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In the company of my fellow artistic collaborators, I finally made it to Canada: the stomping grounds of my French ancestors. We would be there for no longer than a day.
In the Montreal airport I saw many obvious Mexican immigrants. Remind me again- which country has that big green statue and that lovely poem about huddled masses?
During lunch, I sat in a vegan cafe alone in Mile End. I had been ditched there so more errands could be run before show time. It was my impression that no one wanted to share ‘healthy’ food with me either.
The clouds gathered enough to let down a spring rain. The musical selection connected me back to NYC. Brooklyn Rider played. I’d been in a performance with those musicians!
The time with my own thoughts, scrawling long hand in a note book was not under appreciated.
Part of me was wondering why I didn’t speak French; part of me wondered why I was born in America; part of me wanted to go to sleep in a comfortable bed, in a lying down position. There was no hostel, motel, hotel or b and b (air or otherwise) reserved for us on this trip.
Pictures weren’t snapped. I was not in tourist mode. I was running on a scant few hours of sleep and was expected to get on stage to do a performance. That was why the three of us went to this northern city: we wanted to expose Heroic Procession to a different crowd. It was something they did not expect. Of course. Other performers who stopped to watch us voiced their admiration for our efforts, I can’t say how anyone else roving the Rialto received the work.
After the dj’s interminable set faded out and the last of the booths were stripped, we taxied over to waste time at a 24 hour dive unremarkably called Joe’s Panini. It was right next to a happy ending massage parlor with an honest to Venus barker inviting males to enjoy the heights of relaxation and pleasure. He didn’t stay outside of the establishment very long though. He noticed we weren’t potential clientele and ran along to find more likely types.
It was the small hours of the morning. The rain of the day was still soaking in. The panini place was quite busy. There were lone super drunks, a lesbian couple, an EMT guy wearing pink camo patterned trousers.. who knew 2 am would bring a rush?
I ate a questionable soy veggie panini. It was absolutely perfect given my setting.
One of the super drunks went off about bacon being the best kind of vegetable. He was trying to get a rise out of someone he perceived as vegan – I wondered if he pegged me as such? Sometimes drunks have magic powers after all. And he was supra-drunk.
This large inebriate had ordered a panini. He ate it. Then ordered another panini heavy with bacon, plus a large portion of mac’n’cheese. He ate everything. He was so far gone, I don’t think he would even remember that he ate enough for three and a half people. I avoided eye contact.
At the airport: I over heard a couple of gentlemen who sat at the same gate. Their conversation moved between what sounded like Scottish accented English to full on Quebecois. That was a treat for my ears.
We still had so many hours to kill before our flight. The airport was too loud for me to sleep more than a moment or two. My animal self felt too vulnerable.
I survived this adventure in one piece. Or so I thought. The effects of stress were merely delayed. It hit me a week after arriving home: Vomiting. The runs. Menses. Missing out on work.
But anyway- What’s next?
A jaunt to New Orleans?
(Come on, Papa Legba. Help a white woman out.)
