author – Page 14 – Britt Skrabanek

The Grit and Grace of Montreal

old port of montreal — Mr. H at Old Port of Montreal

If Brooklyn and Paris mated, their love child would be Montreal.

Grit and grace. Hard asses and romantics. The ones that won’t look you in the eye and the others who stare right at your ass.

This paradoxical city is emphasized further by its language tug-of-war. French is everywhere: the parking signs, the menus, the spoken greetings.

Yet, a sorry attempt at some high school French by an American tourist (yours truly) flips the switch. Seamlessly, as if “Bonjour” were never stumbled over, the conversation morphs into English with a peculiar flourish.

Walking down the street is a puzzling treat as English and French interlace. A couple at a table next to us bounces back and forth – a French question, an English answer, then one, then just the other – like a nail-biting tennis match for the ears.

Taking a road trip will only confuse the American more. Living in the U.S means conquering an ocean to hear that steady foreign hum.

Although Ontario looks a lot like Wisconsin, there are doors like these in the rest areas…

Eventually, there’s no more English. None. Our foreign experience creeps up on us in the form of construction signs and unpronounceable roads.

Where the hell are we? North America? Canada?

No…Montreal, Quebec.

Each languid day is strange – no schedule, no obligations. And, Mr. H. and I wander around this land without time.

One of the deepest ways to connect with someone means surviving together in a place where nothing makes sense, somewhere that is the antithesis of home, routine, and grind.

Travel makes the heart open to possibilities. And, so we opened ours to Montreal and did all of this…

And, we got down at Piknic Electronik at sunset on an island. Yeah, it was cool…

But, what about the food, Britt? Montreal is one of the foodie capitals of the world, isn’t it?

Indeed, it is. So, food gets it’s very own post next week. Get ready to drool.

The Falls of FUBAR

Flowing energy rushes toward the edge, a slave to its inevitable fate. It builds and builds and builds some more, unwilling to compromise.

Suddenly, it slips.

For a few precious seconds it suspends high in the air, engaging in a soundless symphony.

Then, it falls.

The finale is deafening, like cymbals clanging against the bottom of an unforgiving pit. This masterpiece draws us in – millions year after year.

Niagara Falls.

Embarking on a road trip to Montreal made this a no-brainer overnight stop for us. Mr. H and I booked a crappy chain hotel on the Canadian side, followed our trusty electronic maps, and strapped Ken Follett the cow in his seat.

Along the way we admired ~~Provence~~ upstate New York…

Ten lengthy hours after leaving Milwaukee, we arrived.

It was dark. And the border crossing at Niagara Falls, Canada was completely FUBAR.

Labor Day weekend. Border strike. FUBAR.

There’s something bittersweet about driving across North America, making it to your destination in decent spirits – cramping with hunger, aching from head to toe, delicates lodged in places – and being trapped with all the other bleary-eyed, naive tourists in this…

…for a freaking hour.

Naturally, Mr. H. wasn’t havin’ it. I love him even more for rescuing us from our gridlock hell to nowhere. My hero!

Destined to sleep in our truck on the side of a potholed street, we stumbled into a nearby hotel and luckily they were able to accommodate us. (Nothing like flushing money down the shitter on that unreachable hotel on the Canadian side, eh?)

As usual, we made the best of the situation. We lowered our standards and gleefully stuffed our faces in the familiar chain restaurant attached to the joint.

Mediocre fried food. Cold beer. We were saved.

Feeling tipsy, our sanity obviously questionable, we decided to go to the casino across the street to drink our touristy sorrows away and people watch. We’re not gamblers, so this environment fascinates us.

After a while, what initially seemed intriguing became ho-hum, borderline depressing, and our eyes became heavy. So we stumbled back to our hotel, scented with cigarettes and defeat.

The next day, despite our irritation with the whole charade, we went to the damn falls. We were a tough crowd, but Mother Nature won us over with her minxy appeal.

The credit card bill, the slot machines, and the traffic disappeared in that moment.

Niagara Falls…are they really worth it? The blood, the sweat, the tears?

Hell yeah they are!

Gone Road Trippin’

My dear, fantastic, rad, amazing sweet ones…

I will be out of the blogging office starting tomorrow, August 29th. No social media, pix, comments, likes, etc. – I’m going dark.

Mr. H and I will be embarking on a road trip (or, le road trip as we are lovingly calling it) to Montreal. It’s been almost an entire year since I’ve had a vacation.

(Gasp.)

Tell me about it!

I’ll be back on September 10th with some North American tales. In the meantime, stay cool, be cool, and…I’ll miss you guys!

Yours truly,

Britt

That Aha Connection

Sometimes I have these surreal interruptions – “Aha” moments, if you will.

Like a group of determined children, they tap my shoulder, tug at my clothes, or even grab my face to win my erratic attention.

Hey, lady! STOP.

So, I do…and it changes me.

Those running in my social media circle heard about the recent death of my Kindle. She was a trusty companion – knowledgeable, entertaining, and just an overall good soul. Until Hazel the cat rubbed her out, knocking her off the highest ledge in our apartment.

Alas, the Kindle was no more.

Being that I don’t possess the financial superpowers to replace my beloved Kindle currently, I took a field trip to the library. My first time in over a year. (Free books….yay!)

Blogger gal pal Gabriela Blandy at The Sense of a Journey, pointed me in the direction of Raymond Carver, spartan wordsmith extraordinaire.

Always the literature mutt, I decided to give him a whirl.

Whilst pouring over “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love“, I came to a dog-eared page from somebody who had checked out the book before me.

And, I stopped.

Another person had left their mark, a folded corner for me to find. Why did they stop reading just then?

Did they set their alarm, turn off the light, and go to bed? Did they sigh and head into the kitchen to wash the dishes? Did they stuff the book in their bag and board a plane?

From that point…we were connected. The dog-ear was my “Aha”.

Just like the time my change was shoved into my hand at a drive-thru. At a stoplight, I looked down at my palm and noticed Washington’s smirk was littered with poetry in red ink.

Aha.

Just like the time I had this indescribable urge to name one of my characters Sal. Months later I looked down at the right corner of my desk and noticed this carving was there the whole time…

Aha.

We zip through our lives half the time, don’t we? Eat, sleep, work, play. Repeat.

But when it all comes down to it, we are connected in so many ways. And, it’s absolutely magnificent when we stop and breathe it in.

We live side by side – none of us are really that different. Sometimes we need the “Aha” to make us pause, to see how damn incredible this thing called life is.

How the cynic became a sap

I never dreamed of the white dress.

While we’re at it, I never thought much about white picket fences either. Hey, I grew up in a modest condo in Southern California.

My parents divorced when I was six. I remember it like it was yesterday.

I hid in the My Little Pony tent on my bed until I heard the front door slam shut, signifying the finale of “Mom Just Moved Out”, a play I never wanted to see. I peeked my head out and saw my dad sitting on the floor, his face covered by his hands.

All I could do was put my arm around him. It’s all I had.

We did the joint custody thing. Dad most of the time and mom every other weekend. It was odd living out of a suitcase when I hung out with my mom, but we did our best.

I have two half-sisters and one half-brother. None of us grew up together.

A smattering of step-siblings trickled in and out of my life for years. It was always a strange dynamic with them: we played together, we ate together, we pretended to be this makeshift family.

It never worked…we were strangers playing house.

But, this story isn’t about having it hard growing up. I know, compared to many, my childhood was a piece of cake.

The outcome of it all was a cynic – a young one. I grew up thinking love was a sham. Marriage was just a joke to me, the kind I rolled my eyes over.

From a young age, I vowed never to marry. Why the hell should I even bother? All I could see was heartbreak, callousness, and paperwork.

Then, somebody came along to prove me wrong. My husband. My soul.

When we first saw each other…we just knew we were meant for one another. It’s cliché, I know. But damn, what’s wrong with a little cliché?

This year we celebrated eight magnificent years of marriage. We’ve been through it all together – we’re war buddies, we’re best friends.

Now I believe in something different, that love is available to all of us. We just have to accept it, then hang onto it for dear life.

Well, that’s how the cynic became a sap.