Independence Day in Canada is an interesting way of celebrating our national day ... because nothing happens. No one seems to care, particularly in Quebec, where the francophone population predominates. I remember when growing up in Romania, July 4th used to be a moment of celebration, it was a time when all things American were highly prized and the activities of the Embassy in Bucharest were making the national news. Montreal was strangely quiet on this aspect though. In fact, I didn't even remember it was Independence Day until sometime in the afternoon, when I was making my way through the middle of the city back to Andi's apartment.
After indulging in sleep through mid-morning, Andi found my suggestion to check email adequate and we headed to the one of the medical buildings on campus. It was one of the places where the unlucky student gets to spend many of his waking hours, so Andi wasn't particularly enthralled at showing me around. I did get to peek into some labs, admired the door to a famous library and used the facilities in the computer lab where my companion was to finish typing up a paper due later that day. Since keeping him company was the last thing I wanted to do, I quickly found the idea of going up on Mont Royal to take in the vistas an excellent one. It is after all one of the most famous attractions of the city and a pilgrimage place for anyone coming to the island. I bid Andi goodbye and proceeded to make my way up the trail that began right behind the campus.
The map in my guide wasn't exactly helpful, so after veering off the main path I trudged up some pretty long flights of stairs to reach a stunning panorama point awash in waves of perspiration. The view was so inspiring that I decided to keep exploring "the mountain", actually just a tall hill that offers a great lookout point down on the city (Montreal gets its name from Mont-Royal, whose views so impressed Cartier when exploring the St. Lawrence that he deemed the island around a great place for settlement). After making my way around the huge park surrounding Mont-Royal, I decided to come up on its eastern side and from there make my way to Vieux-Montreal or Old Montreal, which is halfway across the city. Easier said than done: my fragile timetable was seriously challenged when I took some unmarked trails and ended up going back to where I started the entire adventure from. Once I was on one of the main trails again, the descent was rapid and I was cruising a broad boulevard through the center of the city heading southeast.
I was quickly impressed by the unique mix of European and North American cultures this city represents. Its layout and size are comfortably indicative of the abundance of space on this continent, while its sights, sounds, smells and attitudes all keep an Old World charm. There are cozy restaurants everywhere, noisy bars, chic taverns, homely boutiques; at the same, ubiquitous symbols of globalization appear around every corner, be it Starbucks, McDonald's or American Express. Once in Vieux-Montreal the atmosphere changed though, the streets became narrower, the buildings older and the crowd effect grew noticeably stronger. After fighting through throngs of tourists, I finally ended up on the riverside, where Vieux-Port (Old Port) welcomes its visitors at the four quays or docks. I immediately eyed the tallest structure on the waterfront, the Clock Tower, and proceeded to climb its 192 steps to the top. Needless to say, once I reached the 50-meter mark the spiraling of the staircase tightened, prompting the dreaded acrophobia to start working its way up my spine. I was determined to make it all the way however, so after swallowing hard and focusing on only the steps, I barged into the quebecois family occupying the limited space of the platform. With the wind now an important factor (both in terms of temperature and stability) aiding the constant reminder of the height, I rushed to take a few photos in all directions, my hand shaking as I extended the camera beyond the safety of the grates. That operation complete, I was bracing myself for the descent, but was surprised to see the spiraling staircase was not intimidating me anymore. I exited the tower boxed by the adolescent girls of the aforementioned quebecois family.
Back on the waterfront, I hung around for a little longer, enjoying the mild sun, then headed back to Vieux-Montreal to explore its streets. In between terraces and souvenir shops I was having a ball, especially when stumbling upon a shop that had great T-shirt wisdom and flair. At the obligatory stop at Basilique Notre-Dame-de-Montreal I realized I was suddenly very tired; heading home was pretty much the only choice given the fact I was also starving. Before leaving in the morning Andi said our dinner was going to be his handmade pizza, a local specialty apparently, so the thought of free appetizing food gave me strength to make the long uphill walk back to his apartment. I could not stop myself however from stopping at a bakery and buying a croissant which I happily wolfed down without stopping my walk.
Changing money was a problem I had resolved earlier during my descent into Viuex-Montreal, but not being able to get into the apartment remained. Andi had made an extra set of keys before my arrival; the job turned out to be crappy as the keys didn't work, and as Andi didn't have time to try duplication again, I was stuck with waiting until he came back from his errands. This was particularly annoying as it turned out he had been summoned to the hospital to assist in an operation where a man who had been disfigured by a malfunctioning hydraulic machine had his face reconstituted. Andi cheerfully shared the details with me as he prepared the pizzas, which we savored over the now standard half-liters of beer along with Andi's friend and classmate Joe, who arrived from Laval (the island to the west) to join us for the evening. Joe was particularly enthralled at having participated in the French-language version of some famous American game show, which resulted in our departure being delayed by having to watch the taped episode. Once that was over, we hit up the Jazz Festival again.
We checked out a few acts, but since Andi didn't display a particular interest in spending the rest of evening constantly fighting our way through the crowds (and having to stand the entire time, as all of the seats filled up on a rapid basis), we decided drinking would be a more rewarding activity. Consequently, we made our way to this enormous terrace in downtown, where something like 500 people were occupying tens of tables. It was beyond anything I had ever seen: an entire huge backyard was full of people lounging, drinking, talking, laughing, partying, a constant buzz covering the gathering like a blanket of sound. Finding a table here should not have been a problem, but to my amazement we had to walk around for more than 10 minutes before grabbing a wobbling table under a dimly lit tree. Well, it was Friday night, but still... the popularity of this place was enormous. We cleared two pitchers between three people; I was ready for more, but since Joe had to drive back to Laval, we called it a night and headed back. My poutine craving still manifesting itself, a midnight stop at a local fast-food joint seemed like a brilliant idea. We were also slightly buzzed. The late night poutine run satisfied everyone, so when getting home the now routine pump work to reinflate the mattress provided the exact amount of exhaustion to pass out and sleep like a log again.
Saturday the 5th was a full day for Andi: he had to make some final shopping, pack his bags, make me working copies of his keys and finally catch his plane to Romania in the afternoon. He was kind enough to let me stay at his apartment for a few more days, a decision which I was enormously grateful for especially since I still had no idea at this point where I was going to stay when returning to Washington. Andi went off on his errands early on, while I took my time showering and getting ready to hit town because I was stuck in the apartment until he returned. Luckily, the set of keys he came back with worked this time; I was debating going out now (it was already 13:00 and he was leaving at 16:00) knowing that it wouldn't have been worth leaving just to come back in a few hours - I really wanted to see him off. Eventually, I decided to do a quick swing by downtown, stop by the visitor information center to get locations of supermarkets and cybercafes, then identify some of the restaurants mentioned in my guide.
My plan worked well until I left the visitor center and took one of the major boulevards north. I ran right into the middle of a loud, multi-colored procession of floats blasting reggae, afro-beat, electronica, dancers in elaborate costumes, and hoards of people dancing in the streets. Apparently, this was the day the Afro-Caribbean culture festival was happening. I was swept by the crowd and followed along, checking out the tunes, taking photos of the incredible colors all around and enjoying (some of) the female presence at this place at that point in time - once again, I cannot emphasize enough what amazing representatives of the gender I saw in Montreal...
Time slipped by and I found myself rushing back as Andi's departure time was almost there. I made it with plenty of time to spare, in fact his ride was late so when I was ready to bid him goodbye and return to the festival, he sequestered me under the pretext of helping carry his bags to the car. The ride showed up eventually, we loaded his things, I said adios and saw him off, then made for the festival. As my luck goes, the show was over by this point, so I prepared myself for the next item on the schedule: the Jazz Festival. With Andi gone, I could now take my time to slow down and take in the performances. But before that, I deemed it adequate to grab a bite at one of the recommended restaurants ... which happened to be located right by the main festival area. The result: a long line of visitors spilling out the door into the festival grounds. "Fuck that!" I said and headed off somewhere else. I ended up having a burger at the same place where I savored the inaugural poutine in my first day in Montreal, a place called Frit Alors.
With my stomach set for the rest of the night, I returned to the festival, where I spent the next many hours walking around from stage to stage, listening to more mediocre artists than good. This was actually somewhat of a disappointment. Montreal is reputed to have a vibrant jazz scene, but most of the free shows I attended were not jazz; world music, blues, folk, soul were all represented, with jazz recitals held separately in more remote locations and ending up costing an arm and a leg if one desired to get a complete experience. So I just attended whatever free shows I found intriguing enough according to the descriptions of the program I always carried around. My intuition was not always right, though I did listen to some pretty cool shit.
The girl at the visitor's center had mentioned something about a fireworks display above the St. Lawrence the same evening, but by the time I thought about heading over to the Cartier Bridge to catch it, I was informed it was already over. Great. I milled around the festival grounds for a while, then looked at the time and discovered it was already midnight. On the metro back to the apartment I realized I was atrociously tired AND hot. After doing the dreaded uphill walk again, I dropped by the neighborhood food mart (more like snack mart) praying it was still open at that hour. It was: salvation! I bought two ice creams, a Lipton ice tea and a bag of chips. With these instruments of survival I skipped down to the apartment, heaved myself up the stairs and opened the door to paradise. I was never happier of entering a hot, stuffy second-story apartment. The collapse on a kitchen chair was followed by the quick disappearance of the two bars of ice cream. An inexplicable discovery was that of seeing the ice tea half gone, though I did somehow remember opening the bottle upon walking out of the store and then screwing the cap back on when reaching for the keys. It was not an hour to be looking for answers, so I gulped the remaining liquid to dispel any doubts, then cracked the chip bag open. I washed down the chips with beer while blasting Live at Wembley. Freddie was magnificent, as always. Despite the old man fatigue I felt, I somehow managed to read a chapter of two of Cartarescu before passing out. I remember looking at my watch it said something like 01:39. Bon nuit.
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