Something about a tuque

Before I left home to study French in Quebec I had spend a lot of effort getting ready to prepare for the Québécois winter I had heard about in legend: 

• I had invested in a quality pair of winter boots that had extra insulation, super treads, and came in an incredible trendy combination of brown leather and teal. 
• I had dug out my Walmart special down-filled white winter jacket that was now a little off white and losing a few feathers, but still warm. 
• I was wearing my hand-crocheted blue winter scarf that is still a little singed from that time I wore it while cooking (don't ask). 
• I also had my awesome blue gloves on that let me type on my touch-screen while wearing them - you have no idea how amazingly useful this is!!! 

Yes, I was well equipped except for one thing: the night before I had left home I had somehow managed to misplace my favourite white, slightly stained and strangely large, winter tuque*.  I had torn my room apart but for some inexplicable reason it had disappeared!  I even bemoaned the fact to my mother in a whimpery voice, doing my best impression of a whiney child, "Moooommy, I can't find my tuuuque...."  As the day of my departure was literally one sleep away, I had to resort to packing what I considered to be my second-best winter apparel.

Bienvenue à Québéc! Il fait froid ici!

And so the first day of school in Quebec dawned, bright and clear with a forecasted temperature of -12**, feeling like -27 with its 40km/h humid wind that strips the warmth from your soul and leaves you feeling like your face had just been dipped in liquid nitrogen.  I donned tuque backup #1 for my 20 minute walk to school: a green knit beanie that likes to contract until it completely slides off my head.  The walk to school thus consisted of me walking with my hand up above my shoulders, tugging my beanie back down like it was a bra-strap that wouldn't stay up.  To be honest, I would have just taken the beanie off, except for the fact that I was pretty sure that if I didn't wear something on my head I would probably lose my ears to frostbite.

Frustrated with day one's experience I decided to try something different for day two: a pair of black sparkly earmuffs that would have no problem covering that particularly vulnerable area of my anatomy.  Ears fully protected, I ventured out into the cold only to be confronted with a completely new adversity; not even halfway to the school I began to get a temperature-inflicted headache. That's right, without the proper covering for my forehead I was getting brain-freeze!!!  Previously I had thought that brain-freeze was an affliction for those who liked to pig out on ice cream or drink their Slurpee's at record-breaking speeds. Now I know the truth: brain-freeze can also be mother nature's way of mocking you for wearing fuzzy earmuffs and not a more practical head-covering.  I went home that evening knowing that I would have to come up with a new solution or cave and buy a new tuque.

But I am stubborn.

And lucky.

That night, after I met my real host family and started unpacking my belongings into my new room I pulled a box of feminine products out of my suitcase that was bulging strangely.  I was instantly excited, because I suddenly remembered what had happened!!!  The day before I left to go to Quebec I had been packing my suitcase and thought that I might not have enough room in my suitcase for everything.  So, in an effort to save space, I had shoved my white tuque into the little bit of empty space that existed in my box of pads.  In hindsight I acknowledge that it was a really strange place for a tuque.  It was so strange that afterwards I never thought about looking back in there for the tuque.  Yes, I might be just a little dense...and strange.  But I was really happy!  So happy, in fact, that I found my tuque that I started to do a little happy dance in my room because I knew that on day three I would have a proper tuque!  On day three my head wouldn't freeze! On day three I could instead happily take this picture:

From Facebook:
"Il y a -17 degrés ici, mais je trouve ma tuque blanche donc maintenant je fait chaud!"

NOTES:
*Fun language fact: "La tuque" is a French word that refers to a winter hat that covers the entire head and ears, like a proper winter hat should.
**For any Americans: all temperatures posted in this post are in Celsius.  Please use Google's temperature conversion feature if you want to know how ridiculously cold it was in Fahrenheit.

Something about a language barrier

My eyes opened and I picked up my cellphone to check the time: 6:30am.  Good morning Quebec!  Normally I am a firm believer that any hour before 8am was created for sleeping, but the fact of the matter was that I was so exhausted from my 24 hours of travel that I had gone to bed at 8pm the night before. And I might have also had a 3 hour nap before that.  Needless to say, I was actually feeling pretty well rested and it was Sunday - which meant that in a few short hours I would be meeting the friend of the family who would be hosting me during my stay in Quebec. 

Okay, I know that sounds convoluted.  At this point I hadn't even met the host family I would be living with as they were currently in the Dominican Republic, having fled the perils of a Quebec winter for a splendid extended Christmas vacation.  Thus, to begin my French immersion adventure, I would be staying with one of their friends, whom I had also never met, for a couple of nights.  Living with a stranger who was a friend of strangers - talk about networking at its finest!

Welcome to Quebec!  It is as cold as it looks!

I checked out of the hostel at 9am, and hauled my enormous 50 pound bright blue flower-printed oversized suitcase out onto the sidewalk.  On my back I had my plus-sized, multi-compartmented backpack filled with my laptop, my camera and anything else that I consider particularly heavy or valuable.  I looped my purse/laptop bag over the handle of the suitcase and took my first steps forward into the snowy hilly streets. Solene's apartment, according to Google maps, was 1.3km away, which meant that - even though it was the middle of winter and freezing cold outside - I was going to walk.

It had snowed the day before and the streets were filled with massive puddles of slush.  At each intersection I had to stop to lift the monster suitcase I was lugging behind me over these puddles.  Aware of what I sight I must have been, I tried to convince myself that surely no one in the street was looking at me strangely because I was taking my suitcase for a morning walk.  It certainly didn't help that most of the 1.3 kilometre distance was at a slight incline up-hill.  Needless to say, by the time I arrived at the address, both of my arms were tired and I was feeling more than a little exercised.

There was a problem though with my destination however: it was not a home.  No, even with my limited knowledge of French, I could tell it was definitely a business. Do people live in flower shops here? I wondered to myself.  I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, my big suitcase behind me taking up most of the space on the narrow ledge, forcing people to practice a tightrope routine in order to pass me without stepping into traffic.  I pulled out my phone to text Solène, then hesitated.  Did she even speak or read English at all?  I didn't have the slightest clue. 

Sighing I opened Google translate, being grateful in my heart of hearts that my cellphone data plan was more than well equipped to handle the rigours of being in a foreign -national- city.  "Hello  Solène.  I am at your home but it seems to be a business?"  It was painstaking work, trying to read her texts as they flew at me in French, meanwhile trying to write my own responses and translate my own responses and re-write my own responses in the text box.  There was never created a more inefficient way to text!

Summarizing the conversation:
 Solène: She was outside her apartment now and I was not there.
 Solène: She thought maybe I had gone to the same address on the east side of Quebec, not the west side.
 Solène: She wanted to know what business I was in front of.
 Solène: She was outside of her apartment.
 Solène: Where was I?

As you might have noticed, there are no responses from me in that conversation. It didn't take me long to understand what was wrong: that I had indeed gone to the wrong address and was about a block away from where she actually lived. I kept trying to write a response in the midst of her flurry of texts and questions, but trying to write out my location in French was like one of those bad dreams when you are trying to run from a bear and you find out that your legs don't work, or they do and you start running in slow motion.

Finally, frustrated and realizing that I am literally a 2 minute walk away, I decide to ignore all her questions and type this message in English: "Longer to translate and type. Oui je est.  (Translation: Yes I east.)"  I grabbed my lovely suitcase again started walking.  I would explain everything, in French theoretically, when I arrived.

Something français

STOP!  In Montreal.

 

"Excusez-moi? Parlez vous anglais?" I asked the man behind the desk at the Metro in Montreal.  My innate sense of direction was not accessible this far underground and I needed to find the bus station so I could purchase my ticket to Ottawa. Unfortunately old-reliable Google maps couldn't get a signal either, so I was forced to approach a random stranger and reveal my general incompetence at speaking the French language in the hopes of garnering some directions.

 

The man did indeed speak English and pointed the way asking, "How old are you?"  I hesitated for a moment, not sure of the relevance of the question.  What did my age have to do with getting to the bus station?  Figuring there was no harm in telling him, as I am not one of those people who feels like they need to perpetually lie about how young they are - who would I be fooling anyways? - I answered him "I am almost 30."

 

"Almost 30!" He says incredulously, "You don't know French and you have had 30 years to learn the language?!"

 

I flushed in embarrassment, swallowing the words of protest before I took anything needlessly personally.  The comment was rude, but the man was right; I had 30 years to learn the French language and I still can barely say anything more than "Je ne parle pas francais" (which itself is an oxymoron in that I claim to not be able to speak French while speaking French *sigh*).  What that man didn't realize though is that I have tried, more often than most would, to learn a language that is as elusive to me as the legendary Canadian ogo-pogo lake monster.

 

My handicap began at a young age.  Unlike most average school-attending children in Canada I did not go to a public school that offered French education from the elementary grades. The private school curriculum I was studying did not offer French until grade 9.  Incidentally, grade 9 was when I moved to a home-schooling curriculum where French was required, BUT the course-work was all done by correspondence.  Have you ever tried learning a language by correspondence?  It's like trying to whistle, not realizing that you don't have lips! It was a complete utter disaster and waste of time!  When I entered public school at grade 10, French became an optional elective, and realizing that I was 10 years hopelessly behind in the subject compared to my peers, I exercised my option to not take it.

 

Now I have to admit, in those mid-teen years of my life French was not a language that appealed to me.  It was too flowy, too elegant.  Words blended together like the notes of a melody, indistinguishable where one left off and the other began.  Personally, I was much more a fan of the harsher sounding languages like Russian, or Japanese, or Klingon.  "P'tak, get me my borscht! Itadakimasu!" But as I grew older and developed a greater interest in all things Canadian, my interest in the French language began to change too.  I began to realize that there is something very precious and unique in being a bilingual nation of people.

 

I tried to rectify my previous reticence to learn the language in later years.  I took an intro course in Fruitvale offered by my bilingual pastors, and there I learned that the bathroom is "la salle de bain". I took an intro course in Calgary as part of a continuing education program and there I learned how to ask for the time "Quelle heure est-il?"   I took an intro course on my computer using the Rosetta Stone software.  I can now identify articles of clothing by their French name, and construct a few rudimentary sentences. "Je porte un manteau blanc" = "I wear a white coat".  Every time I take a new intro course I retain a little more, but I've reached that uncomfortable impasse where I am absolutely sick of intro-courses and yet my French is still at a beginner level!

 

You see, what that man failed to realize is that it's not that I haven't learnt French for the lack of motivation in taking French courses.  It's that I haven't learnt French because I haven't lived in the right environment to help me retain it!  And one thing I realized as I travelled this autumn is how wonderfully multi-lingual Canada is, especially out east.  That bilingualism made me jealous.  I want to be a good Canadian too.  I'm already struggling in that regard because I don't really like maple syrup or hockey, but maybe, just maybe I can learn to speak French.

 

Today I arrived in Quebec City to embark on a 6-month long French immersion educational experience.  I've had about 6 hours of pitiful sleep over the last 24 hours that I was able to squeeze out of the uncomfortable bus seat and 3 plane transfers. I am exhausted but excited because finally I know that the legendary lake monster that has been evading me all my life will be mine.  I am here to learn French, in an environment that is overwhelmingly French Canadian, and this time no English-dependence/addiction will stop me!

 

Quebec City, from my week-long visit to it in September of 2015