Not for the first time, I wake up in a basement, with a head like a bagel.
Yet I feel an urgent need to go even further underground, to take a sidestep swipe onto a subway train for a ride to an island … looking for some action, looking for a scene – right now.
Turns out the circus is in town – and the sun has followed it here.
We stand gawping behind wire fences to watch this, swigging on warm beer and cheering on groundhogs (who really should not be encouraged).
I’ve landed in a parallel universe, on an artificial island in the middle of an international shipping lane.
I move around for my Different Perspectives, yet the people I meet all seem to be North Americans. They will take my weight for around five minutes, before we all move on for ice cream and beer.
Around the bogus beach to the members-only casino, where fleets of pristine Gelandewagens bring in the high rollers, the top bananas.
We all fall down into Parc Jean-Drapeau, shuffling out in single file over the bridge, in a late-afternoon odyssey, or otherwise a scene from O Brother Where Art Thou?
Out of the gates by the giant golfball biosphere, that’s where.
I’m followed out by a cacophany of whistles (this doesn’t happen). When the whistling stops, I find myself alone with all of the hoi polloi on the subway, meandering back into the hot city, back to the hostel where travellers loiter, waiting for An Experience to present itself. There is no welcome committee on the steps today.
I take an about turn to the Old Town, the Vieux Port, the cobblestone lanes, to the Marche Bonsecours, to Pub BreWsky, all set just so under pastel-shaded European skies.
Perched outside on my high stool in the early evening warmth, with my high strength IPA, watching circus life pass by, glancing over constantly to the two boutique fashionistas who carry off style way better than the French – even though one of them is wearing cork heels, a criminal offence in some countries.
That white dress is a killer.
When they eventually cross the street, it’s to study the menu and agree on who’s paying.
Shortly afterwards, I take the check and wander off. Somewhat remarkably, my fried chicken and waffles with maple syrup was a non-event, the accompanying fresh beer doing much of the heavy lifting.
The memory will be the nonchalant view over the way.
Around the corner, the Old Port here is a bilingual sunset stealer, cobbled several times over.
I roam along the harbour and around the uneven lanes, inhaling the maritime skullduggery of decades past, before downtown presents itself up the road.
Suddenly I’m back in the thick of the action, briefly stopping at a roadside dispensary for my evening medicine – an overpriced beer served up in a plastic cup.
There are people here spending vast amounts of money, which might be better served on bigger things, like recognition, opportunities, equality.
An Outside World 