Sangria Nights and Montréal Fights
At the corner of Rue de la Commune and Rue Saint Jean-Baptiste, we sat out on the patio of a pub, that hot August afternoon, enjoying cool pitchers of juicy red wine sangria. On one side, behind us, there was a long street mottled with cars and horse-drawn calèches tramping by, and on the other, right in front, were flocks of tourists sauntering and moseying up and down the sidewalks, peaking their fascinated heads every which way, speaking in gaggled tongues. Scott and I were a little beat from the flight and having to fight through the mob at customs, and backpacking through the crowded, cobble-stoned journey to our hostel — which was just around the block from this very pub, our new expatriate paradise. But our travel fatigue quickly simmered with each icy, cold sangria sip and second gone by, now melting away into fascinated goop on our plastic chairs, looking at each other’s smirking fits, pondering deeply about the future of our current trip.
Shoulders rolled down, with the slow drooping of an immanent golden-blue dusk, we basked in subtle excitement for action.
Our informal itinerary for the trip had been fully loaded. Scott saw to that, of course: Check out the Habitat 67 architecture; climb up to the top of Mount Royal; and enjoy hearty bowls of gravy-soaked poutine at every possible corner. My only goal of the trip, however, was rather simple. I only wanted to embed ourselves — lazily — into the vibe of the city: to step in, wade around, and eventually swim neck-deep in the bloodstream of that gentle speakeasy of a country. America had become a pestering annoyance for the both of us: work, school, politics, politics, work, school, and more doom-scrolling politics! For months we commiserated over the need to get far away from ourselves, away from there, away from being-there, and into some cool, refreshing waters. This was why we had agreed — or Scott persuaded me into agreeing — to jump on a plane soaring northward, up to Québec, and to stay in a popping hostel. And in Vieux-Port at that. Belle Vieux-Port de Montréal, which on all fronts, appeared to be, like a sort of bay town beat stripped from California, rendered as a little European summertime pastiche, full of faded, young-blooded travelers and émigrés, the kind of people our age, our timeless age: o’, how we direly needed to break bread with some good-humored aliens who bore the same incessant hunger pangs of wanderlust and lively salvation.
On our second night in the city, well-rested, we caught wind of a salsa night at a bar called Le Saint-Sulpice. This seemed like our big chance to get to mingling up a vibe. When we got there, we found a packed scene of people wearing white wrist bands, smiling under arrays of shining neon string lights, holding glasses of colorful cocktails and beers in hand. The crowd was diverse: young, old, a medley of vibrant chatter in Quebecois, Spanish, Dutch, Italian, and English; everyone all dolled and dressed up, floating around, nodding their heads and dancing to the music — playful house music — whose tempo mimicked the lulling rocking of the nearby St. Laurent waters, giving a chill feel, an ultramarine-tinged feel to the whole Montréal night.
Inside, Scott and I raised up cheering shots of bourbon by the bar, downed ’em, and drifted around with our beers. We spectated, taking little tours around and into different rooms, looking to blend in with the scene, but everyone we saw seemed to be attached, glued to their own traveling tribes and cliques. We continued to look for a fix, an opening, an in with some fun people to chat up. But it didn’t come. About thirty minutes in we began to notice an argument sizzling up between a couple near the entrance door. There, a brooding young man was huffing and puffing in Spanish at his lady; old boy was belligerent and mad. The young lady merely stood there, silently taking it in. After a moment, she clearly got tired of the drunken yelling, and twisted, about-face, and started to walk away. But the young guy, full of macho rage, grabbed the gal by her long, streaming, jet-black hair, attempting to then drag her down the seven step staircase in front of the entrance. Scott gave a sharp look at me, immediately. I gave him a wild stare back, hollering, “Yo, what the hell!” as we then ran over and proceeded to push, shove, and pull the two apart. But the scrawny bastard hung tight. Clenching even harder now, he continued to pull on the long black hair. The young lady lay on the floor, writhing about, screaming out a loud, wailing cry.
Again, we pushed and tried to tear the boy’s arms off.
But the kid wouldn’t give.
Unbothered, in a dead-drunken daze, he gripped tighter and pulled the girl’s hair even harder.
And for a stern second, Scott and I looked at each other, considering to proffer a more fistful solution.
Out of nowhere, another man bolted in and heaved the young man all the way down the staircase, causing him to hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. It was the head bartender, we realized. He was a husky man with a stubbled beard. His face snarled, and he began shouting mad, angry Spanish curses at the crazy boy, who merely gained his ground, slowly rejoined some friends of his, and began to walk away; staring up, he held a dead-eye gaze, as if nothing had even happened, and disappeared. Standing alongside the bartender, Scott and I just hung there in the clearing of that moment, at the top of the staircase, like pit bull terriers who’d just warded off an intruder. Rattled. Teeth-clenched. Full of misty adrenaline. Though the bartender retreated back inside seconds later, the both of us stayed there recoiling, slowly, from the whole scene. Wide-eyed, we looked down and around the patio of the bar, and noticed, to our unsettled surprise, that everyone had simply gone back to drinking and socializing, as if nothing had happened for them, too!
It was odd.
From an American purview, it was really quite odd.
Eventually Scott and I returned back to our little pub safe haven at the corner of Rue de la Commune and Rue de Saint Jean-Baptiste — my own little street — and sat down at our same table. We ordered pitchers of the good stuff and told our cute server the story.
“Were you guys afraid?” she asked.
“Nah,” said Scott.
“Honestly, I think we were more puzzled by the dead crowd response,” I said.
You get a cheer or a laugh after a scene like that in an American bar.
Perhaps a head-nod, or a fraternal “What was that?”
Not here.
Just a return to business.
Scott and I laughed about the whole thing and returned to our business too, listening to the cooing noise of the city, the clomping steps from the horses, the chattering of people whisking by. We sipped down our glasses of juicy red wine sangrias, relaxed, melting, and redeveloped another plan to swim in some welcoming Montréal vibe.
Somewhere around the second or third pitcher, a tall and skinny man walked up to us from the sidewalk, smiling and waving. Immediately we recognized him. He was one of the guys from the hostel, a cheerful Italian we’d seen and heard hanging around the front stoop, drinking and laughing with groups of travelers.
“What are you guys doing tonight?” he asked us — excited.
We gave up two dopey shrugs and shook our heads in the ultramarine breeze.
