a long-awaited visit
Sweet Vic came to play last week after being gifted tickets to Montreal for Christmas, courtesy of her husband Levi (bless him). It was a dream, a lived one, which we have spoken and hoped for since we met in Germany three years ago.
The two of us met in a small Bible school on the shores of Lake Constance in 2015. Our friendship has been a most natural one- a truly meant-to-be thing. I fondly recall those moments we shared in the dorm hallways, talking and talking until the wee hours of the morning about the marrow of our lives. We covered everything: faith, families, struggles, passions, hopes, prayers- and boys. Vic was, in fact, a first-hand witness to the blossoming relationship between the boy and I, and acted as a constant voice of wisdom as I came to her (in panic) saying: "I think I like him." In the meantime, she shared wonderings of her own. Dating Levi at the time, she'd once whispered to me in a coffee shop, "I really want to marry him" -which, a year later, she did. We walked through that season of our lives together, and have been sister-friends every since.
We have since seen each other a handful of (sacred) times out West, albeit only for short periods, or during double dates with our beaus. Apart from Germany, our tenderest of moments spent together was in the Summer of 2017- when I stood by her as she spoke eternal promises to Levi, the day they were married in a field of gold surrounded by blue mountains.
Our friendship these past years has thus been one of little physical proximity but much depth of meaning. Our chats, albeit difficult to coordinate given the busyness of life and the challenges of time-change, are dear to us and explain why the fabric of our friendship remains unscathed by the distance.
And we always have dreamt of meeting in my city. Vic loves all things of the French variety, and has thus fancied an excursion to Montreal for the longest time. I could barely contain my excitement when Levi messaged me about his plan to surprise her with tickets, and it required undescribable restraint not to tell her in the weeks leading up to Christmas as we chatted. Thankfully, I managed to guard my tongue and she had no idea. Needless to say, she was ecstatic.
And her visit here was nothing short of wonderful (wonder-full).
We explored, ate our way through the city, reminisced, laughed, and laughed some more. We drove to the top of Mount Royal (braving the bitter cold, crisp gusts of wind and flurries) to admire the city line, and swiftly decided we needed to warm up, and agreed pie would do just the thing. We enjoyed copious slices at Rockaberry's in Monkland (apple crumble for me, raspberry fudge for her) and hot chocolate- a sweet way to kick off our time together (figuratively, literally).
A few times during the visit, I had to go to class- but Vic enjoyed time on her own to roam the streets of the Plateau and admire the twisty outdoor staircases, stone buildings and many, many cafés. Together we explored boutiques on St-Laurent Boulevard, and sought all things pink (a prevalent obsession of hers). This led us to Pastel Rita, a coffee shop in the Mile End with convivial baristas, smooth cortados and matcha lattes, golden curved ceilings and pastel pink walls and tables. It felt as though we were in another world- worthy of Edith Piaf's La Vie en Rose.
The next day was one of rest in the morning, and a lovely high tea date in an Old Port tearoom-meets-bakery, come the afternoon. We delighted in good tea, earl grey (a must) and white vanilla (a new discovery), dainty china and soft music, macarons (the way to Vic's heart) and a true carnival for the tastebuds, complete with quiches and cucumber sandwiches and dried tomato + goat cheese pastries and biscotti and sugar cookies with peach jam.
Positively full, we walked around the Old Port for hours and hours. Vic was enchanted by its cobblestone and gothic architecture, and I was reminded of my love for this corner of the universe I have called home the whole of my life. We eventually stopped in a coffeehouse for warm drinks and some time to write (something we both share).
I often tell people that, if they are to visit Montreal, they ought to arrive with empty stomachs. In the winter months especially, eating is what Montrealers do best. Following Paris, it is the city in the world with most restaurants per capita! Perhaps the viciously cold months between December and March explain this turn toward food for comfort; a way to overcome the winter blues and cozily warm up. So, I tried my best to show Vic famous culinary pockets around the city. She thus had her first Montreal poutine in a Little Burgundy pub, her first Montreal bagels on Fairmount Street, her first experience at a Montreal market at Jean-Talon for some charcuterie, her first vegetarian burrito by McGill campus, her first gnocchi counter outing (extra parm and pepper, please and grazie!) at Drogheria Fine in Little Italy.
Of course, we didn't only eat (my addendum: I once read author Shauna Niequist describe the way food and taste morph into memories, and how we use this sense to re-live precious moments and be brought back right into them. Hence the heavy involvement of food in my account!)- we walked and walked and walked, peered into countless 'bouquineries' and local clothing boutiques. We talked about everything under the sun and moon as we once did in those hallways in Germany. The conversation was easy, as always, surveying such topics as God, forgiveness, love, Church, moving, books, dreams, work, comparison, Summer plans, France, memories etc. etc. etc. And how could I forget to mention our evenings, marked by a playful ceremonial of Gilmore Girls and tea with my sister. Such a joy seeing your people dwelling together!
We spent her last morning in Pointe-Claire village, which looked especially quaint and magical under snowfall. We sought warm drinks and a ginger scone at Victor Rose (a favourite of mine) and enjoyed a fair mix of chatting, and reading or working in silence. What a blessing, those friends who don't require non-stop banter and coddling, who are glad to coexist with you simply.
On the way home, just before driving her to the airport, we walked through the streets of my neighbourhood- covered in dollops of snow- and the bells of the local church chimed. Their sound saturated the place, every corner and path. It was idyllic and poetic, and I was so glad to see how charmed Vic was at the sound and sight of it all. As Edgar Allan Poe so wisely penned in his poem The Bells:
The two of us met in a small Bible school on the shores of Lake Constance in 2015. Our friendship has been a most natural one- a truly meant-to-be thing. I fondly recall those moments we shared in the dorm hallways, talking and talking until the wee hours of the morning about the marrow of our lives. We covered everything: faith, families, struggles, passions, hopes, prayers- and boys. Vic was, in fact, a first-hand witness to the blossoming relationship between the boy and I, and acted as a constant voice of wisdom as I came to her (in panic) saying: "I think I like him." In the meantime, she shared wonderings of her own. Dating Levi at the time, she'd once whispered to me in a coffee shop, "I really want to marry him" -which, a year later, she did. We walked through that season of our lives together, and have been sister-friends every since.
 |
| Vic and I in Salzburg, Fall 2015 |
Vic hails from British Colombia, meaning over 3,000 miles separate our hometowns. We said goodbye after six months of daily life together. And, to put it simply, the parting was terrible.
We have since seen each other a handful of (sacred) times out West, albeit only for short periods, or during double dates with our beaus. Apart from Germany, our tenderest of moments spent together was in the Summer of 2017- when I stood by her as she spoke eternal promises to Levi, the day they were married in a field of gold surrounded by blue mountains.
Our friendship these past years has thus been one of little physical proximity but much depth of meaning. Our chats, albeit difficult to coordinate given the busyness of life and the challenges of time-change, are dear to us and explain why the fabric of our friendship remains unscathed by the distance.
And we always have dreamt of meeting in my city. Vic loves all things of the French variety, and has thus fancied an excursion to Montreal for the longest time. I could barely contain my excitement when Levi messaged me about his plan to surprise her with tickets, and it required undescribable restraint not to tell her in the weeks leading up to Christmas as we chatted. Thankfully, I managed to guard my tongue and she had no idea. Needless to say, she was ecstatic.
And her visit here was nothing short of wonderful (wonder-full).
 |
| Vic and I in Montréal, Winter 2019. |
A few times during the visit, I had to go to class- but Vic enjoyed time on her own to roam the streets of the Plateau and admire the twisty outdoor staircases, stone buildings and many, many cafés. Together we explored boutiques on St-Laurent Boulevard, and sought all things pink (a prevalent obsession of hers). This led us to Pastel Rita, a coffee shop in the Mile End with convivial baristas, smooth cortados and matcha lattes, golden curved ceilings and pastel pink walls and tables. It felt as though we were in another world- worthy of Edith Piaf's La Vie en Rose.
The next day was one of rest in the morning, and a lovely high tea date in an Old Port tearoom-meets-bakery, come the afternoon. We delighted in good tea, earl grey (a must) and white vanilla (a new discovery), dainty china and soft music, macarons (the way to Vic's heart) and a true carnival for the tastebuds, complete with quiches and cucumber sandwiches and dried tomato + goat cheese pastries and biscotti and sugar cookies with peach jam.
I often tell people that, if they are to visit Montreal, they ought to arrive with empty stomachs. In the winter months especially, eating is what Montrealers do best. Following Paris, it is the city in the world with most restaurants per capita! Perhaps the viciously cold months between December and March explain this turn toward food for comfort; a way to overcome the winter blues and cozily warm up. So, I tried my best to show Vic famous culinary pockets around the city. She thus had her first Montreal poutine in a Little Burgundy pub, her first Montreal bagels on Fairmount Street, her first experience at a Montreal market at Jean-Talon for some charcuterie, her first vegetarian burrito by McGill campus, her first gnocchi counter outing (extra parm and pepper, please and grazie!) at Drogheria Fine in Little Italy.
Of course, we didn't only eat (my addendum: I once read author Shauna Niequist describe the way food and taste morph into memories, and how we use this sense to re-live precious moments and be brought back right into them. Hence the heavy involvement of food in my account!)- we walked and walked and walked, peered into countless 'bouquineries' and local clothing boutiques. We talked about everything under the sun and moon as we once did in those hallways in Germany. The conversation was easy, as always, surveying such topics as God, forgiveness, love, Church, moving, books, dreams, work, comparison, Summer plans, France, memories etc. etc. etc. And how could I forget to mention our evenings, marked by a playful ceremonial of Gilmore Girls and tea with my sister. Such a joy seeing your people dwelling together!
We spent her last morning in Pointe-Claire village, which looked especially quaint and magical under snowfall. We sought warm drinks and a ginger scone at Victor Rose (a favourite of mine) and enjoyed a fair mix of chatting, and reading or working in silence. What a blessing, those friends who don't require non-stop banter and coddling, who are glad to coexist with you simply.
On the way home, just before driving her to the airport, we walked through the streets of my neighbourhood- covered in dollops of snow- and the bells of the local church chimed. Their sound saturated the place, every corner and path. It was idyllic and poetic, and I was so glad to see how charmed Vic was at the sound and sight of it all. As Edgar Allan Poe so wisely penned in his poem The Bells:
[...] What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
[...]
Vic's visit (long-awaited and hoped for) in many ways embodied this "gush of euphony" - a most pleasant and harmonious time, a rhythm that I can't quite explain but that felt just right. And oh- how Montreal, even its cold, suited her!
As precious as snail mail and phone dates can be, they are no substitute for the joy that is uninterrupted communing face to face (five days of it!), re-living memories of months spent together in Europe, sharing those things (little, big) which make a life but that a phone call just won't capture quite right.
I prayed many prayers of thankfulness for the gift of her presence during that week. It was a blessed time that I have nestled in my memory- to keep. I hope our own daughters will one day plan a trip like this, bearing distances or busyness or inconveniences of all kinds just to relish in the gift of spending time together. What a thought.
Now, we are back in our typical rhythms (meaning far apart from each other- sigh) but so indebted in thanks. And very, very full!
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