30 November 2004
MONTREAL: Day One-ish
Wednesday night we get there late, 10 pm-ish. The aerobus shuttle man is talkative and points out the sights as we drive to our destination: La Maison du Patriote. The city passes by out the window, orange lights on deserted pavement, tall anonymous buildings like those in every other city, and soon we’re driving on cobblestones, feeling like we’d gone back to colonial times. We realize our hostel is in this quaint part of town and smile at each other in glee.
The driver deposits us on the steps of an old stone building with a cheery yellow awning. There is no indication anywhere that this is La Maison du Patriote except for the 169 on the door which matches the address I’ve written down. I attempt to ring the doorbell by pressing 2 different buttons next to the door. Nothing happens.
I’m a little worried at this point, as the driver has left and we are alone on an empty street. Luckily, I have the phone number written down; we call, and soon a tall Indian guy lets us in. He’s young, I think to myself, and cute. He’s not the owner though, we find out. Instead, he’s a guest—one of the many friendly guests we’ll meet over the next few days. The owners are gone already for the night, but the Indian guy, Aura, tells us to give them a call to confirm we’re supposed to be there.
I call the number and reach a groggy-sounding Naima. She tells us to sleep there for the night (she doesn’t remember us, I think, worried) and that we can sort it out in the morning. After the call, Aura asks us what happened, and we tell him we’re staying. I’m sure our demeanor is tenative and suspicious. We feel like uninvited guests in this cozy home.
And it is cozy, decorated with bright, warm colors and Ikea furnishings. Both Suzanne and I had expected something different: colder, perhaps, more sanitary like a line of hospital cots with their medicinal smell and rigidly correct distance between. No, instead, after coming in, we climb a flight of creaky wooden stairs up to the main floor with golden yellow walls, private rooms, and kitchen. Then we climb another flight to reach the loft which has lamps hanging from the rafters and glowing from inside the curtained ‘rooms.’ We choose randomly and push aside the curtains to reveal air mattresses with pillow, sheet, blanket, and towel folded neatly on top.
At this point, we are hungry, not having eaten since before our flight at 7:50 PM. We leave our luggage to stake our beds and head downstairs. I ask Aura if he knows any open restaurants in the area. He suggests one restaurant around the corner which looked to him like a late night place. Suzanne and I set off, breath fogging in the cold air, only to find it closed.
We walk back to the hostel and decide we are far too hungry to just settle down for the night. It is 11 at this time, but we are certain we’ll find something open, and we do, in the form of Café Papillon. The sign says it is open until 12 AM and we see people sitting inside, both generally good indicators. We are stopped once inside, however, by the hostess/waitress, who says something quickly in French, while shaking her head.
Perhaps our disappointment is all too evident, as the waitress asks us in English, “Did you want something quick?”
“Yes, yes, just a crepe or something,” I answer in a rush. She nods, grabs two menus, and motions for us to follow her. We are seated by the window, near the lone other couple in the main dining area. The boisterous laughter of a group dinner is heard behind us, the result, I think, of free flowing wine and good company.
We order escargots and a Papillon crepe, which is, as we find out, a combination of bananas, strawberries, and delicious chocolate sauce. The food is mediocre overall—in fact, the restaurant reminds us of a Perkins. Everything from the dark green carpet to the falsely homey décor resonantes of average America, but we don’t mind because we know we’ll be having wonderful food in the future days.
After paying the check (with credit card, as we have not exchanged any money yet), we head back to the hostel a few doors down. Aura is still up and we chat for a bit. He’s a graduate student at one of the New York state universities and only here until tomorrow, sadly.
Then it’s off to bed. The shared bathroom upstairs has no hot water, and so I wash my shivering face quickly and crawl into bed. I sleep surprisingly well, out like a light until the next morning.
To be continued...
Wednesday night we get there late, 10 pm-ish. The aerobus shuttle man is talkative and points out the sights as we drive to our destination: La Maison du Patriote. The city passes by out the window, orange lights on deserted pavement, tall anonymous buildings like those in every other city, and soon we’re driving on cobblestones, feeling like we’d gone back to colonial times. We realize our hostel is in this quaint part of town and smile at each other in glee.
The driver deposits us on the steps of an old stone building with a cheery yellow awning. There is no indication anywhere that this is La Maison du Patriote except for the 169 on the door which matches the address I’ve written down. I attempt to ring the doorbell by pressing 2 different buttons next to the door. Nothing happens.
I’m a little worried at this point, as the driver has left and we are alone on an empty street. Luckily, I have the phone number written down; we call, and soon a tall Indian guy lets us in. He’s young, I think to myself, and cute. He’s not the owner though, we find out. Instead, he’s a guest—one of the many friendly guests we’ll meet over the next few days. The owners are gone already for the night, but the Indian guy, Aura, tells us to give them a call to confirm we’re supposed to be there.
I call the number and reach a groggy-sounding Naima. She tells us to sleep there for the night (she doesn’t remember us, I think, worried) and that we can sort it out in the morning. After the call, Aura asks us what happened, and we tell him we’re staying. I’m sure our demeanor is tenative and suspicious. We feel like uninvited guests in this cozy home.
And it is cozy, decorated with bright, warm colors and Ikea furnishings. Both Suzanne and I had expected something different: colder, perhaps, more sanitary like a line of hospital cots with their medicinal smell and rigidly correct distance between. No, instead, after coming in, we climb a flight of creaky wooden stairs up to the main floor with golden yellow walls, private rooms, and kitchen. Then we climb another flight to reach the loft which has lamps hanging from the rafters and glowing from inside the curtained ‘rooms.’ We choose randomly and push aside the curtains to reveal air mattresses with pillow, sheet, blanket, and towel folded neatly on top.
At this point, we are hungry, not having eaten since before our flight at 7:50 PM. We leave our luggage to stake our beds and head downstairs. I ask Aura if he knows any open restaurants in the area. He suggests one restaurant around the corner which looked to him like a late night place. Suzanne and I set off, breath fogging in the cold air, only to find it closed.
We walk back to the hostel and decide we are far too hungry to just settle down for the night. It is 11 at this time, but we are certain we’ll find something open, and we do, in the form of Café Papillon. The sign says it is open until 12 AM and we see people sitting inside, both generally good indicators. We are stopped once inside, however, by the hostess/waitress, who says something quickly in French, while shaking her head.
Perhaps our disappointment is all too evident, as the waitress asks us in English, “Did you want something quick?”
“Yes, yes, just a crepe or something,” I answer in a rush. She nods, grabs two menus, and motions for us to follow her. We are seated by the window, near the lone other couple in the main dining area. The boisterous laughter of a group dinner is heard behind us, the result, I think, of free flowing wine and good company.
We order escargots and a Papillon crepe, which is, as we find out, a combination of bananas, strawberries, and delicious chocolate sauce. The food is mediocre overall—in fact, the restaurant reminds us of a Perkins. Everything from the dark green carpet to the falsely homey décor resonantes of average America, but we don’t mind because we know we’ll be having wonderful food in the future days.
After paying the check (with credit card, as we have not exchanged any money yet), we head back to the hostel a few doors down. Aura is still up and we chat for a bit. He’s a graduate student at one of the New York state universities and only here until tomorrow, sadly.
Then it’s off to bed. The shared bathroom upstairs has no hot water, and so I wash my shivering face quickly and crawl into bed. I sleep surprisingly well, out like a light until the next morning.
To be continued...