I signed up for some volunteer work today, with the induction slotted for next week. It's called "Santropol Roulant", named after a restaurant that I remember as a haven of plants and warmth and deliciousness back in my McGill days. I believe it was the first fully vegetarian restaurant I had come across, and I can picture thick seedy bread, odd sprouting greens and guacamole. I could not afford to eat in restaurants then so it had the exotic allure of something out of my reach.

The restaurant still exists, and is quite near to where I am now, although it is much smaller and less leafy than I remember. It's odd how memory works. However, they have expanded their services and now offer community support through urban gardening, bike repair and meals on wheels (hence the 'roulant').

Volunteer work is something that gives back far more than it demands, and yet I have always found it difficult. I remember, as a teenager, being volunteered to work with cerebral palsy children on my own in a pool. I was uncomfortable, didn't know what to do, and ended up trying to avoid it. But I feel that was the fault of the system, or the organisation, rather than me. I was such a shy child, and there was no explanation, just an expectation that I would 'get on with things', as if I had an innate understanding of the disorder and knew how to interact with these often non-verbal children. This uncomfortable situation would have compounded my shyness: I felt inept, which just made me withdraw more. But then, this was the 1970s and there was a lot less hand-holding.

God, I hadn't thought of that in ages. What is it with dredging up the past? Having cleared my surroundings of domestic clutter and made space for opportunities to appear, I find instead that annoying regrets pop up to pester me with their unanswerable questions. "what if...?" or "if only..." or "why did...?" Utterly pointless thoughts. Perhaps this is part of the clearing out of the mental attic, a riff on the Rumi poem posted a while ago. 

I shall look for humour in my disappointed nostalgia and let it fade in importance; turn instead to celebrate my independence, my accomplished children and my good fortune to have this year stretching ahead of me.

What do I think, feel and need?

I ask myself these questions regularly as I want to increase my awareness of my experience, and of myself. 

Today, I feel joyous. Even giddy. It is so much fun to explore new things, even if it’s just a supermarket. I’m in an area that was settled by the Portuguese, and there are the Barcelos of Portugal (the Rooster of Portugal) in odd places – like the window of the Home Hardware, or on the ledge of a restaurant, or painted in a mural. So of course in the supermarket I found sardines, sausages, pasteís de nata and smoked cod along with the usual maple syrup, tinned goods and assorted fruit and veg. 

The town is hopping today. Maybe this is because it’s Sunday or that the marathon is happening just a few blocks north and therefore tying traffic up into knots. Perhaps it’s because the sun is out. 

On the way to the supermarket (all of 125 metres away) I noticed an old man moving slowly along the pavement in soft, knee-high leather boots, dark work pants and a battered hat, his small, white dog walking ahead, the lead dragging along the ground. And he was singing, the man not the dog, in a lovely rich voice. It sounded, to my untrained ear, like an ancient folkloric ballade, but perhaps that was just because of his outfit. I followed him for a block but couldn’t manage to walk his pace without seeming like a stalker, so I crossed the street to the shop, carrying the song and the image with me.

It’s warm again, after a 7-degree morning run earlier in the week. Which reminds me to remind my readers that I have spent the last fourteen years in England so I may give a little more focus than necessary to the weather. Especially as we shift into autumn with its changing foliage, crisp nights and market stalls piled high with peppers, apples and squashes.

I had one of those evenings last night that just reverberated with good conversation, delicious food and contentment. I was invited to dinner chez mes amis, along with their visiting friends and a local cousin. So four people I didn’t know, plus my friends’ madcap dogs. Walking home at midnight, aglow from such an enjoyable time, I was reminded again of the importance of community, its ability to reinforce a sense of well-being, and how the pandemic managed to undermine that sense of belonging. 

Of course, I wake up alone, with a day stretching in front of me that has no planned human interaction. But that’s absolutely fine. I have writing to do, people to phone and food to cook. I enjoyed the unselfconscious singing of an elderly man. I practised my French on the cashier. The sunlight is trickling through the leaves of the trees beyond my balcony. I am content in my solitude.

Creatures of the Mountain

 

Downy Woodpecker

I think this guy must be albino. So fluffy!

The ubiquitous skunk

A groundhog, enjoying an apple

The Guest House

​

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

​

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

​

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honourably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

​

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

​

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

- Rumi

Last evening, coming in alone from dinner with my former McGill flat mate, her husband and two other university friends from those days long past, I poured myself a small whisky and sat on the balcony in the dark. It was just warm enough. Other than the hum of the large air-conditioning unit belonging to a business just down the street, all was quiet. The other apartments were dark, the strange neighbouring cats who often come to visit, were absent.

I stared at the outline of the massive maple tree, its leaves and branches silhouetted against the sky, and thought about that naïve, bolshie yet somewhat lost young woman that I was when I last lived in Montreal in the 1980s. It’s as if I keep bumping into her around my old haunts: in The Word, a used bookstore that still exists in the ‘student ghetto’, along the edge of the mountain which she had to cross through wind and blinding snow to her second year apartment, sitting on the steps of McGill’s Art Building which lay at the heart of the campus. She felt insecure yet masked that with a false bravado, and lacked direction, not realising that wasn’t an uncommon feeling.

I wish I could go back in time, to give that young girl a hug, to tell her that she was loved and that things would work out if she would just explore what it was to be herself. But I can’t. And perhaps if I could, I wouldn’t yet. I’m not ready, as I don’t believe that I have really made my peace with that past persona. This is an aspect of self-reflection, all part of my untethered year, that is difficult to manage – the regrets that bang on my mind’s door in the middle of the night. Maybe that’s the reason that I ended up in Montreal; to look more gently on who I was then, to put that piece of my past to bed. Because if truth be told, all her decisions – the good, the bad, the foolish – made me who I am today. And even with my questions, my foibles, my uncertainty as to what comes next, I do like and enjoy the person that I am now. 

I’ve pushed the boat out and now have so much to share but I don’t have time! So I’ll just give you a bit of what I’ve jotted down, as I have to dash off for a zoom meeting, and then I’m going indoor rock climbing this evening.

I went for a long run, determined to reach the cross at the top of the mountain (those that know me will realise this is not an unusual habit of mine). Then I saw that the last bit of the circular route was blocked due to repair work on a crucial set of wooden stairs. All paths leading to these stairs were closed. Retracing my steps would have meant too many miles. I hesitated for a bit, look both ways up the empty road and pushed my way past the metal barricade. And the next one. And the one after that. As I felt that shiver of trespass, I decided that this action reflected my current attitude towards life. I am usually a rule-follower but there are times I need to squeeze past the no-entry sign to see what lies beyond; to make myself uncomfortable; to carefully pick my way down the slightly decaying staircase; to follow the scarcely discernible path made by others that have also gone off-piste.

It gave me a thrill of exhilaration as I went around the last barricade and rejoined the path that I knew. It was a great run, even though it seemed to be entirely uphill in spite of ending up where I started, and I felt something shift within me.

Last weekend I went to watch the start of the Grands Prix Cyclistes de Montréal which was just around the corner from my apartment. This is like Montreal’s one-day Tour de France, as there are top teams and top riders taking part, and the almost 220 km route takes in the hills and sights of the city. Yet it was all so accessible. I could see the racers, the cars with bikes on their hoods, the fleet of motorcycle police and the stage where the teams were being presented. it was all right in front of me, separated only by a little metal barricade. Lots of people on bikes were watching the event, and little kids ran everywhere. It was top level yet informal.

Of course I had that ‘if only’ feeling, wondering what it would feel like to be that age again, to be that fit again. The cycling part of a triathlon was always the most fun. I remember whooping through the tunnels in Madeira when I competed in the Worlds. The thrill of competition is so much more than crossing the finish line, and is obviously still alive within me.

Desperate to kickstart my French conversation, I made my way through various websites, “Here are 10 (mostly free) Ways to Learn French in Montreal”, for example, and ended up creating a profile, stating I could help their English in exchange for the chance to speak French, and throwing it out into the world to see what I could catch. 

Men, it turns out.

That’s all who responded. Honestly? I can’t claim it was because of my pretty face, as there is no photo in the profile, but there is a paragraph as to who you are, where you come from and why you want to work on your languages. My sole purpose was to practise speaking French but with this kind of a response, I decided that I wouldn’t say no if some handsome, eligible, athletic man wanted to work on his English with me.

It did not work out that way.

The first connection was quick – we ended up on what’s app (audio, not video) that very evening. It began easily enough, although entirely in French, with general chit chat about my recent move to the city, and the different accents, but shifted quickly into a discussion about the impunity of the government to insist on vaccination, the dire political situation in Canada, and then deteriorated as he expressed his support for the truckers who had descended on Ottawa last winter with their Nazi flags, their attempt to rule by mob, and their insistence that they were freedom fighters.

At this point, as this arrogant, opinionated man kept speaking and speaking and speaking (I was getting good listening practise although my head was hurting by now), I decided to put a stop to it all. I told him that if he was against vaccination because it took away his control to make choices for himself, then he must obviously support the pro-life movement so that a woman would have control over her body, and suggested he join the demonstrations against the striking down of Roe v Wade in the US.

Let’s just say that the conversation quickly ended, and we have not been back in touch.

Friday’s conversation, another man of course but this time in person at a café on rue St Viateur, was much better. Much more egalitarian with a decent and fairly equal mixture of French and English. But after we’d finished the half hour of English, we switched to French, and he was off, mansplaining his way through how to learn a language and his efforts with Spanish. I gather he had had a hard time with the past tense. Perhaps it was fortunate that I couldn’t get a word in edgeways as I’d found Spanish – with all its tenses and nuances – quite easy to learn and had none of his difficulties. But wasn't going to hear any suggestions from me. I pedalled away from there wondering if my French conversation was ever going to be anything other than listening to men.

The third, and possibly final, conversation was done on Skype. I could almost catch a glimpse of a rather swarthy man, although he kept moving his camera so I could only see a stack of what looked like work files. I was gobsmacked to realise that he was speaking to me from Algiers. He was quite pleasant, although he began the conversation with saying how pretty I was, and mentioned at least twice that he was divorced. I think I’m more used to the egalitarian ways of the western world. But he was pleasant, and we were able to talk about the Mediterranean, travels in Europe and family. His English was quite poor, although he reads and writes in English for his work (thanks to Google Translate), so this was a much more even-toned conversation. Perhaps I’ll repeat it for practise as I’m fairly sure I won’t be running into him in the streets of Montreal.

No word yet on whether I’ve got into that online class at McGill that starts tomorrow, so I’ll have to continue with my haphazard attempts elsewhere. Someone did suggest that if I took a job as a barrista somewhere that I would get lots of practise, but…

“Tu veux chocolate avec ton cappucino?”

“Moyen ou grand?”

“Avec carte?”

I think that would be of minimal interest with its limited vocabulary!

I'm not going to lie. I get panicked at times. What am I doing here? How does one create community from scratch?

It isn't évident as they say in the local lingo but rather requires effort to punctuate my week with opportunities to interact with people in interesting ways, to engage with activities that may edge me out of my comfort zone.

So that was what this morning was all about. Effort. And now, mid-afternoon, my head spinning, I can look back with satisfaction at everything I did. I signed up for a McGill university "lifelong learning" course that involves in-person discussion of global travel. I also went on the waitlist for two others, including a French conversation group and a creative writing course for people who already write. I don't know what the chances are for me getting in to either of these given the program begins on Monday, but I suppose events over the weekend (I'm thinking deaths in the family and sudden poverty, neither of which is a kind thought) might bump me up the list.

In addition, I committed to helping with a writing and graphic design project also at McGill, organised our Christmas plans, messaged a woman about birding on the mountain, sent an email to a language group connecting French-speaking seniors here in the Plateau quartier with English-speakers, paid the remainder for the Costa Rican house I have rented, sorted out some tenancy issues around my place in London, reached out to an assortment of friends about this blog (feedback always welcome) and also had a couple of long calls and wrote several lengthy emails.

It was satisfying.

Then I took myself out into the 28-degree sunshine (had to get that detail in somewhere) to explore the myriad of distractions in my area, and also to buy another delicious seeded bread from Guillaume. That gave me an even more complete sense of satisfaction, strolling along Blvd St. Laurent, the terraces overflowing with people drinking cocktails and wearing sunglasses. How fabulous to be based in the heart of the city, yet with a forested and somewhat wild mountain just a few hundred metres away.

This is an adventure, I have to remind myself. A once in a lifetime opportunity to be able to get out and explore Montreal, while at the same time learning more about myself. Something to be grasped with both hands and my heart.

 Marché Jean Talon

Note the piano player to the right of the photo. It sounded so lovely.

I finally made it to the Marché Jean Talon, and wow, it was fantastic. It's partly covered and partly not, and is really just a series of farmers' stalls loaded with corn and beans and plums and anything else you can think of that grows at this time of year in Quebec. As well as fish and meat and flowers. This gives me more incentive to make friends, provided they enjoy eating.

Enough wild blueberries to make a pie for tonight's dinner.

Of course, I bought flowers. 

A view of Montreal from the mountain, early September, 2022

The adventure begins! Not with a bang but rather the steady silence of a train, stopped in the middle of farmland in Ontario as the engineers changed out a suspicious bearing. Better to be safe than sorry, of course, and perhaps a late arrival into Montreal is a fitting start given the delay caused by my second bout with covid, and the frustrating feeling of stasis from the last two-plus years of dealing with the pandemic.

I am here, though. And here is a charming two-bed apartment on rue saint Dominique in the Plateau area of Montreal. I'm three blocks from the mountain (Mount Royal is, after all, what gives the city its name), a stone's throw from the myriad of interesting shops, cafés and restaurants on nearby streets, and the apartment itself is full of character and wood and plants and comfortable furniture, with a balcony overlooking the chaotic backyards of the old jumbled-together buildings, along with half a dozen tall trees. I am happy there is a bird feeder.

Now what? I ask myself. It's an interesting question, and of course there is no answer. Whatever happens, happens. I will wander the streets, sit in cafés, look for a yoga studio perhaps, sign up for any random classes I come across, meet up with the couple of friends I have here and, of course, read and write. I'm turning my back on a life ruled by to-do lists and domestic demands, because they will never end no matter how much I focus on them, and opening myself to unexpected encounters, sights and thoughts. 

I started my first morning in the city with an amazing wander (half walk, half run) along the maze of paths on the mountain. It was fresh when I started out, only 14 degrees, but I was soon warm as I made my way up through the forest to the Belvedere Camilien Houde (a lookout point). I got hopelessly lost, but can you call it that when one doesn't know the lay of the land? A bit like life, perhaps; an exploration or a meander in unknown parts. It was gorgeous.