Return of the Queen

My Montreal vacation utterly consumed my will to consider any of the daily chores which existed prior to sitting in an eight bear Jacuzzi. Thoughts of treacherous Michaud, my daily grind here in New York, friends and family and work, everything dissolved in the warm fudgey lava of a bubbling chocolate fountain.

This included, sadly, my initial goal to daily blog the lovey dovey adventures of yours truly.

As the days slowly rolled on, Bryce and I settled into a most comfortable routine of waking at eleven, a groggy but cheerful brunch with the various guests (some new, some old), a day’s excursion (amusement parks, museums, walking, sleeping), an early evening dinner and then nightly carousing at one of a handful of St. Catherine’s gay bars (with new Canadian friends thanks to Bear411), all usually followed by a bowl of poutine (drunkenly devoured and lovingly burped).

I’m still in the vacation mindset. Digging through hundreds of work emails does not compare to counting endless varieties of roaches at Montreal’s Insectarium. Hearing the screams of a blood soaked homeless man as he is forced from my neighborhood B-52 bus does not compare to the thrilled cries of roller coaster riders at Montreal’s parc amusée, La Ronde. Bryce grunting and panting as he carries luggage up our staircase certainly doesn’t compare to his grunting and panting during our lascivious, nightly Quebecois humpathons.

Ah. As much fun as the vacation was, nine days were more than sufficient to clear my mind of stressful memories of how dirty, humid and loud New York is in the summer. I was very eager to return (a sign of a successful vacation, I believe) and during the cab ride home I took in the chaotic sights and sounds of Times Square with the wide eyed wonder of a red state tourist.