"Please stay on the sidewalk. The street will be reopened."

It's cold today--glove, scarf, and wool coat cold. Despite this, I wander up north toward Mile End. Today I take Durocher Avenue. I get lost again. But I find Lester's Deli, a 1950s diner-style cafe supposedly famous for its dried-meat sandwiches. I write down the store's hours on a piece of scratch paper, and return home on Hutchinson Avenue. I follow a small Jewish woman dressed in black with a Jackie O cap resting on the side of her head. She flies down the sidewalk, pushing a double stroller, a young girl trotting behind her, scarf blowing in the wind. I invent some fantastic explanation for her urgency; I think of postcard images from New York circa 1920. But I too become urgent, noticing a circle of police cars at the corner of St-Viateur. A crowd of mothers and similarly-dressed children have gathered on the four corners of the intersection; I see then a horde of Jewish men flooding the street from the west, tiki torches in hand, following a white truck piping out traditional Hebrew music from giant speakers in the back. A chuppah emerges from the throb of the dancing crowd, apparent only when the dancers radiate away from the center; disappearing again as they rush toward the canopy, hands in the air. Red christmas lights coil around the poles, a garish (and slightly kitschy) crown, lit with similar lights, graces the top. I inquire if it is a wedding, unable to see anything but a man holding a bundle of roses in the center of the chuppah. The woman I ask responds curtly: "non." But it's a regular procession, a parade in black, serenaded by the music that dominates the sonic landscape more and more as the van approaches, a festive event with the men dancing and the women and children watching on the sidewalks. And we walk collectively, following the movement. And I understand nothing, but I'm in no hurry; I walk at the pace of the women pushing strollers, at the pace of the event's members, despite my obviously accidental presence.

The streets are lined. Faces, young and old, hang out of windows, stare from stairs leading up to second-story entrances. I climb up to a high point to separate myself from the throngs; I lean into the ear of a Gentile woman and ask what's going on. "Aucune idée" [no idea] she responds. Moving farther down, I stand next to a PhD type of the British variety--the kind of person one sees and immediately knows the intonation in which they will speak. Authoratatively he responds that it is a ceremony celebrating the arrival of new Torah scrolls. The procession arrives in front of the synagogue, halfway between Fairmount and St-Viateur. I stand on the sidewalk, waiting for the mass to slowly dissolve into the building, for the music to die down--my cue to disband. I walk down the leaf-pressed street, the sound of the truck's generator fading.

"Please stay on the sidewalk. The street will be reopened," a cop behind me yells over a megaphone, in English, curiously bookmarking the near-magical experience.

"Oui allo Kino"

It's all up to me. All the natural office reflexes--answering the phone, buzzing in the FedEx man and signing for packages, slouching in swivel chairs--depend on me and me alone. By some marvelous luck, I find myself perfectly alone and perfectly in charge at the office today. And I can't help but notice that the music gets a bit louder, that my heart does the Running-Man dance in excitement, and that I speak with more confidence in French on the phone. One might assume that my inclination is to slack off when free from surveillance, and although I can't deny that I will to a certain extent, there's a certain devotion that comes with empowerment. When I worked at the University of Nebraska Press, I invested myself more fully when certain projects became mine. Ownership! There's no one to follow up behind you, so the project's success or failure brands itself across your forehead, and vice versa.

So what to do with my time? I'll make all those calls to the Festival International de Jazz de Montréal and to Pascale and to Vues d'Afrique that I've avoided while my colleagues hoover around, noticing each slip of grammar or pronunciation. I'll work enthusiastically on the translation of the beefy government grant (the sort of task always done better to music--keeps the fingers moving across the keyboard), drink some coffee in the breakroom as I crown myself Kino Princess, permit myself a 10-second dance party for every 59 minutes and 50 seconds worked, answer the phone and take impeccable notes for my colleagues, noting as well (for my own record) how perfectly a conversation went, how I actually understand the accent, how capable I am of expressing myself and carrying on in French with suited hotshots from Montreal's major cultural seats.

In other news, I made a really good lunch for myself today: apple-onion-cheddar scrambled eggs, with a side of fresh beans sauteed in onions and garlic. If anything, it looks beautiful on a plate, all those colors luring me to partake! I'll pour a glass of orange juice that I find in the back of Kino's fridge and take bites at paragraph breaks in some French cinema magazine.

In other news x2, I've been noting all sorts of images and scenarios that I'd like to include in a screenplay. I've even purchased some screenplays written by my favorite directors, and I'm going to pretend I'm capable of actually producing something. This will require me to avoid my normal penchant for pre-editing, and thus never starting.

Snippets

Snow, friday, the day I stay home from work and imbibe coffee late into the afternoon. And it's the first snow of the season, and I sit on the back porch and let it dampen my clothing. And I notice snow weighing down trees that cling to autumn. And Meeka (the dog) and I run through the park, irrepressibly excited, saying "bonjour" to those I pass, because I expect snow to soften people, bleeding city hearts into camaraderie.

A man across the street stops in front of each house and snaps photos as if hoping to paste them all together into an impressive panoramic. I notice the flash. I wave when he passes from the neighboring house to stop in front of mine. It's a sort of poetic justice. But I still want him to know that I see him. This is how I fight back, acknowledging him. Because I intend to call the shots on espionage habits on rue St-Urbain.

I saw the man again. The man who's been leaving for weeks, but still hitches up and down St-Laurent street. He's the perpetual thumb-out, waiting for the 1960s to drive by and take him out west. But since my arrival, it seems all he can do is wash car windows at stop lights or march up and down, dog at his side, displaying his desires on cardboard.

I've been eating lots of ice cream. I've been watching lots of Six Feet Under episodes. I've been noticing how much I like walking when it's not raining, and how marvelous 37 degrees can feel when one has a nice sweater and a homemade scarf and a blue sky.

Lost in space, or in Mile End

Bush never fails to make me laugh. Perhaps not seeing him on news clips every evening endears him to me, or converts his antics into a sort of delightful absurdity. But honestly, is this a parody, this news I read today--"Bush seeks to block enemies from space"? What?! Since when do we have dibs on space and its jurisdiction? Bush, according to the all too credible sources at Yahoo News, "has signed an order asserting the United States' right to deny adversaries access to space for hostile purposes." I'm impressed; I didn't know we had that kind of authority.

But Bush can't touch my city! And so I'm gonna rock that. After work today I explore the Jewish Mile End district, famous for its bagel shops and mezuzah-inclined doorposts and synagogues and curly-haired boys. I can never wander here without getting lost, but I inevitably run into some interesting business district with cozy coffeehouses and swank Japanese restaurants and terriers walking high-heeled women or bulldogs pulling men in traditional Jewish garb. And to me this is all wonderful, the getting lost, the stumbling upon new nooks and crannies, the reinvigoration of tourism. I've been restless, needed a trip, and forgotten I could take a little vacation up rue Bernard, west of Hutchinson. I write down on a piece of scratch paper all the pizzerias and old-fashioned delis and bagel shops I'd like to eat at. Because in the end, tourism, and especially my tourism (nurtured with Jodi all over the globe), involves culinary tourism. I explore the neighborhoods to stake out new flavors to indulge. I guess that's because I'm a middle class white girl, and my life is pretty hard.

Had my motives been "hostile," losing myself in Mile End, I still take confidence that driven or motiveless, peaceful or plotting, no one controls my space! And no one, NO ONE!, calls me an enemy. That's just not good karma.

Let's give the Portuguese a round of applause...

Last night I walked home from downtown, up Alymer street to Pins, taking St. Urbain the final leg home. On the corner of Rachel and St. Urbain I notice a flurry of activity at the Portuguese Catholic church. I start to enter, walking up the stairs toward the door. Mass?, I wonder, supposing I could use the calm of choir and incense, but notice people directing traffic in the parking lot--old men in old caps. A wedding? I make to leave. But in addition to traffic direction, I also notice a bit of Portuguese anger. Horns honk, fists shoot out windows to shake angrily at a car behind or at the man directing the cars. An elderly woman, a shawl over her head and tied in the front, stands in the middle of the road, threatening drivers. Utter chaos. I stand under a street light and laugh. I really do laugh, and had they the focus to turn their attention to me, they'd suppose it was I that was insane. A mutual perception. I jot some notes about the scene. I look up and notice the threatening woman is now directing the traffic. She has to scream to be heard. Horns squeal, fists fly. I like this scene. Arguments and displays of anger in the church parking lot. A great piece of reality. Further up the street I stumble upon a new treasure in the Laughing Woman's front yard: a statue of the Virgin, encased in glass worthy of the Pope Mobile, decorated carefully and ceremoniously with colored christmas lights. This is a special sighting. Perhaps this protects her yard from gifts from the neighboring dogs, protects her door from Mormons; perhaps it is not protection but forgiveness that she seeks. Forgiveness for her cruel words to a slow driver in a church parking lot, or for embarrassing her husband in public places. So much easier to slip out the front door, particularly in the cold winter months, for penitence and offering.

I owe my weekend to the Portuguese. I really do. Because this path through Catholic hommage and (minor) hostility forgave the two disappointing films I saw, redeemed the rain and the stench of the sunday bus. Don Delillo, too, I owe. To avoid boredom and loneliness, I spend the 14th at Starbucks, a second-story edition nestled in the upstairs corner of a bookstore. I pull out the eggplant and stringy chicken from a not-so-stellar sandwich, hide these extractions between one napkin divided in two. I read "Underworld"--making progress, learning in novel form (and with a Cold War backdrop) about waste: waste used and reinvested--Klara Sax's decorated bomber planes; waste magnificently collected and shaped--Fresh Kills Landfill in New Jersey. My reading gains credence as I stare at my half-eaten sandwich, wrapped in plastic, a cardboard cup with a styrofoam lid, a napkin containing the dissected eggplant and chicken. And then there is the man outside who begs for money, shakes a plastic Starbucks cup in my direction. This is what these authors do to me. The world becomes a platform for theories to play out, and small images become big ideas that torment me for the rest of the day.

And that, I can safely say, is what may plague this blog or any of my writing. Without a weekend of great big adventure, I tend to extrapolate the small happenings. I apologize to those who are waiting for me to stop hoovering over events and actually describe my life. When I told you at the beginning that I would provide some sort of backalley guide to Montreal, I think you really stumbled upon a heady look into my pretensions. Sorry about that. Here's to the next blog and to getting back on the doubledecker tour bus.

This blog brought to you by the letter S and the number 3

Hello kids. Grandma would like to talk to you about three (count 'em, 1, 2, 3!) things: scandal!, soirées, Sesame Street.

I had the morning off. I sat around the apartment with a blanket wrapped about my shoulders, drinking coffee out of a mug, watching Sesame Street. Amy Sedaris was on today. She was Snow White and her seven dwarf puppets kept disappearing. Learning subtraction, I guess. I'm not sure it's regression, my sitting there for a full hour to watch this childhood classic. I was drinking coffee after all, separating myself from the thumbsuckers and diaper-clad. The clips still make me laugh, or still amaze me. Like the one where a little girl takes her grandma's Polaroid camera to the park to photograph her friends. She captures Billy on the slide. He is scared. She snaps Tilly and Jane fighting over a swing. They are mad. The goal of the clip, I suppose, is to provide a vocabulary for emotions kids experience everyday. There was something romantic about seeing a young girl with a camera. The simplicity of it seemed to make the events of the evening before seem a bit trite and superfluous. But first . . . scandal.

7 jours. Meet Quebec's scandal-maker magazine. I found a copy from July at KINO with the following title written across the top: "le nouvel amoureux de Stéphanie Lapointe"--the new lover of Stéphanie Lapointe. The magazine introduced readers to Dominique Laurence. He was among the five that conceived KINO in 1999. He still makes films for the monthly screenings but now directs music videos, including those of Stéphanie Lapointe, 2004 winner of Star Académie, Canada's version of American Idol. Kinoites, in the tabloids, hobnobbing (supposedly) with the bigwigs, the Britneys, the in-the-news.


But me too. At least last night. Yesterday was the Soirée VIP, a private fundraising event that we've been gearing up for since my arrival. The press comes, the men come in dress suits (and jeans, strangely), the women come dressed to the nines. Denys Arcand, too, comes, or came last year, this most celebrated Quebecian director. I can't claim to have been a major part of the action; I was relegated to the coat check for the duration--seven hours of searching for 699 and 705 and stealing fancy hors d'oeuvres and champagne. Here's a brilliant picture taken by the press. You can see me--the "hired help"--in the background, as bored as I look. The fact that I had to enlarge this photo so you could get a good look at me (and my stellar new dress) suggests the role of interns at KINO. That's not necessarily the truth, though. Jéricho Jeudy (great name, eh?), co-founder of KINO, tells me I've done my time, I've proven my colors, and it will be noted at the next major event. But there's something to be said for being a fixture of the evening. Last night, as "coat check lady who looks bored from time to time, but speaks French even though she's American," I was able to cross paths with every guest and every volunteer. It was actually a good opportunity to sink my teeth in, to dance a bit (behind the desk), to see what life in the film business, even at the most marginalized, grassroots level, demands of those involved. Am i made for this sort of posh event? Families are dying in Darfur; I sometimes think of this when I drink champagne or eat cheese that smells too much, or when jeweled women leave their Burberry umbrellas with me at the coat check. Is Darfur or any other tragedy my way of insisting on remaining exterior? Do I self-deprecate to the point of convenience ("i'm not cut out for this; these people will never be my friends")? Or maybe it's just Sesame Street clips that make me believe I'd rather be taking pictures of my friends' emotions. Then again, that's what KINO can teach me.

I get weird sometimes. But I can't lie that a bit of pride filled me when Christian Laurence and Jéricho Jeudy took the stage to the swelling applause of Montreal hotshots and filmmakers alike. Jéricho talks about KINO's wish for 2007--that Canada's most established and celebrated filmmakers will take the KINO challenge, make their first KINO film, support the monthly screenings, and support our efforts to revitalize cinema. So as I'm searching for the simplicity of things one finds in Sesame Street, my goals ultimately are not that separate from that of the organization I'm working for. Hey you, Denys Arcand, simplify yourself. Join the cause.

I'm gonna go read some Delillo.

"Have you ever seen a Christmas tree farm?"

Ellie Millard asks me this as we drive from Sherbrooke to Compton. "Welcome to dairy country," or "you need maple syrup?--this is the place to get it" quickly follow. We pull into a property cluttered with bits of wood and tarp and buildings and structures. The house reminds me of Aurora's cottage in Disney's "Sleeping Beauty." It is 2:00, but Susanne and Ellie set a spread of leftovers for me--spinach and cheese quiche, green salad with sesame dressing, apple pie in a round run-off pan, and fresh apple cider. Little do I know I will soon physically become a member of the process. The remainder of the afternoon Susanne and I wash apples in large tin buckets--cutting off worm holes and bruises--and send them through Paul's homemade machine, grinding them into a mush from which one can, with the aid of a crank, squeeze out the juice. We press into the dark and chilly hours, when even hobby turns into frustrated duty, taking breaks to walk through the neighboring orchard where Ellie has a deal with the owner to glean apples left on the ground. I like to imagine her there in the early morning, finding perfect delight in the task.

I am in Compton, in the Eastern townships, to celebrate Canada's Thanksgiving. And I am thankful; this is what I think of as we go around to say what we are grateful for. I am thankful for dinners around a table, for familial tasks like washing dishes, or drying dishes, or stumbling around a foreign kitchen to put dishes away. I am thankful for Ellie tapping out hymns on the piano in the next room--ones that I request like "Come Thou Fount" and "Be Thou My Vision"--and for Susanne's comraderie. With a hymn book placed on the counter above the sink, we sing along, into second and third verses, as we clean the kitchen. I am thankful for Paul who keeps a fire in the woodstove, who shares with me his photos and his philosophy on organic farming. I am thankful for the lives and processes of this family, for their system of gardening and canning and recycling and environmental conscientiousness. I am thankful for Balderdash with Jonathan and Ellie and Paul and Susanne, for the impossibility of avoiding definitions that propogate inside jokes from earlier rounds. I am thankful for Indian Summer days in New England fall settings. I am thankful for apples and apple presses and walks in the northern Appalachians; Canada on one side, Vermont on the other.

These are the things I think of, while sitting down to a (chicken) Thanksgiving dinner, and as I sit here now, back in the noise of Montreal and routine. There's so much detail to extract from the weight of apples squeezing, from a walk to a sugar shack in the woods, from a family that laughs to tears, drinks tea, whistles, and sings. Each character deserving many more pages, each moment desiring further treatment. But this is a start, and it's enough to say that I'm quite content.

Cooking at KINO

"What I like about KINO is that we cook." Geneviève says this as she sautees mushrooms and onions and steak in the kitchen. Louis-Philippe boils water for pasta on a burner next to her. As a good American, I "nuke" some leftover Thai, and discuss hockey with François--the season began today and the city seemed to soften (or harden, depending on what team you're on). Pasta or sautee or microwaveables, today I learned what it is to really cook at KINO. I worked for fifteen hours, and this is what it smelled like:

Tonight I attended my first Soirée Mensuelle (the monthly projection where films made by anybody and everybody are randomly selected from a box and screened for an enthusiastic and welcoming audience of over 200). My task: sell tickets, sell t-shirts (okay, only two), pronounce my greetings as perfectly as possible, and avoid whiplash when one of the theatre staff (not a Kinoite) started beating up a spectator for eating in the auditorium (yeah, I was more than mildly alarmed). The second half of the show I was finally able to sit in the dark and suck in some of Canada's more interesting short films. I'm amazed at the number of people that invest their time not only in making these films, but also those that come each month in support of such grassroots and passionate art. I'm encouraged too by KINO's mission--that anyone's film can be shown. I'm not sure there's anything else quite like that.

The Soirée Mensuelle depends on audience participation. All filmmakers bring their movie and put it in a box at least 30 minutes before the beginning of a show. If their film is drawn, they are invited to come on stage and introduce their film. Humor is a major part of the show, and I'm sure (once I can figure out this darned accent!) it's all very self-referencing. The MC yells "Eh, Toussaint," and throws the tape to François (the mussels from belllll-jum) who in turn runs it back to the sound deck. This sort of activity excites me! FILMMAKING! At a KINO projection, there is no hierarchial separation between filmmaker and spectator. One is strongly encouraged to play both roles.

In the end, what impressed me the most was the vast appeal of KINO. It was started by two college seniors, and it's spread to over five continents in the span of nine years. People DIG it! At most projections, then, the various KINO cells are brought together, as the best KINO films from around the world become accessible to this Montrealais audience. Tonight's feature: films from Trouville, France.

So, although the day was long, and there are longer days ahead in the future, I guess this sort of cuisine will keep me in the kitchen. And hopefully, I'll shrug off whatever it is that hinders me from making my own films. "Do well with nothing, do better with a little, and DO IT NOW"--KINO's motto, and something I feel I've neglected in my diet.

A post for the sake of posting

Is it wrong to admit that from time to time, trying to extract some sort of poetic musing on the day gets a little tiring? Events and images and situations are simultaneously insignificant and extraordinary, and delivering this unto an audience intimidates me. If we were walking down Duluth Street, you and I, we'd talk about the Longmont, CO colors of the houses, and that terrific fall light, the way it hangs to greet me after I've worked all day. But you've chosen to stay at home and eat EasyMac and I've evidently decided to drink instant coffee and watch Wheel (I didn't mean to make you sound like a loser--EasyMac and all). Here are a few scenes and pictures to keep you invested until I've something exciting to discuss. In the meantime, I'll promise to never again insult your character and your culinary habits.

Today at work I sorted through headshots and CVs--actors interested in partaking in a KINO production. Louis-Philippe organized the men, and I the women. The way he commented on the "crack"--cleavage--present in almost every one of the woman's headshots, I'm surprised he opted to alphabetize names like Pierre and Tristan instead of those like Claudette and Genevieve.

Walking on St. Laurent street--away from Chinatown, toward the Plateau--I follow a man who raps as he swaggers confidently up the street. His gait fumbles when a cluster of pigeons block his path. Paralyzed, he stands back as I pass him, pass the vermin. He coos to them, waves his hand in authoratative lines (summoning some Jedi magic or David Blaine-esque brilliance?), hoping to cause a retreat. But they, like him, rest, immobilized.

A man was stabbed in the park last night, a freeway bridge collapses, a school shooting. These are all Montreal events that have happened since my arrival. I'd be prone to say something strange was in the air, until I read Chaucer-worthy stories of a milkman killing Amish schoolgirls. Oh, life!