A good friend told me once that blogging is a full time job, and I’m finding she’s right. It also affects my decisions in ways I don’t like. Am I searching for interesting anecdotes and activities to share with my readers or am I engaging in meaningful activities that may resonate within my soul but come without a narrative or punchline?

I am on the train out of Toronto, having enjoyed my first Canadian Thanksgiving in decades. The best part about this weekend, beyond the two turkey dinners I managed, was spending time with my assorted nephews and their partners, followed closely by a meandering walk with my mum through the ravine near her apartment, finishing along the winding path through Mt Pleasant cemetery. 

Canada is so beautiful in the autumn. My phone is filled with photos of the changing foliage – “oh my god, look at that tree!” I splutter to a friend or just to myself as I stop for the seventeenth time on a meander up the mountain. I paused at twilight the other day to take a picture of two young women on a blanket under a flaming red tree. The deepening dusk made the leaves look like fire, and it seemed so Canadian to socialise like this as the temperature dipped below ten degrees.

I return to Montreal, though, with my down ski jacket. I am Canadian enough not to be fooled by the arching blue skies and fluctuating temperatures – November will be different. The view from the train is stunning. We are travelling along the shores of Lake Ontario, seeing frequent beaches and occasional towns. The infrastructure is excellent and I notice boardwalks and cycle paths amidst the reddening sumacs and sugar maples.

Is it boring to have me rave about Canada?

Perhaps I’m a born-again Canadian! After all, this was my environment for the first thirty years of my life, but I feel as though my eyes have been opened. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. It does help to be around enthusiastic Canadians, and it’s exciting to be planning a cycle journey into the Eastern Townships out beyond Montreal. I won’t be here for the snowy activities of back-country skiing on the mountain or skating on the long and winding pond at Parc Lafontaine, but I’m doing my best to engage fully in the current season.

Here are some small random things I have learned about Montreal which amuse me.

First off, there is Société d’Alcool Québecoise (the SAQ). This is the government store for purchasing alcohol. It is possible, because this is Québec rather than Ontario, to buy cheap wine at the corner stores, the dépanneurs, which we frequented when students at McGill. The mention of Si! Si! Si! still conjures up memories of late nights of backgammon, cozy friendships and the slightly acidic taste of an incoming hangover. 

The SAQ, however, has run out of bags. Bags of any kind – plastic or paper. It’s been months and as these are obviously things that one can order, it must be a choice. Especially in a country such as Canada renowned for its pulp and paper mills. So if I stop by without planning, without a bag of my own, I then have to walk home with a couple of bottles of wine tucked under my arm. And I notice others doing the same, as if we’re a city of well-dressed winos. Perhaps we are.

Also, there appear to be no $10 bills in Québec. There are plenty in Ontario, oddly enough, but if ever I purchase something with a $20 and the change is more than ten dollars, I am inevitably given $5 notes. I’ve asked, and people just say that they never see them. It’s been six weeks now and still no sign of one.

There is drumming in the parks, particularly on the weekends. I emerged from the woods of the mountain the other evening to reverberating drumbeats. It changed the rhythm of my steps, filled my being with a restless stirring. A cluster of people were sitting on benches near the large Angel statue, some playing hand drums, one or two dancing in front. There was a warmth, a roundness to the sounds. The sun was just sinking behind the mountain and the glowing fall foliage was slowly being dimmed.