Snapshots: A day out in the countryside…

I have been saving up weekend activities for these two days. To make moving easier, and to justify some rural exploration, I hired a car (”built with care in Normal, Illinois”) for three days. On Saturday Ryan, Erik, Jana and I headed north, to the brilliantly deserted interior of Québec’s Parc Mont Tremblant. Then on Sunday, it was a more meandering affair in Québec’s delightful Eastern Townships, following a meandering route from Montréal to Bedford, Mansonville and Memphrémagog. Here are some excellent photos, all by Mélisse.

Piglet takes his usual place…

Exploring south-eastern Québec’s deserted gravel roads.

Suggested captions on a postcard please…

Karine, James and a big deer in Mansonville, QC.

The (1896) Pont de la Frontiére, near Mansonville, QC.

Mélisse in the aforementioned covered bridge.

Piglet catches some sun…

Approaching Lac Memphrémagog, QC

Crossing back onto the island of Montréal.

Snapshot: Canadian service station…

Globalisation may have killed off many individual trading names, but just in case you thought that McDonald’s was an evil multi-national, note how (north of the border) they add a little red maple leaf to the middle of their golden arches logo. That’ll fool ‘em. Petro-Canada, on the other hand, has no such ‘branding’ issues…

“What are you guys doing?”

A few hours ago, I was woken from my slumber by the sound of someone shouting the above. The clarity of the call seemed to make me think he was standing on one of the roofs adjacent to my new bedroom, perhaps on the balcony above. With the move to a new apartment comes the adaptation to the new sounds of my surroundings. I’ve spent the last ten months in a haven of tranquility, in a room that down onto a first floor courtyard. I’m now hearing a lot more traffic noise, and the distant sound of a night club pumping house music into the air. It’s not a bad thing at all: I can sleep through these sounds; in fact they are already beginning to wash over me and calm me. Falling asleep in a big city like Montréal is a comfortable experience. As you slip into your slumber, you are reminded that outside the world continues to spin, and that if you need something to eat at three in the morning, there are plenty of places near-by.

I lay in bed for a while wondering what the possible stimulus could be for the shout that woke me up. A friendly hello from a man who’s looked up the balcony of a friend’s apartment, and seen an early morning party still going on? Or maybe an agrier responce to two ‘yoofs’ attacking the paintwork of a car with some keys? Probably not… this is not Belfast.

My new room is opens onto a fire escape that leads down to an overgrown back yard. On the opposite side of the house, the apartment has the most essential of Montréal real estate features: a wide balcony that faces the street, and which is leaning out from the building just enough to appear safe but feel slightly unnerving. I’m sitting here, having made an early morning sortie to the Jean-Talon market. A big bowl of fresh fruit salad featuring strawberries, raspberries and blueberries (all Québec grown) is now in the fridge, and I’m tapping away watching the traffic go past. Traffic signals about two hundred metres south of here regulate the one way traffic: periods of acceleration en masse are intersperced with periods of blissful silence, when the engine sounds recede, and I can here the wind rustling the trees that are dotted along the pavements. A hodge-podge of different shops, offices and apartments (all with their blinds and curtains still closed) reflects the sunshine back towards me.

My new place on Main

My work here is done (part one)

I returned home last night through stifling humidity. The artificial environment of my office carries me through the day in a state of suspended animation, insulated from any natural environmental or climatic variety. Stepping out onto the pavement through the underground car park (it is assumed that if you work in this building you arrive by car, probably an air conditioned one) the eight hours of climatised enclosure are rapidly made up for with a pounding cloud of hot, damp air. By the time I got home, I was dripping with sweat, embarassed to be wearing light coloured trousers that were clinging to my legs.

Unable to face physical exersion of any kind, I skipped making my own dinner and ate downstairs in the bustling Mont Royal Hot Dog. A found a seat by a vast open window that looked onto a broad pavement, occupied by outdoor tables with parasols that advertised beer and customers who advertised the food. Throughout the long, dark, cold days of winter (I’ve eaten poutine in this joint when it’s been -25 C) these enormous floor to ceiling windows have reassured me. They’re insulated enough to keep the restaurant warm in the winter, yet act as a reminder that as soon as it becomes warm enough, the window will be wound up and into the ceiling like a garage door and the outside will be allowed back in. In fact these up-and-over windows seem to be the must-have feature of any self-respecting Plateau bar.

After eating a big plate of fries and a stacked club sandwich, I climbed the stairs to the apartment. Tonight is the night I have to begin packing. I’m not returning to England for another six weeks, but with the recent return of this apartment’s rightful occupant, my days as a house and cat sitter are over. I believe I may have racked up the longest ever stay through the Hospitality Club: it’s been more than ten months since I hauled by suitcase and backpack up the stairs to this apartment. Now I’m dusting them down, and filling them with clothes once more. As I cleared out my wardrobe and drawers, Toast (the youngest and most inquisitive of my four feline housemates) jumped onto the bed and started sniffing around and getting inside plastic bags. She investigated an interestingly Toast-sized space in my suitcase, but I decided against taking her with me. She looked at me in the eye, and mee-owed in a voice I haven’t heard before. I don’t doubt she is as intelligent, if not more intelligent than me. Maybe she knows I will miss her late night company and the affectionate licks my arms receive when they are above the sheets.

I did as much packing as I could, and then retired to the balcony. Charlotte joined me for a glass of white wine, before popping out with Maya to visit friends. I sat alone on the balcony watching occasional flashes of lightning strike silently between clouds high above and to the north-west. No storm showed up, leaving me as sweaty as ever when I went to bed.