overheard

"Hey man, so did you hot-box your car before class today again?"

"Nah man, I'm taking the week off."

"Oh that's good. De-toxing?"

"Well it's funny that you'd say that because, as I was leaving the house today I remembered I had a vial of K left over from the weekend. Then I thought to myself, 'hmmm, I"ve never been to class on K before' so I gave it a try."

"What the--? You mean you're high on K right now?"

"Well yeeeah. It's not really a big deal or anything."

"You know it's cat tranquilzer, right? It's an incredibly strong drug!"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's meant to disassociate you from you body."

"Well, class should be interesting then."

"Man, you're insane; here I was thinking I was living on the edge by bringing banana bread today!"

glorious youth & grumpy old men

The sight of carmelized maple syrup poured over snow instantly reminds me of February at Mill Pond: grabbing handfulls of the sticky, amber-coloured treat out of the snow and skating away gleefully. The taste today, at the Festival Montreal en Lumiere was exactly the same as maple candy of days past. All I was missing today, were the skates...and the fluorescent purple, pink and green snowsuit. Ah, those were the days.

Today didn't start off as well as I would have liked. The morning was bright, and I had big plans to make lasagne for Oscar night. I run to the store, to grab all the last minute ingredients, and realize I've forgotten to put my wallet back in my purse. Since our apartment keys are actually electronic cards, mine is in my forgotten wallet and I am stuck outside without a key. Brian can't get the door to unlock via buzz-engage, so I stand in the foyer, watching a man glare at me scornfully from inside the lobby. I wave to him, smile, and motion to ask if he could walk on the mat to engage the automatic door. He does so, but before I can open my mouth to thank him he snaps,

"Do you live here?"
"Yes I do, I just forgot my key in my wallet upstairs and--"
"You know that door is there for security, right? To keep people out."
"Well yes, and I appreciate that, because I live here. Listen, thanks for letting me in."
"Hah. Well, just so you know, I'm not your doorman!"
"Pardon me?"
"I shouldn't have let you in. If you live here, you should have your key. I'm not the doorman, you know!"
"Sir, no offense, but this is the first time I have ever forgotten my key, and I simply asked you a small favour."
"Hah. Whatever. I'm just saying it's not up to me to let you in."
"Yes and you've made that very clear."
"You might not even live here, and you shouldn't burden other people to open the door."
"Well, I'm sorry to have troubled you so greatly."
I walk over to the elevator and push the button.
"It's not an issue of a favour, it's an issue of security!"
"Are you kidding? I'm going to get my wallet so I can buy groceries!"
I'm still waiting for the elevator. It's moving slowly since only one is in service. This man refuses to drop it.
"Hah, you'll be there for a while. Only one elevator works."
"Yeah,I know. As I mentioned, I live here."
Ding. Finally the elevator arrives.

I get my wallet and my keys, and go back down. He's still sitting in the lobby, glaring at me once again. After I return with my groceries, it's the same special treatment. Both times I wave my key pointedly at him. The second time I shake my grocery bags. Immature? Maybe. The jerk left me no choice! Talk about security-obsessed times. Yes, there is evidence of this at the national level, but waves of security-related anxiety reveal themselves at the micro level as well. Was it the dark circles of sleep deprivation under my eyes that made me seem "threatening" to this man, or did I seem just too average to be trustworthy? After all, enemies and spies can be anywhere, n'est pas? Mini McCarthyism lives in shifty-eyed mizers like my friend in the lobby.

What happened to jolly old men, anyway? Not too long ago my friend Lindsay and I were eating sundaes at McDonalds and an old man threw a quarter at Lindsay and yelled,
"Why don't ya get yourself some new pants?!"
When she slid the quarter back down the counter to him, saying "No thanks," he threw it back at her, bellowing that he meant it, and that she better get some new jeans.
What happened to manners? Is age a priviledge to be disdainful to the young?

Maybe all the kindly old people are too busy lawn bowling or knitting to make it their mission to ruin peoples' days. Ever since I could write, I have always written down notes to myself in the future: A list of things grown-ups say and do that, in the eyes of kids, suck. I wrote/write them down in case I forget, as so many people seem to do as they age, how to connect with those younger than us.

For example:
1) Asking a niece/nephew, friend of the family's child, kid you babysit "So, how's school?" is pretty much the worst/most boring/annoying question to ask a kid. Kids go to school because they have to. They enjoy recess, playtime, the odd art or science project, and their friends. They do not know how to or care to respond when you ask them about "school."

2)Reminiscing about the glory days/hinting at a bleak future. Every single time an older adult has told me "Better enjoy this. These are the best years of your life." This phrase is depressing, vague, and almost always a sequeway into tales of their own youth. Also, a pre-teen who is at the height of her awkward stage does not want to hear that her hormone-dominated existence is the best life will offer her. This would not be fun.

3)Treating anyone younger than you as though they were of a different species. Kids, teens, and young adults all respond to being treated with respect. If you speak to them as though they are less intelligent than you, even if they are 4 years old, they will think you are a douche. If you respect them, they will love ya!

And on that note, off to bed for beauty sleep! Some photos from the festival:

what the world needs

Please note: I have no idea why the images are all over the place.
It's a lovely month for love!












Me, and a rare smile from my roommate on Valentine's day last week.
My camera is back! New photos on the way.

celebrate what stays

My grandma has lived on the same block for 81 and a half years. My dad's side of the family is old Burlington stock. So much so that three generations of my family have attended the same high school. Before that, my ancestors arrived in Canada with their fellow Irish emigrees and settled into the gritty, steel-working boroughs of Hamilton. My paternal lineage built new lives for themselves, and worked with their hearts and hands in order to seek security for their families. Enjoying the life they had found, and being tied to the jobs that provided sustenance, they planted their feet in the golden horseshoe and let their roots sink in. I love the sense of history and belonging that I associate with my grandparents' house. Even though it's over a hundred years old, and arguably impractical for my grandma to keep up, I do understand her when she explains,

"I know I should sell the house and move somewhere smaller, but my whole life I've believed that if you have something of value that's solid, that you can hold and feel, it's foolish to let it slip away."

But times change, and people grow old. Houses grow old too. Neighbourhoods age and demographics change. Young people leave for the city seeking employment and excitement, while the middle-aged return home to the suburbs for comfort and quiet. At least, that's been my experience.

But tonight I'm writing after spending the day touring Philadelphia, and the evening with a born-and-bred South-Philly family. Like my grandma, this family has lived on the same block for decades. The parents own a corner deli 4 doors down from their rowhouse, and play host to a selection of elderly immigrants, benign crackheads and booze-happy kids. They are red-cheeked and jovial as they talk about everyday hilarity, and point out who lives in each place as we pass.

"Oh yeah, no one ever leaves South Philly. Even if they go away for a while, you know they'll be back real soon."

I imagine it would be nice to have a place with history, a place that is so consistent that you have trouble straying from the lived-in, narrow streets.

I love living in the city. I love wondering who everyone is as they pass, and making up stories about strangers in my head when I sit in coffeeshops. Half of me dreams of life in a village, or a tight-knit urban 'hood. I'm looking for a Cheers-esque environment of some kind, I guess. Maybe the timing is off, though?

It made me so happy to see my friend get married last week. She's always been one of the most independent, decisive people I know, and once she met her new husband, she didn't blink before deciding she was completely set on him. Yes, the permanancy of marriage is clearly scary, but for her it seems exactly right.

I myself am a drifter, but I admire people and places with staying power. When so much is shifting, breaking, drifting, I like to look at those thing that seem to last.

winter wedding

The week is almost over and it is time to get fancy. Elke's wedding is this Saturday. I called her last night to see how things were shaping up, and she was entirely calm.

"Actually, everything has been falling into place really nicely."

Good to know someone is calm. Not only is this the first wedding I have been to, besides my aunt and uncle's wedding. At the time I was their 3-year-old flower girl and I apparently stopped in the middle of the aisle and ran over to try to sit with my mom and dad when I saw them. I remember standing there the whole ceremony, fiddling with my dress, being really thirsty, and wondering why my aunt Lena and uncle Gary were talking about parting at Death.

Things have changed, and hopefully I won't mess anything up at this one. Elke is my first friend to get married! She has asked me to sing "Ave Maria" right after the ceremony. I am excited to do it, but I know I will be comparing myself to the choir boy in Baz Luhrmann's Romeo and Juliet the whole time. I mean, no one can compete with that kid. But seriously, I'm honoured to have the change. It's just that I think I'm more nervous than the bride herself.

"french exoticism"

Not only was Opera de Montreal's production of Lakme not sleep-inducing, it was breathtaking. Canadian coloratura soprano Aline Kutan was the best singer I have ever had the fortune to hear in person. What a voice! I could only dream of ever having that much control of my pipes. She was graceful and powerful, completely dominating the stage; all eyes followed her wherever she moved. I don't mean to play down the prowess of the rest of the cast, but I have never seen one performer have such...magnetism.

The set design and costumes were jewel-toned and elegant. Saris swirled in the stage fog, and bustling market scenes gleamed with dangling jewels and bouncing cages filled with faux tropical birds.

Highly, highly, highly recommended.

This morning I tried out an Ashtanga yoga class, which was no easy feat. I mean sure, the incense and the peaceful music make it seem like it's going to go smoothly. and sure, the world-class, lulu-clad instructor with his nimbleness made it look easy as hell, but it was challenging!

Today is superbowl Sunday. I called my family to see who my brothers were rooting for (so I would know who to cheer for--go Colts!). Now Brian and I will continue a winning streak of procrastination while we eat pizza, watch the game, assemble our new Ikea aquisitions, and put of thinking about thesis proposals a little bit longer.

quiet corners over epic quests

Last night at the Buddhi Lounge. A low-lit, orange-hued virtual basement apartment. A sectioned off room insulated with baloons of various sizes. Biere blanche in intricate, German steins and pyramides du chocolat resting on a terrain of blue rock sugar. In the holographic gold bathroom, Dumbo was playing on a flickering screen, while paintbrushes waited in water dishes for impromtu decorating. A dj played serenely in an alcove, while a group of girls chatted over apple-flavoured sheesha in the corner.

"Est-ce que c'est votre premier fois ici?" asked the owner.

"Do you like this place? It's a baby still, only 5 months old!"

This place is a hidden gem. We paid our tabs in an apartment kitchen-turned bar. I gaped at all the jars of tea piled up on the shelves. I want to go back for the ethiopian coffee ceremony. I want more of those chocolate pyramids.

A recent re-thinking of social outings after one confusing night of bar-hopping that ended with this statement:

"Dallas, I made a list of places we should go, and this was not one of them. If this keeps up, I"m never going to find an indie-rock boyfriend!"

This is what happens when hipster culture goes too far. Or when you put a group of twentysomethings together who all have varying bar agendas. Trying to form a cohesive group out of a motley crew of individuals is like insisting that Ned Flanders, Paris Hilton, David Suzuki, Courtney Love and Fran Drescher agree on a definition of "fun." C'est impossible! First of all, when did going out start to be more about choosing places that meet specific criteria than looking for decent music and a few laughs. I guess this is how and when various social backgrounds are brought to bare.

Beyond the obvious scope of Montreal nightlife there are nifty little open mic nights, dives with dirty blues bands, and arts and crafts nights (where beer meets beading). The modest places are the hidden gems. When I go out I like to be surprised and thrilled by the night. If I wanted a predictable evening, I would stay inside, away from the howling winds. I like diversity of patrons over prestige of clientele, unusual beverages over high-priced cocktails, and most certainly, spontaneity over a meticulously-executed night.

In other news, I may or may not have been on French CTV last night. When approached by a francophone journaliste and cameraman yesterday, I froze in front of the lens like a deer in headlights, and ignored the internal voice which yelled "you're not good at French." Somehow I still stumbled to answer a rapidly-delivered question which I believe had something to do with politics. It later occured to me that they may have been asking about racial politics in Quebec, while my bumbling rant discussed only Dion and environmental politics. Oh, the shame, the shame.

As for tonight, I have a date with Opera Montreal. And this time I've finally found some people to go with. The last time I went, it was to Opera Hamilton and I was sandwiched between two hacking and wheezing geriatrics! Tonight is Lakme, and I can't wait to hear the famous flower duet.

My camera will be arriving back from Canon any day now, so pictures to come.