It's a funny thing about life - how much time we spend lost in thought about the future, or musings about the past. Wondering how tomorrow will look. Reflecting on what yesterday has taught.

Planning and remembering are really two sides of the same coin; yet neither one is the coin itself. And as we flip from one side to the other, the coin constantly remains in the middle - never changing.

The Past Arrives
We lost a cherished member of our family this week, and for the many lives he touched this has been a time of somber remembrance; looking hard at what was.

When someone we love and value leaves us, our contact with them seems to be rooted in the past. Moments of every description are remembered as we reach to touch them again.

Yet - in the end - we are always left with the finality of the inevitable arrival of absence. The reality that what was, is no longer.

The Imminence of the Future 
Of course, our gaze cannot remain directed behind for too long before we must again turn to what approaches. The coin is flipped. How do we get there? What must we do? 

The rhythm of treading the path to tomorrow takes the place of reflection - of remembering - and life continues on. The past slowly begins to fade.

Yet in many respects, when the coin is flipped to what lies ahead - and our thoughts once again become focused on how to get there - in a very real sense we are in the same place as we were a moment before.

Trying to envision what will be is actually quite similar to the effort we make when venturing into what was. In both cases, we are fully absorbed in trying to grasp a now that does not exist.

Spending the Present
What should we take away from our reflections on what is gone? When we try to look into the eyes of those we will never see again - what do we hope to see?

While I accept that there probably is no answer to a question like that - I also realize that knowing this doesn't mean we have nothing to learn from asking.

Perhaps it is nothing more than realizing that what will always lie delicately between the what was, and what will be - is what is. And maybe knowing that that is all we will ever truly have, is as close to an answer as we'll ever be.

I enjoy being alone. And one of the first things I noticed about living in a big city again is how rarely one gets to indulge in private time when you walk out your front door.

When I'm in Mill Valley California, there are a zillion places to be alone with nature and my thoughts. You just relax in a different way when you're not surrounded by people - and forced to wear the "social mask", and navigate the space of other people.

Montréal is much different - even than San Francisco. There are people everywhere. It just isn't possible to be out of doors here and really enjoy being truly alone. At least - not until it starts to get really cold. And then, a wonderful thing happens; people disappear from the normally crowded outdoor public venues.

I take a daily walk after writing in the morning. It's my zen time. A respite from working, worrying, practical planning - a chance to let my mind go where it wants, in its own way, at its own pace. But to truly free my thoughts and musings, I need to be alone during my walk. And that's hard to do in a city like Montréal.

The other day, though, the temperature dropped to a quite nippy -4 centigrade, and as I bundled up and set out for my daily jaunt, I was suddenly struck by an unusual sight. I was walking through a park that is usually bustling with activity of every type when I slowly realized that I was completely alone. Not another person in sight. No readers, sun bathers, dog walkers, children playing - no one.

It was one of my best walks ever. I covered a couple of miles, and even when I did encounter other people, they were in a hurry to get where they were going - because it was cold. But I wasn't bothered by the chill in the least. I was too absorbed in something that had accompanied the drop in temperature; solitude.

Most people speak of winter in Montréal with a sense of enduring a trial by nature. An ordeal of sorts. And while it is a quite different experience than life in California, when I see the weather forecast for Montréal, and it calls for bone chilling cold, I now have one consistent reaction. Yes!

It's my first year away from California in a long time, and one of the biggest differences I notice is that the Canadian east has seasons. And one of the first things I notice about seasons is that each one has its own special light.

Of course, now that fall is slowly giving way to winter, you have to be quick if you want to experience the light - because the sun starts to go down noticeably earlier here than on the west coast. 

The sun is at a different angle too; lower in the sky throughout the day, shadows are longer, and hues decidedly muted. The overall effect impacts everything from the way I look at things, to how I think about them.

It got me to wondering about the significance of light for how cultures evolve. People tend to be in a bit more of a hurry in Montréal than in San Francisco. It's as though they realize that in these late fall and early winter months, you've got to maintain a brisk pace if you're going to get anything accomplished during daylight.

The odd thing about this is that this northern light has the opposite effect on me. I find myself so taken with the altered shades and tinge of things that I wind-up moving slower since I spend more time captivated by the differences. But I also seem more reflective and thoughtful as a result of my slightly slower pace.

They say that "beauty is in the eye of the beholder". What I'm learning as I watch the seasons slowly unfold is that this is also true of light. And one's perspective on it can change so much.

As part of it's 400th anniversary celebration, a 1.5 mile long landscaped promenade was built along the St. Lawrence River in Québec City. It's a lovely space, filled with interesting architectural elements and sculptures - paths and picnic areas.

But one of the more unique items there is this unusual fountain I stumbled on one morning. It's a "fog fountain". 
Take a look.

To those of us who live in temperate patches of the planet, winter always seems to be a time when we're especially glad not to reside where that word has serious meaning. In Northern California's coastal regions, winter brings wet and gray into our lives, but rarely anything so extreme as to affect our daily activities. For us, we need merely find a few more sweaters and some rain gear in-order to navigate our daily routines. For us, winter is occasionally discussed - but almost never is it the main topic of discussion.

Bright and Early
Montréal is now part of my life. My life in California has become one that I view in portions; it's a nice slice to have, but hardly the whole of my existence. The upcoming journey to Québec has long ago stopped being my next trip - and evolved into a return. A trip is something you may never do again. A return signals permanence.

I always look forward to being there - but rarely to getting there. Three o'clock in the morning is not so much a time as it is a state. Each of my returns normally begins in that realm since in-order to arrive at anything close to a reasonable time, I must begin my day then. I mechanically maneuver through this state until I am at last en route. And then my thoughts turn to what we who face the Pacific know exists, but face so rarely; winter.

La Nuit Blanche
Montréal embraces winter. And nothing illustrates this more than the combined winter festival of Montréal en Lumière and its signature event, la Nuit Blanche. It is a time when the people and city of Montréal celebrate the joy of winter living. And it's now one of my favorite times to return

This is a city that really knows how to throw a party - and these are people who really know how to enjoy one. On the night of nuit blanche, nearly the entire city becomes part of a grand winter display. The center of Montréal and many of her neighborhoods remain open  all night - and hundreds of thousands partake in displays of art, food, music, poetry, literature - indeed, of everything that makes a city alive.

At a time when we on the left coast imagine the inhabitants of snowbound environs locked snugly away - the streets and venues are filled to overflowing. Celebrations are everywhere. Outside displays of street art, dancing, eating, listening to music, visiting ice sculpture gardens - there seems to be no end to it all. 

And inside and under the city, in the tunnels and walkways linking buildings, and in the buildings themselves - everywhere - Montréal celebrates its place - its circumstance - its self.

And so I return - and join this wondrous spectacle. And even on lovely sun filled January days facing the Pacific, I often eye the goose down coat in my closet and a sense of excitement and anticipation fills me as I contemplate my next 3am state - and my winter return.

Is Québec in Canada?  
Seems like a simple question, answerable with a quick peek at a map. Yet each time I return and my friends at home ask me how my trip to "Canada" was, I always hesitate for a moment and have to ask myself, "what trip to Canada?" Then I remember the map, and I mutter a colloquial reply of some sort. 

But the fact is, when I'm in the province of Québec, I never really feel like I'm in Canada. When I travel to Vancouver, or Toronto, or Ottawa - yes - I know I'm in Canada. But Montréal, Québec City, Baie St. Paul? Then I'm no longer quite so sure. 

And it's much more than a geographical, or 'east versus west' issue. For example, I've recently been to Texas, New York, Washington state and Arizona. Each quite different, yet each completely American. But Calgary and Trois Rivieres? Now things aren't quite so matter of fact.

I realize that I tread on a touchy subject here. After all, twice in the last 30ish years the question of Québec sovereignty has been voted on in the province; bitterly contested and narrowly defeated both times. Raise the issue in north of the border social gatherings today and faces are quick to flush, tempers flare - and a hasty change of subject is usually the result. But I've been to Canada and its province of Québec a lot, and I'd like to share some of my experiences and impressions on the subject.

Parlez-vous français?
The biggest difference is, of course, language. English is spoken throughout most of Canada. For Americans, a trip to Canada is more like crossing a state line than an international border. Vancouver is so like Seattle in some ways that it's easy to get momentarily confused as to which one you're actually in. 

But cross the border into Québec, and suddenly it becomes very clear that you are indeed in a foreign country. The signs are in French. The newspapers, TV, radio - French. The people around you as you arrive are all (or mostly) speaking French. And suddenly, Vermont seems a million miles away instead of its actual one-hour drive from Montréal.

Officially, Canada is a bi-lingual country. 1969 saw the passing of the Official Languages Act insuring for the first time that all government services be provided in both French and English. And the Law 101 makes French the official language of the province of Québec. But the bi-lingualism only goes so far. 

Ask a question in English anywhere in Montreal and you are 99% certain to receive a response in French-accented English. But ask a question in French anywhere in Calgary, or Regina, or Winnipeg - and you are 99% certain to be met with a blank stare.

So is Canada really bi-lingual? Well - a large percentage of the citizens of Québec do speak, at the very least, functional English. Indeed, in public areas of Montréal you can expect fluency. But very, very few Canadians living in the other provinces speak any French whatsoever. Rien. So, in my experience, the answer is - it depends on where you are. As I heard someone say at a francophone dinner party in Montréal once - Yeah, Canada is bi-lingual - because we have to speak English.

A Culture of Difference
When I lived in South-Central LA in the early 70's, I was certainly in the USA - but I was also in a place few white Americans ever came to, or knew anything about. Yet everyone who lives in South-Central LA (no matter which city it's in) knows everything about "America". I get that same feeling when I'm on le plateau Mont-Royal in Montréal, or the neighborhoods of Québec City, or any number of other places in the province of Québec. 

And francophone Québecers largely feel the same. Canadians from other provinces are referred to as "the English". The sense of differentness is everywhere in Québec. I've been to Montréal 16 times in the last several years - and I can count on one hand the number of Canadian flags I've seen. But the blue and white flag of Québec with the fleur de lis is everywhere. 

Language and culture are inseparable. And I can certainly feel a much greater affinity between Paris and Québec City than the latter has with Regina. 

Fortress Québec
Québec has something else in-common with the South-Central LA's of the US; a sense of differentness born of being second-class citizens. And that's only natural given its history. 

In a very real sense, Québec remains an un-digested element of British colonial expansion. Québec, by losing a war, was subjected to British/Canadian political control - but it has always proudly guarded its unique linguistic and cultural identity. In-fact, the French spoken in Québec sounds more like that of Louis IV than that of modern-day Paris. And this is precisely because the linguistic integrity of Québec's French has been so zealously guarded from the assault of the sea of English surrounding it. Québec's isolation created a linguistic time-capsule of sorts.

And in many ways, Québec is more French than France herself. Come to a street corner anywhere in France and you see a Stop sign. Do the same in Québec and the sign says Arrêt. In France you send an email; in Québec un courriel. And there are many more examples like this. All manifestations of Québecers vigilance in protecting their culture & language from the cultural force of its Anglo neighbors. 

For most of its history in Canada, Québec has felt the sting of language discrimination and something less than full social inclusion. As a result, Québec's population was poorer and less integrated into national life than the citizens of any other province until quite recently. Something black Americans can definitely  relate to. Maybe that's why I always have a sub-sense of familiarity with everything Québécois.

Oh Canada
So is Québec really Canadian? Well, of course the answer is yes in formal political and economic terms. And the question of sovereignty is certainly not a topic of serious discussion anywhere in Canada today - including Québec.

But neither is it dead. Many still wish for it - someday - while accepting the facts on the ground of today. And even those Québecers who do not dream of sovereignty and are proudly Canadian, are at least equally proud of their unique culture and language. 

On my latest trip to Montréal, two of the biggest news stories were about Prime-Minister Harper's appointment of a communications chief who does not speak French, and a campaign to suppress the encroachment of English into public signs in downtown Montréal. And it seemed the near universal reaction to both stories across the province was a sense of exasperated acceptance that their guard can never be let down. 

So - Yes - Montréal and the rest of Québec is Canadian. If you look hard enough, you might even find a Canadian flag there to prove it. But cultural vigilance, provincial pride, and a deep sense of uniqueness are center-pieces of life for les Québécois - and The English forget this at their peril.

I know what you're thinking; "oh c'mon, that's a pretty outrageous claim." And you're right. And normally I resist describing anything as the best or the worst. It's too extreme of an assertion, and completely unscientific.

Yet - I feel completely confident in this particular instance. You see - I am an aficionado of brownies, and have tasted hundreds in more places than I can remember. In-fact, earlier this year I was in France for over two months and partook of many truly excellent representatives of the art.

But as good as the Parisian, San Franciscan, and Italian contestants are (and they were each excellent), I'm afraid they all come-in a distant second-place to those found at la Maison Cakao on Montréal's Plateau Mont-Royal. Here, my friends, is the Holy Grail of brownie lovers. Here the art has been understood, and perfected.
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=123046460535weeblylink_new_window

The artist behind this delicious piece of pure decadent indulgence (one of my favorite topics) is Edith Gagnon - a graduate of Québec's Hotel and Restaurant Institute. 

She imports Barry Chocolate from France - and then applies her considerable talent to turning it into a wide variety of addictive delectables. Truffles of many types, bon-bons, chocolate drops, and on and on. Each and every one truly wonderful.

Welcome to Heaven
But it is her brownie that I find to be her piéce de résistance. I think the central element making it so good is that she puts in lots and lots of - wait for it - chocolate. Seems pretty elemental - but many brownie makers just don't seem to grasp this most basic of concepts. Not so at la Maison Cakao.

Biting into one of Ms. Gagnon's creations is to bite into dark, rich, soft and totally swoon-inducing chocolate. The cake part of the experience is light, moist, fresh - and blends with the pure chocolate element seamlessly. 

The experience is sensual and transportive. Be prepared to stop whatever you were doing before - for once bitten into, the brownie will become your sole point of attention and concentration for many moments afterward. In a way, I'm glad I don't live in Montréal, as I'm sure I'd blow both my budget and dietary discipline in her shop.

But I'm sure glad that I visit there a lot.

Probably the best known cultural export of the province of Québec is the Cirque du Soleil. From its origins in the streets of Québec City in the early 1980's, it has grown into a multi-billion dollar mega-force with 22 unique productions currently playing around the world.

Québec Comes First
But the founder of the Cirque - Guy Laliberte - has never forgotten his Québec roots. Many shows are first performed in Montréal before going on tour - and other special  little Cirque treats pop-up on the Québec cultural landscape from time to time. 

I happened to stumble on two such items last weekend; and they were both pretty cool.

The first was in the provincial capital of Québec City - Mr. Laliberte's birthplace. For the last four summers the Cirque du Soleil has presented a free open-air production as a gift of sorts to the people of Québec - and to celebrate the 400th anniversary of le Ville de Québec.

The theater is set-up under a freeway overpass in downtown Québec City, and each night for two months you are invited to come watch an hour long, no-holds barred, Cirque du Soleil production. 

On Saturday I was lucky enough to catch this summer's final performance of Chemins Invisibles. Except for 150 $15 seats, it's all standing room only - first come, first served - and free. And since so much of the action takes place in the air - there's no need to worry if you're standing behind someone tall. Performances begin at sundown and are always packed.

Earth Comes to Montréal
And no sooner had I returned to Montréal than I discovered another little slice of Guy Laliberte's artistic genius. Located in the heart of downtown is the Place des Arts - home to a wide variety of cultural performances year-round. And just adjacent to the main theater is an outdoor display area which is currently featuring 30 giant photographs of Earth taken from outer-space. And can you guess who took these photos?

Yep - they were all taken by Guy Laliberte himself on his recent trip into Earth orbit aboard a Russian spaceship. He paid $25 million dollars for the experience, and to help publicize his charity, The One Drop Foundation.
 
http://www.onedrop.org/en/default.aspxweeblylink_new_window

The outdoor photo exhibit is beautifully arranged, with dreamy musical accompaniment from speakers above the photos - and it too is completely free. Each photo is exquisite and comes with a geographical description and technical details on camera type and film. As I strolled through the exhibition, I couldn't help but reflect on the depth and quality of Québec's artistic contribution to the world. It really is astounding.

It's a province of only 7 million people - but her impact on the artistic world is out of all proportion to her size. And Cirque du Soleil and Guy Laliberte are a big part of that impact. 

As readers of this blog know, I am in Montréal, Québec for several weeks. And as I've made my way around this fascinating city I've been struck by the number of creative wall murals and other street art scattered around town. From back alleys, to apartment walls to building facades, to the very sidewalks under your feet - art is everywhere in Montréal.

So today I've put together a small sampling of the open air gallery encountered daily here. 

Tropical Storm Irene
Yesterday had been planned-out far in-advance. A gathering of friends and family had been scheduled, arrangements made, expectations set. But tropical storm Irene had other plans - and as is always the case - Mother Nature won.

The anticipated lovely late-summer day quickly gave way to powerful winds and torrential rain, and in the name of safety and common sense, our plans were cancelled and everyone wound-up hunkered-down in their respective homes for the duration. 

And as luck would have it, just as dusk was settling over us, we lost electrical power. There would be no cooking of dinner, no TV or radio - nothing of the modern world. And this was pure serendipity.

Out came the candles, and we sat together contemplating our options. It was then that we remembered the bottle of Sauternes and tin of Fois Gras purchased earlier this year while on a tour of the Bordeaux vineyards. Either one of these would've been a treat, but together they result in one of the truly great culinary indulgences imaginable.

The Child of Noble Rot
Surrounded on three sides by the red wine producing district of Graves, and by the Garonne River on the other, Sauternes is home to (in my view) the best sweet wines in the world. The secret to the production of Sauternes is the presence of the warm Garonne on one side and its smaller tributary, the Ciron, with its much cooler waters, on the other.

The combination results in nightly mists coating the vines, that then dissipate during the day under the warm sun. The affect of this process on the region's grapes leads to their dehydration, and the development of a rot on the fruit. This causes the grapes to become partially raisined, leading to a concentrated and distinctly flavored sweet wine. 

If taken too far - the rot is simply rot - and the grapes are useless. But if the process develops in just the right way - it leads to the growth of what is called Noble Rot. And from these grapes drips the nectar for which the vineyards of Sauternes are justly famous. It is a delicate balancing act that is very hit or miss - and leads to great differences from harvest to harvest. But to my rather un-trained palate, it is simply a difference in degrees of deliciousness.

The Sauternes wine
The Sauternes region is quite small and divided into five communes; Barsac, Sauternes, Bommes, Fargues, and Preignac. Only wines produced here may bear the name Sauternes. 

Production of this varietal is subject to the rigorous rules and guidelines which characterize all Bordeaux wine making. Each vintage must pass a "tasting exam" to gauge its sweetness, and is required to have a minimum of 13% alcohol before it can sport the appellation Sauternes. 
http://www.terroir-france.com/region/bordeaux_sauternes.htmweeblylink_new_window

The entire process results in a rather expensive final product - but my only reaction to that is to say, "you get what you pay for". Sauternes usually come in half-bottles. And holding a glass of Sauternes to you nose yields the scents of honey, apricots, and peaches. It is best served chilled between 52 - 55° F, and can be paired with many foods with delightful results.

But the classic pairing is with the utterly decadent and completely delicious Foie Gras de Canard. And mind you, I am normally a vegetarian. But as the French love to say - il y a des limites !

All in all - an absolutely wonderful evening. Thus proving that a little break from social obligations and electricity can yield some of life's simplest and most sublime joys.