The city is looking dirty and shabby. This is Montreal the morning after, unshaven, bleary-eyed, make-up askew, wearing the same underwear as last night. The heady affair with Winter is drawing to a close. No more ski weekends, no more shaken snowglobe photo ops, no more pride at surviving in -25 weather. The yearly honeymoon is over. All that is left is cigarette butts, dog shit, and mushy cardboard boxes. And very dirty cars.
Time to take a shower, dear city. I feel grubby just walking your streets.
Shake your hair, Montreal. Dust off your coat. Your new love is coming soon. Forget Winter, he was getting to be a bore. Time to move on. Let's get green and wet. Show me some colour and light. If you are going to get Summer to stay awhile, you're going to need to make a bit of an effort. She's a fickle lady, that Summer. Last year, she barely made an appearance, begging off on some pretext of being super busy in Florida and Spain. I know that hurt but remember the feel of her when she stays two, three months? Warm air up your skirt. Sun on your parched sidewalks. She's worth it, you know she is.
Oh, and Montreal? Please let Winter go. I don't want to see him around here for at least another nine months. Il est trop lourd!
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