22~Crossing the Border; Emotional in Montreal (Momentarily)

A City Feed and Supply sandwich from Boston- perfect

to get me cross the border

Crossing the border is much easier than I expect; I anticipated being challenged about the length of time I will be spending in Canada/time spent in the U.S.A and with a little piece of paper that merely documents scheduled flights from various worldwide destinations, I hope to not be interrogated. It is the emotions that wash over me in Montreal that takes me by surprise. I am the last to go through the border control. We all hop off the bus to cross the border and will re-board on the other side. I chat to Natalie. She is lovely, vibrant and has an interesting background. We talk about Montreal and what it is like; she tells me of their not so distant political problems and how many of her friends voted with their feet, leaving the city, although it is now in a state of equilibrium and is again, the wonderful atmosphere that she has grown to love about her home there. We talk about how when my mother and father were here and the government enforced the laws of expected levels of spoken French in certain professions and how this was problematic for my dad. Natalie does this Greyhound trip from Montreal where she lives, to Boston where her fiancee is born and bred quite regularly. She has just had her birthday in Maine with the in laws, disappointed by the changeable weather as she was unable to wear her new sandals and dress and also disappointed to be turning the grand old age of 26. She must register my face and I tell her I am too a May baby, 35 this Thursday. She looks horrified. But, you look great she tells me. I don’t know what I am supposed to look like at 35 but I guess it is safe to say, apparently not like this and not alone, travelling from a backpack with converse on my feet and plaits on my head. The lads near me on the bus who are getting off before the border are rude boys, a lot of rap and a lot of calling each other. I am Miss Accent, hot allegedly because of it. I decide to take it all on the chin, old or not, hot or not, accent or not. The rude boys have wheels coming to rescue them from the potential roadside hell- we have to wait for another bus, the tire is losing pressure and this is very dangerous to continue forth. Greyhound has a reputation for breaking down, says Natalie. We wait roadside, hence all the life details. 

My bus buddy Victor, hangs around but I am unsure about him as he chose the seat right next to me when there was many free seats. He waits to help me with bags and is little too attentive for a stranger.  

What I am not prepared for is the emotions that cross through, over and around me as I cross borders. Emotions are almost echoed and reflected in the beauty of the cloud performance that splays out.

As I cross the border, the clouds appear to show two distinct and
completely different formations and patterns- amazing

Victor and I begin to talk. What a lovely man. Originally from Guatemala, but has lived in Montreal for over 20 years. He is a divorcee that has grown up children a little younger than me. We talk about the world, hopes, family and roots in places. He looks at the photos I have taken of the sky and we both stare at the small rainbow, shy but ever present between the robust and rolling clouds. I share this quote I have written down in my journal with Victor:

'We may run, walk, stumble, drive or fly but let us never lose sight of the reason for the journey or a chance to see a rainbow on the way.'

~Glora Gaither

Spot the rainbow, peeping through on the right

Victor nods and smiles as if it is not weird at all when I squeal, catching sight of the huge moon as the bus swings around on the highway.

He is so gentle and I feel awful that as we crossed the border, this Canadian citizen had bother because of a scrap piece of paper with calculative sums of money (his preferred banking method) sparks inquiry. I sailed through with the man looking at my British passport and informing me that I am a Canadian- you were born in Victoria. I smile and shrug. Yes, yes, I guess I am. But I have not a Canadian passport. He is pretty solemn: Have I got anything untoward in my bag?  A little dirty washing. Have I got copious amounts of money?(or a question along these lines) Definitely not, although so far so good with my budgeting. If I am staying with friends in Vancouver, have I gifts and of what nature? No, I haven’t, now you are making me feel bad! I can see a little smile creep in but he remains quite straight faced and ushers me through with a tip of his hat. I semi curtsy (I am a Brit too after all) and hope Victor is okay. Funny though, because I do not learn Victor or Natalie’s name until the last moments I am in their company. As we disembark the dreaded Greyhound, Victor warmly clasps my hand (which I hold a little princess like but only because I am laden with my yearly possessions), wishing me all the luck in the world.

Natalie pops up in the metro station and sorts my ticket for me, sending me on my way with directions and best wishes. I am overwhelmed with their warmth and also this French speaking and French language world I have stepped into. I follow my instructions and leave the metro, trek into the darkening night to my airbnb, stopping and appreciating the moon as I go. Lucky I had that $5 in Canadian money for my metro ticket. I had tucked away since last October in my purse, a present from my roomie.

I am momentarily in Montreal and I love it. My airbnb host is awesome. Such an interesting man who lets me laze in his bath and use his bubbles. He is shrieking in the living room a little after I arrive. I wonder what I have got myself into. Maybe he needs my help, should I leave my room? Should I call out to him? I realise it is to do with sports- ice hockey, of course. We watch a little together. Big game between rivals Montreal and Boston. Like a light being turned on, I realise coming fresh (well, bus fresh) from Boston, I had witnessed the the preparation for battle there. Street vendors with some hockey supporter paraphernalia. My host has so many tips, maps and stories I realise my two day stopover will not do this city justice. The bed is heavenly and I sleep. Running, exploring, blogging and wandering the next day. Executing some pigeon French, loving the friendliness and the style of the city. The old town is interesting. 

So strange to see all the French related buildings, items and the prettiest word for me is I imagine my mum and dad here. Young, just married, mum pregnant with Steph. I feel incredibly emotional and manage to touch base with Steph while I blog in ‘The Second Cup’. The Chinatown section is small, very interesting with some great soup! 

So eclectic, Parisian feel but a lot friendlier. With maple syrup based goods and Canadian flags. Hello smoothie: avocado based with 'sirop d'erable'! Oh, yes!!

I get back to my cosy home from home and bathe again. After, legs completely fatigued, I sit and have a long, lovely chat with my host. The Public Gardens that were in Montreal the previous year, blow me away. There is so much amazing stuff going on in this city and my host is situated in such a great area. Rue de St Catherine is a street that gets closed down in the summer months so the restaurants can spill out onto the pavements. Awesome.

Outdoor concerts and fun is the agenda and I am arriving as the plethora of foliage and flowers planted in copious amounts across the city are about to flourish. Montreal can say a welcome hello to their city in Spring. We talk about the winters here and it sounds pretty epic. A million dollars a day to 'clear' the snow so the people of Montreal can function. He is conveniently placed to the metro. So those freezing winter days will be underground or indoors, if out momentarily, all but eyes exposed. I imagine my mum here with little bambino Steph. So tricky and lonesome if you have not got the network or set up in place. We talk on. He has a beautiful idea for a book, amazingly interesting memoirs of his grandmother. I am mesmerised and wish I had the energy to talk into the night but I feel run down; emotions and travel, most likely. My throat is sore and I have not time for that!

I leave early the next day, narrowly missing my flight, or so I think. It is at 10:05 and my bus, which takes 40min to an hour, sets off at 8:30. I race in and everyone is as calm and friendly. It is fine, a gentle breeze. You have plenty of time. Wrong words- I of course then dither over coffee and magazines, almost missing the last call for my gate. This is a very relaxed airport. You're good, I am told and they are very happy to have me on board. Heading for Halifax, Novia Scotia. It is quite something, the aerial view. I know it is going to be amazing, I can feel it. When I planned this trip, I knew I had to come to Novia Scotia. I remember a book I read as a child. It was set here and although I cannot remember the title, I remember these two children who were uprooted from a city living. Their parents had died and their guardians, their Aunt and Uncle, had them in their Novia Scotian home. The descriptions of their new life, their sorrow and their new world was so rich, captivating. It had left an imprint on my 9 year old mind. 

So, although in Montreal momentarily, mainly because I was eager to get to Novia Scotia for my birthday, I am grateful to have been there. It has helped to shape my path back through Eastern Canada. I will definitely stop again in Montreal, and stay with my great host. This city feels momentous for me. It is where my big sis entered this world, where my parents shared part of their lives. I need some more moments in Montreal, emotional or not. 

Pull yourself together now, Wolff. Time to pick up a hire car and hit the Novia Scotian highway. I have been upgraded. I almost cry when I see my wheels. Not with happiness, or from being in touch with my emotions in Montreal, but pure fear. I asked for a small, compact car. I have an SUV. It is huge. It is automatic (never driven one before, EVER!). I am alone. I have to drag the guy out to give me a lesson. Which is the gas? Brakes? What does P, D, S, R mean? Where do I plug the Sat Nav in? In the end, I just drive. I pull myself together and I don’t look back. And I mean this literally- I forget to use my rearview mirror. But the roads are open, the few other cars patient and then I hit the open road and I fly to Lunenberg. I relax. A huge smile spreads across my face. I feel euphoric and free, soaking in the Novia Scotian landscape. How could I look back when there is so much to look forward to?