Je me souviens
This one is for peaceful_one, who was busy preparing to leave for the UK during my period of gushing. And partly for me, who has terrible memory, and would like to record this before everything fades into a faint image of blue eyes and green pastures.
Nearing the end of summer, my dad ambushed us with a last-minute road trip to the French province of Québec. It was a cramped and sticky 5-hour drive, as these trips are prone to be. I drop my luggage in my hotel room then without even a glance in the mirror, I run downstairs to explore downtown Montréal with my sister and dad's girlfriend. We raid the tourist brochures at the reception desk and set off.
We end up in Old Montréal the section of the city where time shifts beneath your feet. Bonjour, cobblestone roads and narrow, winding streets. Bonjour, accordion player with the beret! Bonjour, quaint little shops and boutiques. Bonjour, store selling garments fit for the medieval French courts, but not even my eclectically dressed sister would wear any of it to school.
We are seduced into a bistro by a jolly, silver-haired man, promising the best poutine in the city. We walk through a hallway into the back courtyard surrounded by high brick walls. All the tables are candlelit. What strikes me most is a metal stairwell spiraling against the building leading up to someone's living quarters and I could hear the crystalline melody of a music box from one of the upper rooms. I never felt this atmosphere from a restaurant before. This feels like a hidden den for gypsies. It is at once marvelous and cozy. I'm anxious to snap a picture, but the bustle of the servers keep blocking my shot.
I finally have my chance. One of the waiters is ducking to search through a lower cabinet and is out of view, so I rush at the opportunity to click the shutter. No flash. I avoid it at all costs, because I hate the cold and harsh edge it gives everything. So you know how when there's not enough light, the exposure time is lengthened and the picture-taking lags? In other words...the human stood back up and ruined my shot!
Silent and huffy, I put my camera away and pick up the menu to focus on things less disappointing, like crème brûlée. After scrutinizing over French names, we decide on our dishes and my dad's girlfriend waves a server over. He is friendly, as good servers tend to be, but there is something different about him. There is no sense of that calculated or ritualistic friendliness. He seems to be genuinely curious about us. I can only describe his friendliness as like that of a child. So open and innnocent!
He has chiseled features like that of a Roman statue, like Octavian actually, but cuter. It was the deep blue eyes which melted me though. And so pure! I've seen physically attractive guys before, but they tend to sport a brand of cockiness which borders on generic and is just off-putting. Nothing in his mannerisms said that he was conscious of how gorgeous he was. He apparently grew up in the countryside of Québec and only recently moved to Montréal.
"Are you guys Filipino? Cambodian?"
"Japanese," my dad's girlfriend grins impishly.
"Non, I don't believe you," says our waiter, "I know what you are, I have the name on the tip of my tongue."
"We're Vietnamese," I offer, amused by his expression while he was concentrating to recall the ethnic name.
"Ah, that is the one. Near Cambodia," he smiles.
We tell him our orders and he heads toward the kitchen. I instantly turn to my dad's girlfriend.
"Oh my god, he's so cute! I'm glad my dad didn't come with us. He would just embarrass me. Ugh, I can't get over how adorable he is! And he's not arrogant. At all!"
"So get his number!" she laughs.
"Noooo, I don't do long-distance. And my French is terrible. Although, I think I want to stay here for a while someday. Become fluent in spoken French. I love this city."
"This city is different, but it's too slow-paced for me," she notes.
Our waiter returns, and so I hush up and clean all traces of giddiness from my face. He doesn't have our food yet, but inquires us a second time about drinks and my dad's girlfriend asks him if he knows any good shopping malls. He asks if we have a map. She pulls out a brochure which has one and he pulls a pen from his pocket. He starts circling intersections and explaining what types of clothes are available at which malls, what areas to avoid shopping in because they were tourist traps and expensive etc etc.
"Thanks, you are so awesome," my dad's girlfriend declares, then places a hand on my shoulder, "And she thinks you're cute."
I become mute with this statement. Any small talk I could've mustered before dies with this statement.
"She's turning red!" my sister giggles.
I'm mortified by this sisterly betrayal and look away. When I quickly glance at the waiter, he is smiling and says, "Oh, I am only as cute as you," which only makes me more nervous and self-conscious.
I am wearing a tattered black trench coat. My hair is awful. I did not freshen up after a 5-hour car drive. I am sitting next to an Ayumi Hamasaki look-a-like. I feel like the most uninteresting girl in Québec. And this boy knows I think he's cute.
"What type of music do you like?" he asks me. And I cannot even give him a one-word answer. Voilà! C'est moi! The socially-stunted simpleton! The poor guy then goes onto having a one-sided conversation, describing all the clubs in Montréal and what genre of music they play. I want to ask him what bands he himself is into and if he could take me to one of the venues, but my tongue lies uselessly at the bottom.
After dinner, I feel him looking at me as I walk past him, and I do not even say thank you or goodbye. I scurry stupidly quick out of the bistro, disappointed over my own weakness. Still, I was inspired by the encounter. I wish I could tell you that I forgot my bag and returned to the restaurant. I wish I could tell you that he discovered all the words I hadn't said with one kiss. Instead, I will tell you that as I browsed through my photographs on the car ride home the next day, I zoomed in on the profile of the human who ruined my shot and was startled to discover that it belonged to a blue-eyed waiter.
Nearing the end of summer, my dad ambushed us with a last-minute road trip to the French province of Québec. It was a cramped and sticky 5-hour drive, as these trips are prone to be. I drop my luggage in my hotel room then without even a glance in the mirror, I run downstairs to explore downtown Montréal with my sister and dad's girlfriend. We raid the tourist brochures at the reception desk and set off.
We end up in Old Montréal the section of the city where time shifts beneath your feet. Bonjour, cobblestone roads and narrow, winding streets. Bonjour, accordion player with the beret! Bonjour, quaint little shops and boutiques. Bonjour, store selling garments fit for the medieval French courts, but not even my eclectically dressed sister would wear any of it to school.
We are seduced into a bistro by a jolly, silver-haired man, promising the best poutine in the city. We walk through a hallway into the back courtyard surrounded by high brick walls. All the tables are candlelit. What strikes me most is a metal stairwell spiraling against the building leading up to someone's living quarters and I could hear the crystalline melody of a music box from one of the upper rooms. I never felt this atmosphere from a restaurant before. This feels like a hidden den for gypsies. It is at once marvelous and cozy. I'm anxious to snap a picture, but the bustle of the servers keep blocking my shot.
I finally have my chance. One of the waiters is ducking to search through a lower cabinet and is out of view, so I rush at the opportunity to click the shutter. No flash. I avoid it at all costs, because I hate the cold and harsh edge it gives everything. So you know how when there's not enough light, the exposure time is lengthened and the picture-taking lags? In other words...the human stood back up and ruined my shot!
Silent and huffy, I put my camera away and pick up the menu to focus on things less disappointing, like crème brûlée. After scrutinizing over French names, we decide on our dishes and my dad's girlfriend waves a server over. He is friendly, as good servers tend to be, but there is something different about him. There is no sense of that calculated or ritualistic friendliness. He seems to be genuinely curious about us. I can only describe his friendliness as like that of a child. So open and innnocent!
He has chiseled features like that of a Roman statue, like Octavian actually, but cuter. It was the deep blue eyes which melted me though. And so pure! I've seen physically attractive guys before, but they tend to sport a brand of cockiness which borders on generic and is just off-putting. Nothing in his mannerisms said that he was conscious of how gorgeous he was. He apparently grew up in the countryside of Québec and only recently moved to Montréal.
"Are you guys Filipino? Cambodian?"
"Japanese," my dad's girlfriend grins impishly.
"Non, I don't believe you," says our waiter, "I know what you are, I have the name on the tip of my tongue."
"We're Vietnamese," I offer, amused by his expression while he was concentrating to recall the ethnic name.
"Ah, that is the one. Near Cambodia," he smiles.
We tell him our orders and he heads toward the kitchen. I instantly turn to my dad's girlfriend.
"Oh my god, he's so cute! I'm glad my dad didn't come with us. He would just embarrass me. Ugh, I can't get over how adorable he is! And he's not arrogant. At all!"
"So get his number!" she laughs.
"Noooo, I don't do long-distance. And my French is terrible. Although, I think I want to stay here for a while someday. Become fluent in spoken French. I love this city."
"This city is different, but it's too slow-paced for me," she notes.
Our waiter returns, and so I hush up and clean all traces of giddiness from my face. He doesn't have our food yet, but inquires us a second time about drinks and my dad's girlfriend asks him if he knows any good shopping malls. He asks if we have a map. She pulls out a brochure which has one and he pulls a pen from his pocket. He starts circling intersections and explaining what types of clothes are available at which malls, what areas to avoid shopping in because they were tourist traps and expensive etc etc.
"Thanks, you are so awesome," my dad's girlfriend declares, then places a hand on my shoulder, "And she thinks you're cute."
I become mute with this statement. Any small talk I could've mustered before dies with this statement.
"She's turning red!" my sister giggles.
I'm mortified by this sisterly betrayal and look away. When I quickly glance at the waiter, he is smiling and says, "Oh, I am only as cute as you," which only makes me more nervous and self-conscious.
I am wearing a tattered black trench coat. My hair is awful. I did not freshen up after a 5-hour car drive. I am sitting next to an Ayumi Hamasaki look-a-like. I feel like the most uninteresting girl in Québec. And this boy knows I think he's cute.
"What type of music do you like?" he asks me. And I cannot even give him a one-word answer. Voilà! C'est moi! The socially-stunted simpleton! The poor guy then goes onto having a one-sided conversation, describing all the clubs in Montréal and what genre of music they play. I want to ask him what bands he himself is into and if he could take me to one of the venues, but my tongue lies uselessly at the bottom.
After dinner, I feel him looking at me as I walk past him, and I do not even say thank you or goodbye. I scurry stupidly quick out of the bistro, disappointed over my own weakness. Still, I was inspired by the encounter. I wish I could tell you that I forgot my bag and returned to the restaurant. I wish I could tell you that he discovered all the words I hadn't said with one kiss. Instead, I will tell you that as I browsed through my photographs on the car ride home the next day, I zoomed in on the profile of the human who ruined my shot and was startled to discover that it belonged to a blue-eyed waiter.