I’m a lousy tourist. Chicago last weekend and now Montreal. Not a single photo taken. How will anyone, including my future self, know for sure that I have really been where I say I’ve been? If a tree falls in the woods and an image of the fallen tree is not captured on an iPhone and then posted on Facebook, does it make a sound? God only knows.
It’s strange to hear French being spoken everywhere in a city that’s only a few hours drive from where I grew up. I’ve always thought of Canada as an icy appendage of the U.S., but at least here in Montreal I’m feeling like I just fell off the turnip truck. At the hotel and at all the local businesses I’ve checked out so far, the employees switch effortlessly between French and English, even going back and forth when socializing with each other. The barista at the hotel café — a scruffy type who didn’t strike me as particularly well educated — was able to speak fluently in French to the customer ahead of me in line, then switch to perfect English with me, and then later chat in Spanish to another group of people. Here I am struggling and straining to make a bit of sense in Spanish and this kid is pulling off trilinguality like it ain’t no thing.
My wife is here for the annual American Anthropological Association conference and I’m just along for the ride. Last night we ran into several of her former classmates from graduate school, folks I haven’t hung out with in years. Most of them have multiple children now and are getting their careers underway at various universities. Aside from my new beard (in fact, my first beard, at the age of 40!) and the fact that I now live in New Mexico, I feel like relatively little has changed in my own life. I’ve been in a holding pattern for so long that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to take a step forward.
Tomorrow we roll on to East Burke, Vermont to visit my in-laws, then to Troy, New York for Thanksgiving with my family. Nephews will be bigger and able to do amazing new things. Parents and siblings will be a bit older and perhaps a little less able to do the same old things. I’ll be there with my new beard in all its brown, red and gray glory.
Time keeps doing its thing. Always forward. Always onward. Always grayward. There’s a big Santa parade (Défilé du Père Noel) happening right now on Rue Sainte Catherine. Children squeal in French — which is somehow much more adorable than English squealing — as they race ahead of their parents to take their posts along the sidewalk. Something is looming just down the pike. Maybe it’s a giant snowman, or even Santa himself. Whatever it is it will be amazing. Then it will be a memory. Then it will be forgotten, unless of course someone thinks to snap a picture and put it on the mantle or on Facebook or wherever it is memories will be kept in the future.
Bob. Do you know I’m only an hour from Montreal by train?! Gah. And I could have met the lovely Mrs. Dust! I am officially pouting.
I never really took many photos until I started blogging and felt the urge to put something in my posts besides my rambly words. I have no photographic of most of my life. I’m oddly okay with that. I think if I were a parent I’d feel differently, but it’s not like I’m going to pass my photos on to anyone.
Wishing you a happy Thanksgiving and lots of low-stress family bonding.
Kim,
I didn’t realize you were so close to Montreal. I really have no sense of Canada at all, and despite the fact that I grew up in upstate New York, I had never been to Canada until this past weekend. We enjoyed Montreal a lot, although we spent only two nights there, so there wasn’t much time to explore. If I ever pass through again I’ll shoot you an email.