Vagabond Tales and What You Read
So I’ve been wondering what you have really enjoyed reading about in my travels and what sort of stories should I continue to tell.
For a while I wrote quite detailed summaries of almost each and everyday of my travels but that can get quite tiring from my own perspective and I don’t even know if you are really interested in reading about it.
Lately I’ve been thinking of a few different formats for my travelogue posts.
Travel Exploits
These are the ridiculous tales from the road, whether it’s a 22 hour bus ride from Atlanta to Austin, my first day in Seattle where I never came home, or riding a horse for the first time. These are the highlights and the hijinx on the road.
City Reviews
Overall reviews and descriptions of the cities I’ve been visiting. Particular highlights and things to do in the city when you visit and maybe a rating system of some sort.
Cafe & Restaurant Reviews
This is where I write about the various venues of food I visit as I travel. I love food and I really enjoy writing about my experiences with it. They’ll highlight service, menu, price, etc. and I’ll give you a breakdown of things you really want to try when you get there.
Business Reviews
I detailed Lash’s Place recently as an example of an outstanding business that I’ve come upon in my travels. These could be anything from people I’ve come upon who have businesses that resonate with me to services that I think are useful for the vagabond life.
Vagabond Vistas
Landmarks, vistas, and tourist-like things that stand out in the places I visit. Short and hopefully media rich (when I get a camera).
Life on the Road
More philosophical and introspective discussion about living on the road, out of a suitcase, and how to deal with the lows and highs of a vagabond life.
Which ones have appealed to you in the past?
What would you want to read about in the future?
What kind of travel writing do you enjoy?
Do you enjoy more pictures in the posts?
Please let me know. Post your favorite posts in the comments and answer the above questions.
Montreal, QC – Food Binds Us Together (3/18 – 3/20)
I wrote about my first night in Montreal with a good bit of nostalgia. I remember so much about my life there when things had been left untouched by Immigration Canada but life is no longer so simple.
I live on the road. I am a vagabond artist.
Yet coming home to Montreal was really coming home even though I lost the home I had left my heart in.
One of the things that is always special to me, particularly in Montreal, is the sharing of food. Dinner or any other meal in the States often gets brushed over as just another chore to keep going in life. From the first bite of curry Tuesday night to the exorbitant spread of breakfast Sunday morning each meal is a communal act. Each meal showed me that while so much has changed being with my friends has not. I was not a stranger at our table.
Wednesday
I arrived at Caffe Mariani in the late morning. I used to work here, pressing sandwiches, serving espresso and sweeping the floors. Now it’s back to sitting at the tables, with the occasional fist-bump with Max (one of the owners), laptop out and working away for hours. A panani, cup of coffee (endless), latte and slice of gourmet pizza later, oh and six hours as well, and I had accomplished the majority of what I needed to.
When the chef greets you when you come in, leaves once his shift is done, and then comes back later and says “you’re still here?”, you know you’ve been at a café for a little too long.
I packed up my laptop and met up with Christina to sit at Cat’s Corner while she taught. It’s always great to see my old home away from home in Montreal. Cat’s Corners community is exceptionally vibrant with many individuals putting a lot of volunteer time and effort into the business to maintain what grew from a one-man business into a full time two-room studio. It is the third place for many people, not work, not home, but another safe comfortable place.
After Christina finished teaching we went to Euro-Deli for spinach calzones and I helped Pat and Chris plan a class they will be teaching out in the West Island. I am a solid fan of regular calzones and this one was quite good even before they drenched it in meat sauce.
Les Bobards was our next stop. Really I was going because I wanted to see people and not to necessarily dance so much. The last time I had been at Les Bobards was particularly disappointing (the band was shit). They were better this time, still a little square and replicated from recordings but better. If only the floor could have gotten softer and the ventilation actually manageable.
Thursday
I woke early (by vagabond standards) and worked out a little before heading off for breakfast with Dominique. It is always nice to reconnect with people who I’ve been friends with for a long time even if I don’t get to see them often.
We met at Aux Dernier Humains off of St.-Denis south of Jean-Talon, a little café with a delicious breakfast menu. I ordered an omelette with brie, spinach and onion accompanied with a side of potatos and bread. Dominique also ordered an omelette and a few bites into hers she realized she had mine and I hers. With a quick switch we were back to order, chaos averted.
We traded stories of where we’d been recently, she had also been traveling through Europe recently, and it was nice to hear her plans for future travels. It’s nice to chat with someone who understands the life of a traveler without having to explain it, even if it isn’t on the road without a house to go back to.
As her and I wrapped up our brunch I got a phone call from Alana (who I was supposed to meet for dinner but had inadvertently double booked on). She was a bit stressed out and rather than put our dinner off I headed down to NDG to her apartment for early drinks and sushi.
We sat in her living room and chatted for most of the afternoon. Finished a bottle of wine, went out to pick up sushi across the street along with another bottle of wine and some ice cream for me. By the time I had to teach at Cat’s Corner I think I was about a bottle and a half in (rosé not red thankfully) and slightly buzzed.
I caught a quick Metro ride up to Cat’s Corner on St. Laurent (I had missed the bus by a maximum of 3 minutes) and strolled in about five minutes before I was supposed to teach. Way to go me.
The group I taught is a practice troupe directed by my friends Alain and Marie. We started by playing a hide-and-seek game where everyone starts touching you, then as you count to 10 they run and hide. You then have to call them out from their hiding spot by name (great way to learn names by the way). During the game you can close your eyes and recount to 10 and they have to rush back out, touch you and rehide. I thought it was quite fun and I managed to get all but one of the students.
You also cannot move from where you are standing when you are looking for them. An added challenge.
I prepped a short bit with Marie while Alain took over. Then taught the Slim & Slam inspired chunky swing out focusing on loose and relaxed body movement. It’s quite comical at points where I get them to embody muppets in their motions. It is one of my favorite classes to teach. By the end of the class they were swinging out down the line more clearly and you could feel there was more energy. They finished their practice running the routine they had been working on.
Friday
Old Port day.
Alana picked me up at Caffé Mariani where I was doing a little internet work (since Chris doesn’t have WiFi yet) and we headed down to Old Montreal to walk around.
It’s been a while since I’ve been in the Old Port and it’s no where near as cozy in the cold months as it is in summer. The little alley streets are abandoned where in the summer they are filled with a variety of artists and vendors. The wind whips off the river and we definitely avoided the waterfront for that specific reason.
Our first attempt for brunch was an Alana favorite, Jardin Nelson. However, being a garden restaurant it was still closed. Yet I had to get a picture since it was obviously named after me.
Instead we ended up at a creperie where the service took a good hour to get us our table d’hote (never expect blazing fast service at a real restaurant in Montreal). Our soup came quickly to start us off alongside our drinks yet the waitress never returned to fill our water glasses. Disappointing slightly. Also, it was amazing how much the waitresses voice carried through the restaurant, it was that low, full Quebecois voice. Quite remarkable.
We then wandered through Marché Bonsecours, full of hand crafted art and a nice looking art cafe, before taking the Mini back to NDG for a latté at Shaika (an old haunt for me).
To wrap up my excellent streak of meals with friends I had a dinner plan organized with a number of old friends from Cat’s Corner and Swing Connexion who I used to dance with, teach with, or compete with. Eric & Caro, Syl & Adrian, Alain & Jenn, and Marie-Joseé
We were all to meet at Cafe Republic. Once I had exited the Metro and made it to St. Laurent I called Syl to ask where it was and as I was on the phone asking where it was a guy passing me overheard and told me to follow him. He was going there for dinner and would be happy to show me. It is great when people give you a moment of help, even for something so simple.
I have to say service on this Friday was particularly poor. I had ordered a rack of lamb rare and it came out nearly well. Although the waitress took it back and I had a new one cooked for me, it was a hassle to have to wait an extra ten minutes or fifteen minutes while everyone else quickly finished off their meal. On top of that, to flag the waitress for a desert menu, water, or even the cheques I had to get her attention each time. There was rarely a time when she visited the table of her own accord.
Despite the poor service, the friends made up for it. It was as if nothing had changed since I had left and it was dinner as normal. Conversation roamed from the newest indie band favorites touring through Montreal (thanks Adrian) to baby talk (half of my friends in Montreal are pregnant) to dancing. It’s nice to not feel like a stranger when you come home, even if it isn’t really your home anymore.
We grabbed our coats, tipped lightly, and headed out for Cat’s down the street.
Alain Fragman DJed the first set. I got to participate in a global shim-sham for Frankie at Cat’s Corner and a picture wishing him love from Montreal. It’s the third one I think I’ve been in so far.
Eric DJed the first half of the second set and I took over to finish out the night. I do enjoy DJing and I don’t do it too often, I’m more occupied with dancing and teaching these days, but I’m getting back into it.
Look for me behind the booth a bit more often.
Montreal, QC – Coming Home Homeless (4/17)
This post is out of order, but it is current, I’ll probably start doing this in an attempt to 
keep up with my travels while recalling where I’ve been before.
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time— , Little Gidding
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I have been expelled from a country, slept in a 6′x10′ room on an air mattress, and lived out of a suitcase but I have never felt homeless until I came home.
Just thinking about coming home to Montreal has caused me to well up with emotion and tears, actually doing it has left me empty (in a state of shock).
I took the train up from Albany today; eight hours from Albany to Montreal, a three and a half hour drive (four if the border is slow). I realized the dedication it would take to get on that train and ride it all the way to NYC and back for only a short visit (that ride is more like 12 hours).
I used to live in Montreal. My life was here. I had friends, family, love, two cats. Then it was taken away. I sank. But a part of me stayed here, resided in the upstairs with the two cats and the cups of tea. It stayed after all I thought I wanted here was gone. It stayed until someone else moved in and I became unwelcome. Suddenly my heart no longer has a home.
I closed the door to the apartment and put my boots on in the stairwell. Chris had already gone to bed, work woke her early. I stepped outside. Snow congealed into dirty patches of ice lingered along the edges. Montreal’s stereotypical curved 2nd floor walkup stairs brought me to rue St. Phillipe.
I walked along the street, boots thudding away through my heels, past the snow removal sign (mardi et jeudi) to rue Notre-Dame. I have walked this street before. Not so long ago yet separated by a series of shattered lives.
I passed the dingy pizza shop at the corner of St. Marguerite opposite the greasy dejeuner where an omelette comes with a slice of american slapped to it. The old IGA storefront, still empty. The Cremerie adjoining Caffe Mariani where I used to spend days sipping on espresso and eating gourmet pizza until they had me making my own drinks and serving customers. The patio where I sat in the sun when I came home for the first time almost a year ago. All that light and no sight. The park where we watched the pigeons chase each other in heat. And then I was there at the corner.
I passed it and stood in front of the studio. Too dark to see the emptiness inside.
Back to the corner and down my street. No car in the back lot. Then I could see the lights on where my things still are. I passed them, they weren’t mine anymore. And I was there. The door where my keys would no longer fit. A T.V. is on and a light in the entryway and kitchen, that much I can tell just from knowing it. But that’s it. I walk past and then turn around. Across the street. I lean against the snow removal sign, tip my hat down and let memories fill me.
It is late spring, Adrian and Sylwia join us for brunch in the garden. There is mango and cheese and crepes and powdered sugar. The apple tree is shedding its blossoms.
It is sunday. There is the blue teapot amongst aluminum trays of chicken curry, shrimp dumplings and peanut sauce. It is a lazy day inside.
I am cold and sick. It is late and we’ve been driving into the night. I am shivering and pale. There is a hot bath already waiting for me. It is home.
There is a ring of silver wire with a purple stone beaded onto it.
