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!