I keep having these moments where everything seems to fall into perfect, clean lines. Seconds of belonging, kind of what I've been looking for as I get my footing in this brave new place. Some solace or reassurance, that I wasn't alone, that I have a chance to make it out of here alive. (Maybe even better off?)
#1. Bek and I went out to look for a bar. It was our first Saturday in the city (well, the first where we weren't covered in moving dirt, sweat and exhausted) and it was not to be wasted. After spending the afternoon making our little flat into a little home (pictures hung, vinyls spinning, stocking the fridge with fresh veggies from our nearby fruiterie) we were too tired to go dancing, but not too tired to go out and sit on our butts with a cold drink. So we got dressed and wandered out into the night to find a scene.
The nightlife in Montreal is the stuff of legends (says the tour book that Jill got me for my birthday). The night was cold with the first mumble of autumn making us wish we had brought scarves. Each bar or pub or bistro we passed promised something different. One, a young scene, loud and boisterous. The next, sophisticated, wine swilling patrons with square plates and assembled, precarious appetizers. People wandered this way and that through the streets. No one clear direction was marked as the path to the par-tay.
We decided on Chez Baptiste, not sure why, but with our eyes on it, we both decided it would be a good place to check out. Mutual, mind connection decision made. Inside, the bar was dark and the Black Keys blared over the speakers. People wore berets and thick rimmed glasses without a sense of any irony whatsoever. Our waitress asked us where we were from and we explained we have moved, and it was our first week dans la ville. A few minutes later she came back with a tray, and on it, three shots. "Welcome to Montreal!" And I can't be sure whether the warmth from this welcome was me being genuinely moved, or from hard alcohol. Either way, we left a few hours later in high spirits and thanked the waitress again on our way out the door.
#2. Today at school, I discovered they serve a free vegan lunch from Monday to Friday. I gawked at the wealth of the young and the hip and the smart and the beautiful. I felt, like this was a place where my passions, my interests and my morals were aligning. I learned about poets and my prof talked about epiphanies and Oscar Wilde and poetry. Hipster Mecca. Who knows, sooner or later I might even get to call it my home, instead of that place where I just happen to have landed at the moment.
#3. I even wandered into a pet store, and bought a scratching post for the cat using my lame French skills. Bravo, moi. Bravo! The house is more or less emptied of cardboard boxes, too. I made a vegetable stock out of the bits and pieces of cut up vegetables Bek and I haven't made use of. The weather is getting colder and stuff is starting to come together.
Keep calm, and carry on, y'all.
Showing posts with label Montreal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Montreal. Show all posts
September 11, 2012
September 03, 2012
The French Revolution: Moving Day
[NOTE: I WILL UPDATE THIS POST WITH PHOTOS WHEN I CAN GET AT 'EM. UNTIL THEN, YOU JUST HAVE TO READ STUFF. READ IT WELL.]
I've done it. Move complete. I'm typing this away in a Second Cup in Montreal.
The night before the big move, I could only lay awake in bed and think one thing: "This is the craziest thing I've ever done." And it is. I've never lived so far from home, in a place where I don't fluently speak the preferred language. I'm pouring literally thousands of dollars into a degree and this living arrangement for the next three years. They say the big risks = the biggest payoffs.
Fingers crossed on that.
The move itself went something like this: we got up with the sunrise to jam poor Telly into his cat carrier, then schlepped him into the back of Bek's car. Bek and I took that car, and our parents each went in their own respective vehicles. We had a gaddamn convoy. Before we left, we geared up on coffee and breakfast sandwiches, then took off down the highway. And we drove over 500KM, over 6 hours, until we made it all the way to la belle province (Québec) and la ville (Montreal...duh). The drive itself didn' feel long at the finish, but by the end I was talking to the cat, he was talking back, and no one was in the mood for the next step of the journey.
I had been dreading this for weeks. Steady goodbyes, one by one to the people I love as well as the slow disappearance of my worldly belongings into bags and cardboard boxes were pretty much symptoms of the looming apocalypse. Friends and family with their eyes alight would ask me if I was excited and I would just shake my head.
"No. I'm too stressed out by the move."
The idea of moving is simple by definition, and most people only hate it because of the hard work it signifies. You take your stuff from the home at point A, move it to point B. Well, it so happens that Point B, my new home, is an apartment graced with ample stair-age. No elevator.
My parents are both over 50 years old, not spring chickens and the very IDEA of sending them (cruel taskmaster styles, yo) up not one, but two narrow, somewhat steep flights of stairs carrying heavy/fragile/featherlight/nothing was giving me massive anxiety. If someone broke something, I was going to have THAT on my conscience for the next...oh...forever.
Every family dinner or special occasion, someone would say, "Hey, do you remember the time you got the idiot idea to move to the only French speaking province in our country and mom was carrying that big box up the Aztec pyramid that you call your stairs using only her love for you and she slipped and got a hangnail?" Dare I say, the story of the agony would echo through the ages as first fact, and then legend.
Yes. This is the MO I was working with. Dreading. When we GOT there, the former tenants of our place were still moving out. They were pretty well all francophones, which one of the fellows seemed to find important as he made a big show out of asking us all if we were from Ontario and then bidding us goodbye as "anglophones." Merci, bro. Nothing makes me feel at home like having it pointed out explicitly why I don't fit in. Seriously!
As we hauled box after box up the stairs, my dad stood on the balcony and pulled things up by a rope. My parents in the end, actually did very little stair climbing, for which I am very grateful. We got all the stuff up, threw it into the rooms, shutting Telly in the bathroom, to adjust to part of his new home. He curled up in the window, petrified. I could sympathize.
My parents headed to Ikea to bed hunt (which is like head hunting but sleepier in the back to school season) and Bek's parents went to scope out their hotel. What did we do in that moment? Did we jump up and down with excitement? Did we high five? No. We threw my comforter on the floor and laid on it without moving. Then we made coffee and laid still some more. The start of our glamorous French-Canadian Metropolitan lives began with no sugar, no milk dark roast and paralysis courtesy of fatigue.
We went out for dinner with Bek's parents, tried to order in French, and came home to find the cat missing. POOF. Gone. We searched the apartment top to bottom. We checked every room, every pile of miscellaneous stuff, every box, twice. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feared that in some WEIRD anglo-hate fueled terrorist act, someone had had broken in to let the cat out. We literally could not find him. ANYWHERE. So I did what my mama taught him to do best: come to the sound of a treat container being shaken. Following the sound of the bell on his collar, Bek found him in my closet. Which we thought was regular size, but ACTUALLY goes all the way back to Narnia, while still providing room for several fugitives and/or in denial people of the gay persuasion.
We have no beds, so we slept on the floor. C'est la vie.
None of this even feels real yet. Like by next week, I'll be back home, in my Waterloo life with my family and everything will be on hold again. Not this time, mes amis. This time, we're playing for keeps.
À Suivre...
I've done it. Move complete. I'm typing this away in a Second Cup in Montreal.
The night before the big move, I could only lay awake in bed and think one thing: "This is the craziest thing I've ever done." And it is. I've never lived so far from home, in a place where I don't fluently speak the preferred language. I'm pouring literally thousands of dollars into a degree and this living arrangement for the next three years. They say the big risks = the biggest payoffs.
Fingers crossed on that.
The move itself went something like this: we got up with the sunrise to jam poor Telly into his cat carrier, then schlepped him into the back of Bek's car. Bek and I took that car, and our parents each went in their own respective vehicles. We had a gaddamn convoy. Before we left, we geared up on coffee and breakfast sandwiches, then took off down the highway. And we drove over 500KM, over 6 hours, until we made it all the way to la belle province (Québec) and la ville (Montreal...duh). The drive itself didn' feel long at the finish, but by the end I was talking to the cat, he was talking back, and no one was in the mood for the next step of the journey.
I had been dreading this for weeks. Steady goodbyes, one by one to the people I love as well as the slow disappearance of my worldly belongings into bags and cardboard boxes were pretty much symptoms of the looming apocalypse. Friends and family with their eyes alight would ask me if I was excited and I would just shake my head.
"No. I'm too stressed out by the move."
The idea of moving is simple by definition, and most people only hate it because of the hard work it signifies. You take your stuff from the home at point A, move it to point B. Well, it so happens that Point B, my new home, is an apartment graced with ample stair-age. No elevator.
My parents are both over 50 years old, not spring chickens and the very IDEA of sending them (cruel taskmaster styles, yo) up not one, but two narrow, somewhat steep flights of stairs carrying heavy/fragile/featherlight/nothing was giving me massive anxiety. If someone broke something, I was going to have THAT on my conscience for the next...oh...forever.
Every family dinner or special occasion, someone would say, "Hey, do you remember the time you got the idiot idea to move to the only French speaking province in our country and mom was carrying that big box up the Aztec pyramid that you call your stairs using only her love for you and she slipped and got a hangnail?" Dare I say, the story of the agony would echo through the ages as first fact, and then legend.
Yes. This is the MO I was working with. Dreading. When we GOT there, the former tenants of our place were still moving out. They were pretty well all francophones, which one of the fellows seemed to find important as he made a big show out of asking us all if we were from Ontario and then bidding us goodbye as "anglophones." Merci, bro. Nothing makes me feel at home like having it pointed out explicitly why I don't fit in. Seriously!
As we hauled box after box up the stairs, my dad stood on the balcony and pulled things up by a rope. My parents in the end, actually did very little stair climbing, for which I am very grateful. We got all the stuff up, threw it into the rooms, shutting Telly in the bathroom, to adjust to part of his new home. He curled up in the window, petrified. I could sympathize.
My parents headed to Ikea to bed hunt (which is like head hunting but sleepier in the back to school season) and Bek's parents went to scope out their hotel. What did we do in that moment? Did we jump up and down with excitement? Did we high five? No. We threw my comforter on the floor and laid on it without moving. Then we made coffee and laid still some more. The start of our glamorous French-Canadian Metropolitan lives began with no sugar, no milk dark roast and paralysis courtesy of fatigue.
We went out for dinner with Bek's parents, tried to order in French, and came home to find the cat missing. POOF. Gone. We searched the apartment top to bottom. We checked every room, every pile of miscellaneous stuff, every box, twice. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feared that in some WEIRD anglo-hate fueled terrorist act, someone had had broken in to let the cat out. We literally could not find him. ANYWHERE. So I did what my mama taught him to do best: come to the sound of a treat container being shaken. Following the sound of the bell on his collar, Bek found him in my closet. Which we thought was regular size, but ACTUALLY goes all the way back to Narnia, while still providing room for several fugitives and/or in denial people of the gay persuasion.
We have no beds, so we slept on the floor. C'est la vie.
None of this even feels real yet. Like by next week, I'll be back home, in my Waterloo life with my family and everything will be on hold again. Not this time, mes amis. This time, we're playing for keeps.
À Suivre...
August 27, 2012
Funeral for a Friend
I had bought the bag when I was in highschool. It was messenger style, brown canvas, with two pockets on the flap, embellished with blue and brown plaid. However, sorting through my purses today, I realized that I not only wanted to leave this bag behind, but that I no longer wanted it at all. I looked up at my friend Steph, sitting on my bed.
"Hey, do you like this? You can have it if you want."
"Are you giving away all your things? It's like your funeral or something," she said.
And, kids, it very much is. Moving is exciting, but right now, I've found this bittersweet melancholic haze has taken over. I feel as though I'm soldiering toward the move instead of sprinting to it now. I'm giving away all my things, like a living will.
You know how there are distant relatives or friends you only see once someone drops dead? The deal is the same with moving. People you haven't seen for a year. People you've just met, they all come out of the woodwork. You have to say all of your goodbyes. Get some closure, or at least let them know they're welcome to visit your new life once you've settled in.
Thursday, I had coffee with a friend of mine from Starbucks. In the afternoon of the same day, I met up with a guy friend of from my days at Sheridan. I hadn't seen the Starbucks friend in about a week, and it had literally been about a year since I had seen my college pal. I had to say goodbye to both of them. She hugged me and then bequeathed me a set of knives for my new kitchen.. He hugged me so hard he picked me up off the ground. My favourite hugs are the kind that hurt.
Sometimes, moving is like a funeral because you struggle to find closure. Sometimes, you can't see all the people you want to. You can't give them reasons, or get rid of all of the things you wish you could say. Sometimes, you don't get to spit out all the goodbyes you want to and I think that's going to be the hardest part right now.
ANGSTANGSTANGST vs. excitement, basically. Je ne sais pas.
"Hey, do you like this? You can have it if you want."
"Are you giving away all your things? It's like your funeral or something," she said.
And, kids, it very much is. Moving is exciting, but right now, I've found this bittersweet melancholic haze has taken over. I feel as though I'm soldiering toward the move instead of sprinting to it now. I'm giving away all my things, like a living will.
You know how there are distant relatives or friends you only see once someone drops dead? The deal is the same with moving. People you haven't seen for a year. People you've just met, they all come out of the woodwork. You have to say all of your goodbyes. Get some closure, or at least let them know they're welcome to visit your new life once you've settled in.
Thursday, I had coffee with a friend of mine from Starbucks. In the afternoon of the same day, I met up with a guy friend of from my days at Sheridan. I hadn't seen the Starbucks friend in about a week, and it had literally been about a year since I had seen my college pal. I had to say goodbye to both of them. She hugged me and then bequeathed me a set of knives for my new kitchen.. He hugged me so hard he picked me up off the ground. My favourite hugs are the kind that hurt.
Sometimes, moving is like a funeral because you struggle to find closure. Sometimes, you can't see all the people you want to. You can't give them reasons, or get rid of all of the things you wish you could say. Sometimes, you don't get to spit out all the goodbyes you want to and I think that's going to be the hardest part right now.
ANGSTANGSTANGST vs. excitement, basically. Je ne sais pas.
August 21, 2012
Pack a' lackin'
The good news: I'VE FOUND AN APARTMENT TO LIVE IN. The lease is signed and Chez Wiley is a go. It's a two bedroom in what I've started calling "The French Quarter" of Montreal because...well...everyone there only speaks French. Rebekah and I made the choice to live together for the comfort of A) not being swallowed by a big city whole B) cheaper rent, and we're VERY pumped to get our asses out of Waterloo and out into the waiting world.
The bad news is that: It's way past the time where I have the energy or the memory or capacity to blog about my trip to Montreal, house hunting with my mother. I will say that it involved half French babble, LOTS of arguments (least proud moment: I told her to stop being a dick...something you should never say to your mama...), friendly waitresses and waiters, walking EVERYWHERE and getting lost. GETTING VERY LOST. Between us, I was the stronger navigator. Let us all have a moment of silence for the precious seconds of my life that I will never get back as we literally went in circles, struggled with maps and yelled at each other.
Amen.
The other bad news is that I went camping this weekend and I had an awesome time, but I'm also too crazy up in my head to write about THAT because I've started packing. If you want a photo that sums up the experience, this shot is just for you...and everyone on my Facebook:
That's me, next to a fire. I'm roasting a donut, on a stick. You might also notice the bag of kettle chips and the bag of peanut butter M&Ms by left arm. AKA, WE ATE EVERYTHING. Drank some, too. We laughed even more, which was the most important part. Quality time with big sis and laughing my ass off after all the stress as of late. I also got a sunburn on my arse, slept on the ground, peed in the woods, and learned how to set up a tent. Education at it's very finest, my friends.
But now, we're onto packing. PACKING, which involves being calm and organized. I've already scrubbed more pots and pans before shoving them into boxes than I probably have in the past 6 months.
I think as a rebellion against just being so tense, I have constant music playing as I gallivant around the house, slinging kitchenware and fretting about where the hell the plates went. This comes along with stints of manic DIY fever. I've already:
• painted and stenciled my bulletin board
• refaced a retro style clock
• mod podged a collage box for all of my teas and such
These stints of creativity among wrasslin' with newsprint, coffee mugs and appliances are actually making me excited to have a kitschy, snuggly home of my own, with all the weird touches my parents wouldn't care for. I've been sitting here too long. I have to go find my toaster.
The bad news is that: It's way past the time where I have the energy or the memory or capacity to blog about my trip to Montreal, house hunting with my mother. I will say that it involved half French babble, LOTS of arguments (least proud moment: I told her to stop being a dick...something you should never say to your mama...), friendly waitresses and waiters, walking EVERYWHERE and getting lost. GETTING VERY LOST. Between us, I was the stronger navigator. Let us all have a moment of silence for the precious seconds of my life that I will never get back as we literally went in circles, struggled with maps and yelled at each other.
Amen.
The other bad news is that I went camping this weekend and I had an awesome time, but I'm also too crazy up in my head to write about THAT because I've started packing. If you want a photo that sums up the experience, this shot is just for you...and everyone on my Facebook:
But now, we're onto packing. PACKING, which involves being calm and organized. I've already scrubbed more pots and pans before shoving them into boxes than I probably have in the past 6 months.
I think as a rebellion against just being so tense, I have constant music playing as I gallivant around the house, slinging kitchenware and fretting about where the hell the plates went. This comes along with stints of manic DIY fever. I've already:
• painted and stenciled my bulletin board
• refaced a retro style clock
• mod podged a collage box for all of my teas and such
These stints of creativity among wrasslin' with newsprint, coffee mugs and appliances are actually making me excited to have a kitschy, snuggly home of my own, with all the weird touches my parents wouldn't care for. I've been sitting here too long. I have to go find my toaster.
August 04, 2012
Prequels
August is the month of reckoning. The month in which EVERYTHING. GOES. DOWN. (Well, until September, in which case everything really gets set in motion.) Basically, August is the prequel that will set up the rest of the series which is my life in Montreal. Apartments will be viewed, jobs will be quit, goodbyes will be said and tears will probably be shed. Panic attacks may or may not be impending, sponsored by hormones, pressure and oh yes, drama.
Wednesday, I made the first round of calls around to my list of potential apartments to ask after the availability of them. Some people spoke French over a crackly connections, some were very friendly. Some had a little more to say than I wanted to hear. The superintendent of a student residence building told me that she was booked solid until 2013 and I "should have started looking MONTHS AND MONTHS AGO."
Which I'm sure she didn't mean with any cruel intention. However, filtered through my panic of finding a roof over my head, coupled with my anxiety about moving,
"I started signing leases for September in January."
Sounded like:
"YOU'RE FUCKED."
Be still, my poor, aching heart. Thank you lady, for that little tidbit. Days like that, I try to remember that 'give them hope' is on my arm for me too. Mama and I are headed down on Tuesday the 7th to look at some places. Which should be interesting because my mom thinks most people are out to scam you and loathes big cities.
We live in one of the tamest lamest suburbs in our city, an Olympian shotput throw away from the Mennonites and she's paranoid that I'll be mugged walking anywhere after 10PM. I'm serious. Bringing her into a big, half French metropolis is going to border on social experimentation.
Housing has been the main focus of any and all topics I discuss with my parents lately. When I told mama I didn't want to live downtown, instead opting for The Plateau, NDG or Verdun, 3 nice neighborhoods just outside of the core, her eyes popped out of her head.
When I told her I wanted to be part of a neighborhood or a community my dad stuck his head into the discussion by asking me if that was really important, because I mostly "keep to myself." Which is father for 'anti-social.' My dad also thinks I despise drinking & socializing, and that I'm the smartest of his three children...........................PAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA.
I'll hopefully post more about my adventures in moving my life around soon!
Wednesday, I made the first round of calls around to my list of potential apartments to ask after the availability of them. Some people spoke French over a crackly connections, some were very friendly. Some had a little more to say than I wanted to hear. The superintendent of a student residence building told me that she was booked solid until 2013 and I "should have started looking MONTHS AND MONTHS AGO."
Which I'm sure she didn't mean with any cruel intention. However, filtered through my panic of finding a roof over my head, coupled with my anxiety about moving,
"I started signing leases for September in January."
Sounded like:
"YOU'RE FUCKED."
Be still, my poor, aching heart. Thank you lady, for that little tidbit. Days like that, I try to remember that 'give them hope' is on my arm for me too. Mama and I are headed down on Tuesday the 7th to look at some places. Which should be interesting because my mom thinks most people are out to scam you and loathes big cities.
We live in one of the tamest lamest suburbs in our city, an Olympian shotput throw away from the Mennonites and she's paranoid that I'll be mugged walking anywhere after 10PM. I'm serious. Bringing her into a big, half French metropolis is going to border on social experimentation.
Housing has been the main focus of any and all topics I discuss with my parents lately. When I told mama I didn't want to live downtown, instead opting for The Plateau, NDG or Verdun, 3 nice neighborhoods just outside of the core, her eyes popped out of her head.
When I told her I wanted to be part of a neighborhood or a community my dad stuck his head into the discussion by asking me if that was really important, because I mostly "keep to myself." Which is father for 'anti-social.' My dad also thinks I despise drinking & socializing, and that I'm the smartest of his three children...........................PAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA.
I'll hopefully post more about my adventures in moving my life around soon!
June 16, 2012
Blog By Numbers
#1. The way to keep your life from being consumed by a fashion blog is to not write a fashion blog.
#2. The way to celebrate your birthday is to first declare loudly you don't want to do anything. Then decide you do want to do something. After this deliberate endlessly over WHAT should be done for it, and with whom and upon what day. Then, sit back, throw your hands down onto the keyboard and and write a blog about. Also, make sure you don't book it off for work so that you can scramble to find someone to cover your shift, because while you're not sure WHAT you're doing, your special birthday ass is NOT celebrating by asking people for their Optimum cards.
#3. The way to cut out refined carbs is to stop eating chips, crackers and white bread. Instead, you find yourself eating lots of yogurt, vegetables, seeds, nuts, and ALWAYS BEING HUNGRY.
#4. The fact that having two jobs is starting to cut into my social calendar is really...discouraging. I need the cash but spending 6 or 7 days a week without being able to see people who I'm going to miss in a few months time is...disheartening. And frustrating. And stupid. I want a real weekend, DAMNIT. It's also hard to be happy about my jobs when I'd rather be off chasing my passions. It's day jobs vs. love in the dark.
#5. Two albums I can't stop listening right now: Jack White's Blunderbuss and Tom Waits' Bad As Me.
#6. My cat just barked. And my barked I mean he ruffed and woofed.
#7. I'm already beginning to stress about money and the move to Montreal in a few months time. I'm already missing people. I'm already getting pangs of feelings. What the hell have I done?! Don't get me wrong. I'm excited. But....Now the excitement is being shaken up with fear and worry as reality sets in. University seems big and cold and impersonal right now...
#2. The way to celebrate your birthday is to first declare loudly you don't want to do anything. Then decide you do want to do something. After this deliberate endlessly over WHAT should be done for it, and with whom and upon what day. Then, sit back, throw your hands down onto the keyboard and and write a blog about. Also, make sure you don't book it off for work so that you can scramble to find someone to cover your shift, because while you're not sure WHAT you're doing, your special birthday ass is NOT celebrating by asking people for their Optimum cards.
#3. The way to cut out refined carbs is to stop eating chips, crackers and white bread. Instead, you find yourself eating lots of yogurt, vegetables, seeds, nuts, and ALWAYS BEING HUNGRY.
#4. The fact that having two jobs is starting to cut into my social calendar is really...discouraging. I need the cash but spending 6 or 7 days a week without being able to see people who I'm going to miss in a few months time is...disheartening. And frustrating. And stupid. I want a real weekend, DAMNIT. It's also hard to be happy about my jobs when I'd rather be off chasing my passions. It's day jobs vs. love in the dark.
#5. Two albums I can't stop listening right now: Jack White's Blunderbuss and Tom Waits' Bad As Me.
#6. My cat just barked. And my barked I mean he ruffed and woofed.
#7. I'm already beginning to stress about money and the move to Montreal in a few months time. I'm already missing people. I'm already getting pangs of feelings. What the hell have I done?! Don't get me wrong. I'm excited. But....Now the excitement is being shaken up with fear and worry as reality sets in. University seems big and cold and impersonal right now...
June 01, 2012
J'irai!
JOURNEY TO CONCORDIA
A FACIAL OPERA IN 8 PARTS
A FACIAL OPERA IN 8 PARTS
And now the real fun begins. Three people today have told me about the Bodies case (don't read that if you get queasy easily), my mom is already setting me up with 'hip old ladies' and babysitting jobs , as well as apartment hunting, asking me 100x about money and throwing in the odd word en Francais, clearly for my sad not-so-bilingual benefit.
ALSO: Since I'll be leaving Ontario and may not return to live here for more than a visit at least for a few years, I'm making a summer bucket list. ONTARIANS, Anything in the GTA, Southerwestern area you think I should try to squeeze in?
May 24, 2012
Nous Avons Mangé Tout
Rebekah and I spent the long weekend in Montreal. After the week from hell (G license driving test, hearing about my Concordia rejection/acceptance, doctor's appointment, Starbucks slowly turning into Degrassi) we decided enough for enough and left Ontario behind, through basically every mode of transportation we could. We drove, trained, walked, bussed, and cabbed, finally to arrive at the new McGill residence, our home base for the whole trip. We were pretty tired, but we hadn't crossed borders to sit in a hotel room, so after a few yoga flows (me) and a few wardrobe changes (us) we went out on the town. We walked through the beautiful Parc du Mont-Royal, and ogled all the people there. It's probably confirmation bias, but Montreal has a population of beautiful, stylish young people. Attempts to tally the number of lookers we saw failed en masse. Maybe everyone just looks extra beautiful in long weekend sunshine.
That night, after a dinner in a deli on Rue. Ste. Catherine, we were getting ready to go out and party in the Village. We'd scoped a couple of bars to go dancing. As we changed and smeared ourselves with makeup, I heard something over the French chatter on the TV. I walked to the window, looking out into the night and saw legions of students filling and marching up the street. We're talking hundreds of angry, sign holding, chanting, ON THE MARCH young people, protesting the tuition hikes that are set to happen in the province. It wasn't that I was frightened, I'd seen the marches on the news, but when I saw a metro bus of cops in riot gear go by shortly after the parade had passed, needless to say we knew we were in for an adventurous night on the town, and an overall trip.
The only thing you need to know about the night out is that we hit a bar called Unity. Aptly named, it was filled with all kinds of people, rocking out, having a good time, whether it be on one of the two dance floors or on the patio on the rooftop. Oh yeah, and then shortly after midnight, a couple of adorable faced guys took the stage and did this AMAZING lip sync/synchronized dance number to "I'm Glad You Came" by the Wanted, who I don't give a damn about, but damn if this wasn't awesome. Bek and I seemed more excited about this than ANYONE else in the room. Jaded Francophones? We cabbed home, dodging labyrinths made up of cop cars, showered and passed out with that bloody song in our heads.
The next morning, We ordered fresh croissants en Francais, and realized
just how much practice we would really need before we became any shade
of fluent.
The details of the whole trip would take me quite some time to write about, so I'll keep it brief. We shopped, and bought things. We ate Schwartz's, this amazing deli on St.Denis, we took in 'Lawrence, Anyways' the latest film by my favourite Canadian director, Xavier Dolan. We ran around the floors of the residence in search of late night snacks and ran into Neil Patrick Harris. (Sort of.) We hit the waterfront. We walked almost EVERYWHERE, and we barely had a moment to sit down.
Overall, the trip was so awsome, it was only a matter of time before Murphy's law gave us our due. Our bus got stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on the way home. People-getting-out-of-their-cars-to-play-catch delayed. Then, at the bus station in Kingston, the coachline moved our entire bus onto a different bus. The only problem being the second bus had LESS seats than the first. So who got stuck, stranded while the bus companies sorted it all out? Yours truly, of course. Then, our new ride was sweltering hot, like...Moksha Yoga hot, and we rolled into Toronto just after 11 o'clock, 2 hours behind schedule. We got back to the car and drove home. I passed out after 1:30AM. Oh yeah, but I OPENED at Starbucks the next day so I was up and at 'em by 4:15AM. WOO.
The whole time in Montreal I was thinking, could I live here? Work here? Function here? Rebuild a life? Trying to stay objective without dreams of poutine, iced tea and the high life clouding your vision is harder than it seems.
Answer: Tentative yes.
I've even cleared up some of the mythology around my admission offer. Oui oui, English Literature is like studying for an English degree at another university. No, my degree won't be affected by the "mature" status of my entrance.
In terms of the future: BA (English Literature) + Professional Writing (Skill set) + Experience = WRITING JOB. SOLID THEORY.
Now it's about 70-30 in favour of me going. What's holding me back now isn't the money, or the trips I won't be taking because I'll be in school and broke. It's the idea of dropping life as I know it and picking it up elsewhere. As many times as I've felt stuck in Waterloo, or that I would give it all to run in the opposite direction for a new chance, now that I've kind of got the opportunity in my lap like a pet bear, I'm wondering if it's going to love me when it wakes up from hibernating or maul me beyond recognition.
FIN.
That night, after a dinner in a deli on Rue. Ste. Catherine, we were getting ready to go out and party in the Village. We'd scoped a couple of bars to go dancing. As we changed and smeared ourselves with makeup, I heard something over the French chatter on the TV. I walked to the window, looking out into the night and saw legions of students filling and marching up the street. We're talking hundreds of angry, sign holding, chanting, ON THE MARCH young people, protesting the tuition hikes that are set to happen in the province. It wasn't that I was frightened, I'd seen the marches on the news, but when I saw a metro bus of cops in riot gear go by shortly after the parade had passed, needless to say we knew we were in for an adventurous night on the town, and an overall trip.
The whole time in Montreal I was thinking, could I live here? Work here? Function here? Rebuild a life? Trying to stay objective without dreams of poutine, iced tea and the high life clouding your vision is harder than it seems.
Answer: Tentative yes.
I've even cleared up some of the mythology around my admission offer. Oui oui, English Literature is like studying for an English degree at another university. No, my degree won't be affected by the "mature" status of my entrance.
In terms of the future: BA (English Literature) + Professional Writing (Skill set) + Experience = WRITING JOB. SOLID THEORY.
Now it's about 70-30 in favour of me going. What's holding me back now isn't the money, or the trips I won't be taking because I'll be in school and broke. It's the idea of dropping life as I know it and picking it up elsewhere. As many times as I've felt stuck in Waterloo, or that I would give it all to run in the opposite direction for a new chance, now that I've kind of got the opportunity in my lap like a pet bear, I'm wondering if it's going to love me when it wakes up from hibernating or maul me beyond recognition.
FIN.
March 29, 2012
Part of Your World
There are few things more annoying to me than protocol for the sake of itself. Last week (or the week before) or whenever we had that freakadelic stint of amazing weather, it was guaranteed that 1/10 every Starbucks customer I saw asked my why we didn't have the patio furniture out. Clearly, these people are not experts on clause 5.7 of Murphy's Law, that the second you take advantage of freakishly out of season 26 degree weather, take the snow tires off your car, retire your winter jacket, bust out the patio, it's going to plummet back into freezing temperatures.
We took the patio furniture out. In fact, every Starbucks in the district did. Now I'm sitting, looking outside to grey, 1 degree weather, with a chance of flurries tomorrow. World, I blame you for this. Back to bundling up to go for runs it is. That being said, I ran almost 5K yesterday and it felt EASY. Difficult, maybe, but I could have run farther. I could have even run faster if I felt so inclined. POWERRRRRR.
That being said, the running song of the week is this: Sunrise by Childish Gambino
IN OTHER NEWS:
Recently, a friend of mine who I met through NaNoWriMo moved to England, specifically, Liverpool. This relocation has had us talking pretty much every day, and he's been tweeting me all these neat pictures of the new place where he lives. And me, seeing all this cool stuff, hearing about all these new things, am pretty much like this:
We took the patio furniture out. In fact, every Starbucks in the district did. Now I'm sitting, looking outside to grey, 1 degree weather, with a chance of flurries tomorrow. World, I blame you for this. Back to bundling up to go for runs it is. That being said, I ran almost 5K yesterday and it felt EASY. Difficult, maybe, but I could have run farther. I could have even run faster if I felt so inclined. POWERRRRRR.
That being said, the running song of the week is this: Sunrise by Childish Gambino
IN OTHER NEWS:
Recently, a friend of mine who I met through NaNoWriMo moved to England, specifically, Liverpool. This relocation has had us talking pretty much every day, and he's been tweeting me all these neat pictures of the new place where he lives. And me, seeing all this cool stuff, hearing about all these new things, am pretty much like this:
I WANT MOOOOORE (Source... also check the Tumblr. It's sick as in zero-cool.)
Whether this is in the context of moving to Montreal, or farther, or just finding some new way to express myself, find something else, I don't know. How I'm going to assuage these feelings is also up for debate, but it's all a matter of time before I am accepted/denied my entrance to university and then I can make all of my choices from there. The nice thing is, is that exploring all my options, seeing other people do it, and working sur mon francais is making me brave. It's possibly. It's the great WHY NOT? Why not? You only live once. (Past and future reincarnations not withstanding, if that's your thing.)
No outfit posts, because I've been going about my business buck naked. Ho hum.
Now, comes the restlessness right down to my bones. Now, the feelings of being trapped. In this completely-mostly-not-angsty-way I'm brimming with longing to get the hell out of my hometown. I've known for a long time I didn't 'belong' in Waterloo, not because I stand out or I'm too good for it or something, I've just felt this calling to get out, beyond the borders and have my feet take me down the streets of new places.
Whether this is in the context of moving to Montreal, or farther, or just finding some new way to express myself, find something else, I don't know. How I'm going to assuage these feelings is also up for debate, but it's all a matter of time before I am accepted/denied my entrance to university and then I can make all of my choices from there. The nice thing is, is that exploring all my options, seeing other people do it, and working sur mon francais is making me brave. It's possibly. It's the great WHY NOT? Why not? You only live once. (Past and future reincarnations not withstanding, if that's your thing.)
No outfit posts, because I've been going about my business buck naked. Ho hum.
November 25, 2011
Things I'm Going to Do in Montreal
I've been thinking a lot lately about my life in Montreal, or hopefully my future life. Maybe it's because things at home haven't been ideal (mama and I have bi-weekly arguments, and they're not bad but they are ridiculous!), or because I'm going to have to start putting my portfolio together to apply to school... Or maybe it's because I've started a new 'program' for my health, and so change has been on the table a lot. Physically changing, mentally changing. My life is getting on the move, slowly, like a turtle with purpose.
And because I'm procrastinating on my NaNoWriMo and everything in between, I've been daydreaming about my future life.
Stuff I'm going to do when I live in Montreal
• Befriend my neighbors... As long as my neighbors are cool. I'll start off by bringing them cookies or something when I move in, and we'll start off being friends that way.
• Become bilingual. Even if it's only French-Canadian.
• Throw a party. I want a purple party, a 1920s Speakeasy party, a pot-luck... Anything like that!
• Meet my gay best friend. He's out there. I know he is!
• Eat in local restaurants that aren't chains...and love the hell out of it.
• Bike lots of places. Become one with my bicycle and local transit.
• Volunteer. Though I would do that probably anywhere!
• Spot Xavier Dolan, Niels Schneider or Jay Baruchel. (Possibly all three?) Srrsly
I don't know why I'm posting this. I just like lists! And...it's my blog!
Also: I realized two the the things that make me really happy are working out (YAY CHEMICAL BALANCE!) and cooking delicious food. So those two either work together or cancel each other out or work together like cool works with awesome. Who knows?
And because I'm procrastinating on my NaNoWriMo and everything in between, I've been daydreaming about my future life.
Stuff I'm going to do when I live in Montreal
• Befriend my neighbors... As long as my neighbors are cool. I'll start off by bringing them cookies or something when I move in, and we'll start off being friends that way.
• Become bilingual. Even if it's only French-Canadian.
• Throw a party. I want a purple party, a 1920s Speakeasy party, a pot-luck... Anything like that!
• Meet my gay best friend. He's out there. I know he is!
• Eat in local restaurants that aren't chains...and love the hell out of it.
• Bike lots of places. Become one with my bicycle and local transit.
• Volunteer. Though I would do that probably anywhere!
• Spot Xavier Dolan, Niels Schneider or Jay Baruchel. (Possibly all three?) Srrsly
I don't know why I'm posting this. I just like lists! And...it's my blog!
Also: I realized two the the things that make me really happy are working out (YAY CHEMICAL BALANCE!) and cooking delicious food. So those two either work together or cancel each other out or work together like cool works with awesome. Who knows?
October 24, 2011
Montreal Calling
I haven't done much today-- I feel less and less like running outside as the weather gets colder. My goal is to work out three times a week, so by all means today has not been a failure, with plenty of time left to fit those days in. I spent all day doing some laundry, tidying the kitchen, looking at admission requirements for university.
I don't know if I've 'issued a formal statement' on the subject yet, but I'm looking into going to school in September for Professional Writing! People with a BA in the area can go into fields such as editing, publishing, journalism, technical writing, etc. etc. etc. If I do some sociology courses on the side, as well as volunteer, I feel like I'll be more than ready to find a job working in the media department of a non-profit organization, which is really a dream career for me. Writing to help people. It's perfect!
There are a lot of different things to consider like transcripts and credits and portfolios to be looked into. It's all pretty overwhelming, right from the get-go. I pretty sure I've picked out three schools: Concordia, York and the University of Toronto.
If I'm being honest, my heart is set on Concordia. I'm saying it here. It's in the middle of a city I love, where I've planned in my dreams of moving. I'd be French and English speaking. The students at Concordia are interested in activism. The program itself is English and Creative Writing with a Minor in professional writing. There are so many amazing words in this paragraph alone, my heart is exploding as I type it. Yeah, it's scary, but also amazing!
As far as I can tell, of the 3 schools, the only one that requires a portfolio of work is Concordia. 15 pages of writing to decide whether or not I get my dream.
I know Montreal would be waiting for me after I graduated from one of the other schools, but...It's not the same. I think I might be crushed if I don't get in. I don't want to give something uncertain that much power, but I need to get there. It's like my heart is yelling and somewhere out in the chaos of the universe, going to this school is the answer to the trouble in my soul. The kind of trouble that set me back on my psychologists' couch a few weeks ago. Dramatic, I know!
I don't know if I've 'issued a formal statement' on the subject yet, but I'm looking into going to school in September for Professional Writing! People with a BA in the area can go into fields such as editing, publishing, journalism, technical writing, etc. etc. etc. If I do some sociology courses on the side, as well as volunteer, I feel like I'll be more than ready to find a job working in the media department of a non-profit organization, which is really a dream career for me. Writing to help people. It's perfect!
There are a lot of different things to consider like transcripts and credits and portfolios to be looked into. It's all pretty overwhelming, right from the get-go. I pretty sure I've picked out three schools: Concordia, York and the University of Toronto.
If I'm being honest, my heart is set on Concordia. I'm saying it here. It's in the middle of a city I love, where I've planned in my dreams of moving. I'd be French and English speaking. The students at Concordia are interested in activism. The program itself is English and Creative Writing with a Minor in professional writing. There are so many amazing words in this paragraph alone, my heart is exploding as I type it. Yeah, it's scary, but also amazing!
As far as I can tell, of the 3 schools, the only one that requires a portfolio of work is Concordia. 15 pages of writing to decide whether or not I get my dream.
I know Montreal would be waiting for me after I graduated from one of the other schools, but...It's not the same. I think I might be crushed if I don't get in. I don't want to give something uncertain that much power, but I need to get there. It's like my heart is yelling and somewhere out in the chaos of the universe, going to this school is the answer to the trouble in my soul. The kind of trouble that set me back on my psychologists' couch a few weeks ago. Dramatic, I know!
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