William settled into his apartment in Vieux-Montréal, the city's charming historic district that featured cobblestone streets, art galleries and restaurants near the Old Port, which overlooked the St. Lawrence River. He emailed me digital photos of the city in autumn colors.
The company had given him a car but he mostly walked to avoid driving in snow. To hear William tell it, his daily walks came with more than just aerobic benefits.
I love this city, he exclaimed. The women here are gorgeous and friendly and usually happy to talk in English.
Good. I'm pleased you're getting a workout on the way to work.
I arrived on an early December evening and not a moment too soon. In the taxi from the airport I smiled at the city lit in twinkling pre-Christmas glitter. The car slowed near Notre Dame Cathedral, the snowy square aglow with tiny blue lights spun into every bare tree branch. The luminosity created an ethereal effect.
Our apartment building was around the corner from the church. The taxi pulled to a stop, I opened the door and promptly stepped into a snowdrift. I struggled to get one foot out, stuck the other one in deep and nearly toppled flat on my face as the driver placed my luggage on the sidewalk.
I glanced up to see William tromping through the fluffy stuff to get to me. Two months apart was two months too long but here we were in a winter landscape, inept and bumbling and laughing.
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