August 2 , 2003 Brookline
After being away from one's country for while, the place builds itself in your mind into something more coherent than it could ever be while you're there. You come to think of it in all its aspects and modes and read twice the journals you ever did at home.

After a while, in order to forget America, it may indeed be necessary to go back to live in ignorance and relative comfort so as not to be invaded by it, or else find some corner where the country is still strange to itself and the tap water has a wang to it. Or perhaps running reduces thought. I haven't written in a week and now wonder what's been lost. I've almost finished editing R.'s sad and soulful book, a fresh reminder of the time when I decided enough was enough.

August 5, 2003 Montréal
So nice to see D. and K. again and bat around the names of the ogrish who still live in St. Louis, certain professors notably. C. took to their adorable daughter V. in the way I've seen her with the children of just about anyone. D. is very much in his element as an editor of a rapidly evolving magazine (He's gone from a biannual to a quarterly to a bimonthly in four issues). He's as full of decency and charm like no editor I've known in the United States. We talked over the issue of editorial integrity which is always good for a few laughs. K. is as funny as ever but has taken on a new joie de vivre with the child and with the possibility of writing dance criticism for the magazine.

We rode up on the bus through Vermont which was trees, trees, trees. And I was a little shocked at the accent of the border guard as it was the first time I've been directly addressed by a Québéqois. There is an ease and seeming lack of formality in their speech, though this is only a first impression. Or perhaps my notion owes to being in a country that is not at war with itself. We passed the silos of farms marked with tiles reading DEJARDINS ET FILS on a humid day, down a two lane road, past poplar trees that reminded me of France. But we must have heard ten other languages aside from French on the Metro up from the bus station. A mix that even outstrips Boston and certainly Paris. Yeah, mon vieux, I could live here.

August 6, 2003 Montréal
Batisse, beuvrage, nettoyeur, 'ti. French words not found in France. (Bâtiment, boisson, pressing, petit). Riding the bus down Sherbrooke I realized Montréal reminds me of Buenos Aires in the sense of its special, antique vocabulary. Everything is familiar and strange and one feels remote from the worlds that had to come together to form either place. It is a most comfortable feeling. I feel certain that, if I lived here every accent I have, American, Argentine, French would be quickly pulled apart.

Eating lunch on St. Denis, (La Brioche Lyonnaise) I overhear two Spanish speakers conversing in French. One answers the phone and reveals himself to be Argentine--I think I even heard him mention Sacanta! But I hadn't the courage to address him in either language we share. If he did indeed mention this place where we own land, we could certainly be related--that is we might end our conversation with "che"--mais je n'ai osé pas. It rained like fun and C. read the little blue edition of Athalie we checked out from the Brookline Public Library. We bought an a critical edition of Rousseau just up the street.

The libertine reputation of a certain writer was discussed at breakfast and I wondered at the staggering hypocrisy with which she was criticized in St. Louis, all by people with just enough courage to blacken the artistic reputations on moral grounds, misdirect genuine inquiries to the offices where they will receive the most hostile welcome, or to hide the fact of their true sexualities from their wives and husbands. The writer in question was nothing if not honest about her proclivities. I'd forgotten how disgusted St. Louis made me feel. It was there that I started reading Proust. (My plan is to finish this summer).

D.'s photos of that final year in the Midwest, J.R. doing his best Mussolini jaw, M.L. doing her best Madonna under the light, me my best Lenin addressing the Douma. I look ten years younger, not five. Me in my fedora on a cold day. I remember being annoyed when D. insisted I pose wearing it. (I look hunted in the photo). C. very interested in J.'s photo--I wonder what she'll say about it in the future, for surely she had one of her quick but dead-on takes. ("Your sister has a tense jaw" she said ten minutes after meeting her).

August 7, 2003 Montréal
Saw Barbarians at the Gate, with K. and D. Rather sad and a bit overdone. The Québéqois curse wordtabenac was rendered as "fuck" in the subtitles. People--the kids anyway don't seem to say putain every other word as they do in France. Supper at Le Payse. Hamburgers and frites quebequoisey, which means with gravy.

Whatever is to the right side of my intestines sill bothers me. Were I a dog, I'd gnaw the spot. Finally found a colored pencil after days of looking. It is disappointing as it isn't red, is mechanical and therefore denies me the ritual of sharpening it on the table and tapping out the shavings into an empty coffee cup--how else can I measure the progress of editing R.'s book.? "Red is now blue," I informed R. in the margin. I hope he will not be too confused.

August 8, 2003 Montréal
Lunch with D. Went down to his offices only two blocks away, in the post office building on Sherbrooke. The signs on the corner switch from "Stop" to "Arrêt" on the way. Switching between languages certainly makes me a bit tense. If I lived here I would seek out a Francophone neighborhood. It's really hard to switch back and forth. The café owner was from Montpellier and glad to chat about it a little.

Later, I went down and met C. for drinks with R. and P. in the old port. We met her sister and brother-in-law for drinks. They are the first Québéqois I've spoken with and, in addition to my usual difficulties following nuance in French I had trouble following their accents. What an odd table: three Québéqois, two French, and one American. There's something easier about talking to them, something less demanding about the language than when speaking it in Europe. They're North Americans after all and so perhaps I'm less concerned about social nuances that go hand in glove with French French.

Drove up the mountain to look down on the city. Walking up from the lot to our vantage point we were passed by many middle aged people in good humor, some of whom were carrying largish models of the Eiffel Tower. At the top of the path there was a great banquet hall, complete with a Moulin Rouge stage set and great wooden squirrels carved into the lintels. We had obviously come across some cheesy "Soirée Parisienne". Outside a group of girls addressed P. and me in rather shaky French, asking where the party was. Instead of saying "It just began" or some such equivalent, P. blurted "La fête est finie." "Nous formons une mauvaise equipe," I told him, "La fête vient de commencer, bien sûr."

August 9, 2003 Montréal
Watched a dance performance in Parc La Fontaine. A medley of modern jazz dance numbers. Not as deadly as it sounds. K. kept us entertained with many behind-the-scenes stories of the company (she had once worked with the coreographer).

H., R's sister and her husband were along. Their daughter looked so sad throughout the picnic. Barely brightened when I offered her an eclair. Finished our evening at the bar and walked back to where we parked on Rue La Roche. Bought a little box of odd cigars for twenty-one Canadian dollars. The antismoking sticker on the packet was much less severe than the cross sections of diseased lungs, rotted teeth, and blackened hearts that grace C.'s, P's, and R's packets:

Asshole almost hit K. and I as we tried to cross. I cannot recall what we had been talking about. "Plus vite!" I yelled, "Plus vite!" The poor little man in his plastic Toyota screeched to a halt a hundred meters away at this grave insult and I waited calmly in the glow of his taillights. A little macho moment for all to see. A relief to hear this pitiful man screech away in his tiny, ridiculous car. Late night drinking wih K. at Ye Olde Pub on Monkland Ave. C. and I tried to encourage K. as regards her French. She was shy, stayed nearby me on the edge of the picinc blanket. K. is the rarest combination of sweet and brash--could her attitude be less French? She may as well talk the talk.

August 10, 2003 Montréal
Headed out of Montréal on a cloudy day after standing in line for a long time at the bus station. An enormous family of Hatians took over the seats in front of us. Mother directed the oldest brother (there must have been ten kids) to pass out the food. Out come the styrofoam boxes of eggs. It was really quite a sight, remnisicent of summer camp. Breakfast must have cost a small fortune.

C. took out her paper and drew and I thought about Montréal. The night before I had bought a bottle of Bordeaux that happened to be corked once we got it hom. No matter, D. and I went up the street to exchange it. I don't know why I didn't expect a hassle. Speaking French about a bottle of spoiled wine, I guess I expected no problems. D. stood by quietly, watching my displeasure with the sales clerk build. By the time I was talking to the manager I was ready to cut loose with the atom bomb of French complaint, (C'est pas normal), when suddenly he acquiesced and gave me a new bottle. D. was close to laughter at this point. "They like to believe that they're culturally different from English-speaking Canadians," he explained, "But just becasue they speak French doesn't mean they have French values. Remember, it's not like going to your wine shop back home." A valuable, amusing lesson about Quebec. I remain fascinated by the composition of that city. For all its diversity and excitement, it seemed calm, respectful, and overall, unburdened by the rampant love of material one finds in the States.

We ate at the same McDonald's in Vermont for lunch. C. was most uhappy.