We ate at L'Express, which is kind of a famous place in Montreal. There is no sign above the door, just the name spelled out in tiles on the floor in front of the front door. I think my fresh fruit salad was just slightly more expensive than his two eggs over easy with baguette toast. During breakfast one of the employees was carrying large paper bags of baguettes from the kitchen to the front. BAGS of them. The host did a language shuffle on the phone determining if people making reservations for that night were French or English. Afterwards, I changed into a pair of jeans and put on some sunblock for the ride.
I've never been on a motorcycle, and I'd be lying if I said the idea didn't scare me to death. But once we were going over the bridge past the Belmont Theme Park and the Biodome worry just kind of melted away. We road out to Beloeil, where Sully got some kind of lime slushy with a giant helping of vanilla soft serve on the top. Given my current food schedule, I felt like I had given up smoking and was standing in the middle of one of the smoking rooms in the St. Louis Airport. Sully saw my eyes open wide as I stood with my back almost against the door, "Diet Coke?" he asked. I nodded yes.
He deposited me safely at the door of my apartment. Hugged me and took off for the rest of his day. Sometimes I feel like the drop by friend. I'm here once a year and between him and my other friends on Monkland, we try to make the visits work. Sometimes they do, and sometimes they don't, which sucks because usually I have such a good time with them that I don't want the day to end. But mostly, it makes me want to move to the plateau and become bilingual.
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