I am lying in bed in our suite at the Hotel Square Phillips, laptop balanced on my bellyful of cheese fondue and apple crepe, having just had my first full day of being thirtyseven years old. it is a sign of my advanced age that I was unable to get out of bed to rally for the post-kids'-bedtime afterparty, but a sign perhaps of continuing compensatory immaturity that when the post-kids'-bedtime afterparty came to our bed (if Mohammed won't go to the mountain...) the final game of Loaded Questions was very, very bum-joke-centric. Tomorrow is a whole new day in which to be grownup. Maybe.
I like Montreal more than I remembered from my last visit: there are lots and lots of elegant little parks and fountains and olde worlde buildings and pedestrian-only streets and we have not had a single bad meal the whole time (except for the uninspired 'continental breakfasts' at the hotel which are boring (cornflakes, yoghurt, toasted bagels) but better than the stale donuts and styrofoam coffee which go by the same name at an American motel). Tantalizingly, we have yet to have poutine. We leave tomorrow after lunch. It WILL happen. (We have however had: macaroons, canelloni, crepes, fondue, raclette, ice cream, steak tartare, a red pepper mousse thingy with mozzarella foam, sesame buns, szechuan food orgy, and several other things that I am doubtless forgetting).
Babydaddy and I had a hot date last night sans bambina, which was very thrilling: we nicked a luggage rack wheely thing from the hotel porters (someone had left it in the hall), set up her little baby tent thing on it, and put her to bed; once she was asleep we wheeled her into nice friends' room, so they could babysit her while we went out and thankfully she required about as much maintenance as a suitcase. Such a good baby!) The intention was a glass of wine and possibly dessert somewhere, but instead it was mostly a strolling date: there was a beautiful outdoor exhibit of huge blownup aerial photographs of different places on earth with abstract geological formations (many taken around turkmenistan and the caspian sea, which I am now hot to visit), and we also sat on a park bench for a little while, watching the local nightlife go by (a lot of sequins, high heels, and postage stamp sized skirts; it's mcgill university frosh week and the fresh flesh is on display in a big way) and eating frozen yoghurt before settling on a little frenchy french place for our glass of cheap red wine.
I think on the whole it is definitely easier to enjoy the baby in rural settings than urban ones: in vermont, I could roll around on the lawn with her all day with occasional breaks for a dip in the lake and/or reading, and the principal pleasure of urban holidays is going out to eat. I declare that eating in restaurants with children is officially a pain in the ass. Restaurants plus children plus babydaddy's intensive standards of hygiene plus my standards of manners comme il faut is kind of an unachievable combination. Basically, everyone would be better off if the kids were allowed to crawl around eating dropped bits of food under the table: the kids would have more fun, the adults would be able to have a conversation that consisted of more than OH MY GOD TAKE THE FONDUE SKEWER AWAY FROM THE BABY BEFORE SHE POKES HER LEFT EYEBALL OUT AS WELL AND OH SHIT IS THAT HER RIGHT EYEBALL ALREADY FLOATING IN THE HOT CHEESE?!?!?!, the pediatric ophthalmological surgeon on duty at Montreal General Hospital would get to have a quiet night catching up on his/her Facebook updates, the waitress wouldn't have to sweep the floor in a five foot radius around the table afterwards because all the pieces of dropped frenchfries, lardons, cornichons, and other delicious debris would have been hoovered up by ravenous little subtable mouths. Et cetera et cetera.
But everyone suffers from an overwhelming sense of duty: babydaddy has to go to the loo to rinse off any baby-item that hits the floor, the waitress feels obliged to provide a high chair to strap the kids into, the kids feel obliged to scream and wriggle and throw things, and I feel obliged to not allow my baby to avulse her own eyeball with a fondue fork. argh. My baby's fucking cute now, but I admit I am looking forward to being able to eat in a restaurant like a normal person again, and not feel obliged to leave a fifty percent tip and avoid eye contact with all the other patrons.
Other highlights of the day: tea at a fancypants Chinese tea house (I had autumn jasmine flower tea, with one of the little sea anemone tea leaf bundles that opens out into a flower when you pour the hot water on it. fun!), cool echochamber art installation thingy, and the fact that babydaddy's new bedtime lullaby for the baby (learnt on this holiday) is the song about the three old ladies locked in the lavatory. He loves it, especially the part about the vicar.
OK eyes are closing involuntarily. Good night to all...
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