How to take the long way home
This afternoon, having missed my regular express bus back to the hilltop retreat, I was forced to chose to take the long way home. Bus travel leaves me with ample opportunity to be a spectator (unpaid tourist). Here’s a few of my reactions to the ride.
My first transfer point took me inside the walls of the old city. At this time of year, people are speaking English. Some take digipics of one another, complete with flash on the sunniest of days. The street musicians are “at work”; one violinist does some fine Vivaldi to accompany my stroll down the cobblestones under the gate. I’d linger, but then I would look like a tourist, and that just won’t do.
My local magazine shop, one of several I keep an eye on, had nothing that wanted to come home with me, so I continued down to the only place that serves a decent roast beef sandwich: Ashton’s. No poutine for me, but there are always a pile of newspapers to allow a databurst while standing in line. This is not a slow, leisurely meal. In fact, I can inhale a sandwich between buses with the best of ’em. Up, out, dodge cars while crossing the street in front of the old hospital and on to another bus. This one heads down a very steep hill under the ramparts and then slows for the fifteen minutes of traffic.
Out the window, I see people playing petanque under a tree in one of those odd little parks that exist because the piece of land is too small and polygonal to support a condo development. When I first came here, my students wanted to know if I played; I still haven’t. Like solo croquet, such sports leave much to be desired. Besides, there’s enough heavy stuff in my knapsack already. No need to add shiny steel balls to the kit.
The bus winds down through the area by the paper mill. The tiny bridge owned by CN that crosses the St. Charle’s River is as unpainted as its big brother on the other side of town. Corporate choices. The concrete corset has been removed from the river, as well. The mill has that “interesting” odour that you catch only when the wind blows in any direction. We take on a load of CEGEP students (vacation ends early for those folk) and carry on across the city.
The church in Maizerets is looking particularly pretty today. I must duck inside some afternoon to see what it has for decoration. The empty field beside the asylum has grown a crop of condos. At the terminus, I switch to the other bus that goes up to my area; why not. I’ll save ten minutes and there’ll be a new load of people to watch. Cheap entertainment.
The local shopping mall is continuing to add buildings. A new sushi place. Acquired taste, maybe. We hit another patch of traffic just before the municipal library, where speeds then triple. This curve has come under the eye of the city, because you can no longer cross the street or pull out of the parking lot in safety. Unfortunately, the mayor doesn’t care; that’s not her part of town. Wait until dawn, silly pedestrians.
The corner near the autoroute is congested. A truck parked oddly, two police cars, a fire truck, one guy spreading whatever that white stuff that’s used to absorb loose gasoline is called. Must be some sort of traffic accident, albeit a solo one. The young fellow that was driving is busy outside on his cellphone. Wonder if this is a continuation of an earlier call.
After another wind through the industrial park, I disembark and do my six minute speedwalk back to the house. Only an hour later than usual.
