Hello from the Restaurant Bonaparte in the depths of Old Montreal, Quebec, Canada. Partly cloudy skies. A warm breeze drifting throughout streets and backalleys over 400 years old. A glass of sauvignon blanc and hearty conversation. Fine French cuisine and nowhere to be but here, and now.
I found myself here today on a simple whim by my mother who, yesterday evening, turned to me in the living room of my parents’ North Country farmhouse during a rerun of her favorite show “Everybody Loves Raymond” and said, “You want to get lunch in Montreal tomorrow?” Yes. Sold. It was decided to find a French dining establishment and leave come late morning.
It was only about an hour drive from their home over the border into Quebec and into one of the world’s finest cities. A metropolis I’ve known and loved since I was a child, first coming up there in the winter for the underground markets and ice skating, as a teenager for the endless concerts at Parc Jean-Drapeau and as a young adult for the nightlife and cold Canadian lager beers. Nowadays, I wander the streets for the stunning architecture and pure culture.
Today was my sixth border crossing between Canada and the United States in the last three weeks or so. Twice earlier in the month between Upstate New York and Montreal to fly out to the West. Twice between Montana and British Columbia. Twice today for lunch. It ain’t lost on me how special and wild and surreal it is, and remains, to cross an international boundary in search of purpose and truth. Don’t take for granted what it means to freely travel between countries of our sacred world, and do so with a kind heart and a trajectory of compassion and curiosity. Remain curious. Remain kind.
In the next few days, I’ll finally be making my way back below the Mason-Dixon Line to Western North Carolina. It’s been almost two months since I slept in my own bed, drank a cappuccino at the shop around the corner, ate lunch on Main Street in Waynesville or had a cold Coors Light at my neighborhood bar. Same goes with the desk in my office at the newsroom for this newspaper, everything on said desk now covered in a slight layer of dust, nothing moved or shifted since early June when I set out on this latest trek of adventures, whether planned or unplanned (all of which greatly appreciated).
For now? Restaurant Bonaparte. Three-course meal for $44 (Canadian). Start with the mixed green salad with roasted almonds, thinly sliced apples and cider vinaigrette. Main course? A sliced breast of chicken with melted brie cheese and sage sauce. Dessert? cheesecake with maple and blackberry. Top it off with a couple cans of Kronenbourg 1664 lagers. Eat with gusto. Tip accordingly to the jovial souls attending our table. Their smiles are genuine.
The dining room booth was very snug, which I would assume would be ideal for a first date or to sit across from your significant other on some special occasion. I kept thinking how (maybe someday) I’d bring my girlfriend, Rebecca, here, maybe even stay in the hotel upstairs, park my rusty, musty truck with dirty North Carolina plates just around the corner, maybe even go for a midnight stroll along the centuries-old cobblestone streets. Someday.
But, today? The person sitting across from me was my “best girl,” I guess you could say. Kathy (aka: “mom”). She was grinning ear-to-ear when we got seated at the window booth, even more so when her butternut squash soup arrived, and then the nicoise salad with fresh tuna showed up. But, that would pale in comparison when her beloved French chocolate mousse showed up at the end of the meal. I was allowed one delicious bite. I left her the rest to enjoy.
Leaving the restaurant, there were still two hours left on the parking meter. Wandering down Rue Saint Francois-Xavier, we ducked down Rue Saint Paul and grabbed a seat at sidewalk cafe for a glass of wine and more friendly banter. Talk about how each of our respective lives are, whether it be loved ones near and far, loved ones not on this earth anymore, rehashing tall tales of family lore from past summer vacations, or simply discussing future dreams.
Not once does a moment of the conversation feel forced. And it’s always been like that between mom and I, thankfully. “We’re cut from the same cloth,” as she’s told me throughout my life. It’s also not lost on me being able to spend quality time with her, especially in a foreign country over a great meal and within Old Montreal and all of its aesthetic beauty surrounding oneself. Finishing the last sips of the wine, it was onward to the port shoreline.
Stroll along Rue Saint Pierre towards the mighty Saint Lawrence River. While in motion, we noticed members of the Royal Canadian Navy in their pristine uniforms streaming through the streets. They looked prim and proper, and also very young. I wondered how old they actually were, where they grew up, and where they might be headed once back on their ships. We thanked them for their service in passing. They smiled awkwardly like young adults do.
Down by the river, the Amerigo Vespucci was docked. According to Montreal news outlet The Gazette, the ship was constructed in 1931 and had recently “traversed the Atlantic with all-manual technology.” “A nearly century-old Italian navy training vessel, dubbed ‘the most beautiful ship in the world,’ is visiting Montreal this week,” the article went on to say. Standing on the walkway and viewing the gorgeous ship among countless others, I concurred.
Soon, the parking meter was to be concluded with our $20 purchase of time and space. Motoring out of this world-class city, Montreal appeared in the rearview mirror, the suburbs quickly transitioning into endless farmfields. Nothing but open land between the metropolis and the Canadian Border some 45 minutes south. We crossed over into the States via the Route 276 station. A couple miles or so down 276, we passed my old high school. It looked pretty much the exact same as when I graduated: a generic-looking warehouse.
And even though, at age 41, I still feel like that same happy-go-lucky and compassionate person as I was then (or at least truly aimed to be), I could sense the immense distance, whether geographically or intrinsically, from that starting line of an academic building surrounded by soccer/baseball fields I used to roam, all of which surrounded by cornfields I used to pass by each day to and from school to my parents’ old farmhouse. The gratitude of a constant evolution of self remains, as does an unrelenting curiosity of life itself, too.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.