How to say "Montreal" in Italian

I speak French with my co-workers. I speak English with my roommates, interspersed with French-tasting tidbits. With my Italian friend Giulio, I speak on a foreign turf; conversing in French, neither of us uses the language we know the best. It's a strange neutrality. When neither member is at perfect ease linguistically, what is created? Perhaps comedy, but in our case, it's friendship.

Giulio arrived at the train station last night, and I browsed the terminals at the central bus station, looking for this Italian that I had not seen since my days abroad in France. I watch the old men and young men and arab men and mexican men who wander around the convenience store and down the hall. Some wear hats and others big coats. One man tries to win a stuffed animal from a pick-your-prize vending machine game. I should have known that a European would not arrive in such an environment; I should have known he'd come by train, rather than the more cost-efficient bus. A train station reunion would have played into cinematic expectations. When we meet later at his hotel in Old Montreal, he with his reservations and papers neatly arrayed in a plastic folder, I begin to wonder if I'm not as organized as I had thought, at least not with regards to him, making my error all the more embarrassing. But in fine form he arrives, and I find myself, for the first time since Leif's departure, in the presence of an old friend who will, at least temporarily, alter the Montrealan landscape I've come to know.

Last night we wander through a mostly dead Vieux Montreal--its touristy bars and upscale restaurants closed. We walk past City Hall, a striking nineteenth-century building, reminiscent of Paris along the Seine. Something about the building at night strikes me. I make a comment about its oddity, comparing it to a cartoon depiction, something unreal. "I was wondering when I'd hear one of your odd metaphors," he tells me. At least my pretension is a universal language.

It's this sort of moment that I enjoy. Seeing a building or experiencing a place, and being able to share it with someone. Granted, a certain selfish territorialism takes place when one lives alone, and one relishes, even prizes, the things seen and done (sometimes visitors seem an intrusion to all the hoarded spaces), but camaraderie is unmatched. Friday, then, my Italian camarade and I will voyage to Quebec City, a storybook city that I have yet to experience. Updates to follow.