l’azile

I love my dad. And I do not get to see him as much as I would like. He lives near the Algonquin Park in Ontario, on the top of a mountain in the middle of the woods with my mother, three dogs and seven (yes, seven!) cats. So I do not get to see my parents very often and I miss them both but every time my dad has business in Québec or is passing through on his way to or from a job, he tries to stop by and we always have a lot of fun. Yesterday was one of those days as he dropped by unexpectedly on his way home from a business trip in the States. And although his visit was mostly due to being screwed with by american border agents, I guess I am selfishly glad he was obligated to return early since this gave me a chance to see him.

Indeed, even though he works regularly in the United States, consulting with various companies in the woodworking industry or related fields, even though his passport was in order and even though he could provide documentation proving that he was indeed traveling for business, they kept him at the border for four and a half hours, took his fingerprints and harassed his client on the phone for more than an hour. They also gave him an early return date (even though he might not be done before, which would mean he would have to cross back over into Canada and then cross again into the US to finish his work), under the threat of being held and deported. Personally, I think they have more pressing concerns than a 64 year-old bon vivant with a mini-fridge and woodworking tools in the back seat of his car but I guess they were having a bad day.

I remember reading on Karl Dubost’s blog a couple of years ago that he had been so dismayed with how out of hand things had gotten regarding how vistors were treated when entering the States, that he had decided to not travel there anymore. Which is nice if you can afford it but the reality is that some people need to do business in the US and can not afford to simply boycott an entire country.

So anyway, after my dad showed up with a microwave oven that I guess he felt I needed (I have never owned one in my life), we drove around for a while trying to find a restaurant open in the middle of the afternoon to have lunch. He wanted to take me to a little Vietnamese restaurant on Lacordaire that he loves because, among other things, they have great vegetarian cuisine and you can bring your own wine. Unfortunately, it was closed so he thought we would try a place nearby-ish called Phuket (that we pronounced [most probably erroneously] “fuck it” because, well, how the fuck do you pronounce it?? Seriously?). Unfortunately, that was closed as well. We then tried a little French cuisine place not far from my appartment and that was also closed. Which leads me to believe that unless you live in the Plateau or somewhere similar, there are not a lot of places to eat in Montréal on Sunday afternoons (unless you are into generic Giorgio-type places or coronary-inducing delicatessens).

We finally ended up going to an Asian place on Beaubien that I forget the name of or that I may not have even noticed as it was so non-descript. But despite the fact that it looked abandonned and that we were the only customers there, the kind of place that you might not be inclined to go to unless as a last resort (as in our case), it turned out to be delicious and I am glad we discovered it.

We had a great afternoon and then just like that, he left as suddenly as he had arrived. He packed up his mini-fridge (that he plugs into the car lighter and that can also serve as a hot plate), his maps, his tools, his stories and his energy and hit the road. I miss him.