armenian art
The two things I most meant to blog about yesterday didn't get blogged about at all. They were two moments that I realised I had to write down, and they were these -
As I was leaving the Mont-Royal metro station, possibly for the last time ever, actually, I was walking along behind two guys who represented everything hilarious and terrible about being 'indie'. They both had some facial hair, but not much. They had similar haircuts. They were both wearing black skinny jeans, and black winklepickers AND they both wore virtually identical beige trenchcoats.
And it didn't look like they were doing it ironically, or as some kind of social experiment.
I laughed.
They other thing was soon after the Indie Boy Experience, walking home from the station. As usual, I looked in the window of La Porte de Tête (I think that's what it's called), this little bookshop I discovered in my first week here, and haven't been back into since, because books are dangerous tempting things. Every day that I can remember looking, there has been a French book on Armenian art in the window. The same place, every single time I walk past and think to look, which I mostly do.
It wasn't there anymore. I think it was a sign.
As I was leaving the Mont-Royal metro station, possibly for the last time ever, actually, I was walking along behind two guys who represented everything hilarious and terrible about being 'indie'. They both had some facial hair, but not much. They had similar haircuts. They were both wearing black skinny jeans, and black winklepickers AND they both wore virtually identical beige trenchcoats.
And it didn't look like they were doing it ironically, or as some kind of social experiment.
I laughed.
They other thing was soon after the Indie Boy Experience, walking home from the station. As usual, I looked in the window of La Porte de Tête (I think that's what it's called), this little bookshop I discovered in my first week here, and haven't been back into since, because books are dangerous tempting things. Every day that I can remember looking, there has been a French book on Armenian art in the window. The same place, every single time I walk past and think to look, which I mostly do.
It wasn't there anymore. I think it was a sign.