A few weeks ago, after picking up 'un po di scarola e romana' for my mom au Marché Shamrock, now called le Marché Jean Talon, I ventured southwest towards la Frutteria Milano on Blvd. St. Laurent (where DiStasio is an habitué-we love her for that) in Montreal's Little Italy. Then fifteen steps south I hopped into Caffè Italia for 'un freddo'. Paolo, a Bruin's fan and bartender, asked how two of my kids were, and we exchanged a few words concerning the hockey season. During the conversation, the bartender signaled that someone was trying to catch my attention. I turned around and after a few embarrassing moments recognized an old friend. He invited me to his table swamped with some papers and a PC, a buttered toast and a cappuccio. The casual setup of shifting and moving chairs and tables makes 'Italia' like most other cafes in the area ideal for dabbling about anything and everything, regardless of the next table's proximity. So we tried (one always forgets the details) to update each other on our lives, shuttling between three languages that somehow we had never mastered, amidst the raucus that makes "Italia" unique for most of Little Italy's habitués and turisti, and among the turisti include those that escaped years ago and now show up amidst the glimmer and the trend, the rattle and hum- i tipi di spiaggia.
He commented on federal politics, we talked about some cherished laughs and a lot of art. In the end, he ventured onto his health which he claimed was failing. He enjoyed the elder years more than he had imagined. He scrolled his worst and best in that order, and nostalgically mentioned a blog he had started but abandoned about eighteen months ago. Although short-lived, and rarely commented, he had achieved some satisfaction from the political and economic monologue he authored. He never signed it, choosing the anonymous, and to his own amusement, regarded his own authorship cynically. Yet the nostalgia of 'letting-it-go' irritated him as much as the 'acouphene's' stress while he wrote and proofread it. After 'un po' di tutto e di tutti', he tossed the offer: "...you want to pick it up. I'm done. It's all yours" That intrusion was short. We moved on to reminiscing again about 'Tizio e Caio' about so-and-so and 'remember that guy..what the hell- is- his- name-? to how much time left to finish reading Balzac's la Comédie humaine. As the bleak mood dampened, I was reminded of Philip Larkin's Audabe, and felt the eerie shiver of a second reading of those morbidly beautiful lines:
Yet memory is sometimes the best of friends. Like an enzyme: it can, when the need be, act as repressor, catalyst and liason; but this time there was no creative biochemical challenge to the dire mutant that dark Larkin had spliced, only consolations and devastations.
From Donne's rationalized inspiration to Dylan Thomas Death shall have no Dominion, and Do not go Gentle into that Good Night, the consolation is meagre and impoverishing. Memory only unravels sympathy and empathy for Larkin. Larkin's deep and shattered voice was his own; not the voice of another for another. Indeed Larkin's confessional is grueling intake.
We exchanged email addresses.
And after twenty dollars of 'cappucci e cioccolati caldi' and twenty of buttered toasts, he silently got up. I felt like Coleridge's Wedding-Guest in the Ancient Mariner as I watched him walk away.
He commented on federal politics, we talked about some cherished laughs and a lot of art. In the end, he ventured onto his health which he claimed was failing. He enjoyed the elder years more than he had imagined. He scrolled his worst and best in that order, and nostalgically mentioned a blog he had started but abandoned about eighteen months ago. Although short-lived, and rarely commented, he had achieved some satisfaction from the political and economic monologue he authored. He never signed it, choosing the anonymous, and to his own amusement, regarded his own authorship cynically. Yet the nostalgia of 'letting-it-go' irritated him as much as the 'acouphene's' stress while he wrote and proofread it. After 'un po' di tutto e di tutti', he tossed the offer: "...you want to pick it up. I'm done. It's all yours" That intrusion was short. We moved on to reminiscing again about 'Tizio e Caio' about so-and-so and 'remember that guy..what the hell- is- his- name-? to how much time left to finish reading Balzac's la Comédie humaine. As the bleak mood dampened, I was reminded of Philip Larkin's Audabe, and felt the eerie shiver of a second reading of those morbidly beautiful lines:
The mind blanks at the glare.
Not in remorse
—The good not done, the love
not given, time
Torn off unused...
Yet memory is sometimes the best of friends. Like an enzyme: it can, when the need be, act as repressor, catalyst and liason; but this time there was no creative biochemical challenge to the dire mutant that dark Larkin had spliced, only consolations and devastations.
From Donne's rationalized inspiration to Dylan Thomas Death shall have no Dominion, and Do not go Gentle into that Good Night, the consolation is meagre and impoverishing. Memory only unravels sympathy and empathy for Larkin. Larkin's deep and shattered voice was his own; not the voice of another for another. Indeed Larkin's confessional is grueling intake.
We exchanged email addresses.
And after twenty dollars of 'cappucci e cioccolati caldi' and twenty of buttered toasts, he silently got up. I felt like Coleridge's Wedding-Guest in the Ancient Mariner as I watched him walk away.
I checked out the blog and yesterday night- I took him up on the offer. I asked that he sign off with a final post. He refused the demise: his output was in the blog's archive. Hopefully I will try to improve on my language triathalon.
In passing, if you want to try another good Italian coffee, go down towards Dante and St Dominique and step up into San Simeon's-it's famous for its terrace, and then browse into Venditelli's Ferramento Dante, ten steps east (la Quincaillerie Dante) made famous by the hardworking V sisters and brothers at a time when DiStasio was still too young to cook. And if you keep apace on Dante Street, you'll probably meet the best kept secret in the country walking at a hurried pace, a passionate jazzman: Giorgio Serafini-
Une excellente seconde lecture- Carolle Simard, Cette impolitesse qui nous distingue, 1994, en dégustant 'un cappuccino'.
Enjoy Little Italy now; it's being smothered by condos and turisti.
To Larkin, I say, scuff the talk- take a walk with your kids, their mom and your grandkids. Especially on a rainy and overcast Halloween!
This is my entry post to Classic Indeed.
er nolano
Une excellente seconde lecture- Carolle Simard, Cette impolitesse qui nous distingue, 1994, en dégustant 'un cappuccino'.
Enjoy Little Italy now; it's being smothered by condos and turisti.
This is my entry post to Classic Indeed.
er nolano
