Montreal: Winter
Our plane was the last to land that afternoon; they closed the airport minutes later because of the heavy snow. We hailed a cab, which fishtailed through the narrow snowy streets of the Vieux Port, overshot our hotel, and had to back up a block; it was just too snowy, the streets too narrow, for him to turn around. By the time we had gotten our luggage and waded up the front stairs of the Auberge Bonaparte, my red knitted cap was sparkling white and my feet were soaked.
I had not seen snow like this in a long time. It was old-fashioned snow, deep in the unplowed streets, giant flakes sailing past our big windows. I toweled my wet hair as I looked out; not far away were the towers of Notre Dame, glowing with blue lights. In the other direction, white lights danced in the sky down by the waterfront.
We dumped our suitcases, changed into dry boots, and set out again, clattered down the inn's narrow staircase, tiptoed past the ground-floor restaurant, delicious odors and the tinkling of china and crystal wafting out the open door, toward the lights. We were here for Le Festival Montreal en Lumiere--the Montreal High Lights Festival, a ten-day festival in dark February, celebrating all things bright. It was snowing hard. We shuffled down to the quays of the Old Port, where a booth had been erected; a projector beamed light across the dark water onto the side of a warehouse hundreds of yards away. You could go into the booth, dance in front of the light, and somehow, I have no idea how, your shadow danced on the side of that distant warehouse.
It was Saturday night, a near blizzard, in a deserted part of Old Montreal down by the frozen waterfront. But a line of people waited to dance in front of that light. We took our turn and then swam back through the snow, through those narrow streets, past white mounds that were buried cars, past the tall old gas lamps, past the somber stone buildings, once the center of commerce and finance, now art galleries and restaurants, to the metro station.
We got off at Rue Ste Catherine, which had been transformed: The street, one of Montreal's busiest shopping areas, had been blocked off with scaffolding draped in white cloth, and in the odd little dead-end that had been created, they had built a whole new world.
Long white tents with plastic windows, warmed with space heaters, serving gourmet meals in the snow. A snow slide. A dance stage, where people whirled and dipped and shuffled and jived in their Sorels, to music played by a DJ wearing a hat with earflaps.
Braziers with hot coals, where you could roast marshmallows or warm up your cocoa; booths where you could buy marshmallows, skewers, and cocoa.
As I held my marshmallow toward the fire, a Chinese dragon dance snaked past in full costume. Overhead, illuminated planets bobbed in the wind and lit up the snow.
It was the most magical evening you could imagine--food, dancing, laughter, dragons, planets, fire, throngs of people, all bundled up and laughing in the snowy February night, all lit up in defiance of the dark and the cold.
There is no story here, no real narrative; just description. No conflict, no drama, no suspense, not even any characters. It was a snowy night in a beautiful city filled with light and food and dancing. The fireworks had to be postponed for another evening, because the snow-filled sky created its own kind of fireworks.
Warm and full of chocolate and marshmallows and a quick snack at Tim Horton's (not all was romantic and beautiful), we shuffled back to the metro. Walked past the blue lights of Notre Dame to our luxurious red and gold room above the four-star restaurant. On another evening we would have dinner there, served by a courteous trilingual waiter, our white-clothed table decorated with a single orchid in a graceful vase. But now, the waiters were removing the tablecloths, stacking dishes onto little trolleys. Only a few couples lingered over coffee or wine.
I went upstairs and sent an email to my father, who was recovering from brain surgery, and I told him about the music and the lights and the snow.
In the morning, when we awoke, it was still snowing.
