THE man in Montreal has a big blister on his lip. It came about because he thought C" meant "cold" on the tap in the bathroom. Not an unreasonable assumption, he hissed from behind the blister. He had checked into the hotel in English, he had tipped the porter in English, he had turned on the tap and filled a mug of water to drink and here he was with his face scarred for life.
Who would expect that "C" meant chaud and that chaud meant hot? A poor explanation offered at the desk (where he had gone to complain and hint at litigation), seemed to suggest you have to be bilingual in a city like Montreal.
His wife was trying to play it down. "They've given you lip salve, honey," she pleaded. "They should give me exemplary compensation," he grumbled.
No one had much sympathy for him, he was a one topic man. "The television was in English, the room service was in English, how was I to be inspired that the faucets would be in French?" For most people, that's a lot of the charm of Montreal, but this was probably not the time to say that.
THERE was a flurry of snow in old Montreal and they all looked up at the starry night with interest as the restaurants were closing and people walked home along the cobbled streets and past buildings and cales so French that no one would ever have believed this to be anything but a continental place. Some said the snow was so romantic they couldn't wait for it others said it hid the litter and made the place look like a wonderland more said the children would be so excited in the morning and they even took out cameras to photograph the onset of a winter so grim and icy that your heart, would sink even to think about it.
But that's not how they see it. "It's such a pity you will miss the crisp, crunchy snow, so beautiful by the St Lawrence River," said a nice couple who wanted me to experience all the beauty Montreal could offer, not realising that crisp, crunchy snow appealed to me as much as a very unappetising dish called Mixed Bitter Greens, much loved as a starter by healthy, svelte Quebecois.
They are, amazingly, able to eat these dry and dandelion like things with a fork and look elegant and happy while doing it.
THE two men on the plane knew each other well to see. A lot of commuting over the years, but no intimacies, no shared experience of a life lived on the road and measured in air miles.
"Hey, it's you again," one said.
"Yeah, I know you better than I know my own wife," said the other.
"And you're easier to talk to than my wife," said the first.
I watched them glumly as they put their grip bags in the overhead racks and took out their laptops. They didn't talk to each other, just opened their laptops and went straight for it, whatever it was.
I told myself it was just a manner, a style, a way of talking maybe they had loving homes, and eager children watching the window for Daddy's return. But full of imagination as I am, somehow I couldn't make myself believe it.
NEW YORK in the sunset was beautiful. All those glass and metal skyscrapers were dark pink and orange. Like everyone else, I always wonder what life would have been like if I had come to live here as I thought I might 25 years ago. As always, it's a useless speculation we haven't a clue.
Fitzpatricks Hotel was full of dangerously fit looking people. I feared they might be serving Mixed Bitter Greens but no, it was a group that had come over to run in the marathon: they were all wearing Eamon Coughlan shirts and had raised great funds for the Children's Hospital.
A man who worked in a nearby shop that sells luggage, among other things, asked, when he heard my accent if I was on the "light leg" of some flight to Ireland like the Notre Dame one. Apparently the shopping expedition of all time hit New York during that particular visit. The planes that had taken the Americans to Ireland came back to Kennedy Airport filled with turbo shoppers who each bought four new cases at $20 apiece.
"Things must sure be a lot less expensive over here," he said. "They're different," I said primly, not wanting to let ourselves down.
IT'S exciting to be anywhere during an election. Four years ago when Bill Clinton first got in, I was in California - and now by chance to be in New York City!
The polls opened at six a.m. and most of the people I met during the day had voted early. Just like at home, where I never meet anyone who votes Fianna Fail, here I met only Clinton voters. In the remorselessly trendy Gotham Restaurant at 12 East Twelfth Street (thanks to my friend Tom Dunne I am always able to tell you the latest in place), they were taking bets - not on who would win, but on what time the result would be declared and how soon the concession speech would be made.
The place was buzzing with gossip, publishers most of them who had met or sort of met most of the major players. They told great stories about people who looked very lovey dovey in public but were quite different when banks of photographers were not there to record it all.
A lot of the schools were closed because they were being used as polling stations. There is no razzamatazz at the point of voting - that's the law in case people feel they might be coerced. But the law does allow campaigners to say the most desperate things about each other in the increasingly hate filled advertising campaigns.
"Very hard to keep a pleasant respectful atmosphere in the home when they see so called statesmen on the television calling each other every name in the book," said a harassed mother.
"Very bad idea to play the election coverage in a bar," a barman told me sagely. "Only depresses the clientele could even cause friction reminds them of the economy. No, I find sport makes them drink up better." And indeed he was tuned to none of the 10 stations covering the business of electing a president. A ball game made them thirstier.
When the Democrats took Florida, people reached for the phone and called each other.
"That's our boy, home," they said.
"It's over now.
"Four more years."
And then they watched for hours and hours, even though they knew the end of the story. And then it was over and people got on with their lives again. And just as I had my cases packed, someone asked me were we girding up for this sort of thing at home, and I said I thought we very probably were.
"I'm sure it's much more civilised over there," he said. I didn't know why he should have that impression, but on the grounds of extending everyone's experience I urged him to come over and watch it at first hand when it happens. He wouldn't find many pubs where they thought it wiser not to show the election coverage. That was the first difference, I told him. He said he'd have difficulty sorting out the good guys from the bad guys. I said he'd have none at all. He would be well advised within minutes of his arrival. By the first person he met.
He's only waiting to know when to book his ticket.