By William Koreluik
Returning home after visiting in Montreal over the Christmas holiday, I had to spend a few hours in the Toronto airport waiting for a connecting flight and was impressed with a phrase that was prominently featured on a wall in a bookstore near to gates 36 to 40.
鈥淭he world is a book and those who do not travel read only a page,鈥� the words said, attributing the quote to Saint Augustine. Apropos for a bookstore in an airport, I thought.
Although I鈥檝e always enjoyed travelling, and valued the learning that springs from it, I was particularly moved this year when the news was filled with stories of Syrian refugees arriving in Canada, primarily at the Toronto and Montreal airports.
I was involved in a large, hot bowl of shrimp Tom Yum soup that was served by what I imagined would have been some guy who had previously immigrated from Thailand and in remaking his life had decided to offer in the airport a menu similar to what had been enjoyed on the streets of Bangkok.
It鈥檚 easy to spend a few hours at the Toronto airport which resembles a crowded city mall and along the wide concourse I saw, more than once, a group of people, which I had assumed had been a family, dressed in what looked like middle-eastern garb. Papa, wearing a long white shirt that extended to his knees had a white crocheted skull cap on his head while Momma and Gramma wore the hijab and Sonny had new Western clothes on.
Refugees or not, I imagined Gramma telling Papa and Momma that it 鈥渋s good here in Canada where we are accepted, can wear our clothes and we can walk freely among all kinds of people.鈥�
I felt warm and fuzzy, sort of Canada-Day proud, that this is my country that is making room for such people in dire circumstances.
It brought to mind an incident at the bar the night before when a boisterous, rather loud American guy, obviously having had a couple too many, joked about our plastic money, groaned about the most recent, almost fascistic proclamations made by Donald Trump, and then offered that he planned to vote for Justin Trudeau for president as a way of making his country better.
Again, warm and fuzzy, proud of where I live, especially in contrast to the current politics south of the border.
After picking off the remaining bits of crusted, melted cheese from a bowl of French onion soup at Lafeyette restaurant on Ste. Catherine鈥檚 Street a few days earlier, I got chatting with another customer. Of course we were speaking in English because every Montrealer鈥檚 English is better than is my French. We had been comparing and contrasting lifestyles in Western Canada and Quebec. I congratulated him on the wonderful ambience of Montreal, lamented that a relatively few Western Canadians let themselves be exposed to it and we agreed how fortunate we are that the political machinations of the 1980s, which could have been the end of Canada and Quebec, are no longer near the forefront.
Warm and fuzzy.
Not for a long, long while had I seen so many people as I had encountered on Boxing Day in Montreal on Ste. Catherine鈥檚 and in the many malls alongside the street and underground. I was on my way to see Star Wars in 3D at the IMAX and again I was impressed how when one overhears a conversation of people walking by, often one person is speaking in French and the other replies in English.
That experience always reminds me of my adventures as a youth hitchhiking through Europe and remembering how, in the evening, I had been embarrassed when we all played Scrabble, and most of the others were able to play the game in four languages, while I was able to find my words only in English and my feeble French.
After this trip, as after all trips we take, we pack up our memories, massage our adventures and return to read the page we need the most, want the most or enjoy the most: home.
