In the City

A fine, wet night

I'm in Montreal tonight, on my own.  I came to town with the Infanta but she jettisoned me ASAP in favor of one of her friends here.  Really, I don't mind.  It takes me back, being here on my own as I was so often in college and law school days.

I bought a ticket to The Martian and watched it in one of Montreal's best movie theaters.  I liked the film a lot - for the story, the acting, the production values and also because it was born of a book originally self-published by Andy Weir.  Let us never forget the great lesson taught by Peter Gabriel: "all of the buildings, all of the cars, were once just a dream in somebody's head."

Andy Weir had an idea, realized it, next thing you know Matt Damon and Kristen Wiig are learning their lines and I'm leaning back in a comfy seat half way up.  It's almost as miraculous as the story of The Martian itself.

The film ended just before 10 PM and in the two and a half hours that I was in the theater the temperature had dropped about twenty degrees. The odd-for-November warm wind that buffeted the car on the way into town had changed. It was appropriately cold and the rain had turned to fat snow snow flakes.  I walked home to Whusband's apartment in the McGill Ghetto through the dark McGill campus. I had an umbrella as a shield from the wind and wet snow, which was helpful as I was wrongly dressed. I didn't mind that either, however.  It was just the right amount of wind and cold: bracing without being freezing.  I don't have to go anywhere tonight and as Adam Gopnik once told me, Montreal is most itself in the cold.  The picture above is one that I snapped of St. Catherine Street just after I exited the drugstore across the street from the theater: Montreal looking fine with rain slicked pavements and Christmas decor.

This isn't a real snowstorm, but it has me thinking of the ones I lived through here all those years ago. In student days I could get where ever I had to go on foot.  I didn't have to worry much about snow.  A hush would come over the city on those snowstorm nights - only taxis still out and about in the small hours. I loved to watch the snow pile up on those nights, falling fast passed the yellow streetlights...

I have been, unaccountably, in a bad mood for the last few days.  Thanksgiving was OK but I was irritated, mostly with myself but with others too. This night and this cold wind seem to have blown that feeling away.

Sing, Adele

So last night I did a couple duets with Adele at her show in Montreal. She didn't actually know that we were singing a duet. I hope the people near me didn't realize it either - I pretty much made sure that they wouldn't. I didn't want to upstage her, or bother anyone or anything so I sang pretty quietly. Still, it gave me a little thrill to hear (in my one good ear) my voice and Adele's live and in-person at the same time. I've decided though that she's going to have to make it as soloist though. I can't have her being the Garfunkel to my Simon.


(Photo: Montreal Gazette)

The reviewer from the Montreal Gazette did a good job. If you care to, you can read his review here.

I am happy to report that my friend Splenda came along and was lovely as she could be. She took me to dinner at a great little French place on St. Denis before the show and chaufered me to and from the Woolfoot family Montreal Apartment. (That skyline view is the view from the MTL Abode).

Both Splenda and I were charmed by Adele who, it seems, can make her voice do anything and who was so down-to-earth and winning when she wasn't singing. I confess to being a bit worried about her (Adele, not Splenda). I mean, she's only 20! What did you know about money when you were 20? Probably you didn't have any, so no big, but our Adele. If you read this, my dear, find out who handles David Bowie's money and go see him/her/them. I think he has managed to hang onto quite a pile and despite the ups and downs has never flamed (no pun intended) out.



Needless to say, it was great to be back in Montreal all on my own to meet up with Splenda and go out to a concert. Ooooh. Now I remember why having kids was such an adjustment!

Listening to Adele last night I recalled my own 20th birthday, which occurred in Montreal. I remember thinking, and saying, that I had to be serious because I was 20. What a maroon! I also was thinking last night about how if at 20, I wrote a song (something of which I would be incapable of doing since I know nothing about music) or even a poem about breaking up with my boyfriend it would have been (and still would be) absolute shite. Adele's biggest song, "Chasing Pavements" and all her best songs are love songs - and they are great. Hmm. Talent.

Man vs. Wild: Mount Royal Park

From the Discovery Channel website:

In each episode of Man vs. Wild, Bear strands himself [and his cameraman and his caterer, for all we know] in popular wilderness destinations where tourists often find themselves lost or in danger. As he finds his way back to civilization, he demonstrates local survival techniques, including escaping quicksand in the Moab Desert, navigating dangerous jungle rivers in Costa Rica, crossing ravines in the Alps and surviving sharks off Hawaii.

Man vs. Wild: Mount Royal Park

Bear: (Shouting into camera to be heard over noise of helicopter blades).
We've come to Montreal, one of the most popular tourist destinations in North America. It's a big city, with a really extreme climate. In summer, it's hotter than Mexico City and in winter its colder than Moscow. Making things tougher, most of the people in Montreal don't speak English as their first language. Many speak a kind of French called "Quebecois" and with all the immigrants to Montreal in recent years, you never know when you speak to someone in English if they are going to understand you.

We're headed for Mount Royal Park, the largest city Park in Montreal at more than 120hectares. The park was designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, who also designed New York's Central Park - but Montreal went nearly broke in the 1870s and the park was not completed to his design. So if you come here with Olmsted's plans for this massive city park, forget about using those to get around. Unless you have a more modern map, you're going to have to find your own way through the dozens of paths, trails, staircases and pavilions that line this volcano, long believed to be extinct. And if you've got a fear of heights, it's going to be even more difficult. The summit of Mount Royal looms over the city at a height of 234 meters, or more than 767 feet, not counting the lighted cross or transmission towers at top. But we're not starting at the top. We're starting at the bottom. It's July and its hot, nearly 30 degrees Celsius or verging on the high 80s in Fahrenheit. I am wearing typical tourist gear - sandals, shorts and a T-shirt. I do have my knife but no food or water.

(Bear leans into the camera then falls back toward a large green space. His parachute opens)



Bear: Now, it's true that most people don't arrive here on the eastern foot of "Mont Royal" as they say in Quebecois, by helicopter. But traffic can get pretty bad on Parc Avenue and there is NO PLACE to park. Parc Avenue also has a really strange traffic pattern. It has three lanes, and the middle lane is sometimes open to north flowing traffic and sometimes to south flowing traffic. If you're not used to watching out for the white arrows or red x's that indicate when that lane is open you can get yourself into serious trouble fast.

(Gestures to a statue near to where he is landing and folding up his parachute; camera pans an angel on a tall pedestal flanked by lions couchant)

Bear: This World War I monument is quiet today, but on Sundays crowds of drug users and people with little or no sense of decency crowd around these bronze lions for something called a "tam tam", a kind of informal communal drumming meet that's been going on here for years. The authorities pretty much leave the drummers alone, but there was a lot of graffiti on the base of that statue for a while and lots of the drummers do not wear shirts, when they really should. If you come here on a Sunday, you may want to think twice about getting too close to the tam tammers.

But our objective is the top of the mountain, and we had better get started. I'm thirsty, I haven't got anything to drink, and there is no free potable water anywhere near the bottom of the mountain. To get that, you have got to go up.

(Camera pans to the bristled top of the hill where we see a tuning-fork shaped transmission tower and a large metal cross).

Bear (walking). From the Parc Avenue entrance to the Park, the easiest route is up this graveled road, but this is a really popular park, and if you're going to walk on this road, you had better beware the mountain bikers and joggers who can come barrelling at you at a tremendous rate of speed. Also, there are still from time to time horse drawn carriages taking tourists up the road. These rides are really expensive, so you probably won't want to take one yourself. There are also mounted police that patrol the Park. So, especially if you've got sandals on in the summer, you will want to be aware of the risk of horse droppings on this road.

(shot of fresh horse manure, which Bear picks up and mushes between his fingers)

Though I am really thirsty, I don't want to chance squeezing the water out of these horse droppings. I could get a nasty g-i infection from it and I know there is water ahead. But, even in the shade, I am hot and I need to get to water now. Luckily, if you're in a hurry to get up Mont Royal, you can leave this road, and take the stairs.

(He turns to a long, wooden stair case. We see a shot of him from higher up the stairs).

Bear: You can get all the way to the "Kondiaronk Belvedere", a semicircular plaza with a chalet, overlooking downtown Montreal on these stairs. Once you're there, you're almost to the summit. This chalet and plaza were built in 1906, and, though no one in Montreal is likely to know this, it is named for the Huron chief Kondiaronk, who signed a major peace accord with the French regime in 1701. But, it's a lot of stairs. Hundreds of stairs. Last year an overweight woman got halfway up one of the longest sets and suffered a heart attack. She tumbled back down nearly to the bottom and only just survived.

(Bear runs up the remaining stairs. We see a panoramic shot of downtown Montreal).



Bear: It's not an easy climb, but it's worth it. Woooooo! Look at that view! Now let's see if the Chalet is open so I can get something to drink.



(Shot of Bear wandering in an empty, large room, sort of like a medieval dining hall. He approaches a vending machine).

Bear: There are some vending machines and a snack bar here in the chalet, and they are open, which isn't often the case. But all I have with me are some 20p coins and 10 pounds. I can't use these here. I'd really love an ice cream but, because of rich subsidies to Quebec farmers, dairy products are really extra expensive here. There's a water fountain near the men's room, but it isn't working. The person at the snack bar wouldn't give me a free cup of water, I am not sure he understood what I was asking for. So, my hunt for water has to continue.

(Bear approaches a bank of doors, tries several, finds one that opens, and exits. We see him next with trees close in on either side of him).

Bear: There are miles of trails through these woods on Mount Royal. During the winter, people ski on them. In the summer, people walk on them - and do other things. I need to keep my eyes open - I don't want to be propositioned by one of the local homosexuals, but not too open because I don't want to see what they may be getting up to. This is the shortest route to water though, and I need some now.

(Shot of a large, stone watering trough in front of a handsome stone building)

Bear: This trough was constructed here by a local animal lover for the horses that once dominated the road up Mount Royal park. It's near the giant cemetery that dominates the western slope of the mountain. It's made for animals, but the water is clean, it's clear and I'm thirsty.

(Bear ducks his head into the trough).

Bear: Well, that's better. Now I'm hungry. From where I am standing I can see Beaver Lodge and Beaver Lake. Let's get down there. We'll have to make our way through some really ugly sculptures from the 60s and some Haitian guys playing soccer but after those stairs, that will seem easy.



(Shot of 1950s era building fronted by amoeba shaped lake).

Beaver Lake, or "Lac au Castors" as some people say, was dug out in the 1950s. If your sensitive to Brasilia-gone-wrong architectural disasters, stay away. But if you want to skate or sled in the winter and you're in Mount Royal park, you're going to wind up here. Since it's July, there are no sleds today, and the ice cream vendors are out in force, but I still have my problem with not having any local currency. They might take US dollars, but I don't have those either.

(Shot of a flock of ducks swimming in a weedy lake. Bear crouches by the cement edge of the lake).

Bear: I have my knife, and these ducks would make a suitable meal. They're practically tame and I could reach in and grab one and break it's neck. The famous squirrels of Mount Royal Park are also easy prey. If you need to catch one, stand still and hold out your hand, as if you have a peanut. A squirrel will probably jump on your thigh to get the peanut - grab it and squeeze. Watch your fingers.

However, the ducks and the squirrels here have a really horrible diet of picnic leavings, strange Canadian snack foods, and garbage, so the meat is questionable. Also, given the number of families out at the park today, I have decided not to kill one. Fortunately, I also have dinner reservations. I know that if I walk due west from Beaver Lake, I will find the park access road. One really important thing to remember about getting around in Montreal, is that if you are going downhill from the south side of Mount Royal park, it means you are heading downtown. Once I get to the access road, I just walk down hill, toward the St. Lawrence River. Then I should be able to find the Omni, and safety.

A Summer Sabbath Observance, Such as it Is

The weekend comes to a close having been spent mainly socializing. Our English friends are back at their house down the road for a few weeks and our kids and theirs went swimming together yesterday and then we all had dinner. Today, other friends who came to visit after a long time away. They are very old and dear friends and it was great to see them again, but the visit was not just all fun and games. Since we saw them last they have had some terrifying health news about one of their children and suffered some other family tragedies. I'll say no more about that (since it's all their business and no one else's) except that the pain of it has me thinking religious thoughts (these terrible blows, and nature films, always stir my piety, albeit in different ways). I remember once hearing Pope John Paul urge people to get close to the ill and not be afraid...

So, before this Sunday is completely kaput, with no religious observance on my part, here is the promised (slightly excerpted) repost on my spiritual home, the Church of St. Andrew and St. Paul in Montreal I wrote this two years ago when our family were all up in Montreal for a winter weekend. The minister who had been in charge while I was in college was filling in that Sunday (he had retired). I brought the kids and and made it to the service that inspired this post.



The Church of St. Andrew and St. Paul is a Presbyterian Church and was built by a prosperous set of Scotch/English/Canadian high society back just before the second World War got going. It was an amalgamation of the Church of St. Andrew and the Church of St. Paul. This group (the founders of the “A&P,” as it is sometimes known) and their ilk have gone and we will not see their like again. In their current incarnation (today’s rich people), charitable efforts are not directed at church buildings and stained glass. The A&P, is a gothic revival stone church with an impressive stone tower that anchors the corner of Rue Redpath and Sherbrooke Street in what is still, in some senses, Montreal’s “best” neighborhood.

The sanctuary is large and long and the ceiling is vaulted. The pews, the altar, the pulpit, the model church over the pulpit, all are made well and out of the best things. It is a cathedral of and monument to a particular brand of colonial Britannic Protestantism. In the giant stained glass window over the altar Jesus rises triumphant and white with his arms outstretched and the awed onlookers include a be-kilted soldier holding a Union Jack. The weekly bulletins explain that the faded flags that hang in rows on slightly bowed poles above the heads of the congregation are the colors of the Black Watch, and that the church is the regimental church of the Black Watch. [N.B.: When I got back to church at A&P this summer, the banners were still there but the explanation about the Black Watch was gone. I wondered what that was all about...]

I have never been particularly active in any church organizations but I grew up going with some regularity to the Methodist Church in my home town of Schenectady, New York. We may have made it to church about once a month. We were the family that was late every spring when they changed the clocks.

I bonded with those services and my fellow middle-Americans. In the ‘70s at our Methodist Church, everyone was nice and the emphasis was on reflection rather than fervency. The service went basically like this: Call to worship, hymn (choir entering), reading, children’s sermon, prayer (exit children), hymn, collection, sermon, hymn (choir exiting), blessing, cofffee, doughnuts. Once a month, on the first Sunday, we did communion, usually in our seats but sometimes at the rail. The hymns were the same ones my great grandmother sang.

Since then, this has seemed to me the right way for a church to be. As an undergraduate in Montreal in the mid-80s I was in search of a church in the poor man’s Paris that a Methodist girl from Schenectady could attend without making a fool of herself. McGill University, which is largely the product of that same group of people that endowed the city with St. Andrew and St. Paul, is in the same neighborhood as the Church. I decided to chance it. It was Presbyterian, but I figured that was close enough. Furthermore, I recalled that my maternal grandfather, Floyd Stark, had been raised as a Presbyterian by his mother, Ella Macumber, (though he had gone Methodist under Grandma’s influence) so I figured could claim some reasonable heritage connection.

We shall be changed . . .

It is one of the hazards of Protestantism that those born into any of its branches are likely at some point to go in search of church that speaks to them instead of simply submitting to the authority of their natal church. I respect the Catholic and Orthodox traditions, but 500 years of Protestant ancestry has disabled me from an honest embrace of them. I can’t help weighing up the belief systems on offer. At the Church of St. Andrew and St. Paul, I found my church.

The service followed the same outline as the Methodist one to which I had become accustomed. The hymns were the same, although the Presbyterians went in for something called metrical psalms. I loved the way they did things, though I couldn’t help a little bit of inner chuckling at the Presbers (church leaders) who periodically appeared, marching solemnly through the church and sat in the row of high backed carved gothic chairs at the back of the altar. They were not all older white men, there were plenty of women and people obviously not of Scottish heritage. They were all, however, so extremely dignified… The Church of St. Andrew and St. Paul still looks back to Old Scotland. I think the Queen Mother dedicated the Organ or something back in the 80s (I wasn’t at that service). I did hear a reading at the A&P one day by a very florid visiting gentleman named, believe it or not, Lord Elphinstone.

This is not to say that the church is snobby. There were quite a few students in the congregation with backpacks and casual clothes and I always felt quite at home there. I enjoyed these little cultural flourishes. They were so obviously not put-ons, but a genuine expression of the heritage of this Church. And the congregation was full of people of many stripes (the superintendent of the apartment building where I lived during law school, Mr. Ong, was a member of the A&P choir back in those days). People were exactly the right amount of friendly: they always smiled and nodded and said hello. The minister invited people to church events from the pulpit. No one tackled you to get your home phone number. Perfect. There were no guitars. No stopping the service midway to run around the church shaking hands and hugging.

The church has always had, and retains, a commitment to great church music. There is a professional music director and a choir that sings Christmas carols for the CBC each year. The massive organ can boom through the church to vibrate the stone pillars. Just as important, and what was such a treat, nay, blessing, for me on my recent revisit, is a minister with genuine literary talent. Back in the ‘80s and ‘90s when I went regularly to church at the A&P the leader was the Rev. James Armour. This last weekend when I was back in Montreal, the Rev. Armour, now retired, was filling in for whomever the new guy is. When I saw the Rev. Armour’s name on the sign in front of the church, I knew I couldn’t miss the service.

Q: Where have all the Rev. Armours gone? I studied English lit. as an under graduate and was marked forever by John Donne and John Milton and a handful of other religious geniuses who were also literary geniuses. The sermon is an art form, or can be. The Rev. Armour was clearly an offshoot of the root that is found way back in that tradition. I wouldn’t embarrass him by classing him with Donne and Milton but he could think, write, and deliver a sermon of beauty and logic week after week. More than just afflicting the comfortable and comforting the afflicted (the role expected of ministers, as he joked once) he mined the Bible for insight and gave sermons that demanded reflection. He did the same when I lucked back into church last week. I was so grateful to have a chance to hear him again this last weekend, I was almost overcome - which is not really the done thing there. Thank God – really, for all of it, and to all those Saints who from their labors rest who made the A&P what it is.
http://www.standrewstpaul.com/

MLK Holiday in Montreal

Actually, I was back at work on MLK day, but this last weekend the family were all up in Montreal at the annual Vermont Bar Association meeting that is held there. A good time was had by all. Pictures above tell some of the story.

The meeting is known as the "January Thaw" but the weather actually got cold for what seemed like the first time in weeks while we were there. After the Friday afternoon seminar the kids and I went book shopping downtown. Kids scored books at Indigo, which is my current favorite downtown bookstore.

On Saturday night it was dinner with the family, including my Dad and Stepmom, at il Cortile, a fabulous little Italian restaurant on Sherbrooke Street next to the Museum of Fine Arts. We were celebrating the birthdays of Woolfoot Kid 1 (9) and the daughter of my friends Brenda and Vitali, who turned 6. Brenda's Mom set the dinner up and we all had a great Olive-garden style time with much-better-than Olive Garden food and wine.

Sunday, breakfast at a patisserie across the street from St. Andrew and St. Paul (see picture and my post on this, my favorite church ever, from February '05 http://www.standrewstpaul.com/). The bells were ringing as we stepped into the patisserie and I felt a pang. Sorry You Know Who. Another failure.

Husband returned to Montreal apt and kids and I went for a ride in Chinatown that turned into a three hour visit to the Montreal Science Center. It's good - not as good as the Montshire Museum in Hanover, NH, but worth the visit. Kids had fun and so did I. It has that certain odd Quebec aesthetic that is difficult to identify but noticeable to anyone who stops to ponder it. If you remember Youppi, the Montreal Expos very odd mascot, that will give you something of the flavor of what I am talking about. The French sense of humor is just off...

Then, back to reality. Kids had no school MLK day and I had to drop $100 on a babysitter - an unemployed lawyer of my acquaintance. Yikes. (Unemployment, that is, and the $100).