far too much writing, far too many photos

runswithscissors


Wednesday, August 10, 2005

[Continued from entry of August 7]

And then the waiter (a relaxed Indian 30-something in casual duds, complete with baseball cap) materialized, plates of food appeared, most of them large, circular metal affairs reminiscent of mutated TV dinner trays. Each bearing helpings of two different entreés and a pile of basmati rice. I dug into mine, took the first mouthful, found myself quickly immersed in a state of mind I often experience when tossing down good Indian food: an intense, tightly-focused state where not much exists apart from chow, mouth and implement ferrying chow to mouth. A transcendent place where the velocity of the action seems to increase at a steady rate until the plate reaches food-free status, me staring at it in despairing surprise.

The waiter had mixed up my order of bread, bringing some fancy-ass paratha instead of the simple, plain version I'd requested. I let him know. And, not sure my words had registered, I let him know again. And again. And bless the guy's heart, he dealt with my slightly overdone tenacity with grace and admirable attitude, the paratha I'd wanted showing up quickly, followed soon after by a complimentary helping of a lentil dish (which went down just fine).

One of my meal's two entreés had some real kick, my mouth tingled long afterward, my body feeling wide awake and then some. The waiter brought cups of tea, everyone else at the table went for dessert, balls or small ovals of sweet confection, good enough that Max went for another, then another, steadfastly ignoring Tom's counsel for moderation.

While the others inhaled that last course, I watched the parade of customers coming and going -- families (including a fair number of mixed couples of various configurations), black folks, dreadlocked types (both black and white), two or three young Indian women, white hipster-geeks all dressed in tattered, oversized black gear. All sorts of people, providing great viewing.

The bill arrived, I started to dredge cash out of a pocket, Tom informed me my food was paid for. Which somehow made everything I'd eaten taste even better, despite being after the fact. Freed from financial hooha, I stepped out into the early evening to get some air, my bod feeling SO happy, as if it were floating slightly above the sidewalk.

Back in the car, me again crammed between Kelly and Max, riding the, er, hump in the rear seat. Conversation took an entertainingly foul-mouthed turn, I found myself explaining a top-notch Spanish insult, "Que te den por culo." (More formally: "Que le den por culo.") Translation: may they give it to you up the butt. An earthy sentiment capable of getting people real upset, not to be used lightly around folks who might not care to be given, er, it. (Up the butt.)

It's possible that of all the time I spent around Ben and Max, explaining that may have been the only moment they truly paid attention to me.

At the homestead: hung idly about with Tom and Kelly, finally pulled myself together, began the hike back to the Metro station, T., K. and Jack the most excellent family dog walking with for a while. We did the farewell thing around the halfway point -- Kelly kissing both my cheeks, which endeared her to me like you wouldn't believe -- they disappeared down a sidestreet. I continued on, catching the last part of a fine sunset near the station. My bus was just pulling out as I showed, I waved my arms hopefully, the driver made a sad face, a polite shoulder shrug indicating I was too late. I showed her and took the Metro instead, emerging aboveground in a downtown active with people out enjoying Saturday evening. Music wafted from the performance stage a couple of blocks away, couples passed, talking in French and English. I had plans to be up and on the road around dawn, so resisted the temptation to wander and enjoy the nightlife. Headed home, packed, went to bed, slept little, probably in anticipation of getting my adorable patoot up and out at an unwholesome hour. Which is just what happened.

Early-morning Québec countryside zipped by, few other cars about. Traffic moved slowly at the border as a customs agent emerged from his cubbyhole to drag a bunch of stuff out from some poor soul's car. I wound up dealing with a different agent, one in a fine, relaxed mood, who asked a few friendly questions then waved me on.

And here's the thing: I love being north of the border. I loved investigating Montréal, and I want to do more of it, want to explore Québec more seriously, in more depth. And then I cross back into Vermont and I'm in love all over again with this tiny corner of the world. I cannot describe the feeling of finding myself back among this green countryside, the hills rising out of it, growing larger, more dramatic as they stretch off into the state. It's literally beyond my pathetic facility with words. So you won't have to wade through me flogging lame attempts to draw the picture.

I'll just go back to anticipating future times up north. And future stays in Madrid. And future seasons back here. And the August days will continue to unfurl and blow past, me surrounded by the almost unearthly loveliness of Vermont at this time of year. Planted on a hilltop in the middle of it all, in a place that feels like home for now.


Montréal sidestreet -- detail of a long, hyper-elaborate graffiti mural:




Madrid, te echo de menos.

rws 4:47 PM [+]
Comments: Post a Comment

Links to this post:

<\$BlogItemBacklinkCreate\$>
BLATHERINGS

August 2001
September 2001
October 2001
November 2001
December 2001
January 2002
February 2002
March 2002
April 2002
May 2002
June 2002
July 2002
August 2002
September 2002
October 2002
November 2002
December 2002
January 2003
February 2003
March 2003
April 2003
May 2003
June 2003
July 2003
August 2003
September 2003
October 2003
November 2003
December 2003
January 2004
February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
February 2006
March 2006
April 2006
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
June 2009
July 2009

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS


Travels:
London '01
Pamplona
Italy '03
U.K. '03
Sevilla
Casablanca
Stoke-on-Trent
Barcelona
Québec/Ottawa
Boston/Lisbon/Madrid
Italy '04
Montréal
La Sierra

Events:
Madrid -- arrival
9/11
Emergency Room I
Holidays 2001
Holidays 2002
Holidays 2003
Holidays 2004
Holidays 2005
A neighbor's passing
Madrid -- March 11 bombings
  and aftermath
Emergency Room II
Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon
Madrid -- Royal Wedding
The DELE exam

GONE, a novel:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF
JOE ROCCO, a novella:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3

BURBANK SHRUGGED,
a screenplay:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3
-- Part 4

Short stories:
Murphy's Wife
Another Autumn
La Queja de Una
  Hermanastra Muy Conocida

Autobiography
-- Personal History
-- Hormones On Parade
-- Accidents, Random Mishaps,
    Personal Problems

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT

People/Weblogs:
dooce
foxvox
fudge it
fear not
rebekka
bookslut
802online
idle words
madhaiku
wockerjabby
grow-a-brain
rebel market
letting me be
out and about
kung fu grippe
fanatical apathy
baghdad burning
wfuv's music blog
kexp's music blog
mimi smartypants
between the miles
just a hippie gypsy
the impossible cool
tomato can brushes
vermont homestead
sugar mountain farm

Good Clean Fun:
gizmodo
futurismic
postsecret
dave barry
human clock
mcsweeney's
spaceweather
book-a-minute
internet archive
self-portrait day
my cat hates you
out of context quotes
surrealist compliment
  generator
strindberg and helium

Makin' Musical Whoopee:
last fm
stereo8
pandora
soma fm

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





This page and all its contents copyright © 2001-2011 by runswithscissors unless otherwise noted.


runswithscissors would like to thank everyone who's ever lived for everything they've ever done.



Syndicate This Site

Blogarama

BlogCatalog

Bloggapedia, Blog Directory - Find It!



technorati profile

Subscribe with Bloglines

www.flickr.com
runswithscissors' photos More of runswithscissors' photos