Montreal

Driving into Quebec province the signs are no longer in English. We are definitely in New France.  And Vieux-Montréal is definitely old, at least the freeway system.  I’m a city girl so I am used to freeways that soar and dip and curl and are stacked three to four high with giant columns suspending these conveyors of humanity.  But I’m used to new, immense, sturdy columns.  As we lean into the curve, suspended in air, that takes us into downtown Montreal I spy the seemingly crumbling columns with trepidation and think of the ruined columns in Rome.

A new adventure — I hold my breath and jump, hoping the water is fine.

Our Vieux-Montréal Apartment 

It’s always interesting walking into someone else’s life.  And this time I walk into the life of a Canadian couple who call this apartment home. Their pied-à-terre when in Montreal.

We follow the owner up thirty-four spiraling steps to arrive at an antique dollhouse. Walls of white stucco and gray stone are graced with a wide variety of artwork. Dark wooden beams span the ceiling.  Comfortable furniture, scaled down for the small space is arranged in a cozy seating area. The coffee table holds an array of magazines, Chatelaine (I like this Canadian magazine — I want to subscribe) and Architectural Digest.  A wall of books in the corner contains many authors that I favor. A small sideboard holds a bouquet of dried hydrangeas.  The headboard in the one bedroom is an old door.  I like this unseen, unknown woman.  She too likes pillows.

A mahogany table in the small dining area will seat six comfortably — more if it is expanded to full size—but there is no room for expansion.  I look around and see display cabinets full of china and crystal and antique figurines.  Inch per square inch the lady of the house owns more dishes and glasses than I do. I mention this to Michael and he just looks at me. I do have a lot of dishes but I’m talking inch for inch. Still, he gives me the look.

There is a tiny sunroom off of the master bedroom and a tinier bathroom. The kitchen — well the kitchen is small.  Perhaps utility room small, or the size of the galley on our long-gone sailboat. Small.   Really small. 

We are given the tour, have questions to ask that are answered, and given a list of how to’s and would you please, and — we are alone.

Making Ourselves at Home

We are home.  For two weeks anyway.

I read a request to please, don’t let my flowers die.  There is a green plastic watering can on the sunroom floor.  The flowers are in planter boxes that hang on railings from Juliet balconies off the living room and the sunroom. I think of the glorious red geraniums that I tossed and killed getting ready for this trip. They have made their way to Canada and seek my care.

By the time Michael drags all our luggage up to the third-floor apartment, I feel like our presence overwhelms it. The first thing I do is fill the tiny kitchen with a few things I thought I couldn’t live without from home and Williams Sonoma.

Unpacking is tedious and thoughts running through my head lean toward — I packed too much.  Where will I put it all?  There are not enough hangers.  So I start folding. All of the knits. Some of the slacks. The beach clothes I leave in the suitcase. The AC is set to seventy degrees, but it is hot and stuffy and all I can think during this entire unpacking is that I won’t be able to sleep.  At home, our house is an igloo at night. I tell myself because it is summer, the owners have probably spent most of their time in the country and the apartment hasn’t been unoccupied for a while. I’m trying for optimism.

The AC finally does its job. I sleep like a baby.

We live at the edge of the middle of Old Montreal.  Footsteps away from all the action.  i.e., our world is not real. The splotch on the left-hand corner of this paper placemat is remnants of a long leisurely lunch.

Note

I have always romanticized the term pied-à-terre so I thought I’d check on the exact meaning, and it is an apt description.

A pied-à-terre (French pronunciation:  [pjetaˈtɛʁ]; French for “foot on the ground”) is a small living unit usually located in a large city some distance away from an individual’s primary residence. It may be an apartment, flat, or condominium. The term pied-à-terre implies usage as a temporary second residence (but not a vacation home), either for part of the year or part of the workweek, by a person of some means