Montréal, Québec, Canada 30.5.92: Tons of Nuns and Old Farmhouses

Still in Montréal. A morning of sightseeing, in which we saw the old city and the McCord Museum of Canadian History (not impressive), and had lunch at an outdoor restaurant—viandes fumées (a chicken sandwich). Gregory and Shirley B., with whom we’re staying, very kind.

Just before we drove back to their apartment (where we are now) for a rest, we went over the Victoria Bridge to a working-class area of the city and a 17th-century farmhouse (1698) that had, I think the sign said, come to Marguerite Bourgeoys from Maisonneuve. But as 150 nuns were imminently expected, we didn’t stay to tour.

Emotionally, I’m a wreck—or dead inside would say it more accurately. . . . This feels like such a dreadful time for me, my heart swaddled in gray cotton wool. I feel I’ve lost all friends and family with what Belmont Abbey is doing to me—something brought home to me as I think of sending postcards—and have no real feeling about that loss, about touring, or about anything much, except a wish for it (or me) just to vanish.