Yesterday afternoon we did the Queen Street walk with the frenchies, stopped into strange stores and giggled at each other -- realizing this was the first time we'd ever been shopping together.
The sky went dark around us as we wandered further east past Much Music and too many TV stations and Seb pointed out that "he couldn't believe the gang was reunited again".
Afterwards, fresh fruit juice pressing down on our bladders we raced northwards to Il Fornello and proceeded to spend far too much money on a far too meticulous meal, halibut on a bed of spinach and baby greens in a bisque sauce with oven-grilled shrimp, pizzas without gluten for Sophie, a bottle of Valpolicella as I tried to teach them just a little of the differences between Italian and french whine.
I got a french wine conoisseur to appreciate a wine in Canada. This place is definitely not that bad.
We entertained a british clerk in one shop, our waiter in another, jabbering as quickly as we could in our own invented brand of colloquial french.
The general consensus was that nobody can quite place why, but "monstres have a really weird accent." Something all my own, not quebecois and perhaps just a little Lyonnais -- with just enough estranged lilt to make it instantly recognizable.
In a city where the stress on me is so painfully high right now that I am beginning to doubt for the first time in many years my own uniqueness and value -- this tiny little token of "you're special" was a glowing point of light against velvet seats and mint-jellied desserts.
Tomorrow morning we leave for Montreal, today we're playing tourists and I'm missing both my singing lesson (it takes too much time) and climbing (I still can't put weight on my right foot) but maybe it really is a special enough occasion to do so.