Montreal

My trip to Montreal is coming to and end and I've got to go home to New Orleans to pack my things, decide what next. I've been here almost a month and I've enjoyed my time. It's a little different to approach Montreal as a place to visit than it is to consider it a place to live. I've no doubt that anyone visiting here would absolutely love it.

My business reasons for having come to Montreal haven't come together as I might of hoped. Different possibilities have arisen since I've been here, but they've come together late in the stages of my decision making and may not be enough reason for me to come back for the summer. I'd like to, but I think that economically it might be the equivalent to taking the summer off, which is something I can't really do right now.

Another part of my reason for hesitating is that they want a piece of the projects that I worked on with my ex wife. I can understand why from their perspective it's worth continuing with, but from mine, I'd rather let go of the past and stop reconstructing it. It's time for something else, so I'm trying to show them how and why they can believe in my future rather than trying to sell them my past. It's not an easy agreement to come to, but everyone involved is fair, so I'm sure at least that part of it will work out.

I've found the apartment I'd stay in if I do stay. It's small and on the third floor of a building that reminds me somewhat of Paris or New York, with balconies in the read, potted plants lining them, laundry lines all over. The girl that's subletting it seems like someone that I'd like to know; she's beautiful and artistic, calm and focused. She's an aerialist and we fell into conversation easily as we had a lot of things in common in the way of interests in performance arts. She told me about the circus school where I could go to learn aerial and it made me excited to be in Montreal, made me eager to stay.

I imagined her coming back to check on the apartment from time to time. I imagined her sitting and talking with me about the performances she had planned, telling me secrets about where to go and what to do. I imagined getting to know her better as we climbed the silks, her patiently teaching me. I imagined sitting in the apartment alone, but feeling that she was always there because it spoke so heavily of her. For all the reasons that I imagined and for some that I haven't, I wanted to stay there; it felt like the right place for me if I were to be here in Montreal.

I've written variations of the letter to her, some ending with how I'm sorry that I can't take the apartment, others with some sort of conditional agreement as to how I would. I've got the day to decide which version I'll send and then it'll be time to move again; the direction being the only thing in question.

Notre-Dame de Montréal

man on a train

Sometimes when I’m on the metro standing next to someone else who is listening to music while we ride along silently, I’m tempted to plug their headphones into my jack and mine into theirs. Who knows how different the day might be after that.

Every time I ride the train, it's like a little adventure to me. I've always been fascinated by the sheer number of people that you pass along the way and I like to imagine where they are coming from, where they are going to. I fell in love with the Metro in Paris and my affair with it has carried over to Montreal. I feel like waiting for the train to arrive is sort of like standing in line at an amusement park...

I was thinking today of an afternoon in Paris. It'd been raining outside earlier in the day, but had finally let up and so I headed into heart of the city from the apartment we were staying at near Porte de Vincennes. I was standing facing the doors and when they opened a petite blond woman wearing sunglasses and carrying and umbrella stepped on. She looked at me and walked toward where I was standing, turned her back to me at the very last moment. She stood so close to me that I could smell her hair. She smelled wonderful; like summer and rain and just a hint of the soap she's used. She smelled clean and fresh and so that's how the day felt for me. The train rocked and so did she, resting lightly against me when we the train rounded bends. She left the train before I did and as she turned the corner I could see she was smiling, but she didn't look back.

I was walking down the street and was halfway down the block when I noticed the music. I went back to where the man sat on the corner playing the clarinet, sure he was playing "House of the rising sun". I stopped for a moment on the corner opposite of him and had a moment of homesickness for New Orleans and crossed the street when he finished the song, interrupted him just as he'd started the next.

I asked him in broken french what he'd played and he said "Scarborough Fair". I dropped a dollar coin in his case after thanking him and walked across the street, while he started the song over.

I'd been hearing things, wishfully as it would seem and thinking of my home, thinking of New Orleans.

I'm standing here outside your door

I arrived in Montreal after a long, sleepless night. I'd had every intention of getting on a flight early and sleeping through most of it. I'd stayed out the night before, saying some goodbye's that were very important to me to have said. There were just a few people too many and my attention was divided. I wanted my night to be like any other night, but I knew better.

I said the goodbye's that other people needed to hear or the occasional "I'll be back one day" that some people wanted. I had at least a small moment with everyone, but I'd have liked to have had more, to have the moment I had in mind for each of them, said the goodbye I'd imagined and sent them away with the hope and love I had for them.

I knew better though, so I took what I could. A hug that lingered, a kiss on the forehead, a handshake with the bartender, a wave from across the bar, passing words as I headed out the door, walked down the street for the last time that I'd really belong to New Orleans (at least for a while). I said "I love you" as often a I could and meant it each time.

Eleanor could have stayed. She could have kept playing her game and let me go back to finish my packing, have my last few moments alone. She didn't though; she followed me home. She cracked jokes between telling me that I wasn't allowed to really be leaving for good and threatened to cry while insulting me for deserting.

I got home to find that my flight had been canceled and they'd booked me on a slightly later one. I knew it wasn't enough time to really go back out, so I said I'd stay, told Eleanor go, but she didn't. We sat on the couch and I put a pillow in her lap and laid my head on her as she warned me it was my own fault if her bony hips cut me. I dozed on and off while we watched television together and talked about the many possibilities of the future. She fell asleep, perfectly still, sitting upright.

I woke to my alarm, showered, packed my bags and went into the early morning light. I called her name softly and she woke. I said I was leaving and I slid my arms around her, beneath her, lifting her just a little before kissing her on the forehead and telling her I'd miss her.

I called a cab and got up to leave and she came and gave me another hug. I looked around the house at things I'd have to do when I returned and it seemed a little overwhelming, but that's part of the excitement of a new adventure, isn't it? Feeling a little overwhelmed. I don't know about you, but if I don't have that little moment of doubt, I'd feel more like it was travel and not like adventure...

I stood outside in the balmy morning, waiting for my cab. My bags stacked on the curb and the lack of sleep making everything even more surreal than it already was. I sent a message to the one person I'd felt like I'd said less of a goodbye to than I should have (I held back a little for her own good). I climbed into the cab when it arrived and tried to listen to the cab driver talk about the state of affairs of New Orleans, but I couldn't concentrate or contribute past a polite mumble because my mind was elsewhere, many other places and that's where it wanted to be.

It was a long day of traveling, but I finally made it to Montreal at just after dusk. It was cold and so I grinned stupidly as I opened my suitcase and took out something a little warmer to wear. Frederic was there to meet me just after and he pointed out landmarks to me which I stared at through glassy eyes. He listened to the hockey game being broadcast in French as we rode to the studio to watch the rest of it with friends.

We went out to eat when the game was over we went out for a while and it was good to have friends welcoming me to this new city. It seemed more colorful, less cold and filled with adventure thanks to them. Having them welcome me to Montreal made saying goodbye to New Orleans just a little less heartbreaking and I was grateful for that, grateful for them.

It's a rainy afternoon in New Orleans and I'm laying in bed with the french doors open that lead out to the balcony. I'm listening to Yann Tiersen and watching the breeze that blows into the room make the curtains dance just a little.

I'm taking an inventory off all the packing, prepping, work that needs to be done and I'll do it, but I think that I'm going to lay here and enjoy this, for just a little while longer.