By: Jasper Jose
As a sliver of the sun broke through the horizon, Maria Marcelo Ejercito Cruz hopped off the ferry, the salt of the sea stinging the scent of the air. She had no idea what the future would hold, only that her parents had finally gotten a job here in Montreal and that she was to rendezvous with them at a café whose name she had forgotten. She had flown in later so that she could say goodbye to more of her friends, but now that was proving to be a mistake. It was winter, and the crisp, harsh cold wove through the curls of her dark hair, a chilling reminder that she was no longer in Tondo. The land stretched far and flat, distant hills on the crest of her viewpoint were dotted with the rooftops of foreign architecture. The words of the people around her never stuck, and the typically talkative nature was replaced with a strange silence. Their language was odd to her. The nasal sounds of their n’s and m’s tore at her ears, and her tongue had no place for the rolls of their r’s. This new world had no rhythm that she could listen to and understand.
Still, there was a kindliness to them that seemed to permeate with all people. What was mutual amongst them was not words or experiences, but the simplest of human emotions. She heard laughter as she walked through Place Jacques-Cartier, and the icy wind seemed to whisper to her. The towering old stones and the European-styled buildings were different from the corrugated iron she knew in Manila. There was an awe, an aged essence, unburdened by the influence of a dominant culture, and it flourished in a brilliance that ran through her veins.
She was still lost, though.
In the square, there was music playing, and she was drawn to it, a brief distraction from her circumstances. Her ill-chosen slippers slapped against the steps, and surrounded by dead arbres, she looked around with a worried expression, trying to remember the name of the café she had forgotten.
“Ett-Voo Purdue?” A Quebecois woman asked. Maria had no idea what she had actually said, but those were the noises she heard. As strange as it was, at that moment, the name had come back to her.
“J-Jardin Nelson…?” Maria asked.
The Quebecois raised an eyebrow and then pointed to the bougie building right behind her, where her parents were gesturing her over.
“Oy, Salamat!” she thanked, as she parted from the Quebecois waving. Neither had spoken a word of either’s language, and yet one’s day was made better and the other’s was saved.