Today: A Summary; also Impressions

I had intended to sleep a normal number of hours (I consider normal to be about 7) and wake up at a reasonable time, after which I had planned a route through the downtown, McGill University, Mount Royal, and then I was to take stock over a peaceful lunch.  Of course it went not very much like that.

• I overslept my alarm.  I don't even remember the thing going off.  Not typical for me.
• I walked through the downtown, explored a shopping mall, finally - in desperate need of food and coffee - stopped at a Starbucks.  That was not entirely my plan.  I do enjoy going to Starbucks on vacations, because it's interesting to see the variety they offer (Montreal Starbucks is somewhat European in their beverages - they don't even have drip coffee, which they had in Paris - and largely American in their foods - in some ways, more American than NYC Starbucks, which have recently given themselves a horrifying makeover to make their baked goods fussier) but it is also nice to try local places.
• I walked through McGill University and felt nostalgic for my own university days.  Not so long ago if we count the decade of post-college university life.  In most of Montreal, 75% of the conversations you overhear are in French; on that campus, 10% were.
• While we're on the subject of French, the whole language thing has made me feel very awkward.  It would almost be easier if I spoke zero French at all; then I would have to speak English to everyone always.  Instead, I speak enough French to conduct basic transactions, transactions in which nothing I don't expect occurs.  I can say hello, ask for a coffee, understand numbers and ask to be given a bag (I can also understand about half of what historical placards say and a significant fraction of overheard conversations, if I'm concentrating - it's just that dealing with people in real time is harder).  I cannot ask for a muffin if it's not labelled, and I do not know the French for 'swipe' (apparently they did not teach us this in 1994).  So I tend to start transactions in French, and then a third of the time I have to ask awkwardly if the other party speaks English (they always do, and always better than I speak French), and a third of the time they realize how clueless I am and switch to English themselves.  But I feel bad just going in there like Anglophone Commando and expecting them to speak my language as if everyone in the free world does even though, apparently, everyone in the free world does.  And the few times they haven't switched, maybe they didn't know how to speak English, and then how awful would it have been if I'd tried to make them?  I think there is a good solution, along the lines of returning a greeting of Bonjour with Bonjour, Hello, which is what shopkeepers seem to say to convey that they are happy to speak English.  I am guessing that responding to a French greeting that way would convey "I can speak a little bit of French but English is my preferred language," in some way more graceful than asking - in what I'm guessing is overformal grade-school diction - if they speak English, which is probably like asking if they can add.  But so far I have not pulled this off.
• Anyway.  Then I went to Mount Royal.  It's, you know, a mountain.  With trails and stuff.  I'm not sure how far up it goes - I would guess far-ish, because I saw lots of people with mountain bikes and so forth.  But it seems that most of the people there - runners and tourists alike - just go up to the observatory.  This is a shortish, steepish climb (maybe 200 steps?  and some uphill walking, but not a lot), rewarded by a breathtaking view:

• After relaxing in the sun for a while, and watching a much more enterprising person go through her exercise routine (including various drills I recognized, and an impressive backwards-climbing -of-steps-on-plank-position), I set off again.  The idea was to visit two districts mentioned in a tourist book I'd picked up somewhere, one of which was supposed to be sort of the Madison Avenue of Montreal (my words), with chic shops and the best outdoor cafes - I figured I'd get lunch there - and the other of which was called The Village and was described like a Montreal version of the NYC village.
• The Madison Avenue district seemed kind of down at the heels, relative not only to the real Madison Avenue but to Montreal's own downtown.  I did find a fussy food shop and bought some cheese and bread for dinner (including raw milk cheese, which you can't get in the States, and a baguette far superior to what you'd get in Fairway or Zabar's).  I found a frozen yogurt shop and a couple of fancy restaurants, but not the adorable outdoor cafe serving crepes that I was hoping for.  I nearly went into a couple of fast food places to eat the poutine that seems to be all the rage here (why?? it's french fries - already debatably not good - with gravy poured on them.  gravy is disgusting, and it would make the fries soggy and therefore inedible.  and then cheese curds or meat on top?  now it's just weird.) but the idea of the amount of work it would involve put me off.  I get nervous about unfamiliar lunch places at the best of times - they all have different rules! - and the language barrier and my increasing fatigue and hunger were certainly not helping.  So I found a lovely park, sat by a lake, and ate some bread and cheese.  I've had much worse lunches.
• The Village area was a disappointment.  I suppose it is a bit like what the NYC village may have been like in its heyday - back when it actually was edgy - but it didn't really feel safe, or even terribly interesting.  I made my way back toward downtown.
• On my way back, I stumbled into Chinatown.  This instantly reminded me of the last time I was in Montreal.  It was in March of 2004, for a conference.  One day, at lunchtime, I went with two groupmates - one a native of China - to Chinatown and had a very good, very inexpensive meal.  Another day, I walked around the old city, thinking about a boy I liked who was also at the conference and who, I was beginning to think, did not like me back as much as he sometimes seemed to.  Yet another day, an ex-boyfriend who desperately wanted to rekindle our relationship left fancy pastries at the front desk of our hotel, among the most romantic (and least appreciated) gestures anyone has ever performed for me.  Now, nearly a decade later, we are all in different places.  The guy I liked turned out to indeed not like me back (his stated reason being that I was not thin enough), and he eventually quit his job and moved away; I believe he lives in London now, earns a great deal of money, and - conjecture - dates a succession of beautiful and annoyingly-not-vapid women.  The ex-boyfriend endured a series of tragedies of all sizes before meeting his final and greatest tragedy; his story is sad, but I am reminded of him from time to time - we were close for years after our breakup - and I feel okay about remembering him, because he was a really good person, and not enough people knew that about him.  The groupmate from China finished his PhD and, after some amount of postdoctoral fumbling, found a prestigious research position in China, married, had a couple of kids, and as far as I know is living happily ever after.  The other groupmate also finished his PhD and became a sort of permanent postdoc for a professor who was later jailed for crimes of a sexual nature.  None of this is to any point, really.  I just think it's interesting what happens to people over time.  
• I am writing this from Starbucks (yes, again... I am very ashamed of my evilness, etc.), where I am about to start cheating on Nanowrimo by starting it early.