I am sitting in a room by a window,
overlooking a field of grass,
dotted with trees.
The branches of some cedars reach toward the window,
close but not quite brushing against the glass.
If I were to extend my arm,
I could caress the leaves.
The aroma of mint tea envelops me
as I close my French-English dictionary.
I’ve been practicing asking directions in an unfamiliar language.
My practice partner is an ivy plant.
It doesn’t tell me if I’m pronouncing words correctly,
but it listens patiently.
I’m in Montebello, Quebec,
hunkered down in a small apartment,
one of many set aside for employees of the Chateau Montebello.
I am merely a humble guest here.
The building is made of logs.
And it’s old, older even than Canada.
A few seconds after flushing the toilet,
from deep within the walls, the pipes whimper,
like a child lost in the ages,
still searching for sanctuary.
The wooden floors creak,
much like the chair upon which I sit.
Hot water is slow in coming,
forcing me to slow down, to read a book,
to anticipate with delight the oncoming shower.
This isn’t a place for people who are in a hurry.
We would probably say that this apartment has character.
But it also has its own personality.
It requires encouragement and love,
of which the dweller provides plenty.
Soon, I will go for a hike along the Ottawa River
and through the nearby forest.
I anticipate adventure,
predict what the short journey will be like.
But, as always, the trail will write its own narrative.