ulli goes montreal

I woke up at around five thirty in complete darkness. All I could hear was a noise that sounded like rain drumming on a tin roof. And all I could feel was a sickening and slow cradling. Despite the unusual situation in which I found myself, I knew that I was lying in a tiny cabin in the belly of a massive ship. So how could I hear the rain? And why does it always have to rain on islands? Especially, when I’m going there…

When I woke up for good another hour later, I could still hear the rain and I felt a little bit sicker than before. Nevertheless I hurried to the dining room where an unhealthy - and in the fare included - breakfast was waiting for me. This urge to use everything I have paid for is definitely my grandmother’s heritage. Thinking of her makes me feel uneasy. (We had a hard year together.) When I stepped out of my cabin everyone I saw reminded me of her and my grandfather. They must be about the average age of the ship’s passengers. In the dining room, an old lady with a cane approached the queue in slow-motion. I quickly gave her a tray because I was afraid she would stumble and fall when attempting to grab one on her own.

Anyway, I did not exactly fit in the age group - but it didn’t matter because the ship was already anchoring. I was - I wonder why… - one of the first to step on firm ground and quickly found the path leading to the youth hostel, thus leaving behind a big bunch of white haired heads clad in sun hats with dozens of little badges on them.

I breathed the air and had one of those moments where happiness flies up into my throat and makes me want to laugh and sing and cry at the same time. This feeling always reminds me of the hysteric womb of the Greeks… but that’s a different story.

I arrived at the hostel an hour later. A true island girl showed me my room with view directly on the sea and the sunset in the evening. This same room where I am lying now, face burnt, hands burnt. Someone should finally teach me how to use sun cream properly. I do it wrong every fucking summer.

I have walked more than my feet like it and I had enough time to sing myself and Mo some songs and to think about refusing presents.

Charlotte had offered me some money “to make my last few days in Québec more pleasant.” I refused to take it and everyone I talked to assured me they would have done the same.

Yesterday, while we were sitting on the pation with her friend Louis, Charlotte told me a story.
‘Do you remember, Louis, when we were camping and my friend Pierre sent a girl to my tent as a present?’
‘That must have been at least twenty years ago.’ Louis smiled in anticipation.
‘Well, one day this girl, a ginger beauty, stood in front of my tent and said “I’m your present.”
‘What did you do?’ I wanted to know.
‘I didn’t know what to do with her. What do you do with a girl who comes to your tent and says “I’m your present”?’
‘You unwrap it.’ said Louis.
‘Exactly. Because it’s rude not to accept a present.’
Agreeing, I nodded vigorously my head. Only then I realised that I had just trapped myself.

What shall I do? Be rude? I have another two days in solitude to ponder over this question.

PS. As you might have guessed, I didn’t get my sunburn from walking in pouring rain.