The Lifelong Crush

The perfect relationship would be like the one I have with Montreal.

I feel almost constantly in love with the city. I enjoy the crisp nostalgia of Fall; the frigid romanticism of Winter; the desperation of Spring; and the aaahhh of Summer. Montreal is as much a familiar comfort as an ever-changing evolution. When I’m bored of the routine, there’s the bustle, and when I’m in a more introverted mood, there’s the reassuring history. Montreal is never demanding but always gently nudging with opportunities to see something new, meet someone different, go outside. We both enjoy music, art, discussion, social reunion, tagging, life without a car, urban living, less crime, tongue-in-cheek humour, lots of restaurants, no dress code, and heaps of style. Ok, on that last one, I think the city might have something on me.

The happiest moments in my relationship are when I come home from somewhere else. Planes are dull and suffocating until I’m flying in a little 737, trying to figure out what part of the landscape below is Laval and what part is home. Then, I suddenly love flying as much as when it was new to me. I’m excited to be back, every single time. I can’t wait to get in that cab, see what kind of driver I get this time, and follow the familiar old highways, with their graffiti and crumbling cement, through the same winding patterns I’ve been driven along forever, home.

Montreal loves me back. It shows me what I want, what enriches my life, such as the street art everywhere in my neighbourhood: the stickers and stencils and tags and inadvertent interventions of the cityspace that give my daily life meaning. It feeds me with maple syrup, breakfast with friends, bring your own wine, croissants, bagels, and ninety-nine cent pizza. It invites my favourite bands to play right around the corner, in a cozy little venue, for $12. For $635 a month, it provides me with an apartment with a balcony and view of Mount Royal, electricity and heating included. It brings people to my life, like the Brazilian lady who runs the bakery; or the Chilean woman who sells sandwiches and salads; and the local kids who work as cashiers at my local supermarket.

I’m in love with this city, and I don’t know anyone yet who could compete with such a love, desire, passion, affair, ever-changing cozy relationship that we have. Not even on a rainy day.


hint: try waiting for the whole song to download before playing. It downloads automatically. You'll see the gray bar fill in the player.

Octopus, duh

See more of my wonderful artistry from this past weekend in Vermont. Check your email for listings.

Junkie (originally written Oct 7)

I went to my first YulBlog meeting (is it a meeting?) last Wednesday, around the corner at Quincaillerie. I’d been toying with the idea for god knows how many months, maybe even a year. But who would I go with? And what would it be like? And what would the people be like? All scary questions. But somewhere in the depths of my superficial mind I figured here might be a group of people who I had something in common with. Blogging. Montreal. Ok! Anyway, I finally got up the nerve last week, and to go by myself, no less. It’s part of my new plan to enjoy my own life without a lifevest. So far, so good.

My greatest fear about the meeting, honestly, was walking into a trap of half a dozen geeks and no girls. I guess that’s why it worked in favour of going that the place is so close to my home. I could just exit lickety-split. I thought about setting my cell phone alarm, which rings like a phone, but that seems tooooo petrified. Come on, how bad could it be? I was feeling good, confident, let’s do it.

Honestly, it went even better than I expected. The people (men AND women) were friendly, and very open. It was easy to talk to anyone, and the whole vibe was very casual and buena onda. (jeje, así que hacerlo con los gringos : meterles palabras en castellano para que cachen lo que es cool). When I left, I was really glad I went.

Right before I was going to leave, a guy sat down next to me and we started talking. He said he doesn’t write a blog, but he reads a lot of them. And he asked me *why* I do it. At first, I was saying, well, that’s a complicated answer, but then I realized: it’s because I’m a junkie. I am and always have been a total communication addict. I *get it* when people call Blackberries “crackberries”.

I’m the only person I know who likes having a cell phone because it means I’m available at all times. If I’m busy doing something at home and the msn is beeping at me, I feel guilty for not focusing entirely on those micro-conversations, and I’ll run back and forth from whatever I’m doing to the computer just to stay on top of it. On the other hand, it really bugs me when people don’t reply to emails or phone calls or instant-messages. Like, it *really* bugs me. Or those people who never answer their phones.

My friend Gina, who I met at a writers workshop, said maybe I wasn’t writing because I’m blogging. But I’ve had a diary since I was six and I haven’t stopped keeping it just because I email, text message, and blog. Believe me, there is like an endless waterfall of words in my mind. Only brain trauma could stop it. Anyway, I hope you realize that while I’ve been writing this, I’ve been maintaining an msn conversation, choosing songs, and roasting some veggies for lunch! Hit me!

Here She Comes

I don't think I should ever get married. OTHER people's weddings make me nervous, imagine how bad I'd get if I had to go through my own. I would have to choose between a bottle of "muscle relaxants" or a broken champagne flute through someone's neck. Yeeeesh!

This is the weekend to break into my apartment and vandalize it, if that's what you were thinking of doing, because I'm off to beautiful Burlington, Vermont, to enjoy Emily's (of the "Emily" line of clothes my friends know well) wedding to Peter. I've never met Peter and I haven't seen most of Emily's friends since elementary school. Back then, when I was still part of a nuclear family and Emily still lived in the upstate NY town of Potsdam, we would mail each other Sweet Valley High books. To me, Emily's American life was like looking into someone's living room from the outside. Her mom, Lya, kept the house clean and cozy; there was MTV and there were magazines like Seventeen and YM to flip through; Emily actually bothered doing girl things like using a hair curler; her high school was a *public* *American* *high school* *with no uniforms*.

It's funny how enviable other lives can be when you don't actually have to live them. Hilary, who studied cuisine (that's cooking, in French) revealed to me how exotic she found our kitchen ingredients: the olive oil. Rebecca was an addict of the sliced bread straight-out-of-the-bag I used to eat freely while her parents kept her on endless diets. I have always been a sucker for a stay at home mom and carpeted hallways free of computer parts lying around.

The only thing I'm not really envious of -as much as I love to plan- is a wedding. I could break out into hives. And cry! I would probably cry more than a scared kid in front of Santa Claus.

Anyway, why am I going on about this, it's not my wedding, it's Emily's. And I'm going to meet my aunt and cousin from Chile, who I haven't seen in aaages! I had a little travel anxiety dreaming last night (forgetting things, etc) so I'd better get packing. The keys aren't under the mat.

Look what I learned how to do!

You were trying to throw your arms around the world

Allow me a moment of nostalgia. It's the early 90s and if just that doesn't mean anything to you, then I have nothing more to say. Me, as we say in Québec, I was in my late teens.

I fell in love for the first time, and for the first time of many I thought that was it, I had gone as high as I could go. Crazy kid. It's 15 years later and I wonder how much has changed.

I've been reminded of a couple of albums from back then, in the days when I was oscillating between cassettes and CDs, that have brought that all back. They're both by U2. They are Achtung Baby and Zooropa. Everyone knows those records changed everything for U2. But, right, they also changed everything for me. And here I am. I wonder if anything has changed so much after that. Or if it ever will. I have a feeling it won't, but then, I know nothing.

See if this makes you feel anything:

You're dangerous cuz you're honest
You're dangerous cuz you don't know what you want
Well you left my heart empty as a vacant lot
for any spirit to haunt
hey hey sha la la la, hey hey
You're an accident waiting to happen
You're a piece of glass left there on the beach
Well you tell me things I know you're not supposed to
Then you leave me just out of reach
hey hey sha la la la, hey hey cha la la
Who's gonna ride your wild horses
Who's gonna drown in your blue sea
Who's gonna ride your wild horses
Who's gonna fall at the foot of thee
Well you stole it cuz I needed the cash
And you killed it cuz I wanted revenge
Well you lied to me cuz I asked you to
Baby... can we still be friends?

I think I'll let these soundtracks play, and remind me only of the great feeling of "in love" for the very first time. I'm thankful for a)having been there and b)never having to be there again. Love is blindness, I don't want to see, won't you wrap the night around me... a little death without mourning, no call and no warning, baby a dangerous idea that almost makes sense.

I wonder what other music overwhelms a moment of life so much that it becomes a true soundtrack. I mean, in the sense that when you hear it again (and these are albums, not just songs) you are there again. Like they say on the news: Not for a day, not for a moment, not for an hour... in the whole period of time when you were... what?

the sun was like a spotlight

Like that Seinfeld episode and too many british music videos, I think I'll start backwards, except that at the end of my story, nothing exciting will happen. But I think you might enjoy it anyway.

After visiting the McCord Museum with my dad, Button met me at Aux Deux Maries after my scrumptious lunch of guacamole, tomato and grilled cheese sandwich and we went for a walk around the neighbourhood. I bought the Stars CD I had really bought yesterday at Fox Troc (but they hadn't been able to find the CD so they called me back when they found it). I showed her the calendar I bought Sarah for her birthday (Sarah: "are you going to buy me another book about Jews?" Me: "it wasn't about Jews, it was *by* a Jew. It might also have been about Jews." Reality: it was a Leonard Cohen book about Jewish people in Montreal and it ws her present last year.) The calendar is called the B Word and has those now classic 50s style advertisement women with funny lines next to them like "you call me a bitch like it's a bad thing".

For Sarah's birthday a group of ten of us met at Le Petit Italien on Bernard. I had the most wonderful mushroom risotto. They even made it with vegetable broth especially for me. Sweet. Unfortunately, they were unable to prepare an actual Lemon Drop martini so I drank very sour vodka for an appetizer. Meh.

After dinner we headed to Laurier, to Baldwin Barmacie (I guess Barmacy in English). The dating pool, in my analysis, was: younger than me; had money; good-looking; too mainstream to be cool. This whole "everyone is younger than me" thing is really getting on my nerves.

Friday night was supposed to be TV on the Radio but the show was sold out and no way was I going to pay $50 to a scalper for a ticket. I dropped Willow and Mai at the door with their friend Benoit and walked home. Bought some Spring flower bulbs on the way, which I planted just now. They'd better work!

Willow's friend Mai had been to possibly my favourite place on planet Earth: San Pedro de Atacama. Hilariously, she was there during a rain storm. I should explain that the Atacama is the driest desert on Earth. It NEVER rains. It so NEVER rains that people don't build roofs on their houses. She said the adobe walls of her hotel were melting in the downpour. Cracked me up. Willow made us food and told me I was a patron of the arts.

And then I'm walking home with Brian from the Brazilian Girls show at La Tulipe, where we stood mesmerized by Sabrina's shiny seethrough costume. It's whipping cold and dark and time to go to bed, but the memory of Sabrina keeps us cozy and happy.

*I tried to upload a great picture of Brazilian Girls from Osheaga but life is unfair.

The Pick-Up Artist

What goes on in the mind of the cab driver pick-up artist? I’m sure most girls have experienced an attempted pick-up by a taxi driver. I mean, it’s happened to me on 2 continents, many times. I wonder: does it ever work for them? Do girls date the men who drive them home?

Ok, I don’t want to go all Carrie Bradshaw. Enough with the pondering.

Last night I got my dose of taxi ego boost from … I can’t remember his name but he asked me mine twice.

- Isabel! Que bella, bella! J’adore les femmes québécoises! Vous êtes belle!

He was Italian. When I told him the address of where I was going, he asked me how I wanted to get there. If I knew, I’d be happy with the question, but since I didn’t, it was a bit annoying to get the feeling he didn’t know where he was going. Without me saying anything, he told me, (in French), “I always use a client’s route. I don’t use my own, I don’t think, je n’utilise pas mon cerveau”. I think he meant it as a form of service. You’re the boss. I asked how that worked with tourists. “I don’t pick up tourists.”

- Comment savez vous qu’ils sont des touristes?
- Because most the time they speak only English and I don’t speak English. I only speak French and my mother tongue. I’m Italian [blahblahblah, story of his life in a nutshell].

He went on to tell me (loudly and while gesticulating as wildly as you’d expect a bone fide Italian to) that he hopes Quebec stays French forever, and that English is a lousy language. It’s difficult for him to learn it, because it’s not Latin-based, but maybe if he’d moved to Toronto he’d have learned English, but since he didn’t, he learned French and he loves it and he loves Quebec, and vous êtes bella!!!

I got the usual cab pick-up speech about his qualifications as a future life partner, as Sarah would say. He’s 33, he’s single, he’s had bad luck in love, he dated two girls, one was a Quebecer, the other was an Italian; it didn’t work out. He’s bilingual (got that), caring and expressive. He’s a good catch, he fell short of adding. Was I single? No, I lied.

I hate telling drivers my relationship status. They seem to take it as permission to say whatever they want about my life, my future, and how they’d fit into it nicely. Bleh. The last time this happened to me, I was being driven home from the airport. How much information did that guy think I was going to provide to a stranger who now knows where I live and assorted other information given during the ride (what I do for a living, where I was traveling, and a few opinions if I’m feeling extroverted).

Mr. French-loving-Italian dropped me off in front of Willow’s, asked me my name a second time, repeated how bella!! I was and kissed my hand for a long second. Good luck and good night.

Mademoiselle Molina

El miércoles fui a ver un recital de Juana Molina. Es la segunda vez que la veo en vivo. La primera fue en Ottawa, durante un festival supuestamente de blues, pero en realidad surtido de mucho pop. Y ahí estaba la mademoiselle Molina, y yo la cachaba sólo porque Luis me mandó el mp3 de una canción llamada Isabel. Convencí fácilmente a mi amiga Jen y ese recital, sentadas en el pasto, en verano, fue tan bueno que Jen se compró el disco Tres Cosas. Después me lo copió y me lo regaló para mi cumpleaños.

Bueno, este miércoles recién pasado Juana volvió a Montreal y la vimos en la Sala Rossa, que es un centro cultural español pero naaaaada que ver con el de Providencia. Mucho más humilde. Quizás más sincero, y no sé si más o menos español porque no conozco España ni los españoles.

Juana, con el pelo cortado en línea recta hasta los hombros, habló en francés casi todo el rato. Muy bueno su acento. Mucho más refinado que el típico acento quebecois. Incluso cantó una en francés. El resto, como saben, en español, y el público totalmente motivado. Tanto así que cuando ella lo pidió, todos nos levantamos y corrimos las sillas sobre las que estábamos sentados y quedamos de pie, para disfrutar mejor. Todo porque ella, ceño fruncido y todo, tiene mucho encanto.

***
Anoche fui a ver Brazilian Girls al teatro La Tulipe. Alguien me contó que habían tocado en Chile. Que quizás la cantante, Sabrina, es chilena. Lo dudo. No conozco muchas chilenas con un cuerpo así: alta, esbelta... No. Bueno, después les cuento más sobre ese recital.

just so you know, it still happens, and it happens here

UN report reveals 'shocking' levels of violence against children (from cbc.ca)

Violence at home, school and care facilities is a part of daily life for hundreds of millions of children around the world, a United Nations report released Thursday suggests.

"We knew children were victims of violence, but even so it was very surprising and shocking that it was so widespread," said Mehr Khan Williams, the UN Deputy High Commissioner for Human Rights.

"It cuts across cultures, income levels, education levels. No country is immune from it."

The four-year study that encompassed 130 countries was completed by Paulo Pinheiro, an independent expert appointed by UN Secretary General Kofi Annan.

It concludes the majority of violent acts experienced by children take place in areas where they should feel most safe, such as at home and school, or in state care.

While the report notes violence in the home usually doesn't leave serious or permanent physical injuries, it is most often accompanied by psychological violence, including threats, belittling, isolation and rejection."Violence against children in the family may frequently take place in the context of discipline and takes the form of physical, cruel or humiliating punishment," said the report.

"Harsh treatment and punishment in the family are common in both industrialized and developing countries."

Corporal punishment common

Mali Nilsson, Save the Children's global advisor on child protection, said corporal punishment is one of the most common forms of violence against children.

"In most regions, it is looked upon as justifiable and socially accepted," she said.

Millions of children are exposed to sexual violence each year, says the report.

"As many as 150 million girls and 73 million boys worldwide are subject to sexual violence each year, usually by someone in their family circle," said the report.

A 2002 Canadian study showed children made up 23 per cent of the population, but accounted for 61 per cent of sexual assault victims.

Hundreds of millions of children witness domestic violence each year, according to the report. Estimates range as high as 275 million, including as many as 362,000 in Canada.

Most are exposed to fights between parents or a mother and her partner, it says.

Khan Williams said violence in the home is "a private space that's hard to throw light on."

Clever Title With the Word Pop In It

Impossible to ignore. Last night, walking from FilmPop at the Portuguese Association on St. Urbain to see if we could still get into Holy Fuck and Besnard Lakes (no), you could really see what Pop Montreal is all about. St. Laurent was covered in youth, roaming the venues, hanging around outside the sold out shows, riding from one place to another with just enough time to grab a samosa on the way.

I saw the most hilarious movie about a Posthumous Pickle Party at FilmPop. Some very enthusiastic guys decided to make a movie about eating pickles from the last vat left over by Simcha, deceased owner of Simcha's Fruit & Vegetable Market on St. Laurent and ... I'm drawing a blank, is it Napoleon? Anyway, they go in there, talk to people who knew Simcha (turns out he was "so old school, he hated you"), get a food critic, and have funny rants about the whole thing. My favourite part is when they ask his wife (in a clip from a 1997 movie) how long they've been married... you just have got to see her non-answer. Oh, and some people in far off countries will recall a non-stop-talking American student who was living here last year, Adam. He shows up in the movie! The ironic thing is he doesn't talk at all in it, haha. Ah...

That movie was well worth my $6 and a one-hour wait for the whole thing to start properly. The director did a very commendable job of keeping us entertained with a random Q&A session (sample question "why doesn't he love me?") and a bag of cookies passed around. Mr. Pacino/Serpico, aka Nick from Korova was there, and I was going to ask him WTF is the matter with Kojak (aka Jose, the hideous owner I described earlier) but I left and forgot about it.

In Pop Gossip: An unnamed samosa eater told me about an email the foulmouthed-circus-ringmaster front man for Friendly Rich and the Lollipop People sent Dan Seligman, the guy who basically runs this festival. It was about how horrible a venue BarFly is (the sound was preposterously bad on Friday), respecting artists and whatnot. My source said he'd forward it to me - Can't wait!

Without a show to go to, Ian and I waddled back to Brian's for Goldshlager and graphic images of hockey players and their jugular vein. And BUT OF COURSE we ended up at a nicely vacated Korova (only for kids like us who couldn't get into see any bands elsewhere). My newest tactic: buy nothing! And drink all their free water! The music was a lot "whiter" than usual but what the hey, Laura, Ian, Courtney the Girl, Brian and I danced it up anyway. I can't remember if Brian took off his shirt this time.

I'm missing the movie Mutual Appreciation right now because I cannot leave my apartment in my combo pyjamas/what-I-wore-last-night. It's a beautiful day but Pop Montreal requires more energy than I've got. I don't think I'll make it to Reg-ee-na Reg-eye-na Spektor tonight. Gotta rest up for Thanksgiving celebrations with diverse foster families tonight and tomorrow. The laundry stays undone...

your ex-lover is dead * stars

God that was strange to see you again
Introduced by a friend of a friend
Smiled and said 'yes I think we've met before'
In that instant it started to pour,
Captured a taxi despite all the rain
We drove in silence across pont champlain
And all of the time you thought I was sad
I was trying to remember your name...

This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin
Tried to reach deep but you couldn't get in
Now you're outside me
You see all the beauty
Repent all your sin

It's nothing but time and a face that you lose
I chose to feel it and you couldn't choose
I'll write you a postcard
I'll send you the news
From a house down the road from real love...

Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...

There's one thing I want to say, so I'll be brave
You were what I wanted
I gave what I gave
I'm not sorry I met you
I'm not sorry it's over
I'm not sorry there's nothing to say

I'm not sorry there's nothing to say...

Julie's Birthday Shabam

Ms. Julie D. turned 30 a little while ago. Here are a couple of pictures from the second part of the event: 80s Night at La Tulipe! The first part was dinner at Les Saveurs on Laurier, and all I have to say about that is that it took the staff an hour to get our bills ready. That's what happened when you offer poor service: a perfectly good meal gets foul reviews.

Domesticated

I certainly didn't get it from my mother. Her intellectual and spiritual interests are very far from the mundane reality of keeping house. But ever since I was a little girl, I found some sort of comfort in domestic activity. I liked to do the family laundry, sorting clothes by colour AND fabric, figuring out which water temperature would work best. I liked learning how to iron; what part of the shirt gets pressed first so that the end result is as creaseless as possible. I loved to cook, spaghetti and experimental chocolate cakes. If I had been born in another time, I would have been the perfect domestic goddess.

Even though my mother -and principal female role model- was a strong force pushing for economic and intellectual independence, I really don't think my own contrary interests were meant as a backlash. It was just the way you'd rather your room be pink instead of white. Just a matter of preference.

I realize there's a lot of stigma attached to domestic affairs. You're not *supposed* to like it, it's *supposed* to be enslaving. Well, I watched one woman feel authentically enslaved by it, and for some reason it didn't affect me like that. Like I said, there seemed to be some comfort in it. There still is.

I read somewhere that when people start discreetly dusting crumbs from the table, it's a sign that they aren't too happy with the conversation and want to lead it elsewhere. I believe that my affair with the domestic is related to this somehow. Just like Campbell Scott's character in the movie Singles, when he's broken up and trying to pretend he's ok, he says "work is the only thing I have completely control over". Nevermind that the walls of his cubicle come crashing down 2 seconds later. It's the thought that counts.

Some people go to the gym; I go to the supermarket. Forget the results. As long as I can carry a load of laundry, clutch a J-cloth, or stand in front of the oven long enough to cook a risotto, I have some sort of authority over my own life, I can *make* things ok. And I make a fine risotto too.