Renting a Bicycle

I eye the various seat configurations hanging on the wall in anticipation of our bicycle ride to Parc René-Lévesque and think that they look like nothing more than instruments of torture. And then there is the bicycle itself. I should have known I might possibly be in trouble when the shopkeeper explained, “The gears, they work the same as a motorcycle.”

Well. Sure.

Our bicycles came with us when we moved to the Texas Hill Country (they hang from the ceiling in our garage), but just walking up some of those hills make the muscles in my legs scream and my heart race.  A bicycle has been out of the question for ten years. I wobble forward.  The seat on this one is too low. Stopping, we make an adjustment.  Better, but not good.

The wind in our face, the blue skies of Montreal above, the Canadian sun beating down on our helmeted heads we roll along the Lachine Canal bike path, our noses pointed toward the Parc René–Lévesque at the end of the canal. The path snakes along, shaded by tall trees, liberally peppered with tiny yellow flowers and studded with the occasional stand of Queen Anne’s Lace.

Bikers whiz by us.  Some are tourists, but most are Montrealers; you can tell by their attire and their speed.  The speed limit on the path is 20 km — not a problem for us — we may be ticketed for going too slow.  Shaded tables and benches along the path urge us to stop and smell the proverbial roses. So do our tortured bottoms.

Parc René-Lévesque

Finally. We’re here!  Filled with towering sculptures, Parc René-Lévesque is a lovely oasis; bordered by the Saint Lawrence on one side and the Lachine Canal on the other. There are descriptive plaques by each artist’s work. I read the first two.  But as we progress around the peninsula I see that there are too many — it will take all day! I decide to admire the whimsy and forego the why.

Parc René-Lévesque in our rearview mirrors, we have been on our bikes for almost three hours. I can’t take it anymore, I have to stop and rest my bottom on a flat piece of something.  Once seated I check my phone to see how far we have to go till we reach Ma Bicyclette—

“Eight minutes by bike,” I tell Michael.

He thinks a while before commenting and replies, “I think I can handle another eight minutes, but I may have to leave my ass here on the bench.”  His face is so straight and his comment so droll I can’t stop laughing.

“It’s not funny,” he says.  I laugh harder.

Lunch at Atwater Market

Before heading back to the metro and home, we stop off at Atwater Market for lunch.  Michael has checked out the bakery beforehand and is not too impressed with the sandwiches—he likes soft bread. Their sandwiches do not know about soft.

We head to the cluster of outdoor eateries and decide we want to eat where the lines are longest. This place must be good.  I look at the decorations and tell Michael I think we are standing in line for Chinese food.  My phone Itranslate app is no help. The menu doesn’t translate from Chinese to French to English. I recognize satay du jour and figure out that will work. I also recognize Tsing Tsao beer so I am all set.  It is the only beverage name on the menu that is familiar to me.

Finally at the head of the line I keep, change, and add to my carefully thought out order, ending up with my original satay du jour. I add a mango salad with a strange name — it looks good so I point and ask.  And a Shandy to drink; Google tells me it is beer mixed with lemonade or soda pop or ginger beer or ginger ale. A review on Epicurious tells me it is rated four stars.  I’m in.  Michael has a pork chop sandwich.  I’m given napkins and chopsticks—this will be interesting — it has been ten years…

Shopping at Atwater Market

We stop off at the market portion of Atwater and make a few purchases.  One lemon, a jar of Italian tuna packed in olive oil, a king’s ransom in saffron (affordable here), Maille Aioli, and Piment d’Espelette.  I have to stop and laugh. Amid all of the specialty items before me that I cannot find at home, there is a row of Stub’s BBQ Sauce.  Maybe I should try it once we return to Texas. Michael buys fruit.

The Trip Home

We are exhausted.  Getting to our temporary home seems harder than normal. A walk to the metro station, then down two flights of stairs. Another walk to the boarding area. A fairly long ride on the train, then a walk along the platform. Climbing up two flights of stairs we walk in the sun towards the metro entrance.  We then walk down two flights of stairs and through a tunnel just so we can climb up two more flights of stairs. 

In the open air at last, and on the streets we walk up a hill and we walk down a hill.  Another long walk along St. Paul finally brings us to our door — only to have to climb thirty-five more steps. We open the door, I throw down my purchases, and @#$%. I am not happy, realizing I forgot to check and make sure the outer door shut tightly.  Back down thirty-five steps — back up thirty-five steps.

Too tired to cook — I do so anyway. We sit down to a feast of veal scallops with a white wine mushroom sauce, tiny potatoes flavored with rosemary, Roma tomatoes halved, seeded and baked, stuffed with a parsley-garlic pesto, and an arugula salad tossed in a lemon vinaigrette and topped with shaved Parmesan.

After dinner, I sit on a stool in the middle of the kitchen and mop the floor with a paper towel!

My carpe diem philosophy of living just might do me in.

I wonder if there is a soft-sitting activity available for our entertainment tomorrow.