Everyone is busy doing intricate, hand-crafted work – dying, stitching, boot-making … It’s amazing to think how much creativity this one building holds.
‘
Sebastien!
’ I hear his name called out in every possible accent as we move among the workstations.
Costume, make-up, marketing, canteen, lockers – everywhere we go the reaction is the same: absolute delight to see him again, and then three questions:
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘When are you coming back?’
He deftly dodges any definites but with each encounter I see his resolve to keep everyone at a distance slackening. One guy, who I discern to be a Higher Up, tells him that there’s a place for him on a European tour leaving next week. And Julie’s part of the show.
My heart loops at the possibility. He just nods. The guy then places an arm on Sebastien’s shoulder and leads him through to the hangar-like studio where the aerial acts perfect their skills.
It’s impossible not to stare at their bodies. Not just because of their highly evolved muscle tone, but also the way they conduct themselves – the grace, posture, flexibility and incredible strength. By comparison I feel like a wobbling blancmange.
And then a petite redhead enters the room, dressed in a shimmering, skin-tight bodysuit that changes colour with the light, her eye make-up a sparkling blaze. It’s like the parting of the Red Sea as the performers clear a path for her, a path leading to Sebastien.
I can tell, simply from the way he is looking at her, that this is Julie.
She’s deeply engrossed in conversation with another woman and then she registers the hush around her and looks up and sees him. For a microsecond she falters, perhaps not quite believing her eyes, and then she sprints, gazelle-like, towards him. Their bodies collide and then, in a seamless move, he places his hands at her waist and lifts her into the air so that her toes are pointing towards the ceiling and their faces are nose-to-nose. For a second I think he’s going to lower her into a kiss, but instead he drops her into his arms, cradling her as he spins around.
Wow. The range of expression their bodies has is incredible. Around here, if you said someone was so excited they did a backflip, they mean it.
‘Julie!’ It’s her turn to rehearse.
She signals back to the trainer and then takes Sebastien’s hand. ‘Will you join me?’
He can’t resist for long, everyone is clamouring for him to strip off and step up. I feel a wild flutter of anticipation as he casts aside his coat, fleece, and even his T-shirt. I always thought he was considerably skinnier than Jacques but his form is extraordinary – lean but sharply sculpted, like a true gymnast. He kicks off his boots and walks barefoot to what I know to be silks – those gleaming skeins of suspended fabric that aerialists bind themselves in. I see him apply what looks like resin to his hands, wrap the fabric around and around his hands and wrists until it is taut. He composes himself, starts to run …
And then he takes flight.
My heart soars right along with him as he traverses the room on the smoothest arc… I can feel the breeze he creates as he swoops past and my eyes tear up as I imagine the sensation of freedom he must be experiencing up there. This is just so right – Sebastien is someone who needs to feel the air all around him, not be tethered to the earth, even via a fast-moving dog-sled.
And then suddenly Julie is up there with him. Her petite form in perfect synchronicity with his as they entwine, climb, twist and then take a freefall drop, ever in motion, working in exquisite harmony with implicit trust. I am in awe. To me, these people are life’s true magicians; what they do seems way beyond the realms of human limitation, only here there is no illusion, it’s all real. Just way beyond what us mere mortals can even dream of.
I don’t want Sebastien to give a moment’s thought to babysitting me, or be the presence pulling his mind back to his other life in Quebec, so as soon as he’s back on solid ground I tell him I’m going to scoot off and do some sightseeing.
‘Did you have a St-Viateur bagel yet?’ one chunky bald chap enquires.
‘Noooo, it’s got to be a Fairmont bagel!’ another protests.
‘Or you could have afternoon tea at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel,’ the one Brit suggests. ‘That’s where John Lennon and Yoko Ono had their bed-in and recorded “Give Peace A Chance”.’
‘Really?’ I marvel.
‘Room 1724.’
‘Elizabeth Taylor married Richard Burton at the Ritz-Carlton!’ A flamboyantly gay guy elbows in. ‘You can have tea there too and you won’t find liverwurst on the cake stand.’
‘What?’ I splutter.
‘Better than all that,’ Julie reaches out to me. ‘The cocktails at the Baldwin Barmacie.’
‘That’s just across from Toi, Moi et Café,’ Sebastien chips in.
‘You showed her Saint-Laurent Boulevard?’ Julie checks. ‘There’s a super-cute boutique there called Preloved – everything is one of a kind, made from vintage fabrics … ’
I’m using my phone to record all their suggestions, unable to keep up with pen and paper.
‘This is great!’ I cheer as they continue to bombard me. Now I can add such captions as: ‘As recommended by Cirque du Soleil’s Lithuanian juggler’ to my guide.
‘Will you be all right getting around on the Métro?’ Sebastien checks as he walks me to the door.
I assure him that, as an aficionado of the London Underground, I’ll be just fine.’
‘Just don’t confuse the subway with the Underground City.’
‘What’s that?’ I ask, feeling slightly creeped-out as I picture a sinister French-speaking community living amid the sewers.
‘It’s this insane underground mall – there’re two thousand shops down there.’
‘Handy in this weather,’ I note. ‘Wait, did you say two
thousand
?’
He nods. ‘It runs for twenty miles.’
‘You keep telling me these things about Montreal that are blowing my mind.’
He gives a ‘what can I say?’ shrug.
‘Of course you can go there,’ he adds. ‘I just don’t think it will show you the best of our city. You could be anywhere.’
‘Good point.’
And then he asks me a favour – could I possibly drop the car back at his dad’s?
‘I can show you how to get there in two streets … ’
I take a deep breath. ‘Okay. I can do that.’ I may not be able to place my feet behind my ears but I can depress an accelerator pedal and turn a steering wheel.
‘And text me later to let me know if you’re getting the train back or staying over.’
‘Will do.’ I go to push open the door and then turn back, ‘Do you need to grab anything from the car before I take off?’
‘No, I have everything I need here.’
‘Ain’t that the truth,’ I mutter under my breath as I exit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Returning the car to Mr Dufour is as simple as posting the keys through his letterbox – no doubt he’s gone out in his perfectly functioning other vehicle. I smile as I descend his curvaceous staircase and even take a picture of it as a keepsake. And then, a few blocks away, I take a second, rather more industrial set of steps – this time down into the Montreal subway.
I need to go three stops on the orange line and then four on the green. Deep breath…
I brace myself for the zombie crush, the inevitable knocks and the possibility of boarding the wrong train because I’ve got caught up in the rush-hour flow and am unable to swim against the tide. But none of it happens. It’s busy, yes, but so calm it’s actually a pleasure. And, unlike on the London underground, I don’t immediately break into a claustrophobic sweat. Back home I have to adopt the demeanour of a Zen master just to get through the experience. Here there are even little arrows where the train doors open indicating the route for those getting off (straight ahead) and those getting on (angled at the side). And people actually follow them. Not in a sheep-like way, but in a courteous, logical fashion. Because why wouldn’t you? Why would you obstruct the people getting off, thus creating more problems? Why would you push? Why would you elbow the person next to you just because you can? This civility really is rocking my world. It’s just so nice to feel composed instead of hot and bothered. My personal theory is that there is more trust here – you don’t have to try and quell the panic that you won’t make it off the train at your stop before the doors close because there won’t be any damn fool standing in your way, unthinkingly blocking the exit.
I suppose it comes back to that dad kneeling beside his boy reminding him to be aware of his surroundings and always respectful … It’s funny the things that hit you when you’re abroad. It used to be all the big, flashy wonders that got my attention, but now it’s the little things that register – the things that make you feel different
on the inside
.
And then I go and ruin it all by getting off at the stop for Sainte-Catherine Street.
I may be a travel writer but I’m a girl first, and when they told me this was the major shopping centre of the city, I couldn’t resist a look. A choice I’m now regretting. This is even more daunting than Oxford Street – the six-mile drag is lined not just with megastores but
behemoths
. Just contemplating all the super-sized commerciality after the darling personalised boutiques of Mile End makes me feel as if I’m contributing to the end of society as we know it. I know I should just walk away, divert down a side street or dip into this cute little church here, but instead I find myself sucked into Canada’s oldest department store – The Bay.
The shop’s origin is actually English – founded in 1670 as Hudson’s Bay Company, back when our ancestors were bartering knives, kettles, blankets, etc, for beaver pelts from the native trappers. The dense wool blankets proved the most coveted item and are still available today in a classic winter-white with a red, green, yellow and indigo stripe. There’s something very cool about the design and I consider a purchase until I see the price tag – nearly £250 for the queen-size! There is a fleece throw for about £20 but it’s just not the same. Besides, considering that I live in a city shoebox as opposed to a log cabin, I think this probably qualifies as one of those holiday purchases best left in their natural habitat.
Not that there’s anything natural about my immediate environment … This the first time I’ve seen women in high-heeled boots, until now we’ve all been united in the desire to be warm and not skid on the snow, but here I’m back in the land of fashion one-upmanship. I don’t like it but I continue to wander around until the strip lights drain every bit of joy from me.
‘Laurie!’ I call out to her from the lingerie department. ‘I need you to give me an audio slap! I’m in a shopping trance and self-loathing is paralysing me!’
‘Okay.’ She immediately rises to the occasion. ‘I want you to walk calmly to the nearest escalator and head for the exit … ’
‘All the shoes!’ I gasp.
‘Krista … ’
‘They even have flip-flops with the Hudson’s Bay stripes!’
‘Because flip-flops will be the perfect memento of your trip to the Winter Carnival.’
‘But they’re so cute!’
‘Keep moving past them, tunnel vision; all you need is to get back out into the fresh air.’
‘There’s a massive Guess store across the street,’ I say as I emerge.
‘You’ve never bought anything from Guess in your life.’
‘H&M!’
‘We have that at home,’ she tuts. ‘You know what you’ve got to do … ’
I take a deep breath. She’s right. The only way to purge myself of this feeling is to go to a museum.
I choose the Pointe-à-Callière aka The Montreal Museum of Archeology and History, which may seem like I’m overcompensating but in actuality it’s the hippest building at the Old Port. And home to an innovative multimedia experience showcasing Montreal’s evolutionary timeline, with red digital numbers counting us up from prehistoric times to the present day. I learn about the natives who came ashore in the fourteenth century to fish, the French who founded Montreal and the British who barged in and took over in 1760. But the coolest thing is when the floor is illuminated, revealing it to be an excavation of the actual foundations of the original colony, established
right here
in 1642!
By the time I emerge it’s getting dark and I’m getting hungry. Everything looks profoundly tempting along the cobbled, twinkly-lit streets of Vieux-Montréal, if a little expensive. I peer in the window of Chez L’Épicier where each plate is a delicate artwork – one bronzed scallop dish has a yacht-sail of proscuitto and individual Brussels sprout leaves scattered like fallen petals. I see a dessert of pale caramel cubes and mystery curly peelings topped with what looks like pink cuckoo spit. I also see diners with a larger budget than myself. In my mind I could only really justify such extravagance at the Guy Laliberté restaurant. I know it was around here somewhere …
Walking on, gazing in at so many happy, laughing diners while I shuffle through the snow, hungry and alone, I feel vaguely Dickensian. But then I come upon the cosiest-looking eaterie of all – pine tables, low-hanging, red-glowing lampshades and live piano music. It’s called the Stash Café, suggesting a more casual vibe, and before I even realise it, I’m seated at a little table near the bar.
It’s only when I’m halfway through the menu that I realise the restaurant is Polish.
Golabki, Krokiety, Watrobka z drobiu po Warszawsku.
The English words I spy aren’t much more appetising – tripe, herring, cabbage stew …
Suddenly poutine is sounding absolutely yummy.
I look towards the doorway – I don’t know if I can face stepping back out into the cold. Besides, my glass of wine has just arrived. I take a sip and then another and then decide to go with it. Who knows, perhaps this will be the best pierogi I’ve ever had. Not that I’ve actually had one before …
The strange thing is that I’m still thinking about that blanket at The Bay. While waiting for my food, I go onto the shop’s online store and discover something far better to recommend to our readers – same design but this time a pure cashmere travel blanket with an eye mask and inflatable pillow – currently on sale for about £75. That’s more like it. And for the lumberjack in your life – an axe. I kid you not, Canada’s equivalent of Harrods has an axe for sale on its website. I have to forward this link to Laurie! Oop! Text.