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Arrival in Montreal
It’s about six hours, with a change in Toronto, to Montreal by train.
It’s a fair amount of time to kill, really. Meg, by turns, reads her book, and watches out the window, and tries to pin down a thought that keeps flitting through her mind but won’t come into focus.
It’s late in the afternoon when the train finally reaches the station in Montreal, and it’s when she steps onto the platform that the thought she’s been chasing all day finally crystallizes clearly:
I’m home.
And it’s a thought that’s both comforting and unsettling all at once, because home is supposed to be her parents’ house, where she’s lived since before she could remember, where her family is, where the people around her speak the language she’s the most comfortable with.
And, yeah, in some ways, it will always be home.
But in others . . . well, it’s where she’s from, not where she is, or where she’s going. That’s here. She’s comfortable with who she is here, with who she became and is becoming and will become here.
Of course, what she’s unlikely to become, here or anywhere else, is any taller. And even standing on tiptoe, it’s hard for her to see over the crowds of people on the platform as she looks for—
“Bienvenue à Montréal, mademoiselle,” someone says, close behind her, and Meg turns around.
“Merci, monsieur, she says, and then kisses her boyfriend for the first time in two months.
Thirty seconds later, and she’s starting to flush as red as her hair, though laughing, when she says, “Alain, tout le monde nous regarde.”
Alain looks around at the other people on the platform, says, “Laisses-les regarder,” and kisses her again.
“Je t'ai manqué?” Meg asks, when she can.
“Oui, chaque jour,” Alain says, and finally lets her go. He looks at her half-forgotten suitcase, and asks, “C’est tout? Tu a une seule valise?”
“C’est tout,” Meg says.
“C’est ne pas possible,” Alain says, theatrically, and then kisses her to cut off her indignant reply about being perfectly capable of living out of a single suitcase for a week.
And when Meg has quite forgotten what she was going to say, Alain picks up her bag with one hand, keeps hold of her hand with the other, and nods towards the exit. “Allons-y.”
[OOC: As ever, errors in French are mine, not theirs.]
It’s a fair amount of time to kill, really. Meg, by turns, reads her book, and watches out the window, and tries to pin down a thought that keeps flitting through her mind but won’t come into focus.
It’s late in the afternoon when the train finally reaches the station in Montreal, and it’s when she steps onto the platform that the thought she’s been chasing all day finally crystallizes clearly:
I’m home.
And it’s a thought that’s both comforting and unsettling all at once, because home is supposed to be her parents’ house, where she’s lived since before she could remember, where her family is, where the people around her speak the language she’s the most comfortable with.
And, yeah, in some ways, it will always be home.
But in others . . . well, it’s where she’s from, not where she is, or where she’s going. That’s here. She’s comfortable with who she is here, with who she became and is becoming and will become here.
Of course, what she’s unlikely to become, here or anywhere else, is any taller. And even standing on tiptoe, it’s hard for her to see over the crowds of people on the platform as she looks for—
“Bienvenue à Montréal, mademoiselle,” someone says, close behind her, and Meg turns around.
“Merci, monsieur, she says, and then kisses her boyfriend for the first time in two months.
Thirty seconds later, and she’s starting to flush as red as her hair, though laughing, when she says, “Alain, tout le monde nous regarde.”
Alain looks around at the other people on the platform, says, “Laisses-les regarder,” and kisses her again.
“Je t'ai manqué?” Meg asks, when she can.
“Oui, chaque jour,” Alain says, and finally lets her go. He looks at her half-forgotten suitcase, and asks, “C’est tout? Tu a une seule valise?”
“C’est tout,” Meg says.
“C’est ne pas possible,” Alain says, theatrically, and then kisses her to cut off her indignant reply about being perfectly capable of living out of a single suitcase for a week.
And when Meg has quite forgotten what she was going to say, Alain picks up her bag with one hand, keeps hold of her hand with the other, and nods towards the exit. “Allons-y.”
[OOC: As ever, errors in French are mine, not theirs.]