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Antsy on this last day before flying out, I am down at a cafe (Perchance, just at Dunbar and 18th, a block away from me) in a table in a corner, watching the space become increasingly crowded as those children just leaving school begin to pile in. I don’t see myself staying long.

 

I have developed a tender relationship with cafes over the years. It’s where I started coming to write back when I was about twenty and first going out and exploring the city around me, walking random parts of it and setting myself up where I found myself wanting to sit for awhile. Mostly cafes; sometimes restaurants. Often enough, restaurants. The cafe became the centre of the experience when I went to Montreal. I remember seeing an article in the Journal de Montreal posted in my own local cafe, listing the best cafes at every metro station. I was one year in town, and off for the summer. I decided to explore the city by following that list. I did explore the city, and the idea of the cafe was absorbed into my soul.

 

For years, I could only get writing done if I went to a cafe. When I went out on a day off, the reason was usually to go to a cafe. Even if I went across town, it was to go to a cafe. I have nothing but good things to say about the cafes of Commercial Dr, of Gastown, of Main St. I spent many happy and productive hours in them, and then happily boarded busses home.

 

I don’t go to cafes so much anymore. Things changed when the lockdown happened; couldn’t go out anymore, so I set up an office it the attic. It ended up working for me better. Now I go here sometimes, usually for take out, sometimes down to Grounds for Coffee if I want to sit down. I don’t go out further much. If I do, I tend to go to a restaurant—I have the money to spend.

 

This place is filling up and I’ve had too much coffee. I’ll be headed out soon.

 

Done most of my packing, save for my changers and a few clothes. Most of the evening will be trying to relax. Going to make pasta—scallops and mushrooms in a cream sauce, and I bought I nice bottle of Sicilian white wine to have with it. I’m looking forward. If my writing seemed choppy, it’s because there’s a dad with two kids hovering over me and obviously waiting for me to give up my table. I’ll finish this later if I finish it at all.

 

No, they’re gone. Ah, but I’ve still had too much coffee. I ought to have bought a tea, which was my first plan. Ah well. Hopefully it at least won’t keep me awake.

 

It’s the tail end of fog that’s fading into winter. The mulch of the fallen leaves solidifies into frost. This time tomorrow, it will be full winter in Quebec, where I will be. What will I do? I’ll get to the AirB&B, I’ll go out and get groceries and a sandwich for dinner, and then—will I go out again? I might go out again. There’s a place I said I might be.