Below is one more day from my online diary thingy, which I'm posting more regularly on my website (www.taylorgraymoore.com). If you like it, please take a look :D
I'm going to take a break from chronicling Montreal for now and try to catch up to the present, which is getting forgotten. And that forgets the whole point of the project. I need to wait to talk to someone about the next bit, anyway, and have time to chew on it. So, a break.
Today has been an eventful day, easily the most eventful of the trip so far: it’s nearly 4AM on the 6th now, and the day hasn’t ended. I just got back. I am well and drunk, and it’s far too late to write about any of this. Let me try again tomorrow, or later. Perhaps on the plane. I don’t know when the next time will be: this end of the trip is so compressed, and there is so much happening that these last days, as I look back at them (I’m back in Vancouver now, I couldn’t even finish this on the plane), and it feels like it should have been most of the trip. It was not—it was only the last 50 some-odd hours of a week long visit.
Almost everything after this point, this day and the next one at least, I finished after the fact. It got that busy. … So, the texture of the narrative will therefore be somewhat different—I don’t know how, but if I’m writing most of it in Vancouver who knows how long later, that will probably happen. It’s a memoir now, not a diary. Although I’ll still try to pretend—
Today is the day I promised to visit Tom in Lachine. Lachine is far—still technically Montreal proper, although this is only recently the case, but so far west it’s almost the airport, and, apart from passing through making my way to a plane, I have never been there. So I had to look up how to get there, and what time I had to leave if I wanted to get there, hang out a bit, and then get back out with reasonable time left in the evening. I have plans to get out to Verdun in the evening, you see—there’s somebody I want to see.
.I check this. I’ve checked it before, but I want to check again to be sure, and be more exact about it. Seems I’ll have to leave the apartment by 10:45—the earliest I’ve left to go anywhere so far—walk to the metro, get off at Lionel-Groulx and change to a bus. Not so complicated. But it’s a long trip, about an hour, and I always dislike unknown transfers, especially when the bus only comes every half an hour.
(It’s Friday, December 15th right now—the fourth day of waking up at 5am, and I’ve been editing this stuff at about 5pm every day this week, after coming home from the early shift I’ve been waking up at 5 for and settling in. It’s starting to get hard to do this, just from accumulated fatigue. And the texture of these texts is starting to turn into something more uncertain, less spontaneous. I’m less sure if I like it any more; I’m not sure if it’s still—and I HATE using this word but it’s the only one I know that gets the idea across—authentic to what it was meant to be. It’s starting to feel too much like fiction. I’m starting to worry too much about the plot, about scenes, about what I want to convey, and I’m going back and editing too much. I’m going to try to quit that a bit.)
I hadn’t seen Tom in… when was the last time I saw Tom? I don’t even remember. We weren’t so close, but I liked him. I was not always nice enough to him. It would be good to see him again. I had promised to see him before I knew he lived way out in Lachine, but that was fine—I like a good, long journey into the unknown. Fleshing out the map of the city a little. I’m a wanderer at heart, at least when I can do it by bus.
He offered to sell me back the copy of Animal Crossing that I sold him back in 2018, during the worst days at the end when I was selling everything off, mostly old games that I had never wanted to get rid of and wish I still had. (Oh, hey, that must’ve been the last time I’d seen him. Standing across from the old bathhouse at Bagg and St-Laurent waiting to meet him and exchange the game for, what was it, about thirty bucks? It was outside where, in the wee hours of the next morning, I would find that Matvey was saying. The world goes in these circles and places find their meaning that way). I said sure. I would be pleased to get it back—I’d give it to my mom, who had played it more than me. I wasn’t happy to sell a single one of those, and the idea of getting one of them, any of them, back is intensely cathartic. Like the quiet sort of emotional resolution you get at the end of a lot of quiet postmodern novels—a little bit of Earthly perfection.
I want to finish editing the last chapter of the novella before I go, and I do that easily—it’s only a couple of pages long, and I don’t have so many notes to copy out. Want to do that so much because I strongly suspect I will have no more time after I heard out the door that morning.
I have another time after I’m done to finish my coffee and get a 20 from the ATM in the dep directly below me, and then I’m off towards Mont-Royal metro through the snow that I’m already used to again. Enough has fallen and been packed now that I don’t slip so easily anymore. Make a quick phone call to home as I go up Rachel, then I turn onto St-Denis, thinking about how I had always wanted to spend more time on the street and how nice it feels to be walking along it now, and then I slip onto the metro and begin the journey proper. I zip underneath downtown and then out the other side.
Lionel-Groulx is a place I’ve never gone to much except to pass through. It’s where the bus from the airport lets you off, and where you catch it if you’re going out again. Sometimes I also got off here to go to the Super C by the Atwater Market, but that’s about it. I know there’s stuff around here, just the pattern of my life. I think I did go to a cafe near here once, just to have done it. But I associate it with comings and goings.
When I first arrived back after five years in exile, last May, I got out here. It has a power to it if only for that.
It’s one of my favourite stations design wise—looks pretty nice, I like the strange twisted tree sculpture with the faces, and it’s highly functional: an exchange station, the obvious transfers are made by just crossing the platform. Refreshing compared to all the walking in Berri-UQAM and not to mention the twisted labyrinth inside Jean-Talon. (I don’t know Snowdon enough to have an opinion.) Matt raves about it on his website: it’s truly excellent. … Let’s not talk too much about who its named after, other than to say he’s got a nice name.
There’s a bit of confusion when I surface from it, because the bus stop I need had been moved for… some reason that was not clarified. I cross Atwater towards a stop I at first think is what I want, only to find another closed stop. I turn around and see the bus appearing and about to turn towards what I realize is definitely the place I’m supposed to be. But the light changes, I bolt back across Atwater, and I join the line with plenty of time. I board. I sit. The bus pulls away and I water the world go by out the window as we follow the same path as that fabled bus to the airport until pulling out to go to Lachine.
Like I said, have never really been to Lachine. The airport bus passes along the top of it, although on the expressway so you don’t really see it, and I did get a better view on Uber ride once, which went along the streets of Lachine while trying to get me through the airport in time to catch a flight while the expressway was backed up with traffic.
The bus followed the same route as that Uber had for a short while, then turned onto Provost. I enjoy seeing previously unknown streets: it looks like how a lot of Montreal looks, but there are more single-floor detached homes. It’s a little like the South Shore, but not nearly that suburban. I watched a TV show filmed here once, and it looks enough like the East End for you to not notice it isn’t. But it is certainly more out of the way than where I’ve spent most of my time.
I get off at the stop Maps told me to get off at, and begin the trek through the snow to my end destination—one long Montreal block away. I pass a stop for the 90 St-Jacques, which is closer to where I’m going and also goes back to the metro. Maybe a better way to leave—and it goes through NDG, where there’s a bookstore I want to visit. Let’s look into that.
The address I’m headed for is the first building around the corner, when I turn. I walk up the steps and ring the apartment number I’d been given, get buzzed in.
Tom is as I remember him, more or less. Which isn’t a bad thing. We do the exchange for the game, he gets his twenty and the Animal Crossing goes into my bag, and then we sit and play some steam games. for an hour or two. It’s the most relaxed I’ve been in days. I do better than I thought I would, and I wish I did stuff like this more often. I note to myself I should see how many of these I can find on the Switch when I’m back in Van.
But then it’s time to go—we promise to add each other on switch, and I leave to catch that 90 St-Jacques bus. Which runs every fifteen minutes, not every half hour like the other one, apart from just plain being closer, and Tom agrees it’s the better way to go. I leave the building, turn the corner. The buss appears, passes me, pulls up to the stop. I break into a run, dunking under one or two tree branches without slowing down and praying I don’t slip. It sits there. I make it. I sit down to catch my breath—my lungs are still not exactly super happy, so I’m suffering a little—and see the useful digital sign telling me that I had five more minutes and so didn’t need to run.
It’s a more interesting bus route: the same way back along Provost, and then down 1re and Georges-V the way I came, but then instead of joining the Autoroute it instead goes under it and takes me through more that I’d never seen—through Ville St-Pierre and the bottom of Montreal West, along St-Jacques until I recognize Cavendish and here we are in familiar lands again. NDG: I spent a lot of time here, I was in a relationship with someone who lived here for years, and then I even lived here for a week at the very end of things. Even after I had come back to Montreal, it seemed like another thing entirely to go back to NDG, and I didn’t honestly expect to do it. But here I am—for the bookstore.
At Upper Lachine and Melrose I get off the bus. I walk up Melrose, through the tunnel under the tracks, and then continue until I eventually reach Sherbrooke West—which is exactly as I remember it. Why does it seem impossible that it still exists preserved? It should have collapsed like a false vacuum after I last passed by here on the 105. Like a fantasy world one wakes up from, like Koholint Island, gone.
But that’s silly; and nothing has changed. My favourite cafe there closed down during lockdown, but even that is the same on the outside—the sign is still up and everything, just the windows are papered over. I know this because I pass it on the bus when I leave, later, and I’m shocked to see that even that is the same. It must have been held suspended for me, so I could see it again and leave it properly, without fear and without distortion.
The reason why I’m here at all: Encore Books & Records. The third and last bookstore I’m going to to find the Okri book. … have they have it! I hadn’t even planned to come here. Must be fate. They have it, plus a couple of other books I want—Achebe’s No Longer at Ease, which I read shortly thereafter, and then I forget the other one—and a couple of records—Ville Emard Blues Band, plus a Christmas gift for someone—and I make myself glad that I brought a reusable tote back. I prolong my visit a bit longer, because I really did not expect to ever be back here. I take some pictures and send them to Mark, who would love it. Then—I really don’t want to be too late getting back—I head onwards. Walk out to the stop for the 105, wait a good ten minutes for it. Take the trip I remember so well back towards Vendome and the outside world, passing the shuttered Shaika and a past life as I go.
A version of myself died here in 2018. For years after, it really was hard to believe that my life had not somehow ended, that the life I was living in my present was in any way still my own. This bus ride reattaches that death to my continuing life. I don’t think that, then; that’s the artistry brought on by a later week’s reflection; when I disembark outside the totally reconstructed and unrecognizable Vendome, I’m only thinking of how hungry I am.
Back in the Plateau, I get off at Sherbrooke rather than Mont-Royal, so that, on the way back, I can stop off at Le Vieux Europe and get one of their sandwiches. It was on my list of places that I’d always wanted to go to but never did. I also like the walk better: I’m sick of the walk from Mont-Royal, and I want to see Carré St-Louis and the lower bits of the Plateau, I am happy to get to walk along des Pins E and along Roy, go past a not-yet-open Else’s and remember the good and the bad times had in there (mostly good; I only haven’t been there yet because I have decided to wait for Matvey, because it was his place more than mine…)
