Liturgy, Tomahawk, etc.
Sept. 2
Finally catching up.
We went out Sunday morning for a stroll and then went to hear mass sung in the cathedral.
The mass was in French. I tried to follow along in the order of service sheet, but of course, kept losing my place. When I wasn’t lost, I was days late with the responses. I even made believe that I could pronounce part of the creed. The liturgy included both creeds—the Apostles’ Creed, and the Nicene. If I remember right, the priest said the Nicene Creed by himself. Maybe everyone was supposed to join in (as they do in the Episcopal Eucharist, for instance), but they were tired by that time.
It was fun and very beautiful, but by one o’clock when church let out, I was dizzy and in need of hydration. So we strolled around looking for a place where I could get a beer.
Then other things started to compete with my need for refreshment.
The Hudson’s Bay Company department store, for instance. I didn’t see any beaver hats, but they did have Lady Gaga’s and Madonna’s perfumes for sale next to each other. I don’t know if you’ve seen the ads for Lady Gaga’s entry, but I particularly like the way the Blue Man Group climbs up her armpit.
Still no beaver hats, but one department kept up some of the old traditions. You can buy a canoe and a $200 paddle there. What’s more, there was a glass case with furry Canadian Great White North hat, earflaps and all, plus a tomahawk with a two-foot handle. There were colorful stripes on everything, the tomahawk handle, Swiss army knives. You could buy a blanket with stripes on it and give it to the Indians so they’d leave you alone at Glens Falls.
I wanted to buy the tomahawk and furry hat for Joanna. I told her: You wear the hat and carry the tomahawk, nobody will mess with you. Like me. I wear a hat and nobody messes with me. I don’t even need the tomahawk. A guy in a pony tail and a tie. They can’t tell if you’re a lawyer or a gangster; all they know is that they’d better behave.
But no, for all my attempts at persuasion, Joanna didn’t want tomahawk or fuzzy hat. {Editor’s note: Harry is still working on it to this day, and hopes some day to place a mail order.]
After the department store, we walked into the Quartier des Spectacles. All right. This is where the Montreal Festival of Films of the World is centered. There is an inflatable outdoor screen for showing movies. There is also a Place des Arts (at least, I think that’s what it’s called), which is a complex of venues for performances of various kinds—opera, pop music, ballet, maybe acrobatics and gun fights.
Across from that was the Desjardins mall. Ah, there would be a food court, and perhaps beer. As it turned out, no beer that I could see at the food court. Joanna noticed that there was a franchise of the St. Hubert chicken rotisserie somewhere in the mall. It took a couple of seconds looking at the map in my unrefreshed state to pinpoint where it was, hidden up the leg of a wing, which I guess is appropriate, in a confused sort of way, for a chicken joint.
St. Hubert is the guy who saw the stag with a crucifix between its antlers and became a bishop. A representation of that legend, which has nothing to do with chicken, is represented on the Jagermeister label. But I digress.
All they had was Labatt’s Bleue, spelled that way because it’s French Canada. It was like an upscale Bud, but hey, it was beer and 5 percent. It was a good for breakfast. After all, all I had taken so far was some coffee, with yogurt and fruit from a breakfast chain called Chez Cora.
The mall had a Clarks store, one of Joanna’s favorites, so we stopped there to look at the shoes. One of the displays had fuzzy boots. They would have been perfect with the furry hat and tomahawk from Hudson’s Bay. Yes, let’s get the boots, and then we can go back to the department store. It isn’t far. But I still couldn’t convince Joanna.
In the block next to the mall and the Place des Arts is the stretch with the sex shops and strip clubs. Quarter of Spectacles, indeed. I was told in my youth that this stuff could make you go blind.
Dinner was at a place that by itself may be worth the trek to Montreal. It’s called La Gargote. According to my Pocket Larousse, that means a place with low prices and mediocre food. Neither was the case. We had more snails, and a rabbit leg. Judging by the scale of that leg, it would have been the biggest damned rabbit I ever saw. We also sampled as many wines as we could. We had three cotes: de Ventoux, de Provence, and du Rhone. Also a Beaujolais cru. Larry told me years ago that “cru” is a French government controlled term for a distinguished vineyard.
All the wines were fantastic. We had the Beaujolais with dessert, an upside down apple pie called tarte tatin. I tried to order that in pidgin French, and the waitress said “What?”
We walked back to the hotel and on the way we stepped into a building. I forget why. But the place was closed for private party, which I believe was an Arab Christian wedding. We got there just as the bridal party was being introduced. Flashing strobe lights, drummers in checkered head scarves and white robes. The women’s heads were not covered, and everybody except the drummers were in Western dress. The bride wore white, with her shoulders uncovered.
The drummers did a catchy little dance, although the bride and groom were still waiting for their song to take their first dance as husband and wife. They looked a little dazed by it all. Maybe this was her mom’s idea. Some of the guests got up and danced along while they recorded it all on their cell phones.
The rest of the walk home and the wine put me to sleep just fine.
Olmsted and His Works
Sept. 3
Checked out early, got the car and drove up the hill. The lady who served us at St. Hubert in La Gare Windsor told us that you never get lost in Montreal because you look uphill and seen the Mont Real.
We parked the car as far up as we could drive and climbed the stairs to the entrance of Le Parc du Mont-Royale. Don’t ask me why the spelling changes. I don’t know.
We climbed up the Avenue des Pins and came to Chemin Olmsted and kept climbing. It’s wooded and calm. Joggers and bikers go by, but there’s plenty of room. Rich people’s yards back on the park.
It was hotter than I expected—in the high 70s or low 80s—so I carried my jacket and didn’t wear a vest, but was still soaked before we got to the top. Joanna, as usual, was unfazed.
The park is on top of the volcanic outcropping for which the city is named. The original park superintendent’s house is now a public building with exhibits, which tell you that Indians lived here thousands of years ago, that the stone from which the city is built comes from here, and that, like Central Park in New York, it was designed by Frederick Law Olmsted. Wow. That’s why there was a Chemin Olmsted. And I had suspected the road was named for a local politician.
There is an artificial lake which was dry and dug up for reconstruction. Many of the lawns were dotted with large stone abstracts. I don’t think they were part of Olmsted’s original design. They may be more recent additions, or else stones the Vikings set up during weekend excursions from Vinland.
On the ride home we saw some turkeys and a few runt deer. I mean very small. So was the corn in the fields. I hope the farmers and the poachers are all right. The apples in the orchards seemed to be plentiful.
We went to Calandra’s in Caldwell for dinner and more wine. Then we were done for this voyage.
Be well, all.
Harry.
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