La Nuit

Sometimes, the universe pauses for a moment, and you find yourself in a music video. I was standing on the Boulévard René-Lévesque, Denali's Time Away on my iPod, and I looked up to see the Cathédral Marie-Reine-du-Monde above me, saints standing on the thick stone wall with hands outstretched toward me. Hard glints of snow fell through the streetlights; spotlights rotated overhead like the blades of an enormous helicopter. I couldn't quite catch my breath.

(Later, the stoplights started blinking in time with Then I Start to Yodel (for Jesus) by Mistress Ramona. They do that here—the green lights blink before becoming yellow. That was...less good.)

For a while, I thought my walk was a mistake—in January, in Canada, at night, in a snowstorm, in a strange city with signage in a foreign language. But I found a café (which I fear might have been the Canadian version of Starbucks), where I drank a white cocoa and read Gene Wolfe's The Knight, and when I left I had the little epiphany I describe above, so I think it was a good idea. Walking back to the hotel in a roundabout way, I continued my cathedral tour with two more—St. Patrick's, its rose window glowing orange in the night, and Notre Dame, lit blue. I also saw a building of colored glass that turned the snowy sidewalk into a Candyland board, a glassed-in TV studio where two news anchors were chatting between segments, and an avenue of light-wrapped trees ending in a huge Christmas tree of yellow lights. The buildings here are beautiful, skyscrapers and older architecture both.

My coolest discovery, though, was La Maison Hantée. I saw a squat little Victorian house on a dark corner, with windows boarded up, leafless trees reaching for the moon, and things above the door. I did a double-take, but they didn't go away: there were winged Gothic demons rending each other to shreds on the roof. They were a little cheesy, on closer inspection; the chicken wire was visible in places. But that made them more scary, not less; a decrepit, unsavory haunted house is a blend of fantastic horrors and real-world ones, which blurs boundaries. I was fascinated. (It is, in actuality, a haunted dinner theater, which sounds frankly awesome. I think we would need a large group to make a reservation, though.)

Tomorrow, I explore Old Montréal with my sweetie. Should be lovely.

Bon matin

Riiiiight.

"C" means "chaud".

Il fait froid!

I can't decide if Montréal's Notre Dame Basilica is beautiful or obscene. As a Quaker, it is hard to imagine finding a worshipful peace in that space, as every square inch is shouting with color. But it is so vivid and awesome I find it hard to object. The pillars are like rolls of Christmas wrapping paper (all different) bound together in groups of six, like merry fasces; the sanctuary is like a soaring night sky framing the kingdom of heaven; the confessionals are like tiny golden palaces; the organ is a huge steel bat crouching above the nave. There will be pictures later—I got my $4 worth.

We had tasty crêpes and coffee for lunch in Old Montréal, and wandered the Rue St. Paul for a while until our faces started to hurt from the cold. (Incidentally, adfamiliares tells me that an accent circonflex (ˆ) indicates a dropped "s"—hostel to hôtel, crespes to crêpes.) If I were a millionaire, I would have bought presents for all at the French medieval-stuff store we stumbled upon, for they had swords of excellence and dresses of astonishing beauty. For some reason, none of that is reflected on the website, but if you'd been here you too would have been drooling over the burgundy velvet gowns with wide bodice-ribbons and drooping sleeves, the engraved claymores, the corsets and pantaloons and cloaks. Fleurs-de-lis were everywhere. We were sorely tempted, but $250 was too steep, even for the amazing black gown with nothing but lace above the waist. Even in Canadian money.

Tonight I am being spousal; we went to the president's reception (which was a bit of a bust, since most of K's friends were mysteriously absent, but the food was good), and I soon will go with her to the Michigass party. Classicists everywhere, but at least I get to dress snazzy. ;) I may sneak out early to enjoy the Montréal night life, should I work up the nerve (hush up, showergrrl!).