Of Montreal

Last weekend I went to Montreal. My friend was still sleeping and I was ready to burst out on a Sunday morning. I was sick of looking at my Instagram and Facebook newsfeed in the French couple’s divinely comfortable bed I was lying in. I turned over and put the iPhone down. I looked out the window. Outside their window is a huge tree that silhouettes the rest of the backyard. I look out the window at the virile green leaves and I pretend this is my house, this is my bed in the trendy neighborhood of Montreal. The baby’s crib in the one room belongs to me too, to my French speaking baby,that answers to a French name. My husband is out at the bakery getting this week's treats. He will not forget to bring me back a chocolate croissant; this French wife’s favorite.

At the end of the fantasy I keep thinking of the chocolate croissant. I now need a chocolate croissant. “I am in the Mile End neighborhood of Montreal, Canada. I need a chocolate croissant,” the American brain in my head demands.

I pick the iPhone back up – the only necessary evil in my life it seems – and I go to my yelp app. I type in the search bar, "cafes + chocolate croissant". I find Mamie. I see it is only 11 minutes away by foot. I get dressed. I tell my friend I am going to a café to get said pastry and coffee. “Ok” mumble sleepy mumble. “Do you want anything?” mumble mumble “Noooooo….” Sleep sleep sleep.

I put on my red converses and head out. When travelling, I find one of the most thrilling moments is when you step out the door onto the street and realize you have no idea where you are going, but you are intending to go somewhere very specific. A catch 22 thrill? Down the street to Avenue mon pins – left. Then to Rue St. Denis.

I pass flower gardens, calico cats on their regular Sunday routes. I pass a house in the middle of this trendy hood that disguises itself as a greenhouse. What a glory it must be to hide away in that during the harsh Canadian winters. Magnifique.  Sip your warm coffee in there and pretend you are in Java. That’s certainly what I would do. Then walk out red faced into an artic world of icicle covered bikes.

 

All the home entrances have spiraling staircases – dripping with ivy and bursting with hydrangeas. What a beautiful porch to sip some wine on and listen to your friend play some guitar – or better yet – as I witnessed, letting Edith Piaf’s voice caress the flowers from your porch side iphone amp.

 

When I reach the boulangerie there are only three of us in there. I forget to take a ticket, since there is no one there, really. But still, I must take a ticket. I take a ticket. #“38” – ok. I wait. All of a sudden from peace to mayhem, four separate groups of French speakers tumble into the door. They are all pointing and proding and poking and discussing what they must to get. Just as I need my croissant they have come for their Sunday ceremony. They do indeed have a chocolate croissant. It is called, the “Oh Mon Dieu”.

My number is called in French. I do not recognize it, but I see it in red lights on the ticket counter so I know it is time to order. A swarthy baker asks, “what would you like”

“Je voudrai Oh Mon Dieu”  I say– the swarthy baker smiles

“et petite brioche et … Capuccino.”

“Do you want cinnamon or chocolate on top of –“

“Both” I say with a big smile.

At the counter, he comes over with the pastries and as soon as he sets them down, leaves me. He is now making my coffee. A few minutes later he reappears with a frothy cup.

“THIS is not a cappuccino. THIS is a MASTERPIECE!”

I giggle luxuriously, smile, and say “merci beaucoup.”

“Caio!” he says. Was he Italian or French? I will never know.

I pass a number of brightly painted murals. The dreams of the artist that decided to place them on the brick wall for everyone else to see.

 

I walk back to my pretend French home and sit on the porch and devour each layer of the flakey choclate croissant. I wash down the thick, ganache with “the masterpiece.”

 

 

I began my day walking hand in hand with Joie de Vivre. I make a silent prayer she would not let go of my hand until I said so.   I prayed she would not get lost in the crowd of people waiting for their bags at the DC airport, or on the metro ride back to my apartment. I tell her thank you, please stay awhile.