Tag: montreal

This has all been very entertaining to the people around me

  • What Marie Antoinette really wore.

    According to Duolingo, the language learning site, I am now at 18% of French fluency and learning at Level 5. This means I have successfully tested through two sets of basic lessons, a set of phrases, (“D’accord, à plus tard!”), and some vocabulary words that name types of animals and food. I have also learned the word “elision” and the word “enchaînement”, both of which are ostensibly English, as a side effect of puzzling my way through French’s seemingly illogical rules.

    This is, very possibly, more French than I have consciously ever known in my life.

    Canadians are supposed to be taught French in school, but I emerged from the education system with almost none. Until my first year of high-school French, (which I promptly flunked, as I lacked the foundation of kindergarten through seven that Grade 8 French expected to build upon), my only experience with French was when I was briefly put into preschool in Quebec, with teachers who refused to believe I only knew English because “she seems to understand The Smurfs just fine.”

    Though it always chafed that I only learned one language as a child, I have never had cause to try to learn French before. (Spanish has been my second language of choice. See: Growing up next to the United States.) Why would I? French fights me every step. The genders seem arbitrary, the conjugations absurd, and the pronunciation and the elisions downright hostile. Learning to roll the “r” in the back of the throat was as easy as coughing up blood. That French seemed impossible had the strength of prophecy. Even when I lived in Montreal, I got by on what I have dubbed “restaurant French”: a musical pidgin of borrowed phrases, body language, and snatches of pop songs that can be used to successfully order food, maneuver from point A to point B, and request assistance when I inevitably smack against the language barrier.

    My upbringing has given me one slight advantage, however, as French is printed on absolutely everything in Canada. It didn’t occur to me before, but I have been learning by osmosis, unconsciously absorbing vocabulary from my surroundings for thirty years. The result of which is that — though my spelling is atrocious and half of the mangled words erupting painfully from my mouth are misgendered — even if I murder the language when I attempt to speak it, I can mostly read it.

    Not that it makes much sense, anyway. Shark, for example, is requin. Aside from being an absolute bitch to pronounce, it doesn’t even sound right. The word shark chops the air. It ends abruptly. It carries the speed and sleek movement of the animal. Requin rolls across the tongue, smooth, it is not sharp and fast as shark, ending as it does on that spiky K, reminiscent of a knife-like tail. I don’t understand it at all. Requin sounds like it should be part of a dish, something to eat. Cassolette de homard et poireaux avec requin maybe. Something with cheese. Sorry, avec fromage.

    And oiseau for bird? Was it behind a post when consonants were being handed out? Is this the French onomatopoetic for the liquid tone of a whistle? (Not that “tweet” particularly sounds accurate, either, but at least it has a good balance of vowels.) Either way, it’s also worth noting that this majestic cluster of vowel-a-riffic phonemes is apparently pronounced not entirely unlike wazoo. A language chosen for beauty, indeed!

    My flight from Heathrow to Montreal leaves Friday at noon, arrives in DC at 3:30 PM, leaves again around 5:00 PM, and then lands, finally, in Montreal at 7:00 PM, half an hour before Alexandre arrives.

    • saved from my own ways by beautiful boys

    sanfran leap
    San Francisco 2008

    My summer is about to explode. It has already started, a little, (I sneaked into a rave on Friday night, spent Saturday on a cross-Atlantic guitar lesson with Richard, Saturday night with dear friends at a dinner, blowing people’s minds with synchronicity, and Sunday at an epic wedding that involved a boat, a full-sized, bright red, radio controlled dalek wedding cake that shouted EXTERMINATE, (part gluten free, too!), a hexacopter ring-bearer, and friends from six or seven countries), but this past weekend was just the amuse bouche.

    My comrade Nathan is taking us to Cirque Du Soliex’s Totem tonight for my upcoming birthday, then we’re leaving on Thursday evening for the Sasquatch Music Festival. The line-up is absolutely fantastic, many of my favourite bands are playing, (Elbow, Mogwai, Die Antwood, The National, Cut Copy, TuNe-YaRds, etc.), and it’s going to be our first road-trip. I almost cannot wait. I feel like a little kid, counting sleeps.

    Then, on the way back, Nathan is dropping me off in Seattle and I’m going to California for my birthday, courtesy of my ability to fit into a suitcase AKA a sweetheart’s business trip to the Google mothership! Flexibility pays off. Apparently I’ll be flying from Seattle on the 26th or 27th and staying for approximately two weeks.

    I leave Canada in four days, but know zero about my flights or even where or when I’m to meet up with my dear B. It is so strange and yet delightful to know I am to be travelling, but not know when or precisely where to. It’s like a trust exercise with the universe that I am surprisingly completely fine with. Are we meeting in Seattle? In California? Where? No idea. I have zero information, but it’s.. gratifying? It feels proper. Makes it more of an adventure, for sure.

    I imagine I’ll be taking the train a lot back and forth between SF and Silicon Valley for the first week and tucking in for work during the days, but other than that, my time is open. B. will only be there for the first week and mostly busy with work, which is a bit sad, he is smart and sassy and wonderful, but I’m still thrilled. Once I wave my kerchief goodbye to him at the airport, I’ll couch-float with friends in the Mission or the Castro or the Tenderloin.

    The only plans I have so far: Jed and I are making sultry eyes at Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind on May 30th, (come with us!), and Richard has informed me that must visit him at the Vulcan on the first Thursday in June. And Morissa says I can use her house for a birthday dinner party! (Party date as yet to be determined). Other than that, it’s almost all a giant question mark. Do you know of anything going on in SF between May 26th and June 6th-ish? Let’s adventure!

    Then I’m back to Seattle for a week to go to the the Georgetown Carnival and the Power Tool Drag Races and all that fun stuff. Maybe play some flaming tether ball. Mars and I are learning to be friends again, too, which makes Seattle much better to visit. I don’t know if B. will be around, but I hope so. (If he isn’t totally sick of me after sharing a hotel room for a week, that is. “Why are all the towels stained scarlet?”, “Why is my pillow purple?”, “How did the room ceiling end up covered in glow-in-the-dark stars? Are those constellations.. accurate?”)

    I plan to return to Vancouver on June 15th, immediately put my passport in for renewal the day I get back!, collect certain papers from my mother, Vicki, that she’s bringing back from Ireland, do all of the laundry in the world, maybe throw a quick Vancouver-based birthday party, then head out to Ontario. The plan is to go to REcon (June 23rd – 29th) in Montreal via Waterloo courtesy of Ian, my besty who wants to drive up from Ontario in my fine company. Improbable, yes. Possible, very. I owe his cat Dewie about a thousand snuggles. And I think he’s starting to get tired of carrying his favourite Internet Girl around in his phone à la Her. And Audra has offered us her charming AirBnB apartment in Toronto for a couple of nights, (she has a cotton candy machine!!!), so we could home base out of Toronto and visit with people and stay up late in the city rather than having to go back to Waterloo. I’m sure we’ll use it, as I’m five or six years overdue for a visit and the good people just keep piling up. I even have an uncle there I’ve never met who seems supracool. Why don’t I live in Toronto? I Do Not Even Know.

    We’ll be stopping by in Ottawa on our way to Montreal, too, to stop by the river market and stuff our faces with scrumptious berries and sugary beaver tails and APPLY FOR MY IRISH PASSPORT WITH THE EMBASSY! Happy birthday to me! I’m Irish! I HAVE EU AND EVERYTHING. As of, like, six days ago. My mother, bless her, went to Ireland as part of a Canada Council art project with Paul and took the packet of my needful documents with her, followed the very detailed instructions, and has filed my birth with the Irish government!

    REcon is apparently a marvelous time, too. It’s run by Hugo, who I love to hang out with at CanSec. I’ve never spent as much time with him or his friends as I would like, so this is perfect. And apparently the Circus Festival starts in Montreal on July 2nd, so maybe we’ll get away with sticking around for a day or two longer for that. Either way, I plan to get fat and happy on delicious food, hug a lot of people, dance my face off, and ride a lot of city bikes. Christine wants to go to the new Cirque show, Kurios, too. I approve. There will also be chocolate and a stop by Santropol. Oh yes.

    And no, I don’t know anything solid about flight dates on this trip yet either. IT IS ALL A FANTASTIC MYSTERY.

    And then I’m in Vancouver until ToorCamp. (That might be for less than a week, oi). ToorCamp is another hacker event, but in Washington State on July 9th. Nathan wants me to go with him, so of course I said yes. Hopefully my passport will have come back by then and I’ll be good to go. I don’t know much about it, except that the people I know who’ve gone in the past are all excellent.

    I have also been tapped to work as the Art Director for Hacked Festival, another hacker event from August 11th – 14th, but this one in Vancouver. It’s their inaugural year and maybe I’ll be able to help, even though I’m barely going to be around for the next few months. (Apply to be a speaker or an artist naow!) I’ve told them about my travel schedule, but the founder met me at BIL and he seems to want me involved anyway, so I might end up going through with it just because. If that ends up being the case, that will fit in right after ToorCamp. And right before Burning Man.

    I have a number of options for Burning Man this year, but I think I might be tossing a bunch of them over to stay with a lawyer friend from Seattle. Not only do I appreciate him a metric ton just in general, I cannot get enough of his art project, an infrared photobooth. People step inside into pitch blackness, the infrared flash goes off, and though all they see is a small red light, the pictures look like they were taken in daylight.

    And then, come September, rest. Playing with ferrets. Adventure is fine, (dying is fine)but Death), but I’m going to miss my ferrets. Pepper and Selenium are the best.

    TLDR; If all goes well, I’m going to live out of a suitcase this summer.

    Facebook Friend #19 – Julie Salkowski

    Facebook Friend #19 - Julie
    Facebook Friend #19 – Julie

    Julie is a Montreal based painter, designer, and occasional horticulturist who married one of my best
    friends, Michel. We met when I visited for their wedding in 2009 and I have adored her (and their four
    cats) ever since. She’s quiet, but don’t be fooled, she’s mischievous, too.

    Side note: I took her photo in front of Silo #5, the home of the Silophone.

    My Facebook Friends Portrait project began when I hit 1000 friends on Facebook in 2012. The project is on-going and shall continue until I take a portrait of every FB friend I have.

    Mike & Karina

    Mike & Karina

    Smootches!

    Untitled

    		 Attacks!

    Mike’s girlfriend is a sweet, appealing girl with a fast smile and clever eyes. (He met her while living in Santiago, Chile). She primarily speaks Spanish, which I mostly understand but can no longer speak, while I primarily speak English, which she can read, but not easily comprehend when spoken. We both lack the complex vocabulary. Mike acts as a guide between us, he explains and untangles our words. We all laugh in the right places, though, and manage complex topics like feminism, family structures, culture maps, information design, game theory, and politics. The language gap could have been awkward had we been other people, but instead it became entertainment, a brainteaser we share and enjoy.

    Facebook Friend Portrait #18 – Mike Kitt

    Facebook Friend #18 - Mike
    Facebook Friend #18 – Mike

    I met Mike when he mistook me for a model at a dance party when we were teenagers in Vancouver together,
    before he went off to travel the world as a video game designer. He is back in Montreal now, which is slightly
    more convenient to visit than Santiago, and I am honoured to have such a clever and intelligent man as a friend.
    My favourite thing to share about Mike might be the collection of semi-precious stone spheres he displays to
    accurately represent the size of the planets of both our home system of Sol and that of the Star Wars universe.

    My Facebook Friends Portrait project began when I hit 1000 friends on Facebook in 2012. The project is on-going and shall continue until I take a portrait of every FB friend I have.

    Travel Diary Day One: May 15th, Montreal

    I have just returned from a trip to Montreal for Dee & Freida's ish-wedding, (they eloped last year), and Madison for Karen & Pär 's ish-wedding, (they eloped 20 years ago), and WisCon, a feminist sci-fi writer's convention. I tried to keep a journal of the trip, an attempt to work towards fixing my awful stillness, sadness, and silence.

    I feel like I should be taking more pictures, the signs are all French, there are blue and white flags flapping from storefronts, but it has been a very long day, stretched longer by my restless, nearly sleepless night and the dilation effect of crossing two time-zones. The plane ride was choppy, but comfortable all the same. Not enough passengers to fill every seat, so there was room to stretch, room enough to feel like we weren't crammed in a can. How flat this country is, how bleak, I thought, looking over the plains, but then the lakes began to appear. The lakes that freckle the country are still frozen stiff, even in May, small, tidy sheets of white that gleamed like I used to imagine diamonds are supposed to, blazing with the sunshine even as our shadow touched them.

    My friends walk arm in arm, a married couple, beautifully affectionate, sweet and pretty. I adore them both, they make me ache to know the language better, so that I could be as quick and fluent with them as they are with each other. I remember their wedding, the sharp joy they gave out, like flares from lighthouses. They live together now by the Olympic Stadium in an apartment I had never been to before, shared with four cats, each with a distinctive personality, a greenhouse worth of plants, and books deeply piled on every flat surface. We are coming back from dinner, I’m to sleep in the front room, on a currant coloured velvet couch surrounded by novels, paintings, plants, and more art. It’s glorious. The building is old in a way that no buildings in the west are old, with painted over wallpaper raised in a repeating pattern of griffons and urns and dark wooden doors inset with stained glass. They are on the top floor, the stairs narrow, circular, and set with stone. It makes me think of castles and timeworn foreign movies. Someone shoots a gun, there are footsteps, someone running, but all you see is a hand on the rail. I love everything about it. I love everything about them. And underneath it all, a constant, the welcoming perfumed scent of sweet-smelling incense.

    a moment about bread

    Just a note before I launch into this particular rave: I don’t really like bread. My infatuation with a good croissant, however, is not a passing flirtation, no, it is a fierce white-knuckle fucking love. When I was a child, my parents offered them to me as an ultimate treat, as fulfilling in their way as a the sugary deathbomb ambrosia in the center of a Cadbury Cream egg. Food of the gods, my overly literary five year old self would have told you, the cheap chocolate equivalent of the Norse apples of life.

    Most croissants are not up to par. They are substandard, greasy crescents of gluey, papery, crumbling pastry, not worth the hot chocolate it takes to save them. A proper croissant is a treasure, a warm, smooth bread, delicately crunchy to bite into, tender yet satisfying to chew. Buying them from a grocery store just isn’t going to cut it. Most bakeries, in fact, don’t even dish out. That said, the delectable croissants at Au Kouign-Amann, (322 Avenue Du Mont-Royal Est, Montréal), blew my head off. One bite and I was dissolved, transparent, lost in the buttery, flaky heaven that had just taken me hostage.

    Tony and I tried their cranberry shortbread tarts, blueberry shortbread tarts, chocolate croissants, and plain croissants, liking best the cranberry tart, as the sharpness of the berry contrasted well with the richness of the shortbread, and the plain croissants, as we found the taste of the chocolate too distracting from the flawless pastry. We would have tried the bakery’s namesake kouign amann, but we got there later in the day, and they were out.

    The red Au Kouign-Amann storefront on Avenue du Mont-Royal, right by St. Denis, in small and unpretentious and easy to walk by, but you mustn’t. You need to go inside and examine their tiny, pretty, shortbread cranberry cakes, their immaculate almond flake tarts, or their perfect croissants, pick out slightly more than you think you should eat, making certain to try one of each of the shiniest, most delectable offerings in the cabinet, then settle into one of the two cozy tables in the window, turn off your cellphone, and prepare to be transported to bliss by the power of warm, fresh bread alone.

    Morning! How’s your day been?

    An interesting subplot to this trip to Montreal has been the rather immediate crumbling decay of the building we’ve been staying in, where Lung and Melanie have been living. One of the main walls of the building half fell down recently, as it seems mold got underneath the bricks and simply sloughed the outside layer off. Not a trivial thing, this, especially as we’ve been staying in the room most affected. In the corner of our bedroom is a mad crack that runs all the way from the ceiling to the wooden floor, casually snapping the baseboard along the way. Every day it seems to be a tiny bit bigger. Sometimes there are threatening sounds.

    Yesterday Melanie had inspectors come by, as the landlord has been too scummy to reduce their rent, and after some mandatory tapping on things, they quite promptly condemned the building, claiming that it’s too dangerous to inhabit, as the ceiling “could come down on your heads any minute”.

    This morning they’ve come by banging up some sort of metal scaffolding to attempt to shore it up before it collapses, so Lung and Melanie can at least stay until December 1st. Tony and I have retreated to the livingroom with our electronics, as out of all our options, it seems safest.