A city's finest

Alright.

So I just moved here, and I'm in no position to pass judgement on what has aptly been dubbed North America's most beautiful city. But coming from a lifetime in Montreal, to be plopped down in Vancouver, does not come without it's challenges.


And so, while freckled mothers here feed their wide-eyed children named Juliet or Charles peeled apple slices dipped in white organic honey, while people compost and gaze at you with deliberate, though passive horror as you accidentally jog over into the 'bikers' lane, as people smile and wave and wish you a great day and actually mean it, while the sun commands you from the sky, in all its yellow glory, to be happy, to be bright, while people discuss the virtues of slicing open vanilla beans diagonally as opposed to straight, while people let their dogs run free and their cars on biofuel, while the beaches are packed with grandmothers doing yoga, all of this, all of this and more, makes a girl a little nostalgic.

A little nostalgic for a night on a Montreal street where Guy would stagger out from Saint Sulpice bar, to vomit his twelve Labatt Blues all over his Walmart running shoes, to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, not bothering to roll up the sleeve of his Point Zero shirt, to place his hands firmly on his knees, to turn in the direction of his buddy Jean who leans out the door to shout that he's ordering another round, and is that cool, and of course, and oh but of course, Guy nods his head in an emphatic 'yes' because that, all of that and more, is Montreal.