lagalag.com

1. I tried yoga for the first time last November, and I think I'm going to try it again.
2. I still want to take classes in Spanish.
3. I still hope to open a travel store/coffeeshop by the time I'm 40.
4. And maybe supplement my income by writing small mobile apps.
5. Or maybe by being a travel writer on the side. But everyone wants that job already.
6. Has anybody else noticed that Skype is an anagram for Pesky? Not that it is; I've never used it.
7. I should get over my rut and sign up for guitar lessons.
8. I should figure out how to make homemade palabok sauce.
9. I've never been to Las Vegas, and have no pressing desire to go there in the foreseeable future.
10. I'm glad to have rekindled my interest in reading.
11. I'm glad I have somewhat gotten over my fear of dentists.
12. I don't mind taking a 45-minute train ride to work, so long as I'm not in big hurry.
13. Heck, so long as I'm still employed, oye vey!
14. I should put some plants around the apartment. Some organic lifeform apart from mold and mildew would be nice.
15. I can't wait for the White Stripes to start touring again.
16. I'm planning to see Victoria and Vancouver in May.
17. I don't know how to operate a coffeemaker.
18. I have yet to take my dusty bicycle out of storage and use it in Golden Gate Park, like I originally imagined when I first moved here. That was two years ago.
19. I'm constantly impressed by emotionally strong women.
20. This is the year I'm eligible to apply for US citizenship.
21. This is the year I spend Xmas and/or New Year's in the Philippines, and document the experience.
22. This is the year I finally get a CA driver's license, and start being a menace on the roads.
23. This is the year I do something different and exciting, something I haven't done before but willing to experience.
24. Last Thursday marked my second year in the Bay Area. I'm thankful to have made it this far.
25. But I'm still trying to fall in love with The City.

Inexplicably, I lost most of the messages I sent in October and November...I guess my phone automatically deletes sent messages when the memory is full. Oh well.

Key Events: Castro Street Fair, disengagement, layoffs, botched dates, The Election, Anti-Prop8 March, Puerto Rico at Thanksgiving, Guadalajara at Christmas, Puerto Vallarta at New Year's.

10.03 11:57pm from VG: Hi, its V. How abt we meet Sunday if ur free pretty much any time? :-) I'll b up there 4 a show in the evening so anytm in aftrnun!
10.05 12:14pm from BA: Bg fest @gg park?
10.15 01:10pm from DM: Was thinkin about u. Hope u r ok.
( More Txt )
12.31 09:30pm to HVH,JK,JH,MC,ZO,RN: Happy 2009! Best wishes from my kitchen to yers - lino
12.31 09:36pm from HVH: Happy new year to u too, frm my dining rm..har har har:p hope ur njoying ur vacation!
12.31 10:13pm from JK: Are u drunk?
12.31 10:43pm to JK: Uhm is the pope catholic? I'm in PV, hon ;-) Just kidding! Have a safe NYE!
12.31 11:59pm from JM: HAPPY NEW YEAR MEXICO STYLE!!

I'm gonna smile cause I deserve to
It'll all get better in time

2008, what a year that was! It has been one of the most rollercoaster years in recent memory. I've seen highs, I've felt lows, I breathed sighs, I've dealt blows, I've been to and fro, I've seen friends come and go, I've been hearty and hale, I've been needy and frail, I've been desired, I've been unwanted, I've been fearless, I've been daunted, I've been Nope'd and I've been Next'ed, I've been groped and I've been texted, I've been brilliant, I've been stumped, I've been the dumper and the dumped. I've been happy. If nothing else, I think this year has shown me more possibilities and surprises than I thought life could ever offer.

• Cash Grab Complications on the Matter (The White Stripes)
• Foundations (Kate Nash)
• Apologize (One Republic) (Sort-of-breakup music with the notorious C.B. It's too late...)
• Over You Again (Willie Nelson)
• Aly, Walk With Me (The Raveonettes)
• Gonna Have To (Or, The Whale) (Local band! Awesome alt-country song + cute lead singer to boot)
• Flashing Lights (Kanye West)
• Salute Your Solution (The Raconteurs)
• Old Enough (The Raconteurs)
• Living Well is the Best Revenge (R.E.M.)
• Until the Day is Done (R.E.M.)
• Sweet Darlin' (She and Him)
• Chasing Pavements (Adele)
• Wonder (Colin Meloy)
• We Carry On (Portishead)
• Machine Gun (Portishead)
• Tape Song (The Kills)
• Sour Cherry (The Kills)
• No One (Alicia Keys) (<3 <3 <3)
• Dreamin' (Weezer)
• I Will Possess Your Heart (Death Cab for Cutie)
• Viva la Vida (Coldplay)
• Maps (Yeah Yeah Yeahs)
• Damaged (Danity Kane)
• I'm Yours (Jason Mraz)
• Limón y Sal (Julieta Venegas) (My first exposure to Latin pop!)
• Lento (Unplugged) (Julieta Venegas)
• The Next Messiah (Jenny Lewis)
• Acid Tongue (Jenny Lewis)
• Better in Time (Leona Lewis)
• Early Winter (Gwen Stefani)
• Live Your Life (T.I. feat. Rihanna)
• Disturbia (Rihanna)
• Just Dance (Lady Gaga feat. Colby O'Denis)
• Hot n Cold (Katy Perry)
• So What? (Pink) (The best song to mosh to in a club!)
• Oye Mi Amor (Maná)
• Llamado de Emergencia (Daddy Yankee)
• Baila Mi Corazón (Belanova)
• Cada Que (Belanova)
• No Hay Nadie Como Tú (Calle 13)

Fave albums:

• Under the Blacklight (Rilo Kiley)
• Lust Lust Lust (The Raveonettes)
• Light Poles and Pines (Or, the Whale)
• Third (Portishead)
• Narrow Stairs (Death Cab for Cutie)
• Acid Tongue (Jenny Lewis)
• MTV Unplugged (Julieta Venegas)

We made it past the longest night of the year! Things can only get better from here, right?

The next day I decided to venture into the less touristy side of San Juan, a district known as Río Piedras. But before that, I feel compelled to put in a few words about San Juan's gay nightlife, or lack thereof.

My guidebook states that Puerto Rico has the best infrastructure for gay tourism in the Carribbean. This may be due to its US territory status and not having to deal with a less democratic government (e.g. Cuba) or abject poverty (e.g. Haiti) that would otherwise prevent or at least stultify the growth of such a system. So I had high expectations when I arrived at my first gay port of call in San Juan, the charmingly named Tía María's Liquor Store, on a rather dimly lit corner off of Avenida Ponce de León.

It all seemed quite promising at first. There was a good number of guys, and the drinks were strong and cheap (about $3+ for a Cuba Libre -- I say "+" because you are given a bunch of loose change after each transaction). Tía María's is actually a tiny bar and not a liquor store, at least not at night. A lone jukebox in the corner was the sole source of music, which is just as well since there is barely any space to shake yer tailfeathers anyway. Heterogenous groups of well-dressed guys chatter away clustered around a couple of pool tables, the lamps over which provide scant illumination and lending the space with all the appeal of an interrogation room. Nonetheless, I found out that most of the guys were friendly, and I had a jolly good time chatting with them, although some of the conversations were somewhat strange.

"Where are you from?" someone would ask me.

"I live in San Francisco, but I'm originally from the Philippines," I would reply, beaming.

"Oh. I thought you were a tanned Chinese guy."

It seemed to me that most Puerto Ricans' view of the outside world is limited to Miami and New York, and not much else. It seemed a shame, considering our countries' shared legacy of Spanish conquest, so I took it as my side mission to educate the unenlightened locals on this point.

Emboldened by swigs of rum with my Coke, I decided to look for this other venue called Junior's. Apparently this involved walking through another badly illuminated street or some such hassle so as to provide to maximum possibility of being mugged or victimized. Getting assaulted seemed like too much of an inconvenience just to get some tail. At any rate, I failed to find it, not unlikely due to my mild state of intoxication, so I ended up going to this other club called Krash instead. It was disappointingly empty (on a Friday night!), and to make things worse they played soulless thump-thump dance music crap you can find everywhere. Nevermind that the island has a rich musical heritage in the form of reggaeton, salsa, and the like -- the club owners would rather keep everything devoid of local color as much as possible (and literally too, as the place was hella dark).

Oh, and the only local lesbian bar, Cups, has, as of this writing, closed its doors. Sorry ladies.

The envelope in the mailbox contained a set of keys and a map to my room in the guesthouse, just as Emeo described. I breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing I wanted at 11 in the evening in an unfamiliar environment was a scavenger hunt.

Emeo, one of the owners of my guesthouse in Puerto Rico, had called me the day before to inform me that he will be at a social function at the time of my arrival in San Juan, and thus would not be able to personally hand me the keys to my room. He gave me instructions on where to pick up the keys, which in my frantic pre-departure state imagined something that involved a note with a cryptic riddle and some digging. It turned out to be much, much easier than that.

I have to say that I had a mild case of pre-trip traveller's remorse about coming to Puerto Rico. It all sounded interesting on the surface: fantastic beaches, gorgeous people, tropical climate, but as the date of my departure loomed I began to doubt the purpose of this trip. It didn't help that a flickr.com search for pictures of San Juan produced images of high-rises, freeways, and charmless condominiums. It looked like I wasn't heading to an exotic Carribbean island; I was going to Miami.

Having to look for my room keys on my arrival added to my anxiety somewhat, which I tried to dismiss as I stepped out of San Juan's compact airport and into the humid evening. Thankfully the taxi driver who ended up taking me from the airport to the guesthouse was easygoing and friendly, thus allaying some of my worries about being in a strange new world. And finding the keys and getting into my room wasn't such a big deal after all.

And actually, I found out in the daylight that San Juan reminded me a lot of Manila. Aside from the lingering humidity, the houses stand close to each other and small groups of people wander about unhurriedly on the narrow streets in shorts and sandals clutching plastic bags of stuff. I half-expected a tricycle carrying a sack of rice to zoom along noisily on the road. I had a simple breakfast of omelette and toast at the delightful Kasalta's across the street from the guesthouse, then stood at the parada for the free bus to Old San Juan. An hour later the bus still hasn't shown up. Annoyed by this encounter with the infamous concept of "island time", I ended up taking a cab, splitting the fare with a similarly frustrated kindly gay couple.

My grievances about transit inefficiencies were forgotten when I arrived at Old San Juan. I made my way to the tourist information center, where I was dutifully ignored by the elderly docent who was engaged in a lively conversation in Spanish with an Argentine couple. Left to my own devices, I helped myself to a copy of Que Pasa, the free tourist magazine. It was full of glossy ads for package tours and other fluff, so I ended up returning it to its pile. Finding nothing else of use, I followed my guidebook's walking tour and decided to start my jaunt from Cafe Cola'o near the pier. There I definitely got more friendly attention to go with my noontime pick-me-up. I was also delighted to discover a far more useful free tourist magazine simply called alternative. It was a quirky little booklet with articles written in English and Spanish. It was chockful of gems such as "When talking about the city, I would have liked to direct my reflections towards Alexandria, where a library burned, or Sodoma, full of salt statutes because of the indiscreet look." Sheer poetry.


I made my way through the Old San Juan hotspots: from the ultra-fabulous Gran Hotel El Convento to the formidable El Morro fort, and all breathtaking points in between. There is so much to see and absorb in Old San Juan's compact square mile of colonial structures, some in various states of elegant decay, that one day in this fascinating time capsule of a town is simply not enough.

When dusk set in I looked around for an inexpensive place to dine. I was checking out the small menu outside of Fefo's Deli and Tapas when a waiter stepped out to give me the sales pitch for their establishment. He was kinda cute, so I all-too willingly let him lead me in and took a seat by the bar. Minutes later the poker-faced chef stepped out of the kitchen to ask me what I wanted him to prepare.

I was flustered. "Uhm, can't I just pick something off of your tapas menu?" I asked, but he seemed insistent that I name what I want. Finally we settled on a plate of tostones, ham and cheese croquettes, and a seafood empanadilla, all for about $7.

After the chef has returned to his domain in the kitchen, I turned to my waiter and, suddenly feeling emboldened to try some Spanish, asked, "Está siempre muy serioso?" He gave me a blank look.

"You mean to say, 'Él está siempre tan serio?'", the bartender corrected me. "Is he always so serious? Yes," he said, answering my misconstructed query with with a grin.

I was expecting a quiet solitary meal, which was fine by me since I was drained from a day of walking and sightseeing, but I was later joined at the bar by a very friendly young expat from California who was interning at a physics lab in the island. He was keen on explaining what he does with very thin strips of platinum, but in between the jet lag and the bottle of Medalla beer to wash down my delightful meal I couldn't keep up. But I was smiling to myself at the thought that in less than 24 hours I have connected with more people here than I thought I am capable of. What was I so worried about in the beginning?

(More pictures in my "lagalag: Puerto Rico" photostream on flickr!)

The sun's getting cold/it's snowing
Looks like an early winter/for us

Key Events: discovering Pan Dulce, becoming a landlord, recovering from gum surgery (*shudder*), faux-camping in Yosemite, unforgettable trip to Montréal, fabulous Greek food festival

07.04 08:30pm to JK: You watching the fworks at the waterfront? Its freezing!
07.04 08:31pm from JK: How's the weather? Can u see anything? Where are u?
07.04 08:34pm to JK: At the footbridge near the wharf. Foggy out we prolly wont see anything. Summer in SF sux! :-D
07.04 08:36pm from JK: Really? Foggy? I'm debating whether to take a cab down there. Is it worth it?
07.04 08:40pm to JK: Only if you enjoy hypothermia as much as i do :-D
( More Txt )
09.28 01:55pm to JK,BA: Am at the greek food fest! Come on over
09.28 01:58pm from BA: @ folsom st fair
09.28 03:04pm from JK: I'm doing laundry! Come over!
09.28 03:10pm to JK: Do they have baklava at the laundromat?
09.28 03:15pm from JK: No! But....hot men!
09.28 03:16pm to JK: They have them here too. Plus hot food! :-D

Burn it down till the embers smoke on the ground
And start new when your heart is an empty room


The day was half over by the time Basil and I were finally able to sufficiently rouse ourselves from the stupor induced by a very late night/early morning out on the town. This time, Basil suggested we take his car and drive out north to Little Italy. An iron archway marks the entrance to the neighborhood on boul St-Laurent. The steady stream of vehicles on this main drag, made even more busy due to the gorgeousness of this particular Saturday, didn't seem to deter restauranteurs and coffeeshop owners from setting up chairs and tables on the sidewalks. Upon spotting this wonderfully named café, we decided to park nearby and begin our exploration.

I had read about Marché Jean Talon, a huge year-round farmer's market, but didn't realize it was just a few blocks from boul St-Laurent. Now I don't care what Stuff White People Like says -- I totally love places like this. Plenty of people watching + photogenic produce to sample and ogle, multiplied by food stalls selling everything from Canadian sausages to Moroccan pastries = LOVE IT. Basil seemed to be impressed with it as well -- he hasn't been to this particular marché. In between snacking he and I took pictures of fruits and vegetables, shoppers and sellers. Thankfully no one seemed to mind; I had become a little wary of taking pictures, especially of stuff for sale because of a minor incident from an earlier trip. No, here we were free to take in as much as we want. If I had any doubts in my mind at all on how I felt about Montréal, this day all but banished it.


Despite the plethora of noshes in and around the marché I was still jonesing for some pastries. There was a Premiére Moisson in the premises, however Basil knew of another one in the Outremont neighborhood west of where we were. "It's some ways away," he said. "Do you mind walking?"

I shrugged. "Might as well earn that eclair," I replied.

We trudged along boul St-Laurent, past the archway entrance and through an underpass. There wasn't much to see here until we turned west on Rue Bernard. Cafes, shops, and other signs of life sprouted anew; tree-lined residential streets added to the lushness and vitality of the neighborhood. We finally made it to our destination, grabbed a couple of artfully crafted baked goodies, and scored a seat on the sidewalk outside of the Second Cup next door, lattes in hand. I felt made.

We lingered for quite a while, caught up in discussions on travel, US politics, and whatever else came to mind. It was starting to get a little dark when we made it back to Basil's car. Fortunately he was still in the mood to show me around some more, as I was still fired up and eager for more sightseeing. We proceeded up a windy road to the Parc du Mont-Royal, which provided wonderful views of the city below from the lookout point of its Chalet. Basil also drove me around the Parc Olympique, the sports complex built for the 1976 Olympics. Everything was already closed by this time, so the best I could do by way of sightseeing was to take a picture of the Stadium. Exploring this architectural oddity will have to be done some other time.

After a quick pit stop back at the B&B we decided to get dinner at Old Montréal. It was still teeming with tourists and the businesses that cater to them, but I didn't mind. It had been a wonderful day, replete with convivial sights, delicious food, great company -- my senses duly satisfied by the simple pleasures of this city's life.

After dinner we took a leisurely stroll around Parc Jacques-Cartier, where I began my exploration of Montréal just a few short days ago. Somehow the topic of conversation turned to matters of the heart. "Things happen for a reason," Basil was saying, sagaciously. "You may not realize it at the time, but it will come to you." I reflected on the past year, of how I had gained more friends than ever before, of how I managed to have my heart broken no less than three times within that same period. Here in this shimmering city of earthly delights, with the late summer evening's breeze caressing my cheek, it seemed like, maybe, a reason has been found.


In the morning Basil graciously offered to take me to the airport. Along the way I mostly sat in silence and took in my last sights of the city I'm about to leave. What would be a great final image to take with me? I saw a traffic sign on the freeway, announcing the end of a construction zone: Fin. Appropos, I thought, but...I didn't want this to be the end. Surely I will return someday?

As I pondered this my eyes rested on the license plate of the car ahead of us. Je me souviens, it said -- the motto of the province of Québec. "I remember". That's more like it.

Ser delicado y esperar
Dame tiempo para darte/todo lo que tengo

I had intended to bike along the Canal Lachine on my third day in Montréal, but had to change my plans. Basil and I had a late night -- we were snacking on dates and grapes at 3 in the morning while watching French-language TV -- and it didn't seem like such a smart idea to ride a bicycle when I can barely even keep my eyes open. Still I couldn't bear the thought of sleeping the rest of a day away while on vacation, so after Basil headed off to work I endeavored to at least see the park by the canal. I arrived there around lunch time, and the park was resplendent with bikers, roller bladers, and office workers picnicking. I sat on the curb by the bike path and participated in the flurry of activity around me by going through my French phrasebook and nodding off every now and then. It was clear that I needed some caffeine, stat.

I was finally able to rouse myself after an hour or so of this ineffectual napping and walked west along the Rue de la Commune Ouest. I passed by some rather desolate areas of town, to the point that I actually felt a little concerned for my safety, so I was relieved to have made it to the city center without incident.

I stopped by the Tourist Information Center inside the posh Dominion Square Building, where I picked up a much better city map (sorry Lonely Planet -- love your guidebooks, but you need to get better cartographers, FYI), and ducked into a Second Cup on the very busy Rue Ste Catherine Ouest for a much-needed soy latte. I was pretty much in the middle of the downtown shopping core now, and the pedestrians parading in front of my window seat were decidedly more urban and cosmopolitan. Energized by my beverage and the buzz of activity, I made my way north to Rue Sherbrooke Ouest, pausing occasionally to look at storefronts along the way. Rue Sherbrooke Ouest has some of the city's finest mansions from the early 20th century, as well as its fine arts museum, which I made a mental note of visiting the following day. I had a late lunch of ham and cheese panino in a small cafe on Rue Crescent. This street was also lined with bars and restaurants, but somehow it didn't quite feel as vibrant as Rue St Denis, but then again the workday wasn't quite over.

The next day I returned to Rue Sherbrooke to visit the Musée des Beaux Arts. At the time the museum was hosting the Yves St Laurent exhibit, but after seeing the well-dressed patrons and looking at my shabby tourist garb I decided to stick with the permanent collection instead. Plus the regular exhibit was free(!) -- an irresistible option for a traveller on a budget. How Montréal was able to achieve this warrants some investigation, considering that the museum has some Impressionist paintings and fine works from Canadian artists, as well as art and antiquities from the ancient world. Do they levy some arts tax on crepes sold in the city?

Midway through my cultural infusion I lunched at the museum cafeteria, which served a surprisingly scrumptious lunch. I enjoyed a cup of hazelnut-flavored coffee -- a departure from my usual soy latte, but necessary due to the absence of an espresso machine in the premises -- and entertained myself by watching the stream of museum visitors. I liked my coffee so much that I availed myself of a refill. I was heading back to my seat when the woman at the counter cleared her throat. "That would be a $1.50", she said.

"Refills aren't free?" I asked, somewhat stupidly. Having lived in a non-third world country for quite a while, this notion, I realized, had struck me as foreign.

"No," she said, rather curtly. ("This isn't the US," Basil chided me afterwards, when I told him this story). I found out then how the museum can afford not to charge admission.


Later I met with Basil for an evening culinary tour of the city. Our first stop was the reknowned Schwartz's, a Hebrew deli along Boul St Laurent that is famous for its smoked meat. We ordered the steak combo, with bread, fries, coleslaw, and a pickle as sides to ensure that all food groups are represented. Schwartz's is decidedly no frills and low-key: fluorescent lighting provided illumination and ambience, the decor hasn't changed since the early '70s, and diners share tables and eat on paper placemats that double as menus. I loved it.

Afterwards we took a stroll around the various neighborhoods to see more of the city at night. I have to say that I've never quite enjoyed walking around a city so much as I have in Montréal. Every street seemed to be teeming with establishments of interest -- a shop, a restaurant, a cafe, a bar -- and having the signage in a beautiful language only heightened the exoticism. "What do you think that sign means?" Basil quizzed me, pointing to a lighted sign with a logo of a winking owl above a convenience store.

"'Couche Tard'. Uhm, I think the verb coucher means 'to sleep'", I said, slowly, recalling the infamous Lady Marmalade song. "And tard means late, right? As in, a plus tard, 'see you later'. So Couche Tard must mean 'Sleep Late'!" I announced triumphantly. "Hence the winking owl! They're open late for nightowls like me." Basil was suitably impressed.

We ambled a good mile or so around the Plateau, then took the bus to the Village to check out the nightlife there. It was actually rather slow for a Friday night, which surprised me greatly: I had expected it to be a madhouse. Perhaps Montréalers party during the week and work during the weekends.

It was about two in the morning when we decided to do more walking, this time from the Village to a 24-hour poutine place on the northwest side of Parc La Fontaine. It took another half hour or so to get there à pied, but it was a lovely night, not too cold nor breezy, and I was enjoying the company and the scenery way too much. We scarcely met anyone along the way, but when we reached the poutine restaurant there was a line out the door. This was clearly the after hours destination of choice.

Poutine is a Québecois staple: potato fries smothered in gravy and cheese curds, and topped with anything from foie gras to spaghetti sauce. Basil ordered the chicken and peas combo, while I picked the mushroom, onions, and ground beef. We ran a taste test and decided that my choice was better. The restaurant was packed with twenty- and thirtysomethings chattering in large groups over mounds of these artery blockers, but -- surprise, surprise -- nobody was majorly overweight, and in fact most of the diners looked pretty fit.

It was maybe 5am by the time we hailed a cab (after muscling our way through the crowd of people still waiting to get a table!) to take us back to Basil's place. I had willingly lost track of time, not to mention my diet, but that's the danger of falling in love: one becomes too happy to care.

You know there's nothing more than this


I woke up to the sound of construction work and gruff voices outside my window. Normally this would've gotten me all hot and bothered if it weren't 9 in the morning and I was still majorly adjusting to the time difference (Montréal is three hours ahead of San Francisco). Listening to the foreign-sounding yelling outside, it then occurred to me that, here, French is not a novelty but is in fact the mother tongue of everyday people. With that sobering thought I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower.

At the breakfast room I met Marc, the friendly self-proclaimed resident "house boy", and he graciously offered to serve me coffee and toast while I helped myself to the sumptuous fruit salad and croissant and cheese. Luc showed up later and apologized for the construction activity. "They need to replace the roof while the weather is still good," he explained. "If they do it later it becomes expensive." I nodded sympathizingly and said that I needed to get an early start anyway. "Nothing gets me going in the morning like guys doing construction work outside my window!" I said cheerily.

With Marc's help I formulated my itinerary for my first day of sightseeing. Instead of taking the underground he suggested walking along Rue Berri all the way to the waterfront. It turned out to be a capital idea, as the weather was agreeable and the route abundant with sights (like the man outside the hospital in a nightgown smoking while holding his dextrose stand). My destination was Vieux-Montréal, the Old Town on the banks of the St Lawrence river, with its colonial architecture, cobblestone streets, and alternately charming and touristy shops and restaurants. There were a few groups of tourists milling about when I finally arrived at Place Jacques-Cartiér, one of the more picturesque squares in the area. The tightly-packed buildings put me in mind of Europe and made me giddy with excitement, although it must be said that I was a little relieved to be with other out-of-towners and not feel like the only person who can't speak French within a 25-mile radius. I followed the self-guided walking tour described in my trusty guidebook, starting from the Place d'Armes (so-named because it was the site of many battles between the early settlers and the indigenous First Nations people) in front of the Notre Dame Cathedral. I relished every second of it. Along the way I stopped by a Café Starbucks Coffee, just for the sheer novelty of it, and was so charmed by the barista greeting me with a "Bonjour!" and a warm smile that I gave him an extra loonie (the C$1 coin with an image of a loon in the back) for a tip.


( Later on, at the Latin Quarter... )

"What's with the lips?" I asked Basil, pointing to a close-up picture of a person's puckered-up kisser, blown up and intriguingly mounted on top of the Musée D'art Contemporain.

"That's a symbol of the city, actually," he replied. "If you look at the City of Montréal's logo you'll notice that there are stylized lips on it." He shrugged. "It's like a French kiss, I guess."

"Ahh." How passionate these people must be, I thought, as Basil and I walked to his apartment.

Where to? Where do I go?
If you've never tried then you'll never know


When I first started telling friends that I'm going by myself to Montréal for the first time, they immediately ask if I know anyone who lives there.

"No, I don't," I reply. "I just want to go there."

For some reason this elicits a response like I've just told them that I'm volunteering to remove landmines in Cambodia. "Really?? That's pretty gutsy of you," they say, somewhat in awe, but I think mostly in disbelief that somebody would willingly spend the time and money to place himself in an unfamiliar location and with no contacts. I don't quite get it. It's not like I've decided to live with a tribe of pygmies in the Amazon, or signed up for four months of rigorous spiritual training/cheap labor in an Ashram in India. I'm going to be in a city, sleeping in a hotel with a bed, surrounded by cosmopolitan people in an urban setting. It will have its share of adventures, to be sure, but it's hardly daring.

Still, as the shuttle took me to the airport at 3:30 in the morning I began to have doubts. Montréal is on the other side of the continent from San Francisco, and a departure at an ungodly hour was necessary in order to arrive in the city at a decent time of day. I had a 7 hour flight to look forward to, as well as a date with customs and immigration (something that always makes me irrationally nervous). And what was I going there for, exactly? Is this going to be another bad idea? I thought to myself as I wove in and out of consciousness during the flight.

My fears weren't exactly allayed when I arrived. My taxi driver, who reminded me of a surly Bernie Mac, didn't exude the warmth and hospitality I was hoping for, even as I tried to make small talk about the weather and being in Montréal for the first time. On top of that we were caught in rush hour traffic on the freeway, and it took all of C$50 to get me from Pierre Trudeau Airport to my B&B, the Maison Desjardins. Along the way the scenery was less than idyllic, and more like the outskirts of any American city: strewn with unappealing office parks, warehouses, and the like, only with the signage in French. However when we finally exited the freeway and entered the neighborhood known as The Village, things began to look much more promising. The streets were tree-lined and cozy and the apartment buildings were quaint and inviting, so despite the less than stellar first impressions I rang the doorbell to the B&B with a frisson of excitement.

( It was opened by a handsome... )

...in bed. Sweet!

It was now official: I have arrived in Montréal.