Montreal tales

"Let's have Chinese," said B the other night.  "We're right beside Chinatown."  Are you nuts?!  We were in Montreal and he wanted to eat Chinese.  Really?  So, it was French food for breakfast, lunch and dinner for a week and it was wonderful. 

We were there for Concordia Homecoming weekend, B's alma mater (he actually graduated from Sir George Williams University, but when Sir George and Loyola merged, it became Concordia).  I went along for the ride because I love Montreal and Calgary isn't Montreal.  Getting there, as those of us of a certain age know, isn't half the fun.  In fact, it's none of the fun.  Schlepping through airports to gates you need a space shuttle to reach is a total pain.  The whole experience makes me hate people even more than I tend to.  Finally arriving at 8:30 p.m., we discover our room isn't ready.  At 8:30!  Probably a union-inspired problem, but this was Le Westin and I was not amused.  So, the desk gave us a couple of drink tickets as pacification.  After drinks, we headed to 'Boris Bistro' for dinner and I was amazed to learn that our 31-year-old waiter made annual pilgrimages to Ste. Benoit du Lac for meditation.  You never know what people are up to. 

By now it's 10:30 and we're back at the hotel and guess what?  Room still not ready!  Unbelievable, but true.  So, it was a couple more drinks and we finally crashed.  Next morning, one of my oldest and dearest friends arrived from Ottawa for lunch and we wandered through Old Montreal until we found a great little hotel with a charming dining room.  "You are absolutely gorgeous," I said to our young waiter.  "If Hollywood films here, you'll be switching careers."  I really don't care what I say to people anymore and he really was drop-dead handsome -- sort of like a young Alain Delon, if you remember him. 

Reading the Globe and Mail one morning, I marvelled at the page-one headline:  "Pope Francis's...."  I kid you not, they put an extra "s" for the possessive.  The Globe and Mail!  Pathetic.  Swam in the little lap pool, whose glass bottom allows you to see down to the lobby.  Much less boring doing laps when you can watch the comings and goings of various guests.  Sitting at the bar one night, I started chatting with a very boring American who's with a company that manufacturers hockey sticks.  But guess what?  The guy doesn't follow hockey!  Doesn't know squat about it.  I'd fire him. 

Got into a taxi driven by a Muslim man and got to talking.  "If I had daughters, I would never let them wear the hiqab or niqab, never," he told me.  Good for him, I told him.  "It`s degrading," I added.  "And simply a sexist control thing with Muslim men.  I was encouraged he agreed.  And don't even get me started on the niqab for the citizenship oath.  Thank God Harper is forcefully against it.  For that reason alone I'd vote for him, although there are many others too. 

So, back in Calgary where it's jeans, jeans and more jeans.  However, I have to say that today's fashion trends leave me cold.  Some of the outfits I saw in Montreal were downright hideous.  What are young francophone women thinking?!  When I am the best-dressed woman at a huge dinner in Montreal, there is something wrong.  Never mind, I intend to continue dressing the way I have forever.