I’m sitting in the window seat in our hotel room in old Montreal. A dog bark echoes off the building walls. I hear the hum of delivery trucks, gritty footsteps on the cobbles below, a man’s low voice on the quiet morning street. A breeze lifts the gauzy curtains. I’ve always wanted a window seat, to read in, to write in. For the moment, I have one.

I have a milestone birthday coming up. I told my husband I didn’t want to spend it in an empty house with both kids newly gone away for college. He planned a trip away to Montreal for us, and I am so happy. I have drunk in tremendous art in our days here. Along the cobbled street outside our hotel, we’ve ducked into several small galleries. Hanging in the window of one, Espace Langlois, is a pencil sketch of a solemn-faced boy. He wears a flamboyant, drapey yellow bow tie.

The painting is arresting. I love this little boy. I love him so much. Every time we walk down that street, I tell Brian, “I want to go see my little guy.” He reminds me of both my dad and my son. He looks wise, serious, super intelligent, and witty. If I won the lottery, that painting would be the first thing I’d buy.

The painter is Louis Boudreault, and I am captivated by his art. The mandarins. The blue pigments. After my tenth or twelfth visit to the window, I finally investigated to see whose portrait I admired. It is Albert Einstein.

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We walked to the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts Saturday. Once in the museum, I used the tactic I learned in Bianca Bosker’s Get the Picture to get the most out of our visit: when I walked into a gallery room, I found the one artwork that sang to me, and I stood in front of it to drink it in. I looked at it from different angles and distances. I spent time with it. I noticed five things. I paid attention to the choices the artist made. I sat with whatever responses happened inside of me; I paid attention to how it made me feel. I did not read plaques. Afterwards, I regretted that I didn’t at least photograph the descriptions so I’d know who the artists were, especially since the gift shop didn’t have postcards of any of the ones I loved. Thankfully, the internet delivered; the museum has a digital gallery so I could find my favorites and sit with them some more.

The exhibit of Flemish and Dutch art hung in galleries whose walls were painted nearly black. The darkened galleries created the perfect backdrop for the bloom of light in the paintings. Most were deep tones with a glow of warm light that shone on silk garments, forest scenes, or still lifes. Brian pointed out a still life he liked. He said he doesn’t usually care for still lifes, but he liked that one. I said, I love still lifes, they’re my favorite.

And then we walked into a whole room of them, and I gasped with pleasure. One was a scene of wreckage on a table, the aftermath of a wild party filled with seafood and meat pies. A pitcher is overturned. A lemon peel hangs from a lamp. In the background is lobster who sneaks from one level to another. It looks to me like the lobster caused the mischief. This painting delights me. The shining nautilus. The rich blue riboon.

In other rooms, I loved John Currin’s Woman in Expensive Jacket, Fernand Pelez’s Street Child, James Tissot’s October, Hans (Jean) Arp’s Lion of the Cyclades. I desperately wanted to touch the lion. My husband loved Otto Dix’s Portrait of the Lawyer Hugo Simons and Jan Hackaert’s Departure for the Hunt with Falcons.

From the museum, which itself is a work of art with its open spaces, clean lines, and satisfyingly sturdy, rectangular handrails, we looked out and saw the mural of Leonard Cohen as part of the Montreal cityscape. I felt bathed in goodness.

Saturday night, we went to the Upstairs jazz club in an underground, exposed brick room. We had tickets for the Taurey Butler Trio. I leaned my head against the bricks at one point and closed my eyes to focus on the music. I’ve started meditating recently, and I emptied myself like I try to do when I meditate. The music filled the openness inside me.

I listened and was in awe that humans have created things like pianos. It struck me that everything in that room was miraculous. How wondrous that our ancient ancestor humans cared enough about creating music that they figured out how to strike strings to make sounds, and then made strings of different lengths or thicknesses to enable different sounds, and developed instruments so that they could create music with those sounds. And then spent hundreds of years refining those instruments to refine the sounds, and put all those sounds together to make music that doesn’t just touch our ears, but touches our souls. I thought about the building, the tables, the glassware, the cocktail shaker I heard, the electricity that created the light in the room, the thousands of human creations all around us. I was in awe of us as I often am, that we exist and have made all of these things.

On Sunday, we visited the Botanical Garden, where humans design beautiful spaces in harmony with nature. The tresses of a weeping willow swayed in a gentle breeze in the Chinese garden. A tiny tree hugged a boulder. Another stood strong atop its rock. We walked a winding path among conifers, and another among ponds and lilies. I stopped and smelled roses.

And I haven’t even talked about the food! Sauces and soups like velvet. Blistered peppers, fresh salads, watermelon and feta. Breads! Cheeses! Pastries! Or the cathedral, which made my eyes prick with tears when I walked inside and saw the wonder of the space.

My soul feels full. I am in awe of the excellence humanity strives for. I am deeply grateful for the beauty people create and share with the world.