Wrap-up

Yesterday a separatist gave me a patriotic gift. It was initiation, the last bit of hazing in our dialogue regarding Stephen Harper's recent declaration of Quebec as an independent nation within a united Canada. And while I realize this promotional headband permits me to declare my loyalties, I find it hard to believe that I could be taken serious adorned like this. And if it weren't for all those mapleleaf flag boxers, this might be the best argument against maintaining French in the province.

Nonetheless, the gift's symbolism pleases me. As I embark on another journey to the States, I realize how foreign Quebec feels. Not only the Parisian architecture and the bakeries on every corner, but the language displaces me--this couldn't possibly be North America. Quebec's separatists do have a point, it doesn't quite fit in with the rest of us, and for some of its residents, it's not enough to highlight these differences through language alone. But it's this staunch defense of the French language that I find to be the strongest assertion of their independence. Because it harks back to experiences in France, and my voyages around Europe and Central America--language is home. And even though I've studied French for over ten years, it's true that interactions still get my heart pumping. And that's what I love. While I probably won't don my new headgear to buy a pain au chocolat at the bakery down the street, I'm asserting my independence (and Quebec's, by default) by ordering in French, wishing the server "une bonne journée," and walking back home down rue St-Urbain.

Censorship.

Oh dang. I've become so cheesy. This blog seems so saccharine to me. I guess it's a bit like writing a card to your great Aunt Gert, the one that lives in the home. Even if you were in an internment camp, you'd make her believe there's Bingo three nights a week and an all-you-can-eat omelette bar on Sundays. Maybe I really am that ridiculously sappy (TENDER!). This is an apology.

I'll saddle this picture to the apology. Christmas joy in the Latin Quarter.

And this second, as a sign of my punishment and my reason for seeking penitence. This is what I saw in the Metro today, minus the outdoors, and the balloons, and the troubled children. Add in a flute and some Christmas tunes, and by golly, you've got a regular party!

the dust is free

When we last left each other on rue de l'Esplanade, I'd just passed the old pious woman who told me the dust was free. This was south of Mont-Royal. Today I moved north along this road, heading toward the 5400 block to meet with J, Kino's co-founder. The light had a jaundiced appearance as it fell over the houses reminiscent of Baron Haussman's Parisian facelift. Within minutes, on rue de l'Esplanade, the rain comes. And the thunder too. [Go see Al Gore's movie now.]

J is not there when I arrive; his wife sends me to the Cafe Milles Saveurs where he eats a ham and cheese crepe with his daughter. He invites me to stay for a coffee. This is the first time we've ever talked. As the artistic inspiration of the movement, he's perhaps less at ease with such conversation, despite having initiated it. But we talk about writing and screenplays and children and Madison, Wisconsin. I pull out my Dellilo book and tell him it's what he's looking for. And he tells me that if he directs and produces six commercials a year (taking 2-3 weeks a piece), he can survive. He can live comfortably and work on his own projects. I like this notion--the 18 week work year, the delving into personal creativity, the self-investment. And I like it all the more because I hear about it on this street, and in this town, and in an unprecedented December rain.

And this, the big development of my day.

Hats and -17 (celsius)

You'd do well to notice in this blog my hats and my gloves. Because although the sites captured in the images to follow may appear beautiful, they probably mean little to you. But how I may or may not look more kamikaze in one picture than another ultimately can change the world. So enjoy some of the scenes from my trip to Quebec City, and thank your lucky stars that I survived the grueling north wind. And don't forget to be startled at the fact that these pictures come from North America--baffling!

How to say "Montreal" in Italian

I speak French with my co-workers. I speak English with my roommates, interspersed with French-tasting tidbits. With my Italian friend Giulio, I speak on a foreign turf; conversing in French, neither of us uses the language we know the best. It's a strange neutrality. When neither member is at perfect ease linguistically, what is created? Perhaps comedy, but in our case, it's friendship.

Giulio arrived at the train station last night, and I browsed the terminals at the central bus station, looking for this Italian that I had not seen since my days abroad in France. I watch the old men and young men and arab men and mexican men who wander around the convenience store and down the hall. Some wear hats and others big coats. One man tries to win a stuffed animal from a pick-your-prize vending machine game. I should have known that a European would not arrive in such an environment; I should have known he'd come by train, rather than the more cost-efficient bus. A train station reunion would have played into cinematic expectations. When we meet later at his hotel in Old Montreal, he with his reservations and papers neatly arrayed in a plastic folder, I begin to wonder if I'm not as organized as I had thought, at least not with regards to him, making my error all the more embarrassing. But in fine form he arrives, and I find myself, for the first time since Leif's departure, in the presence of an old friend who will, at least temporarily, alter the Montrealan landscape I've come to know.

Last night we wander through a mostly dead Vieux Montreal--its touristy bars and upscale restaurants closed. We walk past City Hall, a striking nineteenth-century building, reminiscent of Paris along the Seine. Something about the building at night strikes me. I make a comment about its oddity, comparing it to a cartoon depiction, something unreal. "I was wondering when I'd hear one of your odd metaphors," he tells me. At least my pretension is a universal language.

It's this sort of moment that I enjoy. Seeing a building or experiencing a place, and being able to share it with someone. Granted, a certain selfish territorialism takes place when one lives alone, and one relishes, even prizes, the things seen and done (sometimes visitors seem an intrusion to all the hoarded spaces), but camaraderie is unmatched. Friday, then, my Italian camarade and I will voyage to Quebec City, a storybook city that I have yet to experience. Updates to follow.

samedi

I fell down the stairs today, the steep entry to my house. An hour later I stood in a sanctuary lit with votives, mesmerized by a collection of crutches piled across from St. Andre's tomb. And I pick up a giant wad of what I'll call sainthood playing cards: the front bearing a suspiciously Soviet-looking portrait of Father Moreau, and on the back, a small purple dot and the reassurance that said purple dot "has touched the bones of Fr. Moreau." This is not comforting information to me. In fact, I hope this purple dot, having touched Moreau's relics, never touches anything else in my bag or in my room. Call me J. Edgar Hoover, but I'm not a big fan of germs.

Germ-collecting cloth and all, today was a big day. I embarked on a high-profile adventure. Packing two clementines and a demi baguette, and following trails serpenting through the mountain, I came out on the other side of the hill to discover the St. Joseph Oratory. "It's a long way," said Susanne, doubting my tenacity on foot and my ability to bundle up (it's bloody cold here!) and my irrepressible energy to discover the city and all its new corners. Despite the potential for Donor Family-esque misadventure (by the way, I think they've been poorly portrayed in the media!), or perhaps because of this, I found the journey marvelous and necessary.

Pilgrims have in the past come to the Oratory in search of healing. History speaks of cripples crawling on their knees up the sprawling stairs to the basilica, only to leave their crutches at the door on the way out. My pilgrimage had little to do with healing--I walked five miles to get there and avoided any knee-climb dramatics to enter the sanctuary. But the reward was the long walk through the woods (perhaps I would have done well to pick up an abandoned crutch on the way out), and the trading cards (I can't wait to discover their gift-giving value), and arriving (almost) in time for mass, just in time to see government workers with earpieces walking around with wicker baskets to collect change [Museum fees or offering? It's a fine line these days], and after Communion, watching a man pray at the feet of a Jesus sculpture, running his hands up the marble legs, kissing the feet and curtsying before returning to his seat.

Having watched too much Six Feet Under the past few days, and having begun to feel too much a part of it, living vicariously through their tragedies, it was wonderful to be back in the real world and to create my own plotline. And mine involves relic-rubbed cloth and crutches and old fashioned smoked meat sandwiches at Lester's Deli (I didn't tell you about that magic!), so take that HBO, I have a life, too!