One of the first telling signs - everywhere I went in the States the graffiti was present and ugly. Even at its best it seemed like little more than a tag. In Montreal, a stylized blue woman sat with a tranquil expression on sea serpents and stormy waves.
|Even the defacement of public property was attractive.|
In British Columbia I had grown up without ever meeting someone who spoke French as a first language and to hear French spoken so consistently was still disarming, but so many things about being in Montreal reminded me that this was my home country. It was less foreign than the United States despite the fact that the primary language being spoken wasn't English.
Here I was at home and feeling the heaviest part of the storm begin to break and fade away. Here I was in a place where even the graffiti was beautiful. Here I was in late September during summertime's last great effort, and beginning to feel that everything might just work out after all.