“Prochaine station: Place D’Armes”
The announcement keeps playing in the backdrop; as a story unfolds,
Though the language is foreign, the characters seem familiar,
People running late to work, frequently checking their watches,
An elderly couple, so in love,
it appears as if they stepped out of an 80s romance,
A little girl pointing at the windows,
Eager to show her father something out there;
I turn to sneak a peek into their tale,
And see what has captured her attention;
It’s a giant Ferris wheel looming outside;
As I loosen my gaze a bit, I see a reflection in that same glass,
A portrait of a man, trying to trespass through stories not his own,
Oh well, that man is me,
I am a sucker for stories, you see, member of a dying breed,
Right now, I am travelling through this new city,
sitting in the metro, all confused,
Trying to translate every word, stare, & nudge, that comes my way,
“Hello, how are you?” a voice appears, “I’m good, and you?” I say,
And in no time, we start talking, and the voice personifies,
Remember the dying breed I mentioned earlier?
It seems I’ve found some company there,
I share that, though I’m just passing through a few days,
The experiences here will stay with me forever,
“That’s the beauty of travel,” the voice responds knowingly,
“Throughout our lives, we will pass through many cities,
spend an evening in some, while a decade in others,
Each one shaping us through the moments we live there,” voice adds
This reminds me of how, a while back,
I started treating cities as if they were alive,
Just like the people we meet, we form ties of all kinds,
Some fleeting, some lasting
As I ask for their name,
I hear the announcement:”Station : Sherbrooke”
It’s time for me to get down,
As I wave goodbye or Au revoir as they say here,
I wish we had met sooner under different circumstances;
I could have been a part of this story, not just a spectator,
Oh, I forgot to tell you their name,
It was ”Montr ́eal”,