I’m sitting alone in a hotel room in Los Angeles. I got here this morning, and I took a cab to Fairfax. The hotel is called the Farmer’s Daughter, and I picked it because it was across the street from the Farmer’s Market and the website had an animation that made it look like there were fireflies blinking through the lobby. The headboard is made of green lattice, and the duvet cover is denim. There’s butter-yellow rooster-patterned wallpaper behind the bed, and a little red stool and gingham drapes. It’s somehow an approximation of a boutique hotel, a hostel, and a divey motel (bathtub).
After I checked in I walked over to the Farmer’s Market and ate endive salad at a white countertop. The girl behind it was wearing a sweatshirt patterned with lobsters and fine china; she talked to me about how much she loves Montreal and tried to guess at the meaning of Maisonneuve. “All I can get is nine.” I asked her what I could do in this neighbourhood without a car, and she told me to walk up Fairfax to Melrose. Continue reading