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epitome of incomprehensibility
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I think today was my first time there. And that from a mistake: walking north on Langelier street instead of south. But I am confident, blissfully unaware as of yet. A boy on a scooter approaches behind me, so I turn off the sidewalk, up the path to this park. He's going on the path anyway. Enough room to pass.
Enough time, expansive, to catch a look at the park: a placard says this used to be a dump. I gather that from the context; the French word "dépotoir" looks like it should mean a storage space. Depot. The land, swampy, was used as a garbage dump first and then a place for dumping snow. With the soil still polluted, unfit for building on, the city decided to restore the area into a park.
This is the kind of story that cheers me - the park that doesn't hide its garbage past. The renewal. The naming after a musician and writer I feel I should know better.
But unlike my Sunday in Jarry_Park, it's too hot for me to want to linger. The sun threatens my skin with redness, burns tiredness into my bones. I slope back to long Langelier where I'll go hither and thither before regaining the green_line of the metro.
...
I looked this up afterwards: I would have gotten home muuuuch faster if I'd kept going north and caught the last 460 bus that met the 40 highway, but I didn't know the number of that line and when I looked up "bus on highway 40 Montreal," my small screen insisted on giving me the 40 bus route. I need a whole-ass computer to search effectively - as one might guess from my old-school hyphenated swears. Read it and sweat. Gah, it's 11:30 PM and still so hot out. But yes, I met a new park today. Sorry to tarry. To almost rhyme. To rhyme: I can marry Jarry. but I am also park-polyamorous.
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