Adam, our guide, Adrian and Justin.

The previous night’s rains skipped down the Quebec mountain by a thousand different paths. Tumbling over rocks, between trees, upon the steps on which we walked, the water laughed as it went down and we struggled up. We met frequently along the way — the water and us five travelers — the water running over the rock steps like a slinky toy, cleansing the hard-earned mud off our feet as it passed through.

Up, up, up. I don’t remember ever climbing so high. Up, up, up through the Parc national du Saguenay, splashing and sweating and joking. Three kilometers felt like seven, but in a good way. We climbed to meet the saint.

It might be a secret that I’ve had a lot on my mind as of late. Family changes, relationship issues (with friendships and otherwise), decisions about grad schools, and complicated work have weighed me down. I don’t always know how to deal with stress or sadness or disappointment, so I file them away, tucking them in crevices of my mind and body and away from view. I used to write about these things, but old age has made me cautious, less willing to reveal my inner mechanisms.

Up, up, up, though. Clarifying! One foot in front of the other, looking for a dry patch to stand firm, pausing only to dip your feet in cold water. Simple! With a known destination in mind and within reach and promising of beauty. Satisfying! As the mud caked on my feet and the altitude climbed, my mind decompressed, became calm.

At the top, she waited: the Notre Dame du Saguenay. We reached her after an hour of climbing, but when we arrived she looked not down upon us, but out upon the water, her hands clasped in calm and leaden permanence. A guide standing at her feet told us the story — in French — of how this saint saved a 19th century man from drowning in the fjord upon which we gazed, and how, in return, he built this statue in her honor.

There, we rested, taking off our muddy flip flops and looking out upon the mix of gray, green and blue. Water, rocks, trees and sky. The sun was warm but the breeze was cool. I looked at my friends, and looked inside. The stresses didn’t seem so overwhelming, the disappointments in better perspective. It was a perfect moment, made more perfect by the realization that soon we would have to descend again, through the mud, the water, the rocky terrain and land once again upon the world which we inhabit.

At the Montreal Botanical Gardens today, somewhere between the Japanese gardens and the arboretum, I nodded and said bonjour to some strangers passing by.

Adam looked at me and said, “Bonjour. The r is more throaty, back here.” He touched his tonsils. “Bon joughh. Can you do that?”

“Bon joughh,” I said with a little phlegm at the end.

“Bon joughh,” Adam said again.

“Bon joughh,” I repeated. “Bon joughh. Bon jougGhGh. Bon joughhghGHGHG.” I practically hacked up a lung with a deep, guttural sound. Ducks swimming in the pond flew away in fright. Clearly I was taking it seriously.

Adam looked at me with a look of infinite patience and wisdom, the look of a teacher with a well-meaning student who just isn’t getting it.

“It takes time to learn,” he said.

—

We each have different ways of dealing with the language barrier. I mentally plan my sentences, editing them down to as few words as possible. “Chicken.” “Number 97.” “One ticket.”

Adrian gives blank stares.

Justin spews verbal stew that confuses even his English-speaking friends. This is especially effective when ordering complicated cocktails that they’ve never heard of in Montreal.

“I’ll have a dirty martini with top-shelf vodka, do you have top-shelf vodka, tanqueray or grey goose?”

The server, who is really a bar-back filling in on a busier-than-expected night, looks at him with a confused look. “Ehhh… Dirty martini?” She asks.

“A dirty martini is easy to make two olives a little olive juice a splash of vermouth and the rest is top-shelf vodka do you have top-shelf vodka?”

Justin’s quick-moving words are made even more complicated by his constant, well-meaning hand movements and head shaking. He smiles the whole time to show that he’s explaining out of friendliness.

The server leaves to fetch a different server who hopefully understands English a little better.

“Justin,” we say. “For god’s sake! Slow. Down. And. Use. Fewer. Words.”

This happens at every restaurant.