MONTREAL CALEIDOSCOPE OR 100 HOURS WITH A DEAR FRIEND.
Sketch Three: Horseback and On Foot.
Actually, it was not exactly “horseback” - and not exactly about us. We were sitting inside a carriage, our legs covered with a thick plaid, the rest of our bodies shivering with this delightful freshness some spoiled sissies would call “damned freezing cold”. Our destination was, well…As a matter of fact, we had no specific purpose in mind apart from taking a tour around the very centre of the Old Montreal (and the very heart of the nowadays city as well).
I wouldn’t vouchsafe for my fluffy companion but as for me, sitting in a carriage drawn by a horse, was good enough. By that time I could already boast having taken a Venetian gondola, but I had once totally scrooged a Viennese fiacre, and that lost opportunity has ever since weighed upon my stray soul. THAT was my chance to settle the old score, and when my soulmate spotted a horse carriage, I jumped at it without ever giving it a second thought. And yet, it was not meant as a ride but rather as a guided tour.
And, Ladies and Gentlemen, we had a guide, and then some! That very man who actually was almost horseback. However, I should bite my tongue (that is, my typing finger) before I call him a “horsedriver” because he was a proud cabman! He absolutely must have descended from those legendary London cabbies of the Victorian era - and he looked as if he were old enough to actually be one of them…I will therefore call him “the shabby cabby”. To do him justice, I must mention that he had an unutterable charm - he was wearing it like a coat. To start with, he chose to convey information through singing rather than speaking. Every single note he hit, was deliciously false, and I was so delighted with this opulent profanity of human-made sounds, that I simply couldn’t care less about a famous safe located OUTSIDE the equally famous bank it belonged to - or 121 restaurants infesting (I mean, enriching, of course!) the area we were riding around. One of them looked incredibly rugged - and turned out to be very fashionable. Probably, because of being rugged…The only English theatre in the city evoked my interest but it was unfortunately out of season. Just like the St-Laurentius river was out of our cabbie’s route - I would gladly reach one of its banks but alas…Finally, the shabby cabby proved to have a favourite topic - he kept on mentioning a certain nunnery that owned a third of the area buildings because it was “very rich”. That “very rich” was especially worth hearing - in the singer’s lips it sounded exactly like Pavarotti’s “Amore” could…
When the tour was over, our shabby friend took off his charm and produced a carrot instead. This self-made psychologist seemed to know all too well that a desire to treat the animal would in the course of the tour become almost irresistable (I actually was about to address him on the matter). The carrot was snapped from my palm and devoured in no time. Its twin-sister followed.
When on foot, we had to move almost as fast as the horse did because otherwise we would have frozen. Since we were walking for much longer than half-an-hour’s tour, we managed to see and hear much more as well. A medieval cathedral reflected in a nearby located skyscraper as if it were inbuilt there, and an afternoon organ rehearsal in an Anglican church - solemn and touching at the same time. A hospital decorated like a theatre and the barren premises of the Mcgill University, a building made of coloured glass and an illuminated fountain on a little square, a memorial plaque devoted to the employees of the old Windsor railway station who fell in the World Wars and an Indian art exposition in the Fine Arts museum…We were Dancing With Snowflakes on a river bank in the middle of an island and exchanging snowballs in front of the very white and stony Queen Victoria. And to warm up we would from time to time plunge into the glowing sea of lights coming from the Shopping Kingdom in the Underground City.
Actually, it was not exactly “horseback” - and not exactly about us. We were sitting inside a carriage, our legs covered with a thick plaid, the rest of our bodies shivering with this delightful freshness some spoiled sissies would call “damned freezing cold”. Our destination was, well…As a matter of fact, we had no specific purpose in mind apart from taking a tour around the very centre of the Old Montreal (and the very heart of the nowadays city as well).
I wouldn’t vouchsafe for my fluffy companion but as for me, sitting in a carriage drawn by a horse, was good enough. By that time I could already boast having taken a Venetian gondola, but I had once totally scrooged a Viennese fiacre, and that lost opportunity has ever since weighed upon my stray soul. THAT was my chance to settle the old score, and when my soulmate spotted a horse carriage, I jumped at it without ever giving it a second thought. And yet, it was not meant as a ride but rather as a guided tour.
And, Ladies and Gentlemen, we had a guide, and then some! That very man who actually was almost horseback. However, I should bite my tongue (that is, my typing finger) before I call him a “horsedriver” because he was a proud cabman! He absolutely must have descended from those legendary London cabbies of the Victorian era - and he looked as if he were old enough to actually be one of them…I will therefore call him “the shabby cabby”. To do him justice, I must mention that he had an unutterable charm - he was wearing it like a coat. To start with, he chose to convey information through singing rather than speaking. Every single note he hit, was deliciously false, and I was so delighted with this opulent profanity of human-made sounds, that I simply couldn’t care less about a famous safe located OUTSIDE the equally famous bank it belonged to - or 121 restaurants infesting (I mean, enriching, of course!) the area we were riding around. One of them looked incredibly rugged - and turned out to be very fashionable. Probably, because of being rugged…The only English theatre in the city evoked my interest but it was unfortunately out of season. Just like the St-Laurentius river was out of our cabbie’s route - I would gladly reach one of its banks but alas…Finally, the shabby cabby proved to have a favourite topic - he kept on mentioning a certain nunnery that owned a third of the area buildings because it was “very rich”. That “very rich” was especially worth hearing - in the singer’s lips it sounded exactly like Pavarotti’s “Amore” could…
When the tour was over, our shabby friend took off his charm and produced a carrot instead. This self-made psychologist seemed to know all too well that a desire to treat the animal would in the course of the tour become almost irresistable (I actually was about to address him on the matter). The carrot was snapped from my palm and devoured in no time. Its twin-sister followed.
When on foot, we had to move almost as fast as the horse did because otherwise we would have frozen. Since we were walking for much longer than half-an-hour’s tour, we managed to see and hear much more as well. A medieval cathedral reflected in a nearby located skyscraper as if it were inbuilt there, and an afternoon organ rehearsal in an Anglican church - solemn and touching at the same time. A hospital decorated like a theatre and the barren premises of the Mcgill University, a building made of coloured glass and an illuminated fountain on a little square, a memorial plaque devoted to the employees of the old Windsor railway station who fell in the World Wars and an Indian art exposition in the Fine Arts museum…We were Dancing With Snowflakes on a river bank in the middle of an island and exchanging snowballs in front of the very white and stony Queen Victoria. And to warm up we would from time to time plunge into the glowing sea of lights coming from the Shopping Kingdom in the Underground City.