Home > Life, Literature, Travel > Attacked by paint

Attacked by paint

Today I went down to the old town, vieux-Montréal, and took lots of photos. I had intended to go into at least one place – I was thinking of the Pointe-à-Callière, musée d’archéologie et d’histoire de Montréal – but ended up not doing so.

The architecture down by the docks is an interesting mix of old and new. Right on the harbourfront you have a band of older buildings that look to be on the order of one or two hundred years old (ie, even within this bad, there are gradations of old and new). Then behind them, you have all the modern skyscrapers knifing up into the air.

The docks area is quite pleasant. It’s been touristied up a lot, but at this time of year the pavilions were closed and there weren’t a huge number of tourists about. (I saw an oriental couple; the girl was taking a photo of the lad, saying, ‘Hana, dul, set’ – ie, ‘One, two, three’ in Korean.) And while it was largely overcast the sky was a lot more interesting – more textured – than it was yesterday when I went to the parc olympique (which, I realise now, I haven’t told you about).

By the time I’d worked my way down to the far side of the docks, I was getting tired and was thinking of visiting a bathroom (for the purposes of urination – just so we can be absolutely and redundantly clear on that point), visiting a Tim Hortons or similar (for the purposes of tea imbibement) and then the aforementioned museum.

At the end of one dock containing an old tugboat, I climbed up some steps next to a little harbour cabin type thing to take a photo of the dock and the buildings beyond that I’d spent the last couple of hours walking past. I lead on the railing to both steady myself and get that tiny bit closer to the view. I rested my hand on it briefly and felt that it was sticky. Ugh. And when I removed my body I realised that it wasn’t just sticky, it was wet with paint and I now had grey-green stripes across my jacket and top and one thigh of my jeans.

Some swearing ensued, but, while obviously I’d prefer that that hadn’t happened, I can’t say I’m that upset by it, more ruefully amused – these things happen, it’s just a case of when. I went home after that – although I stopped at the Complexe Desjardins for a ‘papaburger’ meal – and read a very moving passage in Reaper’s Gale about the inevitable death of one particular character as they saved the lives of everyone else.

Categories: Life, Literature, Travel
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