16/07/2024 – Back Home 2

We spent Sunday afternoon in McKibbin’s Irish Bar, where they were showing the Euro 2024 final. To get there, Carey walked 3 blocks in his Spanish footie shirt. Two cars honked him, one slowing down so the driver could give him a thumbs up. Two other groups bantered positively as we walked past. It was a party atmosphere, especially in the Pub, which was packed and serving Guinness. We squeezed in on the end of the bar.

After a so-so first half, Spain went ahead in the second, prompting Carey to wave like one of those inflatable tube men on a forecourt. Then, England equalized, prompting me to sing “We’re no-ot losing! We’re no-ot losing!” at him, which is the apex of expectation for an England football supporter. Then Spain scored again. Carey did the tube-man thing again, much to the delight of those nearby, and it was over.

Carey tried to lord it over me with the win for a bit, but failed, due to the essential nature of my (English?) fandom: don’t get too hopeful and you won’t get too disappointed.

Living with Carey for almost a decade, I have come to understand this was the way of living I was raised with. It was inherent in my mum’s worldview, of which she was self-aware and which we discussed. It is a protection mechanism for those of us who hope too near the surface and too far beneath it. Life with Carey is slowly helping me hope better - except where sports are concerned.

On Monday, we moved from Montréal to old Quebec City. It is an extraordinary place: the only walled city North of Mexico in North America; a UNESCO world heritage site; an urban Canadian National Park. I understand why North Americans think of it like visiting Europe: street cafes, cobbled surfaces, stone buildings and walls with crenelations you can promenade atop... To me, the whole of Eastern Canada has that “European” feel, not culturally, but in that it was settled before the automobile. It has the “scale” of development/urbanization derived from a time when 100 miles was a week’s hike, not 90 minutes by truck. To me, the “foreign” is the enormity of prairies, mountain ranges, the carelessness regarding space. In Europe, space equals wealth. That’s also true to some extent in Ontario. In Alberta, “small” is huge.

Outside the Contemporary Art Museum in Montréal, there is a giant statue of “Monsieur Rose”, well, his head, legs, arms emerging from the pavement as if he were buried in sand. “Mr Pink” is a plump, neon-pink babylike character created by the sculptor Phillippe Katerine, founder of Mignonisme, (“Cuteness”). He is supposed to remind you about the rosy side of life. And he does. Today we discovered the playful Mr Pink also inhabits old Quebec City – sitting atop one building, hanging off another, leaping joyfully between two others, clinging to a tree near the Cathedral. All of them make you smile.