off to see the wizard
Well, if the wizard lives anywhere, it's Montreal -- every trip I take there I spend half my time in wonderment, the other half in confusion. So much energy and style and tastelessness and ruin. The city is a sea of orange cones. Can I go down that street? How do I get through that door without touching it? On the traffic ramps we tell Oona to say a prayer that the whole thing won't fall down on us. Busy people in pretty cars, she says. Mentalist. At a red light the guy beside us gets tired of waiting and just goes anyway. Downtown I see a girl wearing a full-length flamenco dress, complete with a slit up the thigh. The intersection is a mess, a mass of swarming people because the street has collapsed a few days before into a giant sinkhole. Getting from the parkade to our hotel room requires three elevators, two escalators, eleven doors and fourteen turns.
All worth it to see my niece Stella. Catherine and the girls drove down as well (Nick stayed home, what I call a Nickation) and we all went out for a calèche ride and swimming and to the Biodôme. And C even got a steak.