One morning we set off to William's office so Michelle could see where he was working. He had asked us to pick up some treats for the people in his office so we stopped at a bakery, where I chose frosted cupcakes and had them boxed and tied in ribbon for easy carrying.
Then we made a stop at a liquor store for a few bottles of good wine. By this point in my visit I was feeling pretty cocky with my language skills and asked the friendly store manager if he had gift bags for the bottles. He helped me out and in a magnanimous tip of my language-hat I said, Merci beaucoup, Monsieur, vous êtes un bon homme.
He gave me gentle smile and nodded. I smiled back, picked up my bags and turned to locate Michelle, who had receded into a corner of the shop. Her shoulders were heaving. Her mittened hand covered her mouth.
I scurried over to discover her convulsed in laughter.
What is your problem?
Do you know what you just said?
I certainly do. I told him he was a good man and he is. He helped me with these wine bags.
You called him a snowman!
As she said this I remembered the cardboard cutouts of Bonhomme hanging all over Montreal. He's a giant snowman and the mascot of the winter carnivals held in the province.
Merde.
We crashed out of the store and stumbled down the snowy street nearly peeing our pants with laughter. Friendship at its best in a winter in Montreal.
I missed Michelle after her five-day visit and spent my remaining days in the city working on my novel, meeting William for lunches and on his days off taking him to the city's must-sees.
On a Sunday afternoon we took a bus to Schwartz's Delicatessen for world-famous smoked-meat sandwiches. We bit into tender meat slathered in yellow mustard and overflowing from slices of fresh-baked rye bread. We nodded up and down in agreement with the glowing reviews pasted up in the steamy windowpane.
We window-shopped Rue St. Catherine and wandered through the Musee des Beaux-Arts. We strolled the riverfront and ate sweetbreads and fresh fish at a table covered in white linens set with candles and tucked against a wall of unfinished red brick. We slept late on his days off while fat snowflakes fell quietly outside our windows.
As we shuffled in bliss through snow, content that William was working on a big project and I was working on a big book, the big world was spinning on its axis into other realities. While writing fictional paragraphs I took breaks and browsed news sites. The real estate bubble was popping, fast, and I wondered, What does this mean for us? How will this affect us?
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