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.