So it's a little over three weeks since my 16th wedding anniversary...16 years! My God! I never made it past about 4 months with any girl, and now I'm well over 200 months when you count the time we dated.

I guess this means I found the right one, huh? Not that there was ever any doubt; it's more the fact that, before I was married, there was always that question with every girlfriend--is she the one? Could I be with her for the rest of my life? And the answer was always "no."

Even with K, the first few weeks I wasn't sure. It was only when she gained the confidence to stand up to me...to dish out as much as I did - that's when I knew.

It's made, at times, for a challenging life, and I sure as hell don't always agree with her, but that's a big part of it, isn't it? To be challenged...to not always have someone blindly agree with you, to sometimes have to defend your position or even let it go even though you know you're right (not that I always am--I'm likely wrong more often than I'm right).

That's what makes it fun--though it can be frustrating as hell at times. Maybe that's why some marriages don't last; maybe both sides feel the need to be right the most. I know K and I both struggle with that but, in the end, we both care enough for each other that we will let the other "win" though really, if one wins, we both do.

She's a damn smart woman, much more that she credits herself for...so we have fun, that's for sure.

16 years later, we're still having fun. And I still love her. In fact, I love her more, and find her more beautiful now than I did 16 years ago, and she was beautiful back then.

Got myself a keeper, that's for sure!

On Montreal (as opposed to a Moron in Montreal...)

There's a lot of bums in Montreal. But they don't seem quite as derelict or downtrodden as they do in Toronto. They'll look you in the eye as they hold out their cup or hat. Defiant in their homelessness.

Sirens...my God, they seem constant (yet, as I write this, they are strangely quiet). Someone always seems to be in peril, just around the corner.

The entire city seems to be under construction. Roads ripped up, buildings torn down or wreathed in scaffolding. But it doesn't seem to inconvenience anyone. They appear to not see or acknowledge it. Not ignore, that's not the right word. To them, it's just not there.

The drivers are out of control. The painted lines on the roads are treated as an optional guideline that all tend to ignore. The cabbies, impossibly, are even worse drivers than the general public. I swear, had our cab from the airpoirt had one more coat of paint, we would have collided with the other cars. A thickness of paint seemed at times, the only separation. And the cabbies seem to be in some sort of competition--whoever cuts off the most cars in one day wins.

For a French-speaking city in an unapologetically French province, an English-speaking person can get by very well. Everyone is remarkably helpful and friendly.

The city is a parade of contrasts: a French city that welcomes English; an old, beautiful city with modern edifices to big business; a city that proudly displays its cosmopolitan airs through fashion and sex and student population, while offering traditional treats such as cafes and bistros and fewer franchises than I've ever seen in any city.

Everyone 35 and under has a cellphone permanently stuck to their ear. Everyone 35 and older smokes. No, scratch that--EVERYONE smokes. Most of the native population is not obese. Everyone seems slim and healthy.

I really like Montreal. Which is its last and greatest surprise.