aMMusing

Cleopatrick and I have two full days left to finish the packing. It’s going very well and it will be done in time. I find it hard to believe that in 48 hours, this apartment I’ve called home for 3 years will be empty and this building I’ve called home for 13 years will no longer be my home. My last two days in Halifax will be possible courtesy of the Queen of Sheba, with Saturday remaining the scheduled long-travel day. So far, the weather for Saturday is supposed to be ideal for travelling: sunny and slightly above zero.

The only glitches so far have had to do with getting rid of a few pieces of furniture I don’t intend to move with me. In the worse case, I’ll get the movers to put a desk by the trash bins and hopefully someone will scoop it up. Ideally, I’d like the super to store it somewhere so that it can be picked up later. But we’ll see.

Organizing phone and power hookups from a distance is a bit of a challenge. And insurance! Things are very different in Quebec compared to the rest of Canada. A true société distincte.

And I was thinking last night: While I don’t intend to change the name of this blog, the tag line and banner image will have to change. But, as you can imagine, that’s not my highest priority right now.

If all goes as planned — that is, if the winter that won’t end lets up a little — I’ll be on the highway to Montréal in exactly one week from today. Cleopatrick arrived yesterday evening to give me a hand with the move. His train was more than 2 hours late arriving in Halifax because it had to go through the latest brutal snowstorm that struck Québec and northern New Brunswick. In addition to driving shotgun with me to Montréal, he will help me pack and unpack, which is something he’s done more times than he cares to count in the last 14 years, making him a begrudging pro at it.

Fortunately, everybody from the movers to Cleopatrick have declared that this move won’t be such a big deal because I don’t really have that much stuff. For me, though, it’s a huge deal because I don’t move often and tend to take roots wherever I end up living. And with projects like moving, I’m the impatient type who wants it done before I’ve even started.

I will miss the magnificent windows in my Halifax apartment. The proximity of my friends here. The beach. But that’s about it. Montréal will be better on all other fronts, not to mention that I fear Esposo would pull out his abundant hair were he forced to live in quaint little Halifax. And it’s good that we’ll be starting our life together in a city we both know but that is still essentially new to us.

I finally went to bed around 4:30 after that bout of insomnia the other night. I knew I would be a mess in the morning, especially since my first appointment was at 9:00 and I had a total of three training-by-phone appointments in addition to my usual duties as Mr. Message Man. But what could I do…

I did fall asleep quite quickly, but was awaken by a dream. Some dreams I remember; most, I don’t. This one I will never forget.

I dreamt of my father. He was walking around in a room where some family friends and relatives were gathered, and talking away about me — all in French, of course — right in front of me. “That’s it!” kept declaring one of my uncles who was present. “He’s totally losing his mind!” Dressed shockingly badly in what I’d call “flood pants” and looking a bit buffoon-like, my father was saying stuff like, “You know, that’s my son Maurice over there. He’s very nice. And he’s homosexual, you know…”

I remember feeling mortified — not because he was outing me to everybody who’d listen, but because of the way he was ambling about and talking was just plain silly. But then he turned towards me, his shoulders bent forward and rounded, and he winked at me as if to say, “You DO know, of course, that I know I’m sounding silly.”

And I woke up.

Initially I felt icky about this vision of him. Icky, with some lingering vestiges of embarrassment. Still half asleep, my mind started to compute …to orient where I was, what time it was… And that’s when it hit me.

It was March 12. The fourth anniversary of his death. Then I looked at the alarm clock. I always set it an odd number of minutes ahead to force myself into some mental gymnastics to galvanize myself into getting up. Seeing the time, I did some additional gymastics: back in 2004, we didn’t observe Daylight Saving Time as early; so I subtracted one hour and some minutes, and my heart sank. It was 5:45.

Yes, my father came to me at the EXACT anniversary of his death. And then, recalling that the tone of his “strange” talk was how he spoke to us kids when he playing with us, and remembering how he essentially was such a worry wart who didn’t smile much, let alone laugh and joke much, I didn’t feel icky or embarrassed anymore.

He’s free now to be silly and playful. He can be a dad without paying any attention to the age of his kids. He can tap into those memories of when he was happiest. And he can come to me and finally tell me that he’s always known about me, his youngest son, and all’s fine.

Merci Pa. Je ne t’oublie pas non plus…

I hate not being able to sleep, especially when I have such a busy day ahead of me. HATE IT.

That is all.

Ever since I heard this in the brilliant made-for-TV movie Wit, starring Emma Thompson, I have never been able to forget this haunting melody by the Estonian composer, Avro Pärt.

Not for the faint of heart. Or, perhaps, for the faint of heart.

I heard it again tonight in what I deem an inconsequential Canadian film, but it was Wit that came back to mind. This time, I researched it thoroughly and bought it from iTunes.

[Removed YouTube link that no longer exists, a passage from Wit]

For the second year in a row, thanks to some policy advisors of George W. Bush, Daylight Saving Time started this weekend, three weeks earlier than it used to for about 20 years. (Indeed, I remember the time when it started the last weekend of April.) For those of us in Halifax, that means that the sun now rises around 7:35 but sets around 7:10. And if I were already in Montréal, those times would be 7:20 and 6:50 respectively.

In a post nearly 5 years ago, I mused that “I wouldn’t mind if we [in Halifax woul]d be one time zone ahead and didn’t observe DST.” Indeed, here by June, even with DST, the sun rises around 5:30 and sets around 9:05. (In Montréal, it’s 5:05 and 8:25 respectively.) But with the change of the start and end dates of DST in Canada and the USA, we’re out of synch with the rest of the world, whether they observe DST or not.

For instance, Mexico started observing DST after it joined NAFTA but opted not to adopt the new DST start and end dates. Consequently, there’s now a 3-hour difference between Esposo and I until I move to Montréal, 2 hours from the time I move until April 6, and then 1 hour starting April 6. So that means that when I should be seriously considering going to bed on a weekend because it’s midnight, it’ll only be 9:00 pm in Mexico City. The whole thing is not only confusing, but it also encroaches on the time when we can conveniently connect via Skype.

But this inconvenience, of course, is only temporary. It’s just another component of how we have to adapt. And, on the grand scheme of things, a very minor component.

I can’t hide it from anyone: I’m exhausted. I’ve been sleeping reasonably long nights since Sunday but I’m still feeling worn out. I guess all the prep in the weeks leading to meeting up with Esposo in Montréal followed by our time together and the nuptials, plus the unrelentless winter that doesn’t seem to want to end, are leaving me drained of all energy at the end of each work day this week. I have a crazy amount of stuff to do in the coming days, yet when daylight fades, so do I and I can’t bring myself to do anything productive. I know that missing Esposo is a contributor, but surprisingly not as much as you might think.

I was walking in the freezing rain this morning, and it really hit me that my days in Halifax are counted. Maybe a bit of nostalgia is mixed into the blend, but one thing I’m certain of: there’s no regret about Montréal. Or anything, really.

No. I’m just feeling really tired. That’s all.

Today’s my first full day without Esposo, a.k.a. El Poema or Fernando. And it feels weird. In other words, what I had come to view as normal seems weird. We were together constantly for just over three weeks, and now he’s not here.

Tornwordo left an interesting remark on my previous post: When he applied for his Canadian permanent residency, he could be in Canada as a visitor and work towards learning French even though he applied from outside Canada, as Esposo and I intend to do. I definitely intend to look into that. (I did a bit tonight, but I’m too tired and I still intend to consult a lawyer to ensure we fill everything out right.) In other words, we don’t want to screw up our application. But if indeed he can come, then we could have more than 3 weeks together by the end of the application, which is all the vacation time I have this year to travel to Mexico. Esposo thought this was wonderful news, although he doesn’t regret being back in the warm weather of his hometown. No one can blame him for that!

Watching our wedding video again last night, I couldn’t help but laugh. Not once did the Justice of the Peace say Esposo’s name correctly. But all the paperwork is right, which is what really matters. Of course, that’s not as funny for Esposo but, as he said, his friends back in Mexico will get a laugh at how the guerro just couldn’t get it right. Except this guerro.

The one comfort I have is knowing that time passes quickly. It was odd to speak to Esposo on Skype tonight. So very odd.

I felt bad for Esposo some of the time because I had to work. That was part of the reason for his trip: to see first-hand what it’s like to be with someone who works from home and has a job requiring quiet while he talks on the phone with people all over North America. But a full day at work for me leaves me feeling pretty tired. The situation helped reinforce how it’s better for him to apply for permanent residence from Mexico, since here he couldn’t work. But, at the same time, it would be different in Montréal: he could enrol in a French course and go out more on his own in a city he knows. Mind you, nothing prevented him for going out on his own here in Halifax …except the cold. He couldn’t really get lost in such a small town, plus he speaks the language. But he chose to stay close. And now he really knows that I “work very hard.” He’s already on a bit of a mission to ensure I take better care of myself.

Just like the true esposo that he is.

As I’m writing this, Fernando is probably spending his last hours in Canada for a while at Pearson International in Toronto. Montréal or Toronto to Mexico City isn’t too bad, but add that extra bit from Halifax and it makes for a very long day of travelling. More on the travelling bit, but first…

As promised, here are some photos of our wedding. Fernando and I saw the video for the first time last night and, I must say, I was moved: We really did it! It wasn’t just a figment of our imagination. We really did get married on February 22, 2008.

But although we are now wed and have an apartment in Montréal as of April 1, we are not physically together yet. After much thought and consideration, we decided it would be better if he applied for his Canadian permanent residence from Mexico. If we applied from within Canada, not only might it take as long or longer, but also he wouldn’t be allowed to do much, especially work. Those who have gone through the process from within can vouch that the wait is boring, not to mention that the applicant can feel completely dependent on the sponsor. Meanwhile, Fernando has a lot of stuff to tidy up, so why not use the wait time to do that? According to the federal government website, 80 percent of applications from Mexico City are processed in about 9 months. During that time, however, the applicant cannot come to the country, so it looks like I will be spending 2 or 3 weeks in Mexico in 2008. I can hear the tiny violins playing — poor me, having to spend some time in Mexico! — but hey! Consider that I’d rather have my spouse with me. But we’re being reasonable about it. And one day, heaven knows when, it will be my turn to do the same.

As it turns out, the apartment in Montréal is a 5-minute walk from the Snowdon metro, on Queen Mary at Victoria. The building dates back to the 1930s or ’40s and the 2-bedroom apartment is big and has much character. But although it’s on a busy street, it’s at the back of the building where it’s quiet, so it offers the best of both worlds. Personally I like being next door to a branch of my bank, which will become my mailing transit, a large grocery store nearby and culturally diverse inhabitants populating the neighbourhood. Also, the Snowdon metro is the intersection of the orange and blue lines: orange to go downtown or the Atwater Market, and blue to cross east on the northern flank of Mont Royal towards Marché Jean-Talon.

The move is only four weeks away. Oh my gosh! There’s so much to do before then! And not being close to my spouse, well, really sucks. But it’s only a matter of time and patience now.

It’s -4C in Halifax and 14C in Mexico City. As I told Fernando, he can boasts to his friends back in Mexico that he lived through nearly a month of the worst Canadian winter in at least 15 years. Not bad for someone who had never seen snow until February 9 of this year!