The first order of business on Sunday July 6th was to figure out how my return to the States would go. At this point it was still unclear whether or not I could return to Oana's apartment in Alexandria, an assessment which became entirely sobering once I realized it meant no assurance of where to live back in Washington. In case I received a negative answer, the best course of action seemed to be spending an extra day or two in Montreal, then perhaps stopping in New York for an extra 2-3 days, after which checking into a hotel back in DC would not have represented a crushing blow to my budget. Hey, I could live with that. Well, it sounded ok, but how would I accomplish this? With Andi gone, my being in the apartment longer than initially agreed would not have inconvenienced anyone. New York was on my travel list since before starting the trip, but a stop there was entirely contingent on being able to obtain housing from Mihai V., a friend of my father's I met for the first time last year when he visited L.A. What a swell situation, I thought, here I am asking this guy I just met a year ago and with whom I've seldom communicated whether I could crash at his place for a few days. Well, why not? So I proceeded to mention this 'proposal' to him over the phone, and to my complete surprise he enthusiastically agreed. Talk about a break. As for Washington, well, I'd sort that out once I was in NYC. That's great planning coming from me, you know...
I actually told Mihai V. I was considering coming to New York from the day before, but since my Canada departure was waiting on an answer from Oana, I had wasn't able to give him the day when he should expect me. No problem. While waiting for that answer, I deemed it appropriate to attempt a visit into a different part of the city for Sunday -- Petite Italie or Little Italy. This neighborhood lies to the northwest of downtown and is renowned for its restaurants and European streets, not to mention a huge outdoor market. Sounded like the perfect antidote to bustling centre-ville or the tourist-infested Vieux-Montreal. I thus hopped on the metro and took the orange line in a different direction and farther than any of my previous trips, not before making a stop by the Central Bus Terminal to inquire on whether I had to change my tickets in case I decided to leave at a later date. There was no need for that, I was assured; my tickets on Greyhound were good for a year on any ride, provided I was able to get a seat.
Getting that small bit of information was actually more frustrating that one might think. I ended up wasting over an hour trying to find the Greyhound customer service office, and when I did find it, dealing with the inefficient quebecois approach to public relations almost sent me in a rage. I stormed out of the office, but was considerate enough to stop and answer when the woman who had stood behind me in line asked in English: "Are you American?" "Yes, I am," I replied as we both made our way down the hallway, not sure what would follow next. "Well, I'm glad I can finally say this to someone," I heard her voice, "in the States they treat you differently, here they are so lazy and they barely look at you." I looked at her for a moment and wondered if I should really open up the subject of customer service in America, but since I had a train to catch and the woman was already heading to the ticket counter, I found it more useful to curtly agree, then wished her a safe trip. Stepping in the metro car felt like an enormous relief.
The world around the destination station seemed eerily quiet. The sun shone lazily despite the fact it was already high noon. There were few people on the sidewalks, which struck me as uncharacteristic after the hustle-and-bustle of the streets in downtown. Traffic was somehow calmer. All of sudden I had the feeling I was in central L.A. -- dirty streets, graffiti on the walls, poorly dressed teenagers loitering around the corners. After some moments of disorientation, I finally managed to find the right direction, the one that would take me to my first stop: Marche Jean-Talon (the market). The cityscape got progressively better and upon walking a few blocks over, I arrived at a big intersection well-decorated by flags and signs with red, white and green colors and in bold letters: Petite Italie. So I had come to the right place after all.
Finding the market was no problem at all, as it lay almost right next door. The map had somehow deceived me in judging the distances. From the very first looks I noticed a strong resemblance to the open-air produce markets I had grown up with in Romania, a discovery which increased my curiosity tenfold. I started walking the aisles, marveling at the rows of fruits and vegetables neatly on display. Here were strawberries, tomatoes, apples plucked directly from the garden or the orchard; suddenly, produce was not just a shiny product trying to look perfect like in the consumer-obsessed California grocery store, but an organic, tangible part of the diet that emphasized taste over aspect. It was just like when I was a child and used to go shopping with my mom: you look at the fruit, feel it, smell it, ask for a taste, try to pick out the best looking pieces, watch the farmer weigh it on an old-fashioned scale and then argue over price. I started pictures uncontrollably, of almost every stall. Only after a while of snapping shots did I notice the trays with carefully cut slices adorning the front of every table. Practically every vendor put out slices of their fruit, thus trying to lure the customer by taste. It was too much -- too delicious! I sampled apples, peaches, plums, nectarines, eventually forcing myself away because I knew I would end spending the whole day if I kept showing interest. There was a long walk ahead and no time to shop, though everything I wanted was right there in front of me.
I had to buy something, so I ended up leaving with a small basket of strawberries. Initially I was tempted to get a few of each fruit, but thought better of it when reminding myself of the distance I had to cover when returning home. It was 6 or so km from the big intersection which had welcomed me to Little Italy. Definitely didn't want to carry bags for that long... I left Marche Jean-Talon with probably the most regret since I'd arrived to Montreal, knowing I wouldn't be able to return on this trip. Walking the streets felt relaxing, yet a little strange. My guide had told me at this time of the year the Italians usually spend their weekend afternoons in their balconies (almost every house here has a small balcony), trying to escape the heat of the apartments while chatting up their neighbors. However, I could barely see a soul in the street and there was no one looking down on the passers-by. Where did all the people go, I wondered. The closest thing I could find to the homely neighborhood the guide had raved about was a clothesline strung between a tree and a balcony. The laundry out to dry was basically in the street, blocking the whole sidewalk. Now that is as European as it gets, I smiled to myself.
Since it was on my way anyway, I decided to check out the Chiesa della Madonna della Difesa, the biggest Italian church in the city. I approached the deserted building accompanied by the loud voice of the young Italian man sitting in a balcony across the street and carrying on a cheerful conversation in English, occasionally punctuated by profanity. Inside it was dead quiet, so quiet that every step I took reverberated in the smallest corner. The two women lost in the rows of benches didn't pay any attention to my arrival, but I still felt embarrassed by flip-flopping around. I walked down the aisles, cranking my neck at the ceiling paintings; I looked particularly close at the cupola behind the main altar, where to the right was none other than Benito Mussolini on horseback. It's actually pretty amazing to see something like this, considering the reputation of the infamous Italian leader -- I don't think one can find too many buildings, let alone a church that display images of him and not get criticized for it. 'In fairness, though, the mural, by Guido Nincheri (1885-1973), was completed long before the war and commemorates the signing of the Lateran Pact with Pope Pius XI, one of Il Duce's few lasting achievements.' That one's straight out the guide, good job Fodor's! The air in the church was cool, but the silence was unbearable; whenever I would stop and stand in contemplation, it felt like my breath could be heard all around. The voice of the young man trickled in from the outside, the only link to life. I exited without crossing myself or making a donation.
It was getting late and I had barely started on my itinerary. This resulted in employing a faster pace, but when passing by a rare cafe-bar, the tv caught my eye and I stopped dead in my tracks. The Wimbledon final. I looked at my watch, it said 3 pm. It must be a replay or highlights, I said to myself. Upon approaching the magical box and looking at the screen, it appeared like the action was going on in real time. Nadal and Federer tied with two each after Nadal had come back from 0-2 in sets. 6-5 Federer in the fifth. Impossible, I almost yelled. I knew the match had begun at 9 in the morning Eastern Time, so the fact it was still playing six hours later seemed inconceivable. I slid into the nearest armchair and had to check with the pair next to me that I was seeing right. There were some rain delays that pushed it for so long, but the match itself was at the 4h 30 min mark. Wow. I was speechless. I stayed to see the ending, see Nadal dethrone Federer in what I later learned was the greatest final in the history of Wimbledon. I felt piqued that I had missed what had surely been one of the best moments in all of sports history, but at the same time I marveled at having caught the finish, the final games that concluded an unbelievable show of tennis, in such a manner.
Emboldened by the stroke of luck, I pushed on down Boulevard Saint-Laurent and made some good time on the walk. When randomly checking my phone I noticed a missed call from Oana, which resulted in almost kicking myself because I knew she was trying to reach me with critical news. The voicemail she left simply sealed the new deal: her new roommate did not agree to having me over again, so staying at her place was now effectively out of the question. At least I could continue keeping my suit there until I was settled somewhere else. I decided to stay in Montreal an extra day to buy some time in trying to figure out DC housing. This in turn led to calling Mihai V. and telling him I'd be arriving in New York on the 8th and staying through the 10th. Mihai once again assured me of being able to find housing with him, a relief which I translated into leaving the details until the day I'd get there. With the following few days mapped out, I strolled through the neighborhood known as Plateau Mont-Royal in search of my next objective: the two local eateries I had designated as my refueling stations.
