Caroline Area Man sets off for foriegn lands...

The rumours are true. Caroline Area Man has left Caroline area and found his way to Canada's foremost city--were it 1963--Montreal. Now to keep Morther from crying to loudly for too long, keeping Father awake in the late afternoon while he could be sleeping, I feel obliged to update progress thus far, as far as how things have been found here thus far.

Flights were fancy. Tail wind blew hard so the times airborne were greatly reduced, but made up for in times spent in waiting rooms and on runways so we would get to our destinations on time, and not a moment sooner. Magically my bags greeted me at Trudeau's door. Pierre Elliot always was timely. And while he might have been hideous in real life, much like his airport, something about the bravado and the lunatic fringe grin convinced us all otherwise and even the dairy farmers from Saguenay found him attractive until the bitter end.

Montreal is right where I left it last time I left here.

The neighbourhood in which I have found a resting spot for my air mattress is one I haven't been to before. It is called Outremont (pronounced "ooootraamon"). There are things nearby that one might appreciate, such as 99-cent pineapples sold on the street by stern looking men. There are metro stops just skips and hops in several direction, should I be so inclined to go underground. There is a major bus line that goes to downtown every 30 seconds at the speed of light just 3 blocks that way (>>>).

The weather is partly sunny, around zero degrees, brisk, yet invigorating. That might have something to do with seeing people actually walking down the streets in numbers greater than zero in residential neighbourhoods. But it might also be the not having slept for nearly 48 hours too.

Day zero was spent inflating a rubber epoxy smelling sleeping cushion won in small town golf tournaments with hair dryers. Wandering bewildered down streets I had never heard of. Reading Canadian communist magazines in Montreal's largest library next to a homeless man asleep under a pile of Time back issues. Chicken sandwiches with tomato salad sides in coffee shops. The Habs game, en francais, avec mes neuveax collocateurs. And in the midst at somepoint an exhausted nap upon the rubber epoxy smelling sleeping cushion under a coat in place of the blankets I don't have.

The new haunts are haunting or haunted or both. Years older than the back of Bellezabub's head. Creaky floor boards. Stuffy stairwell. Room that belonged to a fabled derranged ex-roommate who has left his desk behind. So like good catechumans we anxiously await His return. The tap in the hall bath drips. The place is one long hallway. In the front room, where I sit, I cannot fathom how many fathoms it is until the kitchen in the back. When someone plays the spoons on the pots I can barely make out the tune.

At one point a family of 7 lived here, comfortably. The children played with other children in the quiet tree-lined street, or in the park just over yonder, just past Parc. The mother was a burly Jewish woman who weilded a wicked wooden spoon. The grandfather lived in the rear-most bedroom and liked to curse the cursed children in yiddish. The father worked hard and honestly at the same job for 30 years. Everyday when he came home the stairwell up to the 3rd floor seemed to go on forever. This went on forever until Grandpa died and the family moved somewheres else and University drop outs and has-beens and wished they weres like me showed up and chased our tails about in the front room while listening to inspired and motivated lots play spoons on pots out back. Or maybe I am just remembering an NFB short about a Mordecai Richler story about St. Urbain, which is 5 or 6 streets over.

All-in-all, favourable first impressions.

"A Mother and Father see their eldest son off."

1 comment:

TBRasmussen said...

good looking coat.