, though I gather the newer hipsters have moved or been priced out since then. It’s strange to be back. Montreal was the place where, I think, in many ways I became a grownup. I had a year here, on a fellowship, and for that year I reinvented myself as a fearless, outspoken type, and one who was very into the indie music scene. I also learned to cook whilst I was here, and having a little bit of disposable income (unlike my student days in Cambridge), could explore restaurants and markets more than ever before. Some things stuck – primarily the interest in food and unwillingness to put up with fools – others didn’t, such as the indie music and being outspoken.
This is the best time of year to be in Montreal, in autumn, with leaves turning. The air is fresh and cool, the sun is warm, the skies blue. The GF has fallen in love with the city, having seen it at its best. Though I did love it here in winter as well, despite the cold.
After unpacking and showering, I went with the GF to a nearby French place wher we had a somewhat unusual breakfast of French onion soup and crabcakes. Extremely delicious, and a first lifting of the veil of San Jose which, whilst perfectly comfortable in all the ways that matter, was strangely discomfortable, perhaps psychically so. Maybe I was just ready to leave.
We then strolled through the streets and small parks of the Plateau up to Little Italy and to Jean-Talon Market, which was bustling for the Saturday before Thanksgiving. I was glad to see it was as lovely as I remembered it, and the GF was delighted. We stocked up on some excellent produce including a tiny variety of cape gooseberry that I’ve not eaten before and which tastes remarkably like a mango. Then there was a long trudge back, both of us very overloaded with groceries, through the area’s pleasant streets. I particularly liked one rather ramshackle back street, hung with reddening American ivy over weatherbeaten wooden boards.
A later trip out for coffee took us through more pleasant streets and past a shop where I found a small handbag that I am very tempted by, since my own bag is now irretrievably mouldy and I can’t bear to use it. So consumption resumes as one returns to city life.