Falling

It’s definitely autumn and cold here now, about 50F-60F during the day and the 40F range at night. Hard to believe that after all those sticky, enervating, humid heat waves, I’m looking at the furnace panel trying to remember how to turn it on.

The brilliant autumnal leaves are stunning, glowing under the grey overcast sky, branches swaying urgently as the chill winds rush through and we mere humans shiver and hunch and hope to be inside soon.

I’m packing up, cleaning, I leave for L.A. tomorrow. Sylvain stays on in MTL another couple weeks, so this is the first time I have to manage my massive suitcases by myself. Sylvain will come with me to the airport tomorrow to make sure I get through security okay, but I’ll be on my own once I’m back to smoky choky ol’ L.A.

Though I dislike the northern cold here in MTL, I love the freshness of the air and will miss being able to breathe freely under a brilliant blue sky–when I’m able to dodge the cigarette/pot smoke, of course. Rare moments, but precious by contrast to my respiratory life in LaLaLand.

I’m having all the feels about leaving and arriving; can’t wait to get home but also mildly sad to leave this dumpy old off-kilter apartment (though it looks pretty good now that I’ve whisked it into “broom-clean” shape for the next tenant).

I won’t miss the constant parade of street crazies literally at our door; some hard to look at, some scary and aggressive, adding to the stress of struggling to communicate in a language I don’t know very well to people who sometimes deliberately pretend not to understand.

Even so, I still feel a little melancholy about leaving here. I ask myself, “Is it because Montreal feels like home now?” and the answer is no, it doesn’t, but I have become attached to it in odd ways that tug at me when I see it in the taxi’s rear view mirror.

Leaving a place you’re attached to can make one a little blue, even when you’re heading for the dumpy old off-kilter house that *does* feel like home, and you’re excited about putting your feet up on your accustomed couch and taking the measure of every plant in your own garden, where hopefully there will still be butterflies.

Any anticipatory joy I have in getting home is heavily attenuated by the arduousness of the journey–leaving the house at 5am after no sleep, stern looks at the border, fretting over my huge overweight luggage and the delicate electronics in my carry-on (you’d think a packrat like me would be good at packing, but no). Will I be seated next to a smelly red-faced bigot, or an operatic baby? Will I be able to drag my bags to the extremely remote LAX taxi stand without getting a hernia? Will the house still be intact when I arrive, after our caretaker bailed on us several days early, leaving our creaky beloved home vacant and vulnerable?

Somewhere amid the worries, I hold vague hopes of scrounging up a little food and tea without too much effort, though I will be jittery and strung out and metabolically in another time zone. Fingers crossed that the car will start without having to call AAA to jump the battery, so I can re-stock the fridge at Trader Joe’s–ah, TJoes! How I’ve missed you!

But even though I’ll be ecstatic to get back to the familiar sights and stressors of L.A., I’ll simultaneously yearn for life in Montreal–bits of it, anyway. I do love the parks and the greenery, the good food and the colorful summer events, but mostly I will miss my friends here. Somehow, I made a couple pretty good buds, fairly quickly–perhaps part of being an expat is readily bonding with other expats?

(Though one dear friend is a Quebecoise whom I met through CovidMeetUps.com, so pandemic bonding happens too.)

If nothing else, it’s a relief to be able to speak one’s native tongue with a friend, so sweet and relaxing, without being judged or punished for it.

And sharing the experiences of being a stranger in a strange land, and having a friend in the midst of that land, is bliss.

I will also regret the ending of the little rituals Sylvain and I adopted here–our weekly pizza night, biking to the botanical gardens on Sundays, trying new Quebecois treats and taking their measure, comparing photos of flowers and architecture and parades. Simple pleasures are little treasures, especially when one is far away from home and family.

But, with a sigh, I must now get back to work…it’s our last pizza night in Montreal, which is a little depressing, but hey: pizza, right? Gather ye comfort foods while ye may, for tomorrow ye will fly….

Thanks for staying tuned to our little Montreal adventure (ad-Frenchure?) It’s helpful to be able to reflect and tell our stories.

I’m out until next time around–which may be sooner than we think, depending how the election rolls out. IYKYK.

À bientôt, mes ami.e.s! Hope to cross paths with you again soon. Happy fall, wherever you may be.