Yesterday afternoon, Hôtel Mont Gabriel, where we attempted a new photo in the footsteps of another, my father’s parents with a man we don’t know. The grandfather I never met. Christine dressed deliberately in one of her mother’s dresses, found in a closet. By the pool, realizing theirs a mid-autumn pose, as ours, on the other hand, mid-August warm, crowded and well overdressed. Even the bartenders gave us strange looks. Ten minutes walking around the outdoor heated pool before we realized the original picture’s vantage, as the “Mont Gabriel Club” sign long gone, and the stone wall of the lounge replaced with large windows. A girl in pink bikini snapped a couple of photos. I stood with hands in pockets, much like my grandfather, not nearly as relaxed. Christine replicated my grandmother perfectly, even down to the dress. We confused many swimmers. As we left, catching full view of the scale of this tourist mecca, large buildings and stretches of golf courses, tennis courts, basketball courts and a chalet-stretch of buildings that went as far as the hills. It’s one thing to visit a friend or a relative, but what would my grandparents have been doing visiting such a stately, imposing, and, dare I say, expensive hotel?