Saint Denis at night

Early evening. Warm weather, short sleeves, open air cafes.

A cloud of delicious food smells. Whiffs of garbage and marijuana. Cigarette smoke, like jet trails, follows the gesturing hands. Cigar smoke too.

A hubbub of mostly French conversation -- some of it transparent, some opaque. A few words separate themselves from the general din, entering my ears with complete clarity: pas mal... quel tendresse!... que choissisons-nous?

We stop by a stone wall. While my companion bandages her blistered heel, I gaze upward at the very old stone buildings. A few new plain ones seem uncomfortable, ill-suited to the place.

Going with the flow, we negotiate the eddies in the river of humanity, trying not to appear too obviously anglo.

Rue Saint Denis, in the midst of Vieux Montreal on a summer's night.