(no subject)
It's the second truly warm day, and Montreal has woken up from the winter. All of the cafés have put the tables back out on their terraces, and people sit in sweaters and scarves eating brunch in the sunshine.
On the way home from work I stop by the market. A pretty white boy with dreadlocks plays his guitar and sings a cautionary song, like some modern-day prophet of prohibition ("oh it was fun, fun, fun, when we were drinking- it was fun, fun, fun, when we were drunk- but all those drinks and little cigarettes, they aren't what we need to have a good time"). He looks me in the eye and smiles, with earnest, uplifted eyebrows. I want to reassure him that it's been years since I smoked a cigarette and who knows when was the last time I was drunk, so his message is safe with me.
The market is filled with slow Sunday bodies, couples squeezing fruit, parents handing sticky maple taffy carefully to small children with eyes as wide and expectant as if they've seen angels. I buy fresh eggs, new batch amber maple syrup, and a basket of wildly out-of-season pears. They have a bowl of them sliced for tasting, and I take one fully intending to simply munch it and wander on. But my entire body responds to that flavour so joyfully that I have to maneuver back halfway through the market to take some home.
Now my backdoor is open, the sun is warm and the breeze is blowing in cool. Abigail Washburn sings on the stereo, and I am drinking a mug of hot Ceylon tea and making french toast to cover in my pears and maple syrup.
Church this afternoon, and hopefully a visit to Maro, Eric, and Myriam, and a walk in the sunshine.
On the way home from work I stop by the market. A pretty white boy with dreadlocks plays his guitar and sings a cautionary song, like some modern-day prophet of prohibition ("oh it was fun, fun, fun, when we were drinking- it was fun, fun, fun, when we were drunk- but all those drinks and little cigarettes, they aren't what we need to have a good time"). He looks me in the eye and smiles, with earnest, uplifted eyebrows. I want to reassure him that it's been years since I smoked a cigarette and who knows when was the last time I was drunk, so his message is safe with me.
The market is filled with slow Sunday bodies, couples squeezing fruit, parents handing sticky maple taffy carefully to small children with eyes as wide and expectant as if they've seen angels. I buy fresh eggs, new batch amber maple syrup, and a basket of wildly out-of-season pears. They have a bowl of them sliced for tasting, and I take one fully intending to simply munch it and wander on. But my entire body responds to that flavour so joyfully that I have to maneuver back halfway through the market to take some home.
Now my backdoor is open, the sun is warm and the breeze is blowing in cool. Abigail Washburn sings on the stereo, and I am drinking a mug of hot Ceylon tea and making french toast to cover in my pears and maple syrup.
Church this afternoon, and hopefully a visit to Maro, Eric, and Myriam, and a walk in the sunshine.