Intersection

Remember me?

So, I was happily going along, all radio silence plus, when I had a very interesting encounter this morning on my way to work. It aligns nicely with another very interesting encounter, which happened in exactly the same spot (give or take 10 feet) about 2 months ago.

Let's begin there: I was walking to work in the summer, wilting away and certainly looking neither my slimmest nor most well-put together, when some twenty-something guy, walking in my direction, moved toward me to ask a question.

I assumed he wanted to know where College St. was but, when I stopped to hear him out, he gave my quite a shock by advising me, in some mellifluous Eastern Euro lilt - and with a surfeit of confidence - that, in his opinion, I had the most gorgeous body he had ever seen.

I smiled gamely. I mean, I'm 40. I do enjoy hearing anyone say my body is the best thing ever, despite the objective untruthfulness of that statement. I said thanks and started to walk on.

At that point he moved closer to me - not entirely where I was going with our discussion - and confided (no freakin' joke) that he was looking for a lover and he could tell I'd be an optimal candidate. At which point - FOR REAL - he pulled out his business card.

Thankfully, I hadn't forgotten my wedding band that day, and proceeded to advise - as I walked forward - that my husband would likely object. He expressed utter misery at this revelation, telling me the world was cruel (or some such thing) and that was that. Note to reader: I do wish I'd taken the card, just for posterity.

OK, then this morning, in the same place, I watched a couple stagger down the street. They weren't exactly staggering but they'd obviously had a rough night and they ambled broadly in a cloud of cigarette smoke. He was all in leather. Her hair was hanging in precariously, despite the bleach, and she wore the shortest skirt ever, set off by ripped fishnets.

I'd like to clarify that the neighbourhood in which I was walking is not a dicey one. It is urban, natch, but the houses go for almost a million bucks (not unusual in downtown TO, but certainly not the sign of a slum) and it's quietly residential. As such, this couple was slightly stand out. Of course, TO is a very "free to be you and me" kind of town. But they seemed to have come from a rave on Queen West. Or some house of ill-repute, perhaps.

As they passed, the woman tapped me on the shoulder and said: Really great boots, honey. I realize that the boots - rather ordinary flat black things - must have been scandalously offset by my new jeans (exact replacement of my 1969 Always Skinnys, the zipper of which recently broke. That's it's own story, oy. In brief, in regular jeans I'm a 29. In Gap jeans I'm a 27. I just replaced the exact style and size of the broken jeans and the new ones are SO tight it's horrid. I mean, I get a yeast infection just thinking about them and they barely fit around my - admittedly scrawny - calves. I know the dye needs to stretch in the weave. I know I might be fatter, but still...)

Anyway, I'm starting to wonder if I need a style overhaul. Or a new route.

I <3 Montreal: New Religion

Kids always want what they don't have, which is why I hankered after athiest parents and my kid wants to check out church on her vacation. Enter L'Oratoire St. Joseph.

Built on the crest of Mount Royal (this century!?), the basilica is one of the grandest I've ever been in. And I've seen every church going in Western Europe. Just read online that the dome is the 3rd largest in all the world.

Legendary healer priest, Father Andre, seems to have been the premier fundraiser of the 20th century. He started with a tiny chapel and, after restoring thousands of sick believers to health (in the name of God, of course), he had the means to build with opulence of the sort that I only associate with Catholicsm.

We had to line up for a view of Father Andre's preserved heart in a fancy jar, something that both horrified and thrilled M. We had to wait for her to look at it 4 times... She also lit a candle in the special candle hall in memory of our dog, who died when she was three.

After a while, we left the church for my kind of religious experience - a trip along the summit of the Mountain in what I consider to be the world's best neighbourhood - Westmount. Every Canadian playah has a home here. Some manses are ludicrously close to the road (like peer in the windows close. Don't judge, you'd do it too...). Others are decked out in so many security systems you'd think the President lived there. Actually, most ex-Prime Ministers do live there.

This hood comes with the kind of view I lust over. I am mystified by its complicated-meets-utterly-simple beauty. Really, more than any cathedral, it is proof of the existence of God. (Note - more shots of the view to follow in another post...)

The Church:

Lovely view of the parking lot (and us, and the seminary behind us).

The centre staircase is for worshippers, who pray on their knees at each step.

Someday, this kid's going to look back and wished she'd occasionally combed her hair. Good thing she's cute anyway.

Yes, it really looks like this - in every freakin' direction!

These peeps are going for the Casa Loma look.

Look, rich people - they have kids who play basketball in the driveway! They're just like us!

I <3 Montreal Theme Week: A Walk on The Plateau

Just north of downtown, and east of the Mountain is an area known as the Plateau. The eastern side of it is predominantly French, the western part (moving towards the Mountain) historically anglo or bilingual Jewish. It's a fabulous merging of lively, old-world cultures - and new urban sensibilities - which, for decades, has led to innovation in music, art, literature, fashion and food. Mordecai Richler was from this area, as is Michel Tremblay. Both novelists, one anglo and Jewish, the other French and Catholic, have written uniquely and from their own cultural perspectives about, effectively, the same square mile. I can't say how much I love that.

When you walk along St. Laurent, a main thoroughfare actually known as "The Main", English and French cohere seamlessly. People move from language to language, from deli (some of the best in the world - some say better than in New York, gasp!) to bistro, from the underground to the mainstream. It's got a kind of energy I've rarely experienced anywhere else. And when you add in Quebec's distinct brand of ice-cold-freezing-scary winter, it gets somehow even more lively. It's like Montrealers, born or bred, are wired to enjoy every layer of human existence. When you visit Montreal, you fall into the mix.

We went to L'Express for dinner on a Saturday evening. It's institutional bistro (for want of a better way of putting it), always packed. There's no sign out front (though I seem to remember there is an inlay in the cement saying "L'Express"). I guess you either know it's there or you don't.

Before we ate, we took a little walk...

Everywhere you go, you will see people eating on tiny balconies. They take the weather while it's good here.

Being a row-house resident, I am always partial to a street like this...

Et voila, L'Express!

Cool lamp I liked at a design shop up the block.