Saturday, February 12, 2005

quest for the shrivelled balloons of montreal

One day, while I was taking a quick break from threatening the neighbours, I decided to live out my childhood dream and finally locate the shrivelled balloons of Montreal, or as they call them there, les ballons ratatinés. Most of the literature of my youth contained references to them - "hanging from barren trees in autumnal clusters like perverse wrinkly fruit" was one such memorable description (A.G. Morgan, The Skraeling Time) - but I had been of the mind that these were nothing but myths used to frighten children.

No more. I took a plane to Montreal.


antique 737


Two hours into the flight I grew fascinated with the engine depending from the wing.


it's cold out there


When the attendants explained that I could not open the emergency exit to stand on the wing and snap a few 'pix,' I lost interest in not screaming at them until they fed me free gin-and-tonics.


sparkling alcohol

We landed in the afternoon. The streets of Montreal blended together into a seamless nightmare of monotony, a grey smokey quilt of claustrophobic winter hell. Hatchback after hatchback threw up the same plume of granular brown slush. I thought I was going to die.

Lord God kill me, it's Boul Sherbrooke


Buildings, once vibrant centres of business and recreation, had been overtaken by a fibrous grey lichen.


now covering 90% of Montreal and all of Longueil


Shadowy figures inspected me from grimy windows with a weary hostility venting into the cold vacuum of apathy.


il m'accuses


Somewhere along the way I got confused and started to to do my job. I set up a few lights in someone's house.




Finally, with only twenty-four hours to go before my flight back home, I spotted les ballons ratatinés in a parking lot off Rue Moreau, looking exactly as they had in all those steel-point engravings.




I reminded myself that the many imprecations against approaching them were no more than bedside stories my father had told me, so I walked over to get a better look.




Man, they were all shrivelled.




What benighted creature? What capricious creator?




I mean, I've taken international flights to look at shrivelled things before, but this made me feel sad and unpleasant.




I flew home the next afternoon and fed my pig, who had grown hungry in my absence. He was as young as the day we had left him, but we had grown tired and old.



6 comments:

Chile Bound said...

I missed the pig picture. I'm glad it's found a new home.

palinode said...

There's always room in my heart for a couple of middle-aged folks and a thirsty little piglet.

Helvetica said...

Wow, isn't this a fancy comment experience.

So where's the picture of me, huh? Furthermore, those balloons didn't look shrivelled at all. I don't know what you dad was talking about.

Hv

Executive Housewife said...

Nice pictures. My son calls balloons...mamamammooons. He is quite fond of them now. Thanks for sharing what you do for a living. Very interesting but how sad to be away from your wife for so long.

palinode said...

It is sad. I see a good many interesting and beautiful things when I travel, but the fact that I can't share the experience with her takes the shine off of things.

Anonymous said...

Thanks you for having the courage to open up and share your thoughts with us.

Dan From Seattle