Je t'ai casse!
Elena came up this weekend as part of an operation I like to refer to as "show-up-at-Amy's-door-with-a-bowl-of-cereal-and-make-her-cry". Basically we arranged for Elena to take the Amtrak from Penn Station up to Gare Centrale. We went back to my apartment and got a bowl of cereal, and Elena went to Amy's door and was like, "Can I borrow some milk?" Except it didn't work because Amy fell over and almost started crying.
The whole weekend was a lot like that, actually. We went with Amy's roommates out to New System that night in the midst of a really very pretty snowstorm. We got what I am convinced are the last surviving milkshakes in Quebec, and for some reason everyone had Sharpie mustaches painted on their faces, which passersby did not hesitate to mention.
Saturday, after a rousing breakfast at the newly-discovered and intensely proximate Cafe Joe, Elena and I went downtown as I continued my epic quest to try to replace my once-again-broken cell phone charger. It proved fruitless as seven different boutiques told me that my model was out of date or not stocked or foreign. All those things are true, to be sure, but it still came as somewhat of a disappointment. We got bubble teas in the Eaton Centre and walked around the Quartier Latin before meeting Amy on Saint-Laurent and strolling through the Sex District and Chinatown. (It's not actually called the sex district. But there's a certain critical mass of prostitution, voyeurism, strippers, and adult toy stores that, when reached, qualifies any square block for the distinction.) That night, being Saint Patrick's day, involved a trip to rue Crescent (Montreal's Little Ireland), where, predictably, every single establishment that even might serve beer of any nature was not only full, but actually inundated with hundred-person line-ups outside. Adding to this was the just-finished Habs-Leafs hockey match down the street; disgruntled Torontonians hid among the lines and mumbled while bands of Habs fans (Habbies?) marched down the middle of the road chanting Olé and waving Canadiens flags. That's right they have flags.
We encountered Sarah, Laura, and Martin on their way into the mess and instead invited them back to Solin with us, and I ended up sitting in the room directly under mine, at two in the morning, talking about national height averages.
Sunday consisted of going to Place St-Henri twice, in two different companies, a trip to Super-C which involved the purchase of "un sac des hosties", and, ultimately, a "gay Jewish wedding" which was little more than eating a pizza and a sugar pie with said hosties decorated in pink icing with the Star of David.
I am telling you all of this less to express the individual nuances of the activities as to communicate that it was, holistically speaking, a really good time.
Adventures did not cease over the course of the week:
- A tour of the Plateau/downtown Hipsterville by Elena and myself on Wednesday afternoon, leading to her being served a bowl of café au lait in an excessively European café. Notable quotes: "You know the security camera outside the bank? I was at the ATM and I saw a hipster in there, and I thought, 'Hey, there really are a lot of them here!' And then I realised it was me." -Elena
- Renting Brice de Nice last night, which is basically a movie about a surfer who lives in Nice, where there are no waves. It is sometimes choreographed, often campy, and always amazing.
- Generally setting up shop in my living room for hours each night and sitting in front of a laptop, reading blogs, watching cancelled Comedy Central programming, and Photoshopping people's heads into lions.
Basically, it's been excellent.
The weekend before Michelle was here. If you know who Michelle is enough to be interested, chances are you've read all about chez elle, but a few highlights included a trip to the 24-hour bagel factory, my first visit (finally) to Frite Alors, and a good amount of just hanging out, much of which was conducted at Place Saint-Henri. There were some awkward bits, cause mainly by the mutual realisation that our styles of urban living and general, spatial interaction when actually in the same room are, as it turns out, less compatible than one might think. Nonetheless it was pretty excellent. Everyone's first trip to Canada is always excellent.
I have a five page paper to research and write by four o'clock PM on Friday. After that is a long weekend for provincal elections, and then a four-day week before my birthday and Amy's and my potluck dinner to that effect, which I expect to be no less than stunning. Rachel has, with essentially no coaxing on my part, offered to make two cakes. Two! Cakes. Look down at your feet. Count them. Now imagine that, instead of feet, they were cakes. Wouldn't that be delicious? That's what I thought.
And then the next Thursday I am getting a ride, possibly with Ken and Amy, to Bennington, where I will visit Becky and Sarah before going back to Ridgefield for the rest of the weekend. Maybe I'll see you. Maybe you'll see me. And maybe, just maybe, we will see each other.
The whole weekend was a lot like that, actually. We went with Amy's roommates out to New System that night in the midst of a really very pretty snowstorm. We got what I am convinced are the last surviving milkshakes in Quebec, and for some reason everyone had Sharpie mustaches painted on their faces, which passersby did not hesitate to mention.
Saturday, after a rousing breakfast at the newly-discovered and intensely proximate Cafe Joe, Elena and I went downtown as I continued my epic quest to try to replace my once-again-broken cell phone charger. It proved fruitless as seven different boutiques told me that my model was out of date or not stocked or foreign. All those things are true, to be sure, but it still came as somewhat of a disappointment. We got bubble teas in the Eaton Centre and walked around the Quartier Latin before meeting Amy on Saint-Laurent and strolling through the Sex District and Chinatown. (It's not actually called the sex district. But there's a certain critical mass of prostitution, voyeurism, strippers, and adult toy stores that, when reached, qualifies any square block for the distinction.) That night, being Saint Patrick's day, involved a trip to rue Crescent (Montreal's Little Ireland), where, predictably, every single establishment that even might serve beer of any nature was not only full, but actually inundated with hundred-person line-ups outside. Adding to this was the just-finished Habs-Leafs hockey match down the street; disgruntled Torontonians hid among the lines and mumbled while bands of Habs fans (Habbies?) marched down the middle of the road chanting Olé and waving Canadiens flags. That's right they have flags.
We encountered Sarah, Laura, and Martin on their way into the mess and instead invited them back to Solin with us, and I ended up sitting in the room directly under mine, at two in the morning, talking about national height averages.
Sunday consisted of going to Place St-Henri twice, in two different companies, a trip to Super-C which involved the purchase of "un sac des hosties", and, ultimately, a "gay Jewish wedding" which was little more than eating a pizza and a sugar pie with said hosties decorated in pink icing with the Star of David.
I am telling you all of this less to express the individual nuances of the activities as to communicate that it was, holistically speaking, a really good time.
Adventures did not cease over the course of the week:
- A tour of the Plateau/downtown Hipsterville by Elena and myself on Wednesday afternoon, leading to her being served a bowl of café au lait in an excessively European café. Notable quotes: "You know the security camera outside the bank? I was at the ATM and I saw a hipster in there, and I thought, 'Hey, there really are a lot of them here!' And then I realised it was me." -Elena
- Renting Brice de Nice last night, which is basically a movie about a surfer who lives in Nice, where there are no waves. It is sometimes choreographed, often campy, and always amazing.
- Generally setting up shop in my living room for hours each night and sitting in front of a laptop, reading blogs, watching cancelled Comedy Central programming, and Photoshopping people's heads into lions.
Basically, it's been excellent.
The weekend before Michelle was here. If you know who Michelle is enough to be interested, chances are you've read all about chez elle, but a few highlights included a trip to the 24-hour bagel factory, my first visit (finally) to Frite Alors, and a good amount of just hanging out, much of which was conducted at Place Saint-Henri. There were some awkward bits, cause mainly by the mutual realisation that our styles of urban living and general, spatial interaction when actually in the same room are, as it turns out, less compatible than one might think. Nonetheless it was pretty excellent. Everyone's first trip to Canada is always excellent.
I have a five page paper to research and write by four o'clock PM on Friday. After that is a long weekend for provincal elections, and then a four-day week before my birthday and Amy's and my potluck dinner to that effect, which I expect to be no less than stunning. Rachel has, with essentially no coaxing on my part, offered to make two cakes. Two! Cakes. Look down at your feet. Count them. Now imagine that, instead of feet, they were cakes. Wouldn't that be delicious? That's what I thought.
And then the next Thursday I am getting a ride, possibly with Ken and Amy, to Bennington, where I will visit Becky and Sarah before going back to Ridgefield for the rest of the weekend. Maybe I'll see you. Maybe you'll see me. And maybe, just maybe, we will see each other.