aMMusing

I had a friend back in Moncton some 25 years ago who had a wicked sense of humour. Whenever you’d say something a little salacious or off-colour, he would look at you with feigned disgust and declare you “Trash! Pure White Trash!” before turning his head the other way, nose pointing up. His delightfully campy delivery made it amply clear that he was only joking, just like the time he poured himself a cup of coffee from a pot that had been on the hotplate far too long, and he looked up and asked, pretending to be puzzled, “Who made tar?”

I’m reminded of this friend because of how I’ve been feeling recently about my apartment. I LOVE it! It’s huge, and the fact the building was built in 1936 ensures it has huge rooms and tons of character. However, increasingly, part of the place’s character is the janitor and her offsprings — Irish Canadians originally from Montréal’s Pointe-Saint-Charles neighbourhood, which until recent decades was slummy and very white trash, divided by a train track where on one side lived the Irish descendants and the other side the French Canadians.

Don’t you just hate it when a group of people live up to their group’s ethnic stereotype? You know in your heart and mind that you shouldn’t be stereotyping, but then some people come along and you simply can’t avoid it. In this case, as the sterotype goes, every member of this family is loud, combative, intolerant of other ethnicities, and indisputably alcoholic.

Shortly after I got off work yesterday, the fire alarm went off, so I put on my shoes, grabbed my wallet and my ciggies, and vacated my apartment. And sure enough, by the time I reached the main floor, smoke was billowing out of the basement apartment where the janitor’s rough and worn looking 48-year-old daughter lives — clearly smelling as if a pot had been left unattended on the stove and all the liquid had evaporated. This was the second time in as many years that such an incident was happening.

A lovely lady she is — NOT! Back in December, she bilked me by “selling” me for $15 a $25 gift card at a local grocery chain, the proceeds of which sale were supposedly going to some charity for homeless youth. I gave the card to Cleopatrick since I figured he could use it and there’s one of those grocery stores just around the corner from where he lives. But when he tried to use it, it didn’t work because it hadn’t been properly activated. Therefore, we think the goods she was “selling” may have fallen off the back of a truck.

Coincidentally, she moved out of the building in the days following this sale and I would only see her around occasionally. I never confronted her about how she bilked me, chiefly because it was for an insignificant amount and, well, I just don’t do confrontations. Then, one evening last spring as I was heading to the garage in the basement, I saw her and there were two police officers standing outside (what I’ll still refer to as) her apartment. When I came back a few hours later, there was still one cop standing vigil just outside her door. But just like the character of Sergeant Schultz in the 1960s sitcom Hogan’s Heroes, I said to myself, “I know nothing! Nothing! Nothing!” — nor did I want to know.

Afterwards I noticed she was around more often, and about 3 weeks after the cops’ visit, she acosted me in the garage and gave me the whole story: that the man who remained in the apartment was in fact her husband; he was in poor health and died quite suddenly in the apartment, thus why the cops had come that night; he was a hoarder worthy of being featured on Hoarding: Buried Alive and that’s why she had moved out last December — “Because I couldn’t continue to live like that.”

My apartment is located inside the U-shape created by how the building where I live is connected to the building next door. Lately, she and her new boyfriend, who seems to have been plucked directly from the other side of the tracks of Pointe-Saint-Charles of old, have been working on (possibly planning to move into?) an apartment in the building next door. When they do, not only do they put a radio in the window; they direct the speakers towards the outside and set the volume very high, therefore causing the sound to reverberate throughout the neighbourhood and particularly all apartments facing inside the U-shape. At one point she took a break by sunning herself, t-shirt pulled up just below her tits and the legs of her short pulled up just enough to cover her vulva. By that point, I realized I was witnessing the crossing by a country mile of that line that delineates white trash from everyone else.

At any rate, back to yesterday’s fire incident: by the time the firefighters arrived, there was no fire but tons of smoke, so their job consisted of ventilating the place out. We were told we could go back inside in about 10 minutes. At that point, I struck up a conversation with a tenant who owns many dogs and who, until now, has been particularly unfriendly. We were talking as we were walking away from the building, and she certainly gave me a earfull. After living here for about 8 years and loving (as I do) her apartment per se, she is considering moving out after years of being bullied and feeling terrorized by the janitor and her brood. She even has suspicions, but can’t prove, about who may have broken into her place a while back — “very likely an inside job,” the police told her.

As for me, would I also consider moving out? That’s a good question. White trash aside, this place has other cons alongside many more pros. I love this location, including the proximity to a great bagel shop, decent restaurants, and the métro station on two lines, as well as living in a 1930s building with indoor parking in the most multinational neighbourhood in Canada. But lately I’ve been starting to think about looking into those “For Rent” signs on nearby buildings that look better maintained. The thing is that I don’t know if that would stretch my budget too thin, as I’m pretty well at the ceiling of what is reasonable on my single income.

How typically Canadian that two blog posts in a row should be weather-related, but here goes!

After living 20+ years in Halifax, I can safely say that I have never experienced before — or, at least, not since my childhood in Moncton — a real canicule. (I like that we have a specific word in French for “heat wave.”) However, now, after this past week, there’s no mistaking that I’ve popped my canicule cherry.

The definition of a canicule varies according to location. That makes sense, for what passes as normal in Florida or the Caribbeans may not be normal elsewhere. For most of Canada, a canicule is defined as “three or more consecutive days in which the maximum temperature is greater than or equal to 32°C (90F).” I believe the weather service in France also considers the overnight low, which mustn’t go below 20C or 21C (68F-70F). But given that the overnight lows in Montréal during the recent canicule, which officially started July 5 and ended in the early afternoon of July 9, didn’t go below 24C (75F) — it was often still 28C-30C (82F-86F) well into the early morning hours — we surpassed most definitions by a long shot.

Starting the evening of July 5, the temperature in my apartment remained in the 30C-32C (86F-90F) range. Whatever wind there was came from the south southwest and I’m facing the north northeast, so even someone’s fart would have been more breeze than I was getting. Realizing that I had a typically intense work week ahead of me and needed to both sleep at night and work at day, I found myself shopping for an air conditioner before starting work on Tuesday morning. I determined the night before that I wanted a portable device somewhat like the one pictured here, not only because I wanted to move it around easily but also because my office only has a door leading to the balcony rather than a window.

I never thought I’d ever break down and buy one of these things. I always found them too noisy, plus I never lived in a place where the heat and humidity can get so intense for so long. At the height of the heat, my new a/c only managed to bring the temperature down to 27C-28C (81F-83F), but the humidity it would take out is what made such temps feel comparatively cool. Unfortunately, it is too noisy to keep on when I’m on the phone for work unless I use the handset rather than my usual headset, and if the people I’m training happen to be on hands-free at their end, I still have to get them to repeat a few times. I’ve had to explain why — that it wasn’t them but me — and they were all very understanding.

Even now that the canicule has officially broken, we’re in for a really hot stretch.

It’s only 26C (78F) as I’m writing this, which apparently is the average high in Montréal at this time of year, but the humidex makes it feel like 34C (92F) and there’s no wind. And the dew point hasn’t gone below 20C (68F), which apparently is as important to consider as the humidex.

At the risk of sounding like I’m complaining, I hasten to add that I’ll take summer heat over winter cold any time! I’m just amazed, though, at how constant heat saps out one’s energy.

The weather here in Montréal last Monday was at once a frightening and beautiful sight to behold. This image, submitted to cbc.ca by Denis Sobolj (click on the image to go to the story at CBC News), doesn’t look real in some ways, yet it is. The best comment someone left on the CBC site, although possibly animated by anti-French sentiment, went along the lines that this cloud was looking for Kansas, but since all the signs around here are in French, it got lost.

Several funnel clouds were spotted and at least two touched ground on the West Island as F0 tornadoes — the weakest kind. And Tornwordo, who lives east in HoMa, posted another remarkable photo he took Monday afternoon (though it looks like evening). But here in Snowdon (or Uptown, or Upper Westmount, or whatever you want to call it), it wasn’t quite as dramatic in the afternoon, although it certainly rained heavily at one point.

I was working and did have to turn the light on, but clearly it was nothing like what nearby places in the area witnessed. Shortly after suppertime, however, things did take a rather dramatic turn. I was even compelled to step outside to the front of my building for a better look, and the rapidly moving whispy clouds under the solid dark blue black cloud rendered everything as surreal as on the image above. When it started to rain, I thought it best to get the heck back inside …just in case.

The Montréal area is no stranger to such wild weather we normally associate to the American tornado alley, although thankfully not as destructive. Two years ago, there was this waterspout in the St. Lawrence River, adjacent to the east end. And I remember some pretty nasty storms with tornadoes passing through and touching down in the suburbs early last summer.

After an overall cool and wet month of June here, about which I’m not complaining because we desperately needed the moisture, we’re about to start a typical continental summer hot spell in the coming days. It makes me wonder if it’ll also bring high humidity and the risk of more violent storms.

I used not to be much of a TV watcher. In fact, I went through the ’80s and half the ’90s without watching TV at all. But last Boxing Day, while La Chelita was visiting, I spent my Christmas gift from my mother to subsidize the purchase of a new TV. I went from a tiny TV with no cable, to a tiny TV with cable two years ago, to finally a big ass TV like this one.

Before heading to the store, we found online a 36-inch screen at the right price, but it couldn’t be had once we got to the store. But, for a mere $30 extra, I was able to buy a 42-inch screen. I couldn’t refuse: an extra 6 inches for only $30! And for the remaining week of her visit, I would occasionally declare loudly out of nowhere, “Chelita! There’s a big ass TV in my living room!!!”

Am I watching more TV as a result? Well, let’s just say I get sucked into the stupidest shows whenever I want to put the brain on tilt — like world’s fattest dad or mom, world’s tallest teenager, or buying a house in Montevideo. However, there are times when I come across stuff that, after watching it, I feel I’ve actually learned something.

For instance, one night on ARTV, there was this documentary about the history of movie censorship in Québec. The most important film distributor (and eventually producer) in Montréal from the 1930s to 1950s was a man by the name of Alexandre de Sève. Turns out he was a big-time enforcer of state censorship in the city’s cinemas, and by the early ’60s, with television taking a bite out of movie-going, he founded Télé Métropole, which is known today as the TVA network. But the reason why I felt I had a mildly edifying moment is that, in the heart of the Village, there’s a street named Rue Alexandre-de-Sève. And, indeed, on that street between De Maisonneuve and Ste-Catherine, is located the headquarters of TVA.

As it happens, the nerd in me loves finding out how city streets got their name. Sometimes, changing the name of a street can cause a lot of hoopla, like when the City of Montréal suggested changing Avenue du Parc to Avenue Robert Bourassa in honour of the late, multi-term Liberal premier of Québec in the ’70s and ’80s. The clamour against the proposed change was such that the city backed down. Yet, Dorchester, one of the main thoroughfares in downtown Montréal, was quite easily changed to Boulevard René Lévesque shortly after that premier’s death, …except for the portion in the tony (anglo) enclave of Westmount, which of course remains Dorchester since its residents and politicians would sooner die than rename a street after a sovereignist premier.

At any rate, it didn’t take me much poking around to find that the city of Montréal has a searchable online directory of street names. The estranged hubbie used to be driven crazy by how so many streets here are named after saints, but that’s just a reflection of how the Catholic church literally controlled Québec society up until La Révolution Tranquille of the 1960s. This irk he felt struck me as odd, coming from someone from the land of the Virgin of Guadeloupe, whom everybody knows must be respected and revered or else be accused of somehow holding deep contempt towards Mexicans. But that’s a whole different ball of wax worthy of an entirely separate post.

For now, I’m just enjoying me some big ass stupidifier that occasionally offers a few nuggets of interesting information, albeit trivial.

The thing about living in large inland city is that the nearest getaways get really crowded really quickly. Such was the case today with Oka Beach — and, being from the Maritimes, I use the term “beach” very loosely.

I’ve known this for a while about Oka. My first two summers here weren’t the best weatherwise, so whenever the sun and warm temperatures happened to coincide with a weekend, the lineups to get in were extremely long. Today, however, surpassed those days by a magnitude of at least 3 or 4. When I realized it would probably take at least an hour to reach the toll booth and there probably wouldn’t be any parking once beyond that point, I said fuck it and just came back home.

This was not my best laid out plan, I concede. I expected a lineup, but not this. What’s more, about two-thirds of the way there, I realized that I hadn’t turned on the slow cooker that would have prepared my supper while I was at the beach.

Lesson learned. If I want to beat the lineup, I have to leave the apartment no later than 9 am — in other words, go about it as if I were getting up and ready for a work day.

But as I said earlier, attaching the word “beach” to Oka is a bit much for a Maritimer. You can see highway bridges and tall concrete buildings on the other side, plus the many motorized pleasure craft not only make a lot of noise but also leave a lingering smell of gasoline in the air. You really have to want to be by some body of water.

On the other hand, the other bodies there present make the eye candy absolutely incroyable! Many say that the guys and gals of Montréal are, on average, much hotter than anywhere else in the country. That fact — because it IS a fact — is always amply on display at Oka. And that, I would say, makes up for the place’s other deficiencies in terms of a beach.

I’ve never been a fan of hockey. Or of any sport, for that matter. Ever. But in Sin City North, if you don’t even pretend to be interested, especially about the Habs (i.e., the Montréal Canadiens), you’re definitely seen as an oddity.

I can’t even feign interest when clients at my day job find out I’m in Montréal and ask me what I think of the Habs’ performance. It surprises them, because everybody knows that hockey here is akin to a religion everybody follows as intensely as Europeans follow football (soccer). And with the Habs surprising everyone for coming this far in the Stanley Cup playoffs, Montréal has gone totally hockey mad. Or, should I say, more hockey mad than usual.

Whenever a game is being played, as it is right now as I’m writing this post, you don’t have to be near a TV set to know what’s going on. You just have to listen to the city. For instance, right now the young, barking neanderthals upstairs  neighbour upstairs and his testosterone-laden friends holler at every move. If the Habs score, I’ll hear about it in real time and I can just turn on the TV for a minute to see a replay of the score, then turn off the TV and wait until the next hollerfest.

Thursday, the night of the last game, Cleopatrick and I were taking advantage of the mild evening and were out eating at an outside terrace in the Village. There again, we only had to monitor the hollering coming out of the bars or the cacophony of cars honking their horn in all corners of the city or the fans walking down the street barking some incomprehensible gibberish that leaves no doubt of their approval of what had just happened at the rink just a few blocks to our west.

I don’t really understand how people can get so excited about a bunch of grown men on skates pushing a puck around with a stick. But certainly more incomprehensible to me is how, whether the Habs win or lose the current series, there will be riots in the streets downtown. If they’re happy, they’ll destroy property. If they’re upset, they’ll destroy property. It’s total madness.

Meanwhile, between noon and 3:00 pm, the temperature outside spiked from a mere 18C to 27C, which marks the beginning of a predicted week of sunshine with temps hovering near either side of the 30C mark. And yet, the interminable season of that most wintry of sports still has a few weeks to go, Habs or no Habs in the final match up.

Disclosure: Okay, I’ve been cheating. Instead of waiting for the hollering, I’ve had the TV on with the volume very, very low and just saw the Philadelphia Flyers score the first two goals of today’s game. And not a peep came from upstairs either time, not even disapproving groans or booing. But, from what I’ve observed so far in the last few weeks, I know the proverbial fat lady hasn’t sung yet, although something tells me she might in two days …for the Flyers.

I don’t think many people would complain about feeling like it’s always Friday. You know, that whole TGIF thing. But for me, it’s a sign that time seems to be flying by faster and faster, thus exacerbating my feeling that I’m not getting done all that (supposedly) needs to get done.

From the moment I sit in front of my computer at the day job to the moment I finally sign off — often later than what should be my quitting time — it’s a constant Go! Go! Go! The stream of calls that have to be returned, clients that need to be trained, and e-mails that have to be written never stops.

Add to that the fact I’ve been incrementally developing a Web application for said job, an initiative I’m proud to say has earned me one of the highest distinctions one can get with my employer: a week-long Caribbean cruise (that’s dubbed a “convention”) back in January of this year. I returned from this trip full of piss and vinegar, my head filled with ideas for other initiatives; however, unlike my previous accomplishment, these initiatives were met with a cool if not downright dismissive response, resulting in them not being pursued. Practically overnight, I feel I’ve gone from working for one of the best employers in the world to one that is typified perfectly by every Dilbert cartoon you have ever seen.

I understand how some might be tempted to walk away with a clamorous F-you. But that is not an option I would ever consider, as I’m smart enough to recognize that the “climate change” just happens to have coincided with a change of supervisor who, like any other, has her very own style and, perhaps, proofs to make. The tricky part is that my differences with her are strictly professional and NOT at all about her as a person, for on that front, I really, really like her. I’m good at making such distinctions. But like blogger Mike in DE, who seems to be going through a very similar experience lately, “Part of me says ‘talk to [her] about it’, while the other part of me says ‘keep quiet, don’t complain, and stick it out because nothing lasts forever.” Indeed, at the current rate, I’ll be reporting to someone else in about 18 months, whether it’s due to the normal turnover or because I manage to make a move within my employer.

However, for me, making such move is not obvious for a whole whack of reasons. First, I’m very optimistic by nature, so operating within a bureaucracy where cynicism poses as business acumen is not a comfortable spot for me; therefore, wherever I would move, that inward and cynical outlook is likely to persist. Second, the term “bureaucratic exigencies” is for me an oxymoron in that it places the emphasis on style (or processes) rather than substance (or accomplishments). Third, it’s difficult — sometimes downright painful — for me to witness the slow pace at which things get done in a bureaucracy, to the point where it seems completely out of touch with the realities of the world outside that bureaucracy. And fourth, because I’m at once extremely meticulous and passionate and empathetic, I would make a lousy supervisor in that I could be prone to micro-managing (definitely a very bad thing) or to doing other people’s work so it would be done right. I understand that “right” is not absolute, but I know myself well enough to know that I would have trouble recognizing that “right” is not synonymous to “my way,” so that would make me a lousy “people manager,” as they call them at work. Thus, I fear that my ability to move is severely restricted.

Meanwhile, beside work, there’s life, which unfortunately I’ve been neglecting. Off the top of my head, I can think of SIX major “projects” I need to get done for myself, but I never get around to them because half of them would require that I take some time off work — work which, as I mentioned earlier, is a constant Go! Go! Go! — while the other half would need to be done after work, by which time I’m often too exhausted to contemplate tackling them.

It’s also been two years already that I’m living in Montréal, a city whose energy I continue to love. Recently, former roommate Cleopatrick asked me if I regretted having moved here. I didn’t hesitate a microsecond before blurting out, “Absolutely not!” If ever I imagine myself still living in Halifax, I instantly get this overwhelming feeling of dread, which confirms to me that I was almost 10 years overdue leaving that city when I finally did.

Two years in, I’ve established a comfortable routine yet I’m still discovering things that are new to me. Moving around this city, it’s like I’ve always lived here. But I have to admit that I’m not taking full advantage of living in Sin City North, and by that I don’t mean that I’m not allowing myself to sin sufficiently. I just mean that, like always, I stick to doing the same things and going to the same places over and over again. I’ve been like that all my adult life, but I want to start breaking out of that cycle.

Here is, before my concluding remarks for this post, a video of the infamous Michèle Richard in praise of Montréal.

In fact, I think that it’s because I’m in Montréal that work — the topic of the first two-thirds of this rant — is bearable. And I think that’s because, as I strive to strike a balance between work and life, I recognize that there’s plenty of life to be had here. It’s far from the perfect place — crumbling infrastructures, a seriously ethically challenged political class, and some rather schizophrenic attitudes about being a city that is both francophone and multicultural ensure that it isn’t perfect — but it certainly has much to excite all the senses.

It was almost 26C here in Montréal yesterday, and today is expected to be a repeat performance. That’s very likely, as it’s already 21C at 11:00 am. Yesterday evening, I got to enjoy some people-watching and coffee-sipping in the crowded Village, and I wasn’t wearing a jacket. I felt cooler evenings in July or August than what I felt last night! And as I sat there, I really wished that La Chelita had been here to hang out with me, so that she could see that Montréal doesn’t just get extreme cold or extreme heat like she experienced whenever she has been here in the last 15 months.

One of the (many) things I like about living in Montréal is that there’s really a springtime in this part of the country. Back in Atlantic Canada for the last 15 or 20 years, it seemed like we would go from winter, to a miserable middle season of variable but usually too long length that wasn’t as intensely cold and snowy as winter but wasn’t terribly inspiring, to summer. Here, on the other hand, there’s a real spring that progressively gets warmer and seems in better agreement with the calendar.

By all accounts, this year having been an El Niño winter, it hasn’t been too bad except that the unseasonably cool temperatures requiring a winter jacket started in October. But by February here, it felt like March; the first three weeks of March felt like late-April; and now, April is starting off like an extraordinary June. It’s quite simply incredible and delicious. That’s honestly the word that immediately comes to my mind.

I was just checking the Environment Canada website, and it would seem the average high this time of year in Montréal is about 8C. However, for the next five days, that’s going to be the average low temperature. We’re not expecting mid-20s through that period, but still! I’m totally loving this!

Snowstorms and mothers — especially mothers travelling at the tender age of 80 — do not mix well. Or so I discovered.

It was increasingly evident as the day of her arrival drew closer that she would be arriving in Montréal in a snowstorm. How bad a snowstorm wasn’t clear, but the predictions were getting worse as we got closer to the day. By the time I got up around 6:00 am to fetch her for her 8:00 am arrival, it wasn’t snowing yet but the weather office was calling for at least 20 cm that would fall intensely between noon and suppertime — precisely the time when we’d be heading out to visit her sister in Longueuil.

I stupidly didn’t think of calling ahead to see if the train would be arriving on time; I figured it was coming into the storm and thus had no good reason to be delayed. How I underestimate VIA Rail! When I arrived at Gare Centrale around 7:50 am, the arrivals billboard proclaimed that her train would only be coming in at 10:00 am. So, I thought, the hell with that: I headed back home for the multiple cups of coffee I had skipped before heading to the station.

Further screw-ups ensued, like my cell phone not having enough credits to receive calls and, upon arriving back at Gare Centrale around 9:45 am, discovering that, ultimately, her train had arrived at 9:20 am. Fortunately, my mother didn’t worry much, as she figured the train’s delay explained my absence, especially since the passengers, too, were initally told they’d only arrive in Montréal at 10:00 am.

I brought her back to my Snowdon abode with the intention of having lunch at her favorite, St-Hubert (on Côte-des-Neiges), the moment it opened. But, alas, it was between 10:00 and 11:00 that the heavens opened and the snow started to fly with a vengeance. As we were driving up the Queen Mary hill to the restaurant, that’s when she started: “This is the last time I’ll be travelling in the winter,” she sternly declared. “I made it until I turned 80 and that’s good enough.”

We were the first customers to arrive at St-Hubert, so we had the choice of tables. I, not thinking, let her sit in a way where she was looking out the window while I was back to it. She was thoroughly miserable throughout our short hour there, looking at and commenting on the worsening storm. As for me, I didn’t really care; I knew it was only a matter of driving slowly and carefully, plus we weren’t going outside the city (really).

Now I admit it: the visibility and the roads were really bad, but I wasn’t nervous in the least. I’ve been through worse — namely similar conditions, except after dark. THAT was truly nerve wracking; not this. I warned her to expect the visibility to be a bit worse as we crossed the Champlain Bridge across the St. Lawrence, but that everything was under control. And it was.

Once on the other side, though, we were driving into the snow, so an already unpleasant experience got progressively worse. I knew, however, that we were already more than halfway to destination and the return wouldn’t be as bad. But that didn’t stop her “Oh doux Jésus, oh doux Jésus“… At that point I couldn’t help but say, “Ma! Who’s driving? And do I look the least bit nervous?”

We reached our destination, of course, and visited my aunt for about two hours. On our way back, by which time the storm’s fury had abated considerably, she went on saying how this was likely the last time she would see her sister, as it’s too much trouble due to all the unknown bad weather conditions that could be encountered. Taking her at her word, I reminded her that, the next time, she wouldn’t be travelling in winter, so if we were able to make it through this, we could make it through anything.

We spent her remaining hours in Montréal at Gare Centrale having coffee and waiting for her train to depart for Ottawa (late, of course). When I got home, I immediately called my sister to advise her that Mom was safely on her way, and admitted that I may have ruined forever her going to Ottawa for Christmases to come. But, as my sister said, we have a year to work on her and give her assurance that we won’t attempt to repeat the detour to her sister if it’s the middle of winter.

But already Mom is countering that, in winter, she still has to worry about getting to the train station and having people drive in bad weather to fetch her from the station. You just can’t win with her when she sets her mind on something. I need to remind myself that, although my father was the biggest worry-wart of them all, she’s no slouch in that department herself.

This is my first holiday season as a resident of Sin City North. Time sure does fly; it doesn’t feel like nearly nine months since the move over here. While last year’s holidays were exceptional in that I was in Mexico and proposed to my husband-to-be, the holidays in the last few previous years were in Halifax.

So, like some kind of counter-balance, this year Gina DeGallo, daughter of the Queen of Sheba, landed from Halifax on Christmas night para romper su cereza de Montréal (to pop her Montréal cherry). In addition to getting up to all kinds of mischief together, we’re able to practice our Spanish (although she’s also suddenly developed a keen interest in learning French in a quest to one day also move to Sin City North and escape the “backwardness of this ‘urban’ centre [Halifax], [which] is felt keenly by all those folk who are homosexuals by day and cocksuckers & carpetmunchers by night.” Cherries popped so far include:

• the Montréal métro;
   
• Boxing Day shopping on Ste-Catherine (including buying bitchin’ clothes at Simons);
   
• the delights of Marché Jean-Talon and cigarette-purchasing in Châteauguay;
   
• Saturday night LatinBeat at Sky Pub.
   

Despite winds forecast to gust to 100 km/h, this afternoon after a call to mí esposo hermoso, we’re heading to Le Musée des Beaux-Arts de Montréal for the Warhol Live: Music and Dance in the Work of Andy Warhol exhibit.

Meanwhile, don’t get me going now on my mother’s visit last Sunday, as that is fodder for a totally separate post later.