tastes like chicken

''a blog with bite, but still goes down nice''... stimulating prose, insightful commentary, unabashedly poetic, and occasionally political (with a left hook). in a word, goodread. hope you enjoy it.

Friday, June 24, 2005

montreal

Montreal. Summertime. Up on our balcony sipping cappucino. I have been living with two friends from up north in a 4 1/2 apartment. I sleep in the living room, on the futon sofa I disassemble every night. This is the English side of town but it's more of a smattering of cultures, ethnicities, than anything in particular. Today is Sunday and it's a sunny and warm 24 degrees Celsius, with a bit of a breeze to cool things off. The perfect Sunday afternoon. And, this might be the best place to be.
People walk by, all kinds of people. I'm looking down on the guy in the yarmulke smoking a joint. Three gangling black teenage boys are sauntering back from the community center down the street. There's a haphazard garage sale spread out all over the sidewalk in front of an apartment building, forcing pedestrians to watch where they are stepping. The church bells are ringing. Low-end sports cars cruise by with stereos pumpin' 'n' bumpin'. I'm happy to see the handsome gay man (the one with great posture and classical features) has finally found someone with whom to walk his dog. His neat hair is now fully grey and it looks like he's put on weight. Next, a strange fellow hurries by carrying his shoes in his hands, oddly preferring to walk in his socked feet. The new depanneur owner and his wife, super-friendly Middle Easterners who took over the Korean guy's store and did it up right, they go in and out of their store, alternately sitting on a plastic chair out front while they chat with customers and neighbours. They smile and wave at me whenever I pass by. Five minutes later and the church bells are still ringing. Must be a wedding. It's three o'clock in the afternoon. Cyclists, bladers and skateboarders whiz by, making the most of open stretches on the boulevard. It's Sunday, so that means the kosher sushi restaurant on the corner will soon be bustling with happy Jews chowing down on over-priced Asian fare. Later, I know, before the sun goes down, a young employee will set out the valet parking sign for the three-star Greek restaurant across the street. Next to it is the Persian restaurant with its delightful flower boxes and yellow-painted lanterns. (Persian food really being Iranian food.) I mean to go dine there again when I have a big appetite. Now what is this? A couple out of place, mowing down the sidewalk on scooters with big orange triangular safety flags tailing high. They wouldn't be from here---not hot! Must be American tourists! Then, like a caricature, comes an old man dressed all in black except for his pale brimmed sunhat, strolling with his hands behind his back. He stops every few paces, looks here and there, then continues on. This is Montreal. This is the place I love.

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