JE ME SOUVIENS, INDEED

I didn't mind sleeping in even though we had gone to bed well before midnight because I knew we had a long day ahead of us, particularly if we were to hit one of the saunas on my list that I had cut and pasted from the Montreal Fun Guide. The Sun Queen hadn't recovered nearly as well from colds we had developed around the same time which meant that he spent a long time in his bathroom coughing before we went to breakfast at MB, a nearby cafe, following room service delivery of coffee and orange juice.

When I pulled out my wallet to pay for my pastry and coffee, the Sun Queen assured me that his expense account would cover it.

I thought you already owed them a few grand for overspending your account I said, uncomfortable as always with him picking up my tab.

Don't worry this comes out of another account he answered.

I believed him only because he asked for a receipt but announced that I was paying for tonight's meal come hell or high water.

The cute young concierge had mapped out a route to the Saint-Joseph Oratoire, a church that Fodor's suggested visiting only if you had a lot of time but one that had been recommended by one of the Sun Queen's colleagues.

It's really four churches in one explained the concierge after showing the Sun Queen photos of his renovated kitchen.

Many people will be praying he added, almost in warning.

Perhaps he thought the American infidels would be shocked by the sight of pilgrims ascending the middle steps in front of the church on their knees, no easy feat given its mammoth size. The church stands taller than either St. John the Divine or Notre Dame on Montreal's highest point.



Frere Andre, a sickly penance freak who reputedly healed hundreds of people, began building it in the early 20th century with funds raised mostly from rich American Catholics. Nearly a century later, he's still just one step shy of achieving sainthood. That must be a little bit like the limbo the church recently abolished.

Rather than rely on the Vatican to elevate him to sainthood on the grounds of his good works, Frere Andre decided to go the construction route. No surprise that the bottom-level church also serves as his final resting place or that he lived in humble, ascetic conditions above a nearby chapel. What better way to advertise your piety, especially with dozens of crutches, presumably left behind by the pilgrims he healed, lining the modest altar. Frere Andre never entered the priesthood and the St. Joseph-Oratoire looks to me like a monument to overcompensation or guilt about what he really did to the troubled youths who sought his healing touch.

It's all about Frere Andre he observed the Sun Queen as we climbed into a cab and headed for O'Blahnik's house in a neighborhood southwest of downtown.

She lived in a lovely renovated Victorian cluttered with what may very well have been her parent's antique furniture. I didn't understand how a paralegal placement business could maintain her lifestyle especially when I was introduced to her teenage son, mad for rap and basketball, upstairs.

Plus she never goes to work whispered the Sun Queen as we sunned ourselves in the narrow back yard. A patio and oval swimming pool filled almost all the available space.

A Polish neighbor who belly danced when she wasn't teaching joined us for the extravagant brunch. In addition to serving the simple Spanish omelet she had promised the night before but delivered as scrambled eggs, O'Blahnik put out salmon, pate, a selection of cheeses and pastries in addition to a delicious homemade fruit pie. Her son, who by this time had ridden off on his bicycle and returned with a black friend in tow, got the leftovers.

O'Blahnik kept barking orders at her extremely hunky hired hand. As he installed a new trellis on her second floor she kept soliciting the Sun Queen's opinion on her redecorating efforts. She had offered to drive us to old Montreal after brunch but when Jakob didn't finish the job in time, she enlisted the belly dancer. O'Blahnik seemed profoundly dissatisfied with the way her life had turned out. Did she and the Sun Queen share a bond of misery?

We began our tour of Old Montreal at the Notre Dame Basilica where the Sun Queen wanted to see what he heard were gold statues of saints. I implemented my strategy of paying for all the sightseeing costs. It cost me $8 for a five minute-visit, with no sighting of any gold statues although the linden wood altar was ornately decorated and quite beautiful.



City Hall where we saw the second wedding of many that day despite the Sun Queen's assertion that French Canadians don't put much stock in marriage. They do, however, believe in renting white Rolls Royces when they tie the knot. At Jacques Cartier Quai, which juts out into the harbor, he pointed out an architectural marvel on the island opposite. We later learned from pictures in a real estate office window that it was Habitat '67, a luxury development that resembled a honeycomb built by bees who, like everyone else, had dropped acid during the Summer of Love. I think it's the only site in Montreal that impressed the Sun Queen. He hates the city even more than his job.

We dutifully walked along rue St. Paul, gazing at the lovely old stone architecture. The Sun Queen pointed out all the fancy restaurants where he had dined and muttered about the lack of luxury shopping or excitement. I can't say that I was all that thrilled either, although there were plenty of interesting photo ops.







More out of guilt over declining to see Cirque de Soleil in their hometown, I agreed to go to an Imax documentary about the Alps that had been enthusiastically recommended by one of his co-workers. We stood in line for nearly an hour with hundreds of unbelievably patient people waiting to buy tickets for the Bodies exhibit that I have avoided in both New York and Chicago on ethical grounds. Did the people whose organs and muscles are on display give their permission?

There couldn't have been more than 25 people in the theatre which made the long wait particularly galling in retrospect. The account of an American mountain climber's determination to ascend the treacherous Eiger, the peak that had killed his father, combined Oprah and National Geographic with blinding visuals but I fell asleep anyway and missed the climactic helicopter evacuation of one of the mountaineers. Oh well.



The nap replenished the energy I needed for a night in the Village, a city-branded length of rue St. Catherine that is longer than the Eighth Avenue strip in Chelsea. It also has a much higher density of bars, strip clubs, sex clubs and saunas. At the Sky club the bartender warned the Sun Queen that a cosmo would cost $10. We ascended several flights to enjoy his cocktail and my Bleu beer on the roof deck. The chilly weather prevented us from jumping in the hot tub but we did have a great view of the gay strip and the Oscar Wilde Pub, surely the largest and tackiest gay bar in Canada.

After treating the Sun Queen to a prix fixe tapas dinner at Sasha that set me back $150--which included the most expensive bottle of wine I ever have paid for--I insisted that we go to the Campus strip club. I bought my first lap dance to celebrate my new well-paying job even if I don't have a start date. Actually I bought two in a purely sociological--or do I mean anthropological?--quest to explore dirty-old-man behavior.

The dancers mingled aggressively with the bar patrons in between performances, a big difference from my long-ago experience at the Gaeity. There, I avoided going into the room where the deals for private dances were made preferring instead to try my luck with a hot customer.

Quite by chance, I ended up standing next to a shirtless young guy with a lithe body, beaky nose and just enough facial hair to camouflage his essential androgyny. He seemed to be occupied with an unattractive customer around his own age but he kept looking at me through heavy lidded blue eyes and smiling. I thought it was odd that he purchased a beer for the other guy and was crushed when they left together for what turned out to be only a cigarette break.

He's my ride explained Matthew upon returning and gently caressing my back. We play hockey together. He has a wife and kids at home.

Then he told me how "nice" I seemed and explained how things worked.

For $10 a song I will take you into a private booth and dance for you will all my clothes off. For $20 I will do the same and you can touch me everywhere.

His teeth were too good for me to believe the hockey story but I asked the Sun Queen to lend me $10. Matthew grabbed me by the hand and led me to an concealed area at the side of the stage where another dirty old man was emerging with another dancer. He pulled back a black velvet curtain, revealing a carpetted banquette, and told me to sit down.

Treating the experience as an experiment (!) didn't diminish my enjoyment of Matthew's lean, hairless body and firm, round butt. Who cared if he didn't have an erection when he pulled down his pants. His face, butt and body were turn-ons enough and he got hard as soon as I began touching him during the second song. When it ended, I stood up in mid-grope and announced in no-uncertain-terms that I was ready to pay up.

If it hadn't been for his refusal to kiss or his heavy use of deodorant I might have been persuaded to put another $20 in the meter. Fortunately, even when he wiggled his naked butt back and forth against my crotch I maintained my self control.

I could tell he was a little disappointed.

Will you be taking good memories with you back to New York? he asked when he returned to my spot at the bar. Did you like my dick?

I prefer your eyes I answered. For me, sex is all about the connection with another person and the way you connect is through your eyes and your kiss.

Matthew seemed a little confused, perhaps even insecure about the size of his curved dick which wasn't nearly as large as those of the other dancers. I may be buying into the dirty-old-man mentality, but I think my comments had the desired effect of intriguing him.

And what would you be doing if you weren't dancing here? I asked.

I had to explain that I didn't mean the question literally, eliciting the information that he worked in a civil service job at a local military base and that he would love to spend a year in Paris, "the place we come from."

With that he and his friend excused themselves for another cigarette. A dancer whom I had ignored earlier when he began rubbing my back without so much as eye contact approached me again.

I guess I'm not your type he said when I finally turned to look at him.

No, you're not. I replied.

Well, you're not mine either he said, leaving angrily.

The Sun Queen asked if I was ready to go. Just as we were about to go downstairs, he pointed out Matthew. He and his friend were waving goodbye. I regret only that I didn't think to take his picture and then insisting that we head to the 456 Sauna instead of calling it a night.

Here's how to make your lap dance seem like a bargain: Pad around in your bare feet on a cum-stained carpet in a near-empty warehouse for several hours, finally succumbing, however briefly, to a hungry mouth at a glory hole. And make sure that your companion, who says he looks like a skinny Ben Franklin when he wears his glasses and lets his hair down, has sex with the only other attractive patron.

Je me souviens, indeed.