I took a cab. The cab was clean of smell and dirt and garbage.
It was late and cold and silent. Silence. All that was in the air was the constant and oh-so-annoying 'click' 'shooop'. 'de maisonneuve and Clark'. Shooop. Click. 'De gaspe et L'esplanade' click -static- '219 sherbrooke et mcgill'. click -static- shoooop....
Should I ask him to put the music on? Why isn't he putting the music on? Last time I took a cab was in Delhi and the young driver sang confidently (albeit badly) and gyrated his shoulders back and forth, checking the status of his oiled hair in the rear view mirror. Patting it down every so often and transferring the oil from his hair to the steering wheel. "Which country do you belong?" "What is your good name?" "Do you like Indian music? Achcha? Achcha hae!"
..Crank up the volume of the stereo and his voice and the confidence in his shoulders...
Looking up at the moon now bathed in a colour story of beige/dusty pink/ white and framed with bare trees.
What do I do?
So now I use my time doing hot yoga and searching. Searching and sweating. Eating chocolates and stretching. Watching dvds on my laptop and snacking on nuts and caramels. Eating cheese. Gorging on holiday sweets. Making up stories for my nephew. Reading cookbooks. Sloshing my way through the snow with my head in India but my legs in Montreal.
I feel stunted in writing when I am not travel writing. This is a clear sign
I am in transition, only.