The nights are not yet cold. They will be soon. The arctic darkness is coming, and I welcome it with open arms, primarily because if I welcomed it with clenched fists and crazed desperation in my eyes, it would make no difference. I would still be but one figure dressed in an expedition parka and purple rubber boots, clutching the railing with a skeletal hand as my own two feet slid out from under me, searching in vain for a docking place in the maelstrom of snow. Resignation and determination are half the battle.
Meanwhile, however, it's lovely out. It's about sixteen degrees today, which isn't bad. The nights are not hot but not cold, a sort of mild clime that allows us to wander for an hour late one night in search of the perfect peace of pie. Pie is peaceful, you see. It represents the home and hearth, indulgence and relaxation. The promise of just a piece of this makes it worth an hour long search. A kind friend with a slight knowledge of Montreal enticed us too look for a very specific pie-vendor named Rockaberry's, and what a hunt it was. We wandered up and down streets, through parks where the complacent hoboes sat and past interesting-looking bars, eschewing these oases in search of a higher, more ethereal experience. It was an hour of meandering north, then south, then west, then north, then south, playing in fountains and meeting significantly inebriated classmates on the way. At one point I gave up all hope of the vision of sweet solace, trying to resign myself to a new, unbaked reality. It was at that moment, at the brink of desperation, just when all hope was lost, that a peculiar sight met my eyes - a round sign, unremarkable among the myriad round signs that line Rue Prince Arthur, except for one magical word. Rockaberry's.
The next ten minutes were a heady rush. Water. Hungry eyes eating the windowpanes of the display case that held treasures with unknown names. Toblerone Cheese Pie. Wildberry Crumble. Truffle. Apple. Rutabaga. Signs in French of unknown origin. Love's labours not, in fact, lost. The tension was palpable.
Everyone says the first bite is the best. Of course it is. It's the classical cliche and it's classically true. Sometimes in an oversatiated world, where everything is so easily accessible, there is a tendency to forget the feeling of want. It's a good experience, I feel, to test an extreme. This is why people climb 5.14, or run naked, or throw paint on canvas in abstract chaos, or design haute couture for $40,000. Wandering around Montreal (clothed, only slightly starving) doesn't seem extreme, but the intensity of the first bite of truffle pie, in the first second, I think, is comparable to falling in love or jumping off a cliff.
So go, starve. Then eat truffle pie.
Ironically enough, the $7 (!) I paid for truffle pie was my greatest food expenditure for the weekend. Other than that, I subsisted mostly on rice, pilfered bagels and yogurt, and various beverages. I could get good at this college thing.
