(no subject)
“Like the pulse of a perfect heart, life struck straight through the streets.”
It was so beautiful yesterday I walked all across the city, walked until my blisters broke, then bled, staining the insides of my sandals a rusty brown. It was sunny and lively and the city was full to bursting with brightly tanned teenagers trailing adults laden with boxes and uncertain expressions. Streets were blocked off to accommodate the countless nameless festivals covering the concrete, and restaurants in turn spread out over the sidewalks, producing an endless seamless sprawl of attractive commercialism. All over there were tourists, snapping photos and eyeing shop displays, and sitting outside Vol de Nuit at midday with bottles of imported beer. But most of all there were the freshmen- crawling Montreal at the tail end of their week-long school-sponsored orgy of intoxication, they traveled in packs, sloshing warm beer out of plastic cups while chanting rote responses to the drinking songs that had long since become ingrained.
Downtown, I couldn’t get over the sensation that not I, but the freshmen and the tourists, held the deed for this city of vivaciousness and sunshine. I walked to the suburbs to get away from the obstruction of their presence, still waiting for the moment when I would feel the city the way I knew I had before.
When I didn’t, I worried that I couldn’t, that by leaving for the summer I’d lost something truly irrevocable. (But I’ve been unfaithful, I’ve been traveling abroad). So I sulked all evening, scrubbing my apartment and feeling a jealous antipathy towards the squealing underclassmen passing by my window in their ruffled skirts and HARVARD: CANADA’S MCGILL t-shirts, each carrying their very first six pack; they didn’t know the city, they were just using her, they couldn’t possibly love her the way I did. I was more deserving of her affection, of her devotion, of that one-ness.
In the morning when I woke yesterday’s warm sunlight was gone, replaced by chilly air and a sky an overcast dishwater grey. It was weather unbecoming to an August, but entirely befitting to Montreal. Hung-over students straggled through the ghetto, dragging mattresses with the aid of cranky parents, scurrying on to their next scheduled activity; no one lingered long outdoors, not with the promise of rain so ever-present.
Except me. I ate breakfast on the rooftop, leaning out so that peach juice dripped through my fingers and onto the ground below. I scrutinized the skyline and then descended, walking barefoot through the streets until my feet were caked black with dirt. Now it was mine. Now she was mine. Now, when she was otherwise unwanted, I could step in and reclaim my city. Her unpredictable weather, her filth, her crass neon and her stubborn snobbishness- all flaws that only endeared her to me all the more.
Its raining now, hard and pounding, and I think I’ll go stand outside for a bit, maybe sing and dance, or at the very least wash the grime off my bedraggled feet. I’m so glad to have been relieved of unsettling emotion of missing something that should be right there in front of you. I still resent the freshmen, but the city isn’t theirs except to play around with. She comes home to me.
--
P.S. Update/ On a more practical note: My tenant’s bf did vacate the premises, thoughtfully leaving behind pleasant “gifts” including several used stubs of marijuana cigarettes, a ceiling covered in pubic hair, and a birthday card from my aunt, which he had stolen the money out of. I got the locks changed in under an hour.
Yours (and Montreal’s),
Tara
It was so beautiful yesterday I walked all across the city, walked until my blisters broke, then bled, staining the insides of my sandals a rusty brown. It was sunny and lively and the city was full to bursting with brightly tanned teenagers trailing adults laden with boxes and uncertain expressions. Streets were blocked off to accommodate the countless nameless festivals covering the concrete, and restaurants in turn spread out over the sidewalks, producing an endless seamless sprawl of attractive commercialism. All over there were tourists, snapping photos and eyeing shop displays, and sitting outside Vol de Nuit at midday with bottles of imported beer. But most of all there were the freshmen- crawling Montreal at the tail end of their week-long school-sponsored orgy of intoxication, they traveled in packs, sloshing warm beer out of plastic cups while chanting rote responses to the drinking songs that had long since become ingrained.
Downtown, I couldn’t get over the sensation that not I, but the freshmen and the tourists, held the deed for this city of vivaciousness and sunshine. I walked to the suburbs to get away from the obstruction of their presence, still waiting for the moment when I would feel the city the way I knew I had before.
When I didn’t, I worried that I couldn’t, that by leaving for the summer I’d lost something truly irrevocable. (But I’ve been unfaithful, I’ve been traveling abroad). So I sulked all evening, scrubbing my apartment and feeling a jealous antipathy towards the squealing underclassmen passing by my window in their ruffled skirts and HARVARD: CANADA’S MCGILL t-shirts, each carrying their very first six pack; they didn’t know the city, they were just using her, they couldn’t possibly love her the way I did. I was more deserving of her affection, of her devotion, of that one-ness.
In the morning when I woke yesterday’s warm sunlight was gone, replaced by chilly air and a sky an overcast dishwater grey. It was weather unbecoming to an August, but entirely befitting to Montreal. Hung-over students straggled through the ghetto, dragging mattresses with the aid of cranky parents, scurrying on to their next scheduled activity; no one lingered long outdoors, not with the promise of rain so ever-present.
Except me. I ate breakfast on the rooftop, leaning out so that peach juice dripped through my fingers and onto the ground below. I scrutinized the skyline and then descended, walking barefoot through the streets until my feet were caked black with dirt. Now it was mine. Now she was mine. Now, when she was otherwise unwanted, I could step in and reclaim my city. Her unpredictable weather, her filth, her crass neon and her stubborn snobbishness- all flaws that only endeared her to me all the more.
Its raining now, hard and pounding, and I think I’ll go stand outside for a bit, maybe sing and dance, or at the very least wash the grime off my bedraggled feet. I’m so glad to have been relieved of unsettling emotion of missing something that should be right there in front of you. I still resent the freshmen, but the city isn’t theirs except to play around with. She comes home to me.
--
P.S. Update/ On a more practical note: My tenant’s bf did vacate the premises, thoughtfully leaving behind pleasant “gifts” including several used stubs of marijuana cigarettes, a ceiling covered in pubic hair, and a birthday card from my aunt, which he had stolen the money out of. I got the locks changed in under an hour.
Yours (and Montreal’s),
Tara