I came to Montreal to write things for you. I am not yet precisely sure what manner of things: my plane only landed twelve hours ago. The contract that I have with this publication is not that specific, has not tied my hands to anything in particular. It simply states that I must turn in 3 columns a week, of approximately 750 words, for the space of 6 months. For this, I am to be paid with handsome accommodations, a per diem allowance, $300 dollars a week, and the satisfaction of seeing my name in print. All that you will get in return for the time invested in my words is the enjoyment of whatever emotions I am savvy enough to evoke in you.
I will begin this first installment by telling you exactly what I am doing this morning, and who I feel like. It is 8:15 and I am in bed for the second time. I have been sitting still and upright long enough that I feel the heat of the laptop on my stiff legs. There are pastry flakes on my fingers that I have not bothered to suck off, and a trail of grease on the keys that are typing these words. I have polished off 3 croissants in the narrow space of 45 minutes: fortunately there is no limit to how much you can eat at breakfast. It is the only meal served here, and they do it exceptionally well--well enough to merit a small mention in 'Food & Wine'. The proprietors are entirely too graceful to flaunt that fact. The framed article does not hang on a wall, nor is it pinned conspicuously on a bulletin board behind the check-in desk. I know this fact simply because I was bored enough to do a cursory amount of research before coming here. (The 'Here' in question, if you are interested, is mentioned at the bottom of the article.)
Until roughly 44 minutes ago, my distaste for croissants was equal to that of eating with complete strangers across a communal dining table at first dawn. One buttery bite gave lie to the complete idiocy of the first notion; five minutes of conversation with a family of tourists from Oregon made me realize that perhaps I am not the world's greatest people person. I hope that my anti-social confession does not predispose you to hate me, yet it may be useful to weed out those of you who are expecting a conventional travelogue: I am not that writer.
However you feel on the matter, you must kindly grant me the following concession, namely: that it is nearly impossible to enjoy the most singular culinary experience of your life when surrounded by people hell bent on nattering on and on and on about what is the best time to tour the cathedral. That first croissant was my own holy experience, writ small and powerful. It tasted of butter somehow different from regular butter, fresher: as if there was a churn in the kitchen, and a cow tied up out back. I did not smear it with preserves or wash it down with hurried gulps of hot tea, in a preliminary strike against its imagined objectionable taste.
I was forced to flee 5 bites later, with 2 more flaky, little delicacies in hand. That is how I ended up in this room, in this bed, staring at a stain on the coverlet, trying to harness my utter lack of adventure to the demands of this column. I have yet to experience Montreal beyond the confines of a taxi and 2 rooms of this hotel. I have been enchanted by a from-scratch breakfast (one of the partners rises daily before light breaks to bake)and annoyed by harmless and adequately nice travelers. I have stepped into the bathroom to wash stale and sticky make-up off of my tired skin; I have poked my head between the curtain panels to glimpse a barely-stirring street possessed of cobbled beauty. I do not even know what this column is to be called. You will doubtless read this before I do, as the paper will be delivered to me in real-time, from a country that is now next-door.
Coming to Montreal, which is as close as one can get to Europe without leaving North American soil, I was hoping to feel utterly different from how I felt at home, from who I was at home. It is too early to determine the accuracy or fallacy of this notion, but I will share the thought with you anyway. I have always been beset by fanciful ideas. This is, I suppose, why I became a writer. If I am to deal with honesty here, and I am unsure whether or not that is my intention, then I must admit that my entire adult life has been constructed on following one fancy after another. The fancy that brought me to Montreal?
Edna St. Vincent Millay. Perhaps I will tell you about that on Wednesday. Right now, it is time to close the laptop, kick the covers off, wash my hands and hit the street in search of something new.
Margaret Millet
Vieux-Montreal
IN THIS ARTICLE:
Auberge Les Passants du Sans Soucy
171 rue St-Paul ouest
514-842-2634
http://www.lesanssoucy.com/
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