There’s a man who stands at the entrance to the Lionel-Groulx metro almost every weekday handing out newspapers. There are a lot of men with this job description but my favourite man has wrinkled skin, mean eyes, and a bite to his francophone accent that makes me want to step away quickly.
Maybe because of how intimidating he can be, I usually take a newspaper. Sometimes he says thanks. Most often he just looks angry when I don’t take one because I’m too scared to approach him and don’t have the emotional energy required to take those few extra steps toward him.
But when I came back to Montreal after two weeks away I was excited to see him again. He’s a ritual in my life. He’s going to hand me a newspaper and maybe smile and wish me a bonne journée, I thought. It’ll be just like old times.
But he didn’t even look at me. No proffered newspaper, smile, or glare, even. I got on the metro a bit confused, and lost, and a little lonely.
So I felt as though I needed something in Montreal to remind me of both the fun of being away and the fun of being home. If that could be combined with comfort food, so much the better:
I brought back powdered lucuma from my trip – a starchy sweet fruit from South America with a dark skin that goes from green to black and peels easily when ripe. Add some rich almond milk and eggs and I would soon have frozen custard, I figured. Then I wouldn’t care if the newspaper man was unaware of my disappointment that day. I wouldn’t care if I wasn’t welcomed back with open arms.
But somehow it didn’t work. Well, the ice cream actually worked (miracle, I know), but it didn’t fix my disappointment with Montreal and my free newspaper man. Now I don’t apologize when I don’t want a paper. I walk on by, not evening looking into the man’s eyes. If you can do it, so can I! I think. Childish and unsatisfying. If the fact that I can make lucuma ice cream this far north doesn’t make me like you again, Montreal, how can we reconcile?
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