I live in a strange state of tenuous peace with my brain. Most of the time, we work together; there is a hard harmony between us, and together we race to great heights just so that we can bellow gleefully whilst jumping from them.
Every once in a while, though, we don't get along.
Like when I'm wandering down Ave de L'Ile St-Louis, and my brain insists on pointing out things that I absolutely can't leave behind, how dare I even think of leaving...
My last week in Montreal was very much the same, only that time I had two days notice. This drawn-out leaving, while being easier on me physically, is a joyride for my mischievous head.
The highlight of my evening was stopping by the restaurant downstairs to say goodnight. Every evening I stop by and have to argue Mr. Gita into not pouring me a glass of champagne if I catch him doing it. If I'm not quick enough, I have to drink it all before wandering merrily up the stairs. Tonight was cardamom tea, and familiar chatter. "How was your picnic last night? How was your concert today? Do you want to sit down and have tea with us?" The sudden intensity-due-to-departure of our friendship these past days has blossomed into family. In the morning when they're opening, I play ring around the rosie with their girl and eldest son before continuing on to the metro. I cherish it so dearly, that my three pounds of grey goo derive great entertainment from chiding me everytime I head up my stairs, that I'll never see them again.
The highlight of my afternoon, was seated in an uncomfortably narrow whicker chair, the intellectual lubricant that is any piece of music with the impossibly perfect rythms of Mozart tapestries, sending my cerebellum racing along each rise and tumble of the chapel walls.
Waiting for the russian choir to regale us with a few opening Tchaikovsky pieces, I chattered With my cousin in hebrew, trying to decipher the writing across the celing of the Cathedral. He's convinced it said "jehova", while to me it looks more like "hazir" or "pig". Looks like whoever did the painting of the ultra kitschy triangle-in-the-clouds-with-the-name-of-god written in it, couldn't copy text for his life.
Everytime I couldn't find the hebrew word, I'd drop into english, because that's the language I drop into when I can't find a word in french, and then I'll realize I'm talking to a frenchman and wonder why I'm speaking english, and there's a good lagtime of several seconds while my inner processor sorts out which language it should be using, and where to find the right dictionary. I have yet to figure out where I can purchase upgrades for my particular model.
I also didn't get the "jesus of nazareth king of the jews" bit, but I'm thick that way.
King of the jews? Who elected him, and did anyone bother telling the jews? Maybe they meant judea. Apparently there were no spell-checkers in the time of the fresco painters.
I'm such a heretic. Although not quite so much as my cousin who asked if I'd go refill my water bottle from the holy water pool because he was thirsty. I tried telling him that I wasn't low on hit points, but trying to explain that got way too complicated.
When the soprano with her angelic face and even more angelic voice started the first strains of the second movement of the Requiem, every tiny strain of silliness passed from me. I stopped staring at the wayward hair of the lanky baritone in the back row, stopped trying to get a better look at the cleavage of the first violinist.
A shiver ran across my skin and the fine hairs along my arms leaned individually towards the sweetness of each note. Momentarily I noted this or that technique that Maja had tried to explain, but I was swiftly lost in the sheer power of the cascading voices.
Uttely. When Lacrimosa began, I tasted the tears as they climbed past my nasal passage.
When the basso hummed the first syllables of "Tuba Mirum" his voice shook inside my chest.
The world disappeared then, and I cried for the next hour, inside and out, as visions swam between my eyes and their intense scrutiny of the performers.
There was also an orchestral performance while the choir rested in between their sets, of Mozart's concerto for the clarinet which I've coincidentally been listening to all week.
The surprising part was that the maestro also happened to be the lead clarinet player. It was a very odd performance, in which the tympanist looked perpetually bored, the bassoon player looked like he'd swallowed his mouthpiece, and the second violinist seemed more intent on flashing her cleavage than playing emotionally.
And yet, it was still achingly beautiful.
When we walked into the cathedral, there was a damp terrible heat clinging to our clothes. Walking out we traipsed through the rain. At least I traipsed, Emmanuel and Cristal skulked against the walls.
Cristal couldn't understand how I could stand getting wet.
When we found an empty enough street, I ran to the middle and skipped through the puddles, drenching the remaining pieces of my clothing that the downpour had missed.
Sitting soaked to my underwear over hot chocolate in a caf�, I watched the rain rumble against the window while she spilled her stresses onto the formica.
I love the rain, and walking to the metro it was thick and heavy and perfectly hid the few remaining strains of lacrimosa showing on my face.