Au Revoir, Montreal

We leave, physically, at least, on Sunday. Tomorrow is forecast to be windy and raining, but even so it will be very hard to leave this place.

See some of you soon.

Love from J, D, M, and I.

Wonderful

If Michael Jackson had to die young and tragically, the silver lining, for me, was to see Stevie Wonder eulogize him last night in a live outdoor concert as the Jazz Festival opening grand evenement. Before Mr. Wonderful finally came out on stage at 10 pm, it was already apparent that Montreal loves both musicians. Motown artists, including Michael Jackson both as the wee one of 5 and as a mature solo act, featured heavily in the recorded music they blasted from the speakers for the many, many (in my case 4) hours that people were sitting or standing on the concrete to stake their place. So when Stevie first took the stage and announced that this performance was going to celebrate Michael, the crowd cheered and anticipated the magic that was to come.

He started with "I Can't Help It", the track he wrote for Quincy Jones that ended up on Jackson's breakthrough Off the Wall album. After that, though (let's remember Jackson had died just 5 days prior), Wonder's concert paid homage by simply pausing to play recorded excerpts of some of his favourite of Jackson's songs. That, and Wonder's daughter Ayesha Morris who is part of his backup vocal section, sang a sad, jazzy ballad, I think it was a jazz standard but couldn't tell you the title. (She is good, with a clear, sweet voice, but not the dazzling vocal talent that her dad is. Nuff said.) He also ad-libbed some Michael shout-outs during "I Just Called to Say I Love You." It was kind of odd, just stopping the concert to listen to recorded tunes like that. But for me it was also moving to see that the great Motown legend and widely acknowledged musical genius Stevie Wonder is, like any of us shmucks standing there on the concrete, a fan of Michael Jackson. Nine years Jackson's senior, and a figure to whom Jackson was constantly compared as he was coming into his own as an adult solo performer, Stevie Wonder is a fan of Jackson's! He seemed geniuinely annoyed and disgusted by the Jackson scandal machine, encouraging us to just buy Michael's music if we want to help his family. And he was just sad about Jackson's death, you could tell. The two of them had much in common besides fame, talent, critical accolades, and some stylistic similarity: both were Motown icons who started as child prodigies. What a strange and strong connection that must have been.

The rest of the concert was everything I could have hoped, aside from the severe physical discomfort that attends probably most free concerts in outdoor urban places (the necessity of camping out for 4+ hours just to be able to see the stage, nowhere to pee without giving up your space, a flat audience area so short people are screwed unless they're in the front row, getting poked in the eyes by umbrella spokes, burned by cigarettes ....I could go on but won't). Lots of crowd singalongs, which I loved, especially how the francophones knew the songs so well but kind of mangled the words into their own versions of the lyrics. He was generous about playing his big hits; you can only imagine how tired he must be of some of those tunes, but he knows how we long to hear them, so he performs them energetically, getting his buzz off the crowd. He got us to sing the la la la's of My Cherie Amour, and the French parts of Michelle Ma Belle, and the whole chorus of I Just Called. His live performing style is very loose, informal, and he cracks jokes the whole time and gives lots of time to his excellent band to do solo bits. His percussion section, the trumpet player, the sax, and the guitar and keyboard players were all really good, really held their own on stage and played well together. And it struck me throughout how very jazzy so much of Wonder's music is, has always been. 

He looks good, a little heavy maybe, but happy and well, still enjoying performing and still a deeply religious man. Maybe his faith is how his star has only continued to rise, while Jackson's story turned so weird and sad. Wonder is now 59 years old. Who knows if I'll ever get to see him perform again. I'm so glad I did. He ended the show with a recorded Jackson medley, with his band and singers just standing downstage and dancing along. It was a good ending. The rabid fans in my immediate area were all dancing along too. Dave, not nearly the Wonder or Jackson fan I am, and tired from standing on the concrete for 5 hours, had arrived home over an hour before me and gone to bed. He'd left the house later than me, waiting for the sitter to come, and never did find me in that mass of humanity. After Wonder et al left the stage, the rain got heavier and the fireworks started exploding off the tops of the adjacent buildings of Place Des Arts. I floated along with the crowd streaming east down de Maisonneuve, then St. Catherine, past the long sidewalk lineup outside Foufounes, and a mere 10 minutes later I was inside our house, where it was quiet. 

And thus began Jazz Fest '09. I can hear music from the Place just sitting here in the study with the windows open. It's going to be a musical feast to end our days in Montreal. Sad and sweet.

Bonne St. Jean!

Salut, nos amis,

We celebrated St. Jean Baptiste Day by painting a Quebec flag on Milo's face and attending a picnic in Parc Lafontaine with some friends from Dave's scholarly home away from home, the CCA. The weather cooperated, and Milo made many enthusiastic friends with his flag-face. It got awkward, though; the spirit of Quebecois nationalist bonhomie kind of falls apart when you can't communicate with your fellow partiers in French.

I guess now is as good a time as any to confess that the French we all planned to learn never really materialized. Milo's daycare is bilingual, but that's more incidental to the staffers speaking one language or the other. There's no formal educational programming for French or English there. The main result is that Milo now feels comfortable playing with kids he can't understand, and he knows a few "French" songs that he sings sometimes, to our great bemusement.

As for Dave and I, we both took a 10 -week class at our local leisure centre, Dave's was a twice-weekly lunch hour conversational class and mine an evening "Level 2" with limited conversation and mostly grammar. Most of my classmates were international students at McGill who were fluent in English. Dave's class was more of a mix, but same problem: the only native French speaker was the teacher. That's no way to learn a language, sadly. After having had the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be immersed in a language (okay, I HOPE it was not just once in my lifetime!), back when I lived in Mexico as a teenaged exchange student, I see now that it's the only way, at least for me. Certainly the quickest way. A lot harder to pull off when you live with your own nuclear family. And our friends here all speak fluent English, Dave's colleagues too. The only "real" French conversations I've had since moving here have been very brief exchanges involving grocery delivery, subway ticket purchases, navigational directions (giving and receiving), and simple greetings. I will say that my comprehension improved somewhat; now when someone on the street addresses me in French I usually get the gist of what they're saying on the first go, unlike back in Jannuary. Over all though, despite the odd time watching French tv or listening to French radio, I score low on learning French. C'est la vie.

Above: the eerie modern ruin of the Expo '67 site. Rotting glue-lam beams, weeds growing through concrete, still-futuristic design disintegrating into the soil. Oddly peaceful, lots of birdsong.

In other news, we only have 2 more weeks here. It's hard to believe our time here is almost over. We don't quite want to believe it. But the Jazz Fest starts this week, so that softens the blow somewhat. STEVIE WONDER is playing the first free concert!!!! We will be there, camped out if necessary. I am anticipating many great things from this show, among them a stirring tribute cover of a Michael Jackson song or two.

About this poster, on St. Catherines Street near our house: Montreal's suburbs are their own municipalities, so like all such cities, it loses out when people leave to live the suburban dream. 

For those of you following our movements, we will leave here July 12 and fly to Winnipeg, where we will enjoy some summer fun with Dave's brother Tom and his tribe for just over a week, then we will touch down in Calgary only long enough to pick up a few things, including a brand new car (I know! Weird! But Sylvia finally died right after we left Calgary and we need new wheels), then it's off to the Okanagan to visit Dave's parents. We'll return to Calgary August 1 and spend the next few weeks getting resettled.

We'll be really busy in the next two weeks getting packed up and ready to leave, so I don't know whether I'll have time to post to the blog, but I will try, okay?

Smile, please.

French word of the day: manifestation; protest

Our first day here in Montreal we saw a protest snaking down Rene Levesque boulevard. It was a sunny and frigid day, January 10th, Israel had mounted a recent offensive in Gaza, and people in Montreal organized a march that went on for blocks and blocks. We stood there watching for a long time, and when it was too cold to stand still any longer, we turned and walked toward home; we still couldn't see the last marchers in the procession. That made an impression on us, first of all, that this is a big city; second, that it's a cosmopolitan one, with many citizens still strongly connected with their original homelands, and still politically engaged with their original struggles. Finally, that it's a huge university town: many of the marchers were students.

The ongoing protest of Montreal's Tamil population is tiny by comparison, but it's been ongoing for months, maybe years, now. We've seen them staged in front of the U.S. embassy on Rene Levesque Boulevard almost every weekday for the last several months, and yesterday they marched down Rene Levesque past our house. We pass by them when we take Milo home from daycare. They wave Quebec, Canada, and red Tamil Tiger flags, they hand out leaflets pleading for intervention in Sri Lanka where their Tamil families remain. Lately I sensed a sadness from them as we passed by, a feeling of hopelessness that hadn't been there before. It seems yesterday was a crucial turning point in their 26-year civil war. The Tamil rebel fighters are surrounded in the jungle by government troops, and they have conceded defeat.

So maybe we have seen the last of the Montreal Tamils' protest. Yesterday, Victoria Day, was fine and sunny here, everyone out walking, but what a bitter day it must have been for them.

French word of the day: homard; lobster

Bonjour, Tout le Monde!

Another sign of spring: everywhere in Montreal restaurant windows these days, you see signs that say "Fête de Homard"-- Quebec's lobster season is upon us. Even before now, Milo was asking us for lobster. Who knows why or how he even knew of its existence, maybe his maritimer heritage was speaking to him. The restaurant lobster parties (if we are to translate the signs literally) are about $25 a plate, which seems too good to be true, with lobsters retailing at about $18 per for a small one. We figured we'd throw our own lobster party and have a good feed chez nous. And nosh we did.

We made a whole project out of it: first we made lobster bibs, everyone got one, we even made a tiny one for Iggy even though he's too little to try shellfish yet. Then we painted a lobster on Milo's face, as we paint something on Milo's face every freakin' day lately. Then Milo, Iggy and I trekked to La Mer, a huge fish market near the Village and a fair hike east from our house. Our two wriggling lobsters were put into a plastic bag and we transported them home underneath the stroller. We plopped them into a huge pot of boiling water for 3.5 minutes, then the shell-cracking began.

You have to love lobster (or any shellfish) enough to think the labour is worth it. It had been years since I'd wrasseled a big crustacean, and it takes some skill and elbow grease. Also some willingness to get hurt; I lacerated my thumb on the shell while prying the tail apart. After about 20 minutes of waiting for his first hunk of claw meat, Dave the Prairie Boy's face assumed a familiar expression, the one that says, "give me a good ribeye any day, it's cheaper and it doesn't bite back." Nonetheless we all enjoyed our feed and even had a little meat left over, so I boiled the shells with some veggies to make stock and made a tasty bisque for supper tonight. Lobsters do NOT scream in the pot; that's an urban myth. It's crabs that do that.

The unbearable cuteness of being

One of the major ways we've interacted with Montrealers on the street is in being barraged with adoring cooing in French: "ah, c'est tout petit! ... tout mignon, ce n'est pas tres vieux?. .. un petit garcon or une fille?". . . etc. Old, young, black, white, male, female, well-heeled and down on luck: people of all descriptions are enchanted by a wee baby in a sling. Countless people have never before seen a baby in such a thing, which is weird, considering Montreal is pretty tough to navigate in a stroller. The Metro lacks elevators, and the sidewalks tend to be narrow and/or crowded in our part of town. Part of the appeal for people in our part of town is the rarity of seeing a baby at all; this is a neighbourhood of students, professional couples, and elderly/disabled and low income people who live in the social housing projects around here.

Other Iggy news: he's now eating solid foods and getting nice and chubby!

We've had some field trips to report on:

The St. Patty's Day Parade

This was right in our neighbourhood, down St. Catherine Street. Refreshingly home-spun, not a lot of corporate presence at all, but the down side was that the lack of organization made for two things you don't want a parade to be: gappy and quiet. Many times it looked like the parade was coming to an anti-climactic end, when it was just the next brass band trying to catch up with the rest of the parade. The marchers were mostly small community groups like Irish dance groups, churches, Irish music groups, and rec sports teams. The spectators were mostly families with kids and drunk people of all ages and backgrounds happy to have an excuse to be publicly drunk in the middle of the day. What impressed me was the enthusiasm and bonhomie of the crowd. The parade lacked any real dramatic impact, but everyone was just enjoying being out in the sunshine and enjoying the day. They shouted and cheered the same for every group that was marching. It made a big impression on Milo, though, his only previous experience with parades being the Bowness Stampede parade, which is very small scale and totally homemade. He sometimes likes to play parade, where he dresses up in something unusual and walks back and forth in front of us and we're supposed to exclaim over what it is he's supposed to be. Nothing gay about that.

Cabane à sucre

We went to a real Quebec sugar shack with our friends Michelle and Anthony. To give a rudimentary definition, a sugar shack is the house on a maple syrup farm that serves traditional Quebec food in a nostalgic atmosphere. It's a popular early spring outing for families here.

Snow still on the ground, but temps getting warmer and the sap flowing in the maple trees. Here's a snap, but for the full report, I refer you to Anthony and Michelle's exuberant Montreal food blog, called An Endless Banquet. They are true foodies, gastronomic adventurers par excellence, and witty and generous writers to boot. Their blog is a must for anyone planning a trip here. Anyway, we had a blast, the music was fantastic, me and Milo danced up a storm, and the food was, well, I'll let AJ do it justice since he's the professional food writer.

Quebec City

We figured we'd best make it there at some point while we're living here. Dave had been twice before but I never had. We were there over the Easter weekend, and I highly recommend that as a good time to go; mostly the tourists at that time are Quebecois, and the crowds are small but the weather warm. To be truthful, we only got a very brief glimpse of the city. This was one of those trips that really makes you question whether travel with small kids is worth it. That said, the old town is gorgeous and we had two lovely meals that Milo behaved enough for us to enjoy.

Laloux

Dave and I celebrated our 9th wedding anniversary on Earth Day. My mom was in town visiting, so we had a sitter and we went to Laloux, one of Montreal's great restaurants. We'd been there for a full meal deal for our dating anniversary back in February, and the desserts were so good we just had to experience it again. I can't do them justice, because the desserts as described on the menu don't actually sound that great. You have to taste them to believe. And we are believers now. Oh yes.

Nasty, brutish, and short: the violence of bugs' lives

Milo and I visisted Montreal's Insectarium last weekend. It was really cool. Not a comprehensive collection of insects, nothing to please the real entomologist, but a greatest-hits display including even non-insects like the (arachnid) tarantula. Actually about a dozen different hairy tarantulas. There is a very disturbing display of a taxidermed tarantula and pepsis wasp engaged in a battle to the tarantula's eventual, agonizing death. The pepsis wasp stings the female tarantula, paralyzing her. Then the wasp lays HER eggs inside the alive-but-paralyzed tarantula's oviduct, then the eggs hatch and the wasp larvae CONSUME the tarantula while she is still alive. Until she isn't. And you thought you were having a rough day.

What do you call that? It can't be parasitism, because that suggests there is some mutual benefit going on; in the event, it's hard to see what's in it for the tarantula. And how did the pepsis wasp evolve that way? Isn't it kind of bizarre that one species can rely so completely on one other species, not for just for food but for reproduction? And how did that first pepsis wasp, fresh from the primordial ooze, say, in its uniquely waspish language, "What's a safe place to lay my eggs, a place where my larvae can incubate and then feast before venturing out into the world? I know! That huge hairy spider over there looks perfect!" If there are any entomologists among the readers of this blog (fat chance), please enlighten us in the comments.

Other highlights of the Insectarium: the softball-sized, glittering jewel-toned beetles from Africa, who can lift 2 kg with their pincers. The stick insects, who are very hard to find among the actual sticks in their terraria. And the scorpions, slightly bigger than tiger prawns, which have so captivated Milo's imagination with their deadly stingers. We bought him some scorpion socks at The Gap today. The Insectarium is part of the massive Olympic complex, where there's also the botanical gardens and conservatory. So we'll be back there soon, I'm sure.

Milo's new thing is making up gibberish words and telling us they're French. The kid's a card. Don't know where he gets it.

Winter is letting up some. Regular above-zero temps now, sun, glovelessness. Spring is nigh!

French word of the day: fête; party, celebration, festival

As in, this town knows how to. Last night we ventured out in minus 17 Celsius en famille to take in the Fête des Lumières, Montreal's answer to Mardi Gras. There were 165 events put on in three distinct areas of town: the Old Town, Quartier des Spectacles and Downtown, and the Plateau/Mont Royal. It's hard to fathom just how insanely well developed Montreal's fine arts scene is, especially the visual arts, until you thumb through the program for this festival. So many different kinds of venues, a staggering variety of media and genres, and an exuberance of collaborating to bring crowds of people out into the cold to see, be seen, to celebrate the city, and maybe to publicly rejoice in the hope that winter is almost over.

We chose well when we chose to live in this area; we were in or near the hearts of the action for this party. We headed out to the Old Town to take in the "animation" (no English equivalent, really); Milo was very impressed with the fire throwers and even more so with the fire blowers. There was a mini-tam tam event: a group of drummers all dressed in red and pounding away while dancing in unison, their breath visible in the stage lights beating down on them. (Too loud for Milo to get close to them.)

There was a 120 metre ice slide. We'd thought of taking Milo on it, but thought the better of it when we saw how fast that thing goes. Second thoughts on the ferris wheel too; a long lineup plus slow turn through the chilly night air seated on a metal chair- brrrr. Huge puppets, one like a giant rooster king, moving through the crowd, fireworks exploding in the inky chill sky, bon fires with people sipping maple-laced hot milk and roasting marshmallows on sticks. Milo had marshmallows for the first time. He couldn't see why you'd ruin their white puffy perfection by holding them over a fire and making them all brown and drippy, so he ate them off the stick in their raw form. 

We really felt like tourists when we nipped into a food court for a quick dinner; $6.50 for a tiny cup of poutine! Don't eat in the Old Town unless you've done some homework beforehand. After the fireworks we headed indoors to the Hôtel de Ville (original City Hall, the namesake of our street) for some old timey Quebecois folk dancing and fiddle-and-accordion music. Milo had a blast dancing to the music and then he had a go at using a traditional dancing puppet; you sit on a flexible wooden paddle, position the little wooden guy with articulated legs and arms on the paddle, and then you gently beat down on the paddle to the rhythm of the music and it looks charmingly like he's jigging away. Then we walked home, put Milo and Iggy to bed, and ventured out for more. The thing goes ALL NIGHT!! So the trains and buses run all night, and all the venues welcome revellers all night, and it's just a huge blowout so you can take in all you have the ambition and energy to do.

I went half a block up Ste. Catherine to a small, spare church to hear a 10-person chamber choir called À Contre-Voix. They sang a gorgeous program of 20th century classical choral works plus some Renaissance pieces and a lovely finale of Stevie Wonder's "Too Shy to Say." (I know. I hate pop-as-choral too. Pretty audacious to mess with Stevie. But it was great!) Then I wandered up Ste. Catherine, from the Dépanneur Scarface to the Pussy Corps Danseuses Nues, to take in the festive ambience, and came home to spell off Dave. He went out to see a lighting design competition in the Quartier des Spectacles and voted on his favourite. After 5 weeks here, he ran into someone he knew! In that sea of people. Always interesting to see how long it takes after moving to a new city until you randomly run into an aquaintance. 

And today was also awesome. Dave got to play ball hockey, we discovered a fantastic burger joint that serves incredible tarte au sucre for dessert that's a 10-minute walk from our house, and Milo was given the new Iron Man pajamas that Dave bought him earlier this week.

La vie en rose, my friends. It's like Obama: the buzz still hasn't worn off. Long may it endure.

Sunday in the Park with Iggy

Parc La Fontaine, that is. A long but lovely walk from our house.

Some of our friends and we ourselves had some hesitation about moving from Calgary to Montreal in the middle of winter. It's the cold version of the frying pan-into-fire cliché. But Montreal is a quintessentially winter city, with a good deal of its charm inherent in winter sports, winter scenery, winter fashion, and winter food. Now I'm not sorry to be here in winter at all; I would've missed out on a lot of what the city is all about.

French word of the day: pâtisserie (paht-ISS-uhr-EE); pastry

Why My Postpartum Weight Isn't Going Anywhere Anytime Soon:

a photo essay in four parts

This is just the bakery case at the local IGA. Seriously.

Elsewhere in the IGA: the full compliment of postwar perma-pastry products rarely seen north of the Mason-Dixon line. Remember May Wests?

More IGA selections: thaw, serve, enjoy!

Finally, the coup de grâce: the sublime Au Pain Doré, a fatal 10-minute walk from our house. God save us. But not yet.

French word of the day: livraison (liv-ray-SOHN); delivery

I've held off until now, but here it is, unjust as it is inevitable: an apples-to-oranges comparison of Montreal to Calgary. Forgive me, but this is probably the first of many. Prompted by my weekly delight at paying $3.75 to have my groceries delivered to my door in Montreal. I go to the IGA, I load up my cart with groceries, I go to the till to pay for them, then I leave. I saunter away empty handed, and someone else has to muscle the bags into a vehicle and drive them home, then unload them. All I have to do is bring them from the front door to the kitchen. Of course this exists in Calgary, but I'm pretty sure it's not so cheap or so easy to do.

Dave and I have often felt that Calgary, a supposedly rich city, doesn't feel rich to live in, because the public services fall so short of what they could be. A random list of examples: it costs $12 for a library card, and you have to pay that fee every year; said library system isn't bad (and the librarians are excellent!!!), but the library buildings themselves, including the central branch, are pretty mediocre and sometimes downright ratty; you have to pay a private company to pick up your recycling (apparently that's changing in March, but you'll still have to pay a designated fee for the City to pick it up); it costs over $30 to take a family of four to one of the nicer leisure centre swimming pools; and the public transit just sucks. There are some cool festivals in Calgary, like the Fringe fest and the Folk fest, but they cost a fair bit, limiting participation, and public art events that are free are pretty rare. There's no freestanding public art gallery. Not even a lousy one. I could go on, but I'm starting to depress myself.

Montreal, on the other hand, makes me feel rich. There's the grocery delivery, but there's so much more. Our local branch library, for the few times when Montreal's library system has books that the provincial archives and HUGE library does not, is a gorgeous public space. The Pere Ambroise branch is on the third floor of a public services building. Sunlight floods in the windows, illuminating the warm colours of the building's interior. The place looks like a freakin' Ikea showroom. Plants everywhere, brand new computers, a kids area with bean bags, puzzles, and toys, including baby toys to amuse the pre-literate while their older sibs peruse the shelves. I asked for a card, the librarian asked to see a proof of residence, I signed the card, and full borrowing access for every branch in the city was mine, for free.

There's the transit. Daily urban commuters take their trains for granted, but what can compare with the sheer speed, ease, and efficiency of a subway to take you from one end of a city to another?

My local leisure centre in Montreal is the YMCA. I joined for less than a hundred bucks. My monthly fee is $47, and I can go to any Y centre in the city, take fitness classes for free, and get free individual fitness coaching. I can bring a guest for free six times a month, every month. Mine is not even one of the fancier ones, and it has hot tubs, saunas, indoor running track, full gyms, lap pool, and a full array of yoga, aerobics, you name it.

And we haven't even hit the festival season yet. Maybe this is still the honeymoon phase of our time in Montreal, maybe the blemishes haven't yet been revealed to me, but part of my euphoria has to do with the generosity of the city itself. In Montreal, you can really feel yourself to be a citizen, in the original sense of the word: someone who is of, and for, the city; a participant in its common life, a beneficiary of its common wealth.

How can you tell I just figured out how to italicize . . .sheesh.

French word of the day: quartier (KAR-tyay); neighbourhood

Bonjour mes amis,

Welcome to a tour of our 'hood. Not comprehensive, but it will give you an idea of the area.

The view from our front door: a parking lot. This area does not have much in the way of detached houses at street level, so we often surprise pedestrians when we emerge from the house and step down onto the sidewalk.

This "used to be" a red light district.

Who knew porn theatres still exist?

Montreal, city of haute couture and tacky tourist t-shirts. I'm with stupid!

We recently watched a CBC tribute to the Montreal Canadiens for their centenary. Host George Strombopolis (sp?) was walking around major party places in Montreal, and this nightclub was one of them. Milo loves the giant hanging spider at the front gate. But he's underage, so he can't go in.

Henri Henri: who knew haberdashers still existed? This one is right on our corner, and has been there since 1938. See my first post; behind me is the interior of the shop, which probably has not changed since it opened.

The Quebec Grande Bibliotheque and archives. It was designed by the Patkaus, apparently to much controversy as they are anglophone architects and many thought it would be more appropriate to get Quebecois designers.

Here's a shot taken from inside one of the glass elevators.

St. Catherine's street, a long rue of many moods.

Who doesn't want to buy their smokes from the local wise guy?

Milo's daycare. Not the massive gothic church, the modern office building to the left of it.

A head shop. Bongs a go-go. And listen, it's not hip hop if it's on the radio. (I don't know what that means; it's on the shirt in the window. Anyone?)

That's it for now, peeps. This is a sucky coding job, sorry if there are swaths of blank space between the pictures, will try to do better next post.

We got a FOOT of snow last night!!! In.sane.

Later sk8ers.

French word of the day: garderie (gar-der-EE) a daycare center for children; a nursery

Bonjour tout le monde,

Not much to report since the last post, except that we hit the rocks for the first time since our hitherto idyllic time here. To wit: (okay, not much of that going on here) Milo decided he hated his new daycare. Most of last week was an emotionally draining affair of leg-clinging, teary pleading not to be left there, and lots of guilt and doubt on our part. Friday was a little better; he seemed resigned, if not thrilled, to be going there. So maybe we've worn him down. This did raise some questions about the whole Montessori thing though. The managers at the daycare said there are no toys out because Montessori pedagogy advises against having them out while educational activities are going on, so they are locked away most of the time. Milo's Calgary daycare is all about free play, with lots of toys available most of the time. So his new one seems a lot less fun to him, and we can't say we blame him. Well, as those of you who've met him know, he's a very social guy who needs friends. So hopefully he's making friends and that will make him much happier. A few of the kids in his room speak English as their first language, but the teachers and most of the kids are francophone, so that's got to be a little challenging too.

In other news, we were tourists yesterday. Montreal's Olympic velodrome was converted into the "biodome," a big indoor zoo. It's pretty interesting, organized by climate regions, and you follow a path through the whole thing starting with a rain forest, going through the Laurentian landscape/marshes, St. Lawrence seaway, and ending up in Antarctica with 3 species of penguins. Canadian animals and fish are so BORING compared to the technicolor fish, plants, and birds of remote climes! But maybe their abilities to live in harsh cold weather makes them interesting from a biology standpoint. That's what Milo seems to think; his favourite was the giant Atlantic cod.

Other than that, we've just been exploring around our own 'hood. I went to the Musee d'art Contemporain with Iggy, but it was between major exhibits, so we just saw a reduced version of their offerings. There were two video art exhibits, one from Canadian artist Lynne Marsh, the other some Japanese artists.

Iggy didn't get the cultural references of Marsh's work, which dealt with feminist representations of the female body in public sites of power, but he really liked the Japanese works, which were lovely animated images dissolving into different colours and shapes to music. It was like those little Sesame Street vignettes I remember from my youth; maybe that's why I'm drawn to that kind of animation and video art.

I will leave you with one observation: Montrealers seem to really love their pastries. You can buy all manner of really fancy-looking ones in the supermarket, right out of the freezer case. To say nothing of Le Pain d'Ore, a boulangerie in our street that sells real French-style pastries and breads-- to die for, literally.

A la prochaine, mes amis.

French word of the day: accueil (AH-koy), reception, greeting, welcome

Hey Tribe,

I'm making good on my threat to post a blog. Many of you have asked "How's Montreal?" so rather than respond over and over, I'll post as often as I have any worthwhile observations to share and save individual communication (assassination conspiracies, point shaving operations, knit patterns) for email. So, with a tip of the hat to Andy Warhol's theory of plebian, shortlived fame, I'll begin here and let up with the apologies already...

About the title: we actually are living in a converted Salvation Army chapel.

Beginning at the beginning. The trip was good, Mel and John helped us schlep our 6 months worth of stuff to the airport and the boys were angels on the flight. Dave was traumatized when the passenger across from him started violently vomiting from her nose and mouth while unconscious (flight phobes: DON'T mix your tranqs with red wine!!!). But the flight attendant was a total mensch about it and the puke was soon forgotten.

We arrived at the house to a lovely crackling fire in the wood stove which heats most of the place, and our hosts Jean and Marie had made us a risotto dinner with wine and a galette of the Epiphany for dessert. This is a buttery, almond paste pie thing with a gold paper crown around it and a 2 cm-tall ceramic figurine of Barba Papa, king of the epiphany, baked inside. Whoever gets the "bean" is blessed with good luck for the year and gets to wear the crown. Guess who got it, in the very last piece to be served? Dave. Hard for him to top '09, but if that's what the galette augurs, it must come to pass. It came from the Pain d'Ore, a boulangerie perilously near here that has all the real French baked goods. They showed us around the place, then left us to our new home, to begin their travels through south America in the morning.

It's been really cold here ever since we arrived, with only a couple of days' respite from -22 to -34 temps. I've been coping by eating a lot and buying myself a real Quebec muskrat fur hat for my birthday.

It's like putting a bunch of Hot Shots in a bag and putting them on your head-- and so soft.

And we have to keep the fire stoked at all times. When I'm up in the night to feed Iggy, I put a couple of logs on. Makes me feel like a woman of the frontier. Except I've got a plasma screen tv to watch while breastfeeding.

We've done a little exploration of our immediate environs, despite the cold. We live within short walking distance of the Quebec archives and Grande Bibliotheque, which has English materials too, and a great children's section. Also a beautiful modern building. A very useful institutional neighbour.

We started Milo at a day home on Monday. Right away we had misgivings; the lady's apartment is cramped and dark, there's only one other kid close to Milo's age, and only 3 kids total; nice ratio, but really boring for a social animal like Milo. That's what you get for putting your kid in a daycare you signed up for over the Internet. Long story short: he's starting at a new daycare on Monday, a big bright one with lots of kids and a Montessori program. We're pretty sure he'll love it. He's been fine in the original place, as they went skating and swimming, but he would've become bored by next week probably. It's going to be awkward breaking up with the daycare lady, she's a nice person, and doing the best with what she has.

Montreal observations: everyone is bilingual, even the homeless drunks shilling for change. Everyone is stylish; lots of people smoke. Downtown is teeming with activity; we're near the Universtity of Quebec at Montreal (UQAM) so lots of students around, standing outside the campus buildings, looking gorgeous and smoking. We're close to many big tourist sights, and will explore those soon. The museum of contemporary art is walking distance from here.

Unlike Calgary with the Chinooks, the snow just piles up here. They have trucks that travel beside the snow ploughs to take the snow out of the city. It's hard to get more urban than where we are right now. We've missed being in a dense place like this. Just going for a walk is a social event; you're going to get to do a lot of people watching, window shopping, and umpteen snacking options will present themselves. And the beer. Fin du Monde is delicious, a rich dark sweetish brew, but kind of a big commitment at 9% alcohol. I love Maudite, a more tame version of Fin du Monde. The local IGA has more fancy import stuff than delis in Calgary; we are back in the land of committed foodies. It's hard to be a serious foodie with young kids, but we'll try our best.

That's it for now. I'll post again soon. Thanks for visiting. Come in person if you can. We have lots of room.