Luna

Awake at 3:30, I listen to his regular breathing for an hour, and finally give up. I fumble for my glasses, my watch, reach for the shoes under the bed. Last night's clothes are on top of my knitting basket; I take those and quietly feel for a pair of tights in the dresser drawer.

Out in the living room it's dark but I manage not to stumble over the backpacks we left there late last night. I peek through the shades: no snow, no traffic, just the click of someone's heels in the distance. The thermometer reads 39 F, warmer than I anticipated. I pull on tights, yoga pants, two cotton knit shirts, a sweater, two unmatched socks, find a thin black hat that will fit under my helmet, a fleece headband, my leather gloves. The closet door squeaks but I slide my down parka off its hanger for the first time this year, shoulder the backpack, and head out the door.

The cold air and night wind feel good on my face. I've forgotten a scarf but pull up the neck of the parka, and ride down the alley and up one of the Plateau's narrow streets, the cars sleeping nose to tail, the houses dark behind their lace-curtained doors. A cat. A single woman crossing Mont-Royal. A bus on St-Joseph, and one or two lone taxis, dorsal fins alight, like fish separated from their school.

In the space of two blocks the despondency of sleeplessness changes to quiet exhilaration, as if each round of my pedals is pumping a drug into my bloodstream, but it's the silence and solitude that are intoxicating me, and the familiar turned exotic by the unfamiliar hour. The shuttered depanneurs, the red lights I ride through unhindered, the empty schoolyard. I look at the blank school windows imagining drowsy hamsters and fish, and in the dark stone recesses of St. Stanislaus, a sanctuary lamp glowing with a red flame.

Laurier too is deserted but when I ride past the sous-sol windows of Fromentier I see lights, and circle back on the sidewalk. The smell of bread wafts up to the street, and yes, there they are in the back by the brick ovens, two bakers, one making croissants and one, baguettes. I lean my bike on the rail and take out my camera-- voyeur, amateur -- watching their practiced motions through the viewfinder; the baguette man lifts the risen loaves on linen canvas like a stretcher; they lie in pale rows awaiting the fire. He raises his head and sees me, I take the camera from my eye and wave, an apparition in a helmet; he smiles and goes back to his work.

At the depanneur au coin there's coffee brewing, and someone's getting gas. Down the street, the lights are on at Chez Menick the Sports Barber, and I stop to marvel at the painted floor, the red-white-and-blue color scheme, the hockey-stick tables I've never noticed during the day.

I turn into the factory block to head up to our studio. It's the darkest place I've been since leaving home, except for the cold silvery moon. She's a pin-up moon tonight - voluptuous and distant - hanging on the black wall of this oiled and gritty industrial landscape. A rumble begins to the east: a train on the Canadian Pacific tracks. Soon it clatters into sight, gaining speed, all muscle and steel, and I watch it pass under the cool gaze of the moon.

Comments

[Vivien]

Absolutely wonderful description! I could almost be there.

[Kim]

I saw this over on facebook first, clicked right over and read it again. I changed to google reader recently when my usual reader, bloglines, went belly up. I can never remember to check it, though I am not sure why. It was wonderful to have a reminder over in facebook world. Thanks for sharing it there.

So lovely, Beth. So lovely.

[Dick]

A hymn to insomnia! A beautiful piece, Beth. I shall copy and paste this to my other-people's-work file and read it when next I'm lamenting sleeplessness.

[Marja-Leena]

As another insomniac, I'm quite amazed at your courage and energy to go out into the cold night on a bike! Last night I was up for hours reading and writing and drinking herbal tea, wrapped in a blanket with heavy wool socks - so boring compared to your adventure!

[mary]

I'm thinking how very cold it must be riding a bike in 39 degree weather. I can feel the icicles of the handlebars as I'm sitting here.

[Dave]

Nice writing, Beth. Next time I get insomnia, maybe I will follow your example and go for a brisk walk aroud the mountain. I used to night-walk all the time in my 20s and early 30s.

[Uma]

Beautifully written Beth. You did all this at 3.30? Here in Chennai I 'll get mugged.

[zuleme]

I'll never forget riding through the street of Montreal at dawn when I lived there. Did you get a photo of the bakers? Lovely post.
I do the tea, blanket and book routine if I am on my own. At home sometimes I go and cuddle with Harper (cat) in his room.

[marly youmans]

Brr! Most moony, the round and cut cheeses in the darkness, the pin-up, the eye... Those footsteps on her face didn't kick off the enchantment, I suppose. Like this.

[Natalie]

Wonderful dawn journey, Beth. I've felt the same exhilaration on the rare occasions when I've been up and out in the very early morning, telling myself: why don't I do this more often? But I must admit it was never in winter. You are brave indeed to venture out on your bike in the cold but then you're a Vermont girl! So, what did you do when you got inside the studio? And did you still feel energetic 3 or 4 hours later?

[Hattie]

Oh, I just loved this! How absolutely wonderful.

[Beth Lowe]

So wonderful, Beth. I loved this post. We have relatives in Montreal, so, although I don't think I'm familiar with these exact streets (and certainly not at 3:30am!), I can imagine your ride and the freedom you must have felt. Great description and writing. I especially liked the pin-up moon.

[Rachel Barenblat]

This is extraordinarily beautiful to me, Beth, words and images alike. I love the little slices of nighttime life you encounter. And the reminder that a middle-of-the-night waking can hold blessings is always a good one for me, even though I am not often awake in the wee small hours as I was during most of the last year...

[Elizabeth Westmark (Beth)]

Remarkable words and images. I can smell the yeasty loaves rising. The alert, seeking mind on its rounds will stay with me.

[Julie]

There is something deliciously naughty about creeping out of bed in the small hours and venturing forth to play while the rest of the world sleeps...