I'm finishing up a short visit to Montreal, where I've been attending one of those conferences academics attend when they feel they have too much time on their hands.  My days since Monday last have been filled from 8:00 to at least 4:30 have been filled with something-lots of somethings, actually.  Some of the things have been interesting, some of them less so, some of them. . . well, follow the downhill curve.  None of them are what I want to write about.

Last evening I left the hotel for the second time, determined to follow my nose until I found something interesting to eat in an place interesting in which to eat it.  I have a very good sense of direction as most pedestrians do, and Montreal is safe for walkers, so off I set.  About 45 minutes later I found myself at the edge of Chinatown...marked by the same kind of pavilions which mark Chinatown in San Francisco, Boston, and elsewhere.  

Wandering on, I passed this doorway beyond which there were stairs.  The risers on the stairs informed me that there was a Vietnamese restaurant at the top, and on the wall was an illustrated menu with things on it I understood and things on it I didn't, and something made me decide to trek up the stairs.  At the top, I wandered into the restaurant to find myself the only person there.  At a table sat five Asians, two men and three women, playing cards.  Swallowing an impulse to reverse into a hasty retreat, I stood there smiling and one of the women invited me to a table by the window where I could look over the street, and brought me a menu.  I picked a couple of items which looked interesting; the waitress took my order, one of the men got up to go to the kitchen.  Soon the soup was brought to my table, the card game recommenced, and I ate, watching the street scene below, and enjoying an aura I can't describe.

The place was absolutely plain.  I hoped it was busier on different days and at different times, but I remained the only dinner guest.  Against the wall was a stage with a Karaoke machine and an electric piano.  Above, a disco ball, and against the wall a guitar in a canvas case.  After the soup, beef with lemon grass.  Yum Yum Yum.  I'm eating, smacking my lips, the five are playing cards, and periodically the waitress comes over, smiling, and checking to see if I'm content.  I was very content. 

When the meal was over I asked for my bill, and when it came I saw that my tea hadn't been put on the tab.  I mentioned this to the waitress and she smiled, and said in English which must have been at least her third language that she wanted to treat me because this was the first time I had come to the restaurant.   I paid, turned to the card players, applauded the cook who was back at the cards, was applauded in turn by the five of them, walked down the stairs and back to my hotel.  

On the way back in the dark, for some reason, who knows what, the Les Miserables song, One Day More came into my head and I sang it softly to myself until I reached the hotel.  And nobody called me nuts.


It was nothing, really.  Nothing at all.  How important our nothings are-they allow us to survive all the somethings-including those which obsess us here.  I hope yours are as sweet as this one was for me.




p.s. I had another nothing today. But I'll let this one stand on its own.