Coat check

I started yesterday by meeting with the anglophones again, but in a different office than last time. Finding this new office afforded me the opportunity to discover the Montreal "underground" I've heard so much about. It's many, many miles of underground shops and restaurants, but the lighting and general design are such that you have the impression that you're actually outdoors. Wonderful concept for the winter, I suppose.

Anywho, ironically -- the receptionist at the anglophone office is francophone. And my French is still not perfect. I tell the receptionist I'm there to see Marie-Claude. She says something and points to a door. I didn't quite get what she said, so I assume Marie-Claude is behind that door. Naturally, I walk over to it and open it. It's a coat closet. Marie-Claude is not in there. I can feel the receptionist's eyes on my back. There's no recovering, other than to try another door that is slightly farther away. (Maybe she has bad aim when she points?) This door is locked. Someone hears me tug at the door and comes to open it, so I ask for Marie-Claude, and of course...no Marie-Claude there. I turn around and smile at the receptionist. Her look is classic. Language barrier notwithstanding, her expression says, "You are an idiot." The actual meeting with Marie-Claude went marginally well.

After all this, I had to sprint across town in my brand-new, not-broken-in, high-heeled shoes (ouch) to the location where we were to host the annual VIP event last night. The afternoon consisted of carrying long tables from one room to another, setting them up, and doing lots of heavy lifting--which I was able to do with ease, thanks to my early formation in the watermelon department.

Blisters aside, the night evolved beautifully. Hundreds of people attended and the night was a complete success. In some sort of cosmic joke-reference to my coat room experience in the morning, my job at the VIP event was to work the coat check. Fortunately, in the latter coat room, I enjoyed the company of a fellow anglophone named Skylar Graham. I decided she has the coolest girl name of anyone I know (although part of me wonders if her name comes in chocolate or honey flavors). She's a starving composer. You can hear her music at http://www.myspace.com/simiangarden. Much to my dismay, my camera batteries had juice for only ONE picture last night. Here it is, of Skylar. Why, oh why, did my camera have to die?

There are many advantages to being coat check girls. For instance, you get to meet everyone at the party, and people bring you free food and beverages since you can't escape to get your own (I looked behind me at one point and realized I had two full plates of food and cookies, along with eight full glasses of champagne waiting...just no time to eat or drink any of it). Still, it's the thought that counts...and after the big event, I had the opportunity to chat with--and say goodbye to--many of my dearest friends here. My French-speaking friend Emilie left me with this statement in English: "I think you do not have an American brain." I took it as a huge compliment, knowing her intent was that I am, perhaps, a little bit French. At least in spirit.

While it's tempting to get thoroughly bummed about my departure tomorrow morning, the French have a good word. It's "salut." They use it for both "hi" and "bye." It gives me peace to know that goodbye is never really goodbye here. And I know I'll be back.

Random note: I should be getting a copy of the "hair in the wind" video very soon. If/when I do, I'll post it on my blog. Thanks for reading this, and thanks for all your emails along my journey. It's been great having you here with me.

Choco-hopping, Leprechauns, and Disco Balls

Pictures are worth a thousand words. Because I'm wiped out after an excessively fun weekend with my cousin, here are 60-some pictures that visually describe our activities. If my math's right, that spares you from having to read about 60,000 words.

Roche Papier Ciseaux

Had a huge, multi-hour power outage at work yesterday, the day of our big movie screening and the last business day before the annual VIP soirée we're hosting Monday. Without technology to support our last-minute crunch before these critically important events, Francois, Pascale, Jean-Francois, Olivier, Jules, Kim, Patrick, and I reverted to the only thing people did before computers and electricity: we played rock-paper-scissors (locally known as roche-paper-ciseaux) in the dark. I kept beating Francois (just like when we played fooseball), and he kept firing me from my job. We are responsible working adults.

Unfortunately, the power came back on, and the madness that ensued was not particularly enjoyable.

Kristi, my cousin, arrived around 5. After she helped me with some work stuff, we ate crepes at Juliette et Chocolat (but had to leave before the chocolat due to time constraints -- terrible. Just terrible). We went to the Lion d'Or for the film screening, where I had the happy-happy-happy pleasure of introducing her to nearly all of the people who have meant the most to me in the past months. Afterwards, my friends Nicholas and Mathieu invited us out for poutine at LaFleur. Good, good, good times.

Go out to breakfast. Buy a tomato.

I created a to-do list a couple of weeks ago. These were the only two items on it. I stumbled across it yesterday and was highly amused by this level of responsibility I'd granted myself. Wonder if I got the tomato...might have dropped the ball on that one. It was likely too much to ask for a single day, don't you agree?

Before I forget, I apologize to my friends in Dallas for the blech/vomit comments. As you know, my blech/vomit references only a couple of specific things completely unrelated to you. I heart you.

Fun day today. Francois, Kim, Ariane, (some other guy), and I had lunch together in Chinatown to discuss the communications strategy for the future of Kino. I love being around these creative types. Business meetings are so different. Strategy is so different. Motivation is so different.

My cousin Kristi from DC is coming to visit me tomorrow and staying until Sunday. She requested that I show her "everything I've liked best so far" here in Montreal. This being the case, I'll have to suggest that she extend her stay by about two months.

Three Naders and a Plate of Poutine

When Pascale asked me to go out last night, she failed to mention that she was bringing her friend Antoine. [I keep deleting what I've written about Antoine. Suffice it to say that Antoine is French for...oh forget it. I'll just kidnap him and show you in person.] The three of us had a fabulous time at the Burgundy Lion, Hurley's Irish Pub, a hole-in-the-wall pizza place, and Champs Sportsbar (not like the Champs in the US -- this one's dedicated to hockey). Although we didn't know this before showing up, the Burgundy Lion was hosting the Montreal chapter of Democrats Living Abroad. As you can imagine, the election was as animated and rowdy as any sporting event I've ever seen.

In totally random other news, I just found out that my Granddad is having major surgery on Tuesday in Atlanta, which happens to be my last full day in Montreal. His odds of making it through the surgery aren't terribly good, but the doctors say it's a necessary risk. He's the strongest and most optimistic guy I know, though, and he's joking about how he'll still manage to chase nurses after they remove most of his leg. (But only the cute nurses--not just any nurse.) Coincidentally--although I don't really believe in coincidences--my dad is in town visiting him from California this week. I'm really glad they're able to spend time together. Every couple of days, my dad has been driving up to my Granddad's house in Nashville to retrieve some of his belongings. Check out this list of what he's found so far. Exactly as he wrote it in an email to me (you'll see he sorta makes up words sometimes):

Grandaddy Mottram's old typewriter [he owned an advertising agency in Milwaukee], a book with an inscription from Louisa May Alcott, dated 1902, great old pictures of about three or four generations of family, and some kinda romantic letters written to Grandma Kiddy from somebody not named Granddad. Which we haven't mentioned to him. They were locked up in the basement, and Carolyn [my dad's girlfriend] hadda break the lock to see what was inside. If we read them it could be Bridges of Madison County II, so they're in a box right now. Might just stay there. I also found all the old toy cars from about 1950 or before. Unfortunately, all of [my uncle, dad's brother] Paul's were broken. Mine were all not broken. Had nothing to do with my finding the box...An esselint rabit I musta made at about 5. Also a letter that I had written in school. It said something about, "I like my dad. I wonder if he likes me? It would be nice if he liked me because I like him..." Geech, nothing innersting there!

Dad wants me to squeeze in a trip to Atlanta next week, in addition to my planned travels to Chicago, Milwaukee, and back to (blech) Dallas, but this could be quite a challenge. Forgive me -- did I say "(blech) Dallas"? I meant "Dallas. Vomit." Much better.

Stump the American! It's everybody's favorite game.

Things I should know off the top of my head, but don't, as proven in today's discussions with my Canadian friends:

Q: How does the electoral college work, besides relating to each state's population?
(My) A: It has to do with the population of each state (mumble in English); it's hard to explain in French.

Q: Who's running for Senator in Texas?
(My) A: I don't remember.

Q: What does GOP stand for?
(My) A: It's a presidential acronym.

Q: I heard most people in the US don't vote for Senator -- why?
(My) A: Because we're lazy. It's hard to remember who stands for what. You saw my ballot--there are lots of people on it.

I'm sure you knew all the answers to these questions, but my right to vote should probably be revoked. I'm a little embarrassed of my lack of political knowledge.

Even so, Pascale (female friend, different from male friend Paskal, who was sent off to shoot a movie on a tropical island)--anyway, Pascale has invited me out tonight to a Presidential DrinkAThon. The theory is that you have a beer every time "your" candidate wins a state. I've proven today that I don't know much about politics, but I do know how many states there are. (Too bad no one asked.) A DrinkAThon is a terrible idea. No further questions.
***
Update: Pascale has convinced me to go out. It's not every day someone uses this old trick on me: "But Sarah, you have to come out. It'll be a historic night in Montreal -- bigger than when we won the Stanley Cup." That Stanley Cup gets me every time. HOWEVER, to keep tonight safe, I may just tell people I voted for Nader. Go, Nader!

Muscles from Brussels

This is what Jules called Francois after Francois was the only one able to fix the lever on Jules' broken bike.

I received my absentee ballot a few days ago. Today, I let Kim, a Canadian, vote for our candidate of choice. I hosted a brief ceremony during which I deemed her a temporary member of the United States for voting purposes, then she proudly filled in the circle on my ballot. (FYI, absentee ballots don't need to arrive for awhile; mine just has to be postmarked by tomorrow.) I started a brief campaign called "You, too, can be an American Citizen." It was a hit.

All play! You title this one. I don't know WHAT to call it.

With Canadian money burning a hole in my pocket, I ventured back out into society today. I began with breakfast at "L'Orange Pressé." It's a charming little restaurant on Avenue Mont-Royal, about a mile from where I live. Embracing my Canadian experience, I thought it would be fitting to order bacon and crepes with maple syrup. They were substantially better than any I've ever had in the U.S. Long live stereotypes!

With this lovely dining experience at this quaint restaurant in mind, I can't possibly express how bizarre the next event was. After paying, I asked where the restrooms were and was directed upstairs past cute little French-looking teapots. However, upon arriving upstairs, I was met by the gazes of about 10 Native American people, all of whom looked to be at least 150 years old, sitting at slot machines. Huh? It was as if I'd entered the Twilight Zone. They all stopped playing at the exact same time and turned around in their swivel chairs to look at me. Time froze. I froze. Never in a million years did I expect slot machines to be up there, making all their slot-machiney sounds. All eyes remained focused on me as I crossed the room. It was so truly surreal in the upstairs of this quaint French restaurant.

After that, I took a grand walking tour. In keeping with yesterday's "10" theme, I just checked Mapquest, and I walked well over 10 bliss-filled miles today. Although I didn't plan this (especially since temps are in the 30s), I ended up exploring Mile End, Little Italy, Little Portugal, and several other Littles. I walked past my mountain three times. I love walking. I took only a few pictures, but you can see them here, if you'd like.

My only BAD decision of the day was to get a haircut. I haven't gotten one since July, so I figured it was about time. The place was expensive and the guy scheduled to cut my hair was attractive, so I figured it was a good recipe for a nice cut. I told him I'm growing it out to donate it again, so I just wanted him to clean up the layers a little and leave the length about the same. He responded, "Okay, just a refresh." I agreed. Simple, right? Wrong. He proceeded to randomly grab a large chunk of my hair and CHOP. I yelped, "STOP!" Too late. I reminded him I'm growing it out and advised him that that is too short. He shrugged it off and said, "No it's not." WHAT?! Was he serious? What was I to do? It's not like I could leap out of the chair with my hair all wet and half chopped off, without knowing where I could go to get it fixed late on a Sunday afternoon in a foreign city. By the same token, while I was vehemently objecting to his lunacy, I realized it would be in my best interest not to anger the man with the scissors. He continued to justify his craziness as his cutting tool went to town on my head, with me imploring him to "keep it like it was, s'il vous plait...s'il vous plait." When he was done hacking and drying, he brushed my hair forward over my eyes, grabbed hairspray (which I haven't used since I was 18) and sprayed so much I had a coughing fit. I couldn't even see with the concrete hair helmet in front of my eyes, which in its own way, was a blessing at the time. The final result? I have the harshest looking layers I've ever had, a cut that's not even remotely like what I requested, and a hairdresser who's undoubtedly wondering where his tip is. I sprinted out of there. Unless there's a follicular miracle tonight while I sleep, I may end up forgoing my planned hair donation and getting the rest chopped to chin-length tomorrow to even it out. It's the last thing I want to do, but it may be my only option. Short hair might be better than stupid hair. (Wish you were here to provide a much needed second opinion.) I realize this is a very small issue in life--it's only hair--but (sob, whimper), simonac.

10

Imagine my horror today when I counted the remaining cash in my wallet and found only 10$. While some places accept my Visa card, many do not--and Visa certainly doesn't get me on the metro.

After making this shockingly unpleasant discovery, I decided it would be a good day to stay home. And read. And write. And do laundry. And play romantic music while rubbing my two 5$ bills together to see if they'd produce more money. (No luck.)

I have only 10 pages left of my book, yet I'm putting off reading the end. My pace is about a paragraph a day, bookmarked by excuses of having to re-read sections I've enjoyed. I accept it as an all-too-obvious metaphor of my not wanting my Montreal story to end.

Tonight, as I commenced the sad planning of my scheduled departure in 10 days, I discovered something wonderful in my suitcase: an envelope full of Canadian cash. I'd forgotten I'd separated it from the rest shortly after my arrival two months ago.

If only I could buy another book.

Does this fir make me look fat?

Sunday is Francois' birthday, so Patrick, Jules, and I took him out to lunch today. After lunch, we enjoyed sangria and chocolate cake. Can't wait to suggest that for a business lunch at AT&...nevermind.

Though very tempted to stay in tonight, I realized I may not spend that many more Halloweens in Montreal. I'm determined to make the most of my time here. So, I got all lit up like a Christmas tree (in a manner of speaking--see photo) and joined a group for a ghost tour of old Montreal. It had the potential to be cheesy, but in fact, it was amazing. They hired literally hundreds of horrifying-looking zombies to roam the streets and taunt us during our tour. That was impressive. Our group was given a map with the assignment to find four specific ghosts and hear their stories. Given the ambiance--cobblestone streets, old stone buildings, dark alleys, and true stories of grizzly deaths that happened exactly where we were--some parts of it were actually pretty creepy. Especially with zombies lurking all around.

Afterwards, as we were walking along one of the streets, we found a Christmas store. I felt right at home.

Five of us wrapped up the evening with a quick drink at a lovely bar, and now I'm home, where I'll be vacuuming fake pine needles off the floors, walls, and furniture for the next week. They're everywhere. Everywhere.