We'd spent the night in Huron, Michigan and I think I called Francis to let him know we were coming. But my message wasn't exact enough, because when we got to Montreal he wasn't expecting us. He lived in a three story apartment--which he owned, where his brother lived in the bottom apartment, Francis on in the second floor and they rented out the third--and it was his brother, Jude, who met us and let us in. Francis had just gotten back from a fishing trip and was not there. So, his place had not been cleaned or readied for our visit (we were staying with him). Not that it was dirty--it's a very nice place in a desirable place in the city--it's mainly that his nice wood floor had not been dusted.
I found some beer in a cooler. The cooler smelled like fish. Jude had called Francis to let him know we'd showed up. Francis--a good host and conscientious human being--was a tad distressed that we had got our trip dates wrong. (I remember now, I'd thought about calling him the night before, but just assumed we'd set the date and time of our arrival, so didn't worry about giving him a heads up on the eve of our arrival.) Anyway--not to worry. All was good and Montreal was--is--of course a fantastic city. For Fru and I it was like going to Europe, the city had that cosmopolitan and foreign feel to it, that vibe, and then there was all the French, the language and voices, the signs, etc.
But--back to the dusty floors--First daughter was not even one year old. She could not walk yet. What she did was scoot. She wore diapers and she would sit cross-legged and to get around, her brand of locomotion, was to scoot on her diapered rear using her legs to pull herself around. . . . So, there we were in Montreal, at Francis' nice place, drinking fishy beer--Fru, Francis and I--and we stood in the kitchen as we watched First Daughter scoot along in her diaper, like a dust mop, cleaning the floors and leaving a trail in the wood as she went.
Of course we laughed.