June 24, 2010 Fete du St. Jean Baptiste
Having got away with replacing pagan mid-winter festivals with Christmas, the Church did it again with John the Baptist, whose birthday supposedly falls exactly six months later and – what a coincidence – also three days after the solstice. But from what I can see of Montreal’s celebration of this “fete” the pagans get the last laugh: the party never ends, and the hotel restaurant is full of loud drunks by noon.
There is another long torrential downpour, we don’t get rain like that, and I’m stuck at the computer all day, so I miss the parade. From my room I look out through the rain and the forest of muscular buildings to a shiny gold tower two blocks away. Two Great Blue Herons rise up – who knows, from nests on the grande “Marie, Queen of the World” Cathedral – and flap langourously in front of the great mirror, a little flock of pre-historic splendour. My only other distraction is the chocolate lady who timidly brings me bon bons and the weather for tomorrow: Sunny and warm!
I’m rescued from my room by an invitation to dine at Schwartz’s Jewish Smoked Meats. There is a line-up when I get there at the appointed time, I don’t know whether my friends are inside so I jump at the doorman’s invitation for “one”. Inside it is like the “Only Seafood Restaurant” in its heyday, the size of a barbershop, jammed tables and a counter with one empty stool, no sign of my party, but before I know it – not 30 seconds after I was standing outside – I am facing “what everyone else is having”: A pickle, side of fries, cherry coke (I tell you, I had no chance to object!) and a huge pile of “medium” (fatiness) corned beef squeezed between two tiny slices of rye bread like a fat lady in a thong. The message is clear: take all the time you like, as long as you are gone in 10 minutes. But the guys behind the bar are convivial, and when Earl slides in next to me – dumping Jan for the next seat – they want to know about Rotary: “you do all that for no money?” they ask in amazement. No one offers us lattes or creme caramel, so we dab off the mustard and walk across the street for beers while the others are unceremoniously stuffed and shooed.
I walk home along Sherbrooke past McGill University, the beauty and variety of architecture rivaled only by Chicago and of women only by Paris. Overhead I can hear the hunting cries of nighthawks.
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