Something incontinental

 

I like this photo.  It looks like an artsy advertisement for my backpack.  The highlighting of the brand name, Zuolunduo, looks intentionally framed to draw attention to it. Colour balancing, lighting = exquisite.  If taking an excellent image to advertise the brand name of my backpack was the purpose, then I would say I nailed it.  Stamp of approval.

 But that was not why I took this picture.  The truth is much more embarrassing. The fact was that I was walking down the street and was trying to surreptitiously take a picture of my butt in order to assess for water damage. Let me explain.

 The 'water damage' was not intentional, indeed I suspect very rarely people try to wet their pants in such a way that it looks like they have incontinence.  But I had gotten only about four hours of sleep the night before, and I had gotten off work early.  I had somewhere else I needed to be nearby in about an hour so it was a waste to go home, but I didn't want to spend money. It was also about a gazillion degrees out.  To prevent myself from feeling birdcaged within the four walls of my office I vowed to myself to brave the urban jungle and find a small shaded piece of grass somewhere near the canal where I could rest my weary bones.

Imagine my bliss when I found the perfect patch of grass.  Compared to scorching reflection of hot pavement, the cool shaded strip of lawn was temperature perfection.  As I settled onto the grass, grateful for a respite in which I could recline, I became aware of my first miscalculation: the grass was a little bit wet. Oh right, it had rained the night before.  Had it really been possible in the scorching temperatures of the day that this ground hadn't quite already dried out?

 Incredible. I was too tired to care in the moment about the wet grass.  I had an hour to rest and the place was cool.  I set up my backpack as a pillow and did my best napping impression, letting the whole of my body relax into the soft, cool, green, slightly damp blanket beneath me. 

My second miscalculation became evident when I stood up.  The pants I had chosen to wear that day, as you can tell in the picture, were a light golden brown, and as I bowed my head to take stock of the parts of my pantleg that had touched the ground I could see a dark brown wet spot.  It was bold.  It was pronounced.  It was unforgiving.  I reached back to touch the part of my butt that I couldn't crane my head around to see.  "Wet," my hand said back to me through the neural tactile pathways to my brain.  Crap.  Here I was, a respectable self-employed business woman, psychotherapist in mental health practice, about to walk around in public, to church, looking like she had wet herself.

 There was only one thing I could do: radical acceptance.  Accept the loss to my pride.  

And so I set out towards the church, trying as much as I could to use my backpack and lunchbag for cover, all the while knowing that neither could actually cover the problem without bringing more attention to it.  The embarrassment ate at me.  I felt like I had to know how bad the damage was.  So after a minute of brainstorming I figured out how I could put the camera in my hand to prevent it from being so obvious to the passing cars that I was taking a targeted photo of my butt. Bring up the camera function, flip the phone case closed, while you are walking swing your arms in a slightly exaggerated fashion behind you, press the down volume button to take the photo and voila! 

It worked, kind of.  Butt, as you can see.... no water stains.  To my great and immediate relief, the laws of thermodynamics came through for me.  What a divine boon that it was actually hot enough outside to evaporate all the evidence of 'water damage' in the one minute it took me to figure out how to use my camera!

  

Something ... brain... no words...

Have you ever had your brain implode?

I'm talking about that stop in your tracks, do not pass go, do not collect $200, can't put words together into sentences type of mental implosion.  The kind that if you try to back your car down the driveway you would run into a fence because you can't handle the mental load of shoulder checking over two shoulders at the same time?

Yeah, I probably shouldn't have tried to back the car down the driveway last night.

I knew something was off with my brain as soon as my last client left the office for the day and I couldn't remember what my goals for the evening had been and also could care less that I couldn't remember.  A small semi-lucid part of me observed this phenomenon and thought it was quite interesting; after all for the past couple of days my brain hadn't been able to shut up about the to-do list that I had to get done in preparation for moving into the my new condo in August.  I've been struggling the last few days to eat and sleep and do recreation properly, and it was like that part of my brain had finally worked itself into exhaustion, like a kid who falls asleep during dinner with their face in the plate and then their parents take embarrassing photos to commemorate the moment.

Despite the lack of mental cohesion I couldn't miss the 7 foot tall corner cupboard occupying the passenger space next to me and entire back of my car after I had finally stumbled down from the office to go home.  Right, that had been on my list of things to do - get shelf into garage.  No consideration about whether this was wise to attempt when a person has absolutely no brain power in their mental tank, there was only autopilot.  Hence backing the car down the driveway, managing to avoid the brick wall to the right, directly into the fence on the left. The fence survived (hooray).  My tail light did not.

 

It's semi-repaired.  Kind-of.

There wasn't enough brain power to be upset at the situation, no rewind, just facts.  I simply unloaded the cabinet and moved on to the next reasonable thing to do.  Which was to go get superglue and sit on the asphalt of the driveway in my dress and proceed to glue my fingers together for the next 30 minutes. 

.......It may not have been my best or brightest moment.....  

My one successful intelligence check of the night was that it finally occurred to me that maybe this wasn't a task to be attempting when my brain couldn't think enough to tell my fingers what to do.  We'll consider it a graceful surrender.

Something on ice

"So, when was the last time you skated?"  I asked him.

"He" was a middle-aged middle-eastern man from San Francisco who just happened to also be my schoolmate at the school for French immersion.  His name: Mohommad. We were presently on our way towards the Plains of Abraham* to take in a afternoon of leisurely outdoor skating on one of the many outdoor skating rinks of the city.  Accompanying us was an 18-year old young lady from Mexico, also a schoolmate, who despite her vehement dislike of the cold, also claims to love snow and outdoor winter sports such as skating.  Her name: Alinna.  Mohommad from the USA, Alinna from Mexico, and me: a 30-year-old something from British Columbia, Canada. Yes, between the three of us we were together proudly representing the nations of North America.



Is the French word for a Zamboni "Zamboni"?

"Never." Mohommad replied to my question.  His voice was so matter-of-fact and devoid of self-consciousness that I was taken aback.  Maybe I had heard him wrong?  Or maybe he had misunderstood my question?

"Never?" I tried to confirm.  "You have never skated outdoors - or have you never skated at all?  You have never worn skates?" 

If you have ever learned how to skate you can understand why confirming this fact is very, very important. After all, I had just purchased skates after a personal 15 year skating famine, and for my first reintroduction onto the ice I had purposefully chosen to go on a freezing cold day to an out-of-the-way abandoned rink in order to avoid having an audience for my imminent performance of shame. And how shameful it was!   When I had first stepped onto the ice, it had taken all of my latent muscle memory and willpower to not become an ungraceful pancake.  At first I couldn't even move forward - I just let my legs wobble like a newborn Bambi.  After a couple minutes I had managed to summon enough stability to kind of scoot forward a little bit. And then I hit that little bump in the ice that sent me flying into a snowbank like a hockey puck.

If it had been that difficult for me, who had been a decent skater when I was a child, to get back on the ice - then for Mohommad, if he was truly a beginner.......

"No, this is the first time for me." Mohommad's voice was light and optimistic, giving off the impression that we were on our way to a picnic, and not about just about to go gliding on a rock-hard surface of frozen water on razor-thin blades of metal using muscles in his legs that he had never thought of using before.  A shiver of simultaneous horror and glee rippled through my spine.  The sadistic part of my soul couldn't help but revel in his apparent naivety, which was immediately in conflict with the nurturing, caring part of my soul that actually cares about the spiritual, mental and physical well-being of other human beings.

I couldn't blame him for assuming that learning how to skate is easy.  Watching the other people glide effortlessly on the rink in front of us made skating look as simple as breathing.  It requires the experience of having gone through the gauntlet to know what Mohommad was about to learn: that he was about to learn first-hand the true meaning of humiliation.

Sorry Mohommad, I thought to myself as we entered the shack adjacent to the rink to don our skates, but you are going to lose a little bit of pride today.  Let the fun and games commence!



On the ice and ready to go!

*If you managed to stay awake through the Canadian history portion of high school social studies, then you will remember that the Plains of Abraham are the site of a very important war fought between the French of the English, which ultimately determined the British dominance over British North America (later to be known as Canada).  If you weren't able to stay awake for that portion of the class then this footnote is for you.

Something velcro

It was after I arrived in Quebec that I began to see them.  They were everywhere - seemingly sprouting up around every corner - and I began to wonder to myself: "How many outdoor skating rinks does a city really need?"  No, I'm not talking about the frozen puddles in the middle of the street intersections or the ice-covered risk-your-life-to-use-them sidewalks. I'm talking about honest-to-goodness real-life skating rinks!



IT'S AWESOME!!! 

 

I have seen outdoor skating rinks before, but they have always been small and few and far between, kind of like my lottery ticket wins. It is probably because the winters in southern British Columbia are occasionally prone to periods of crazy thawing, making ice retention a bit of an issue. Take exhibits "A" and "B" for example, taken a month ago near my hometown:

 



EXHIBIT A:
Tulip Creek in Southern BC
Taken around January 16, 2016
Photo by Cristi-Lynn Villecourt

 "Winter in the Kootenays is kind of like having a generous aunt who shows up from time to time with cookies and a warm hug.  Winter in Quebec, by contrast, is like that cantankerous uncle with the frigid personality whom you can't seem to get to leave the house."
~ Myself, written right now 



EXHIBIT B:
Same place. It's only a little difference right?
Taken 2 weeks later, January 30, 2016
Photo by Stephanie Michelle Harron

A real benefit to the more consistently-cold winter of Quebec is that it allows for a genuine urban winter-culture to develop in and around the city.  And that culture manifests itself as skating rinks: many, many, beautiful puddles of frozen water for people to gracefully glide and fall on.  And seeing all of those many, many beautiful puddles of frozen water I couldn't help but feel an inner longing to join the people of the city in their winter-cultural pastime of gliding and falling.

Yes, it didn't take me long to make the decision: I needed a pair of skates.

Doing the mental math I quickly determined that it would probably be cheaper for me to purchase a pair of skates then trying to rent a pair any time the fancy to skate overtook my imagination.  My imagination can be rather overactive, and rentals average around $8 a pair per session. This equates to a hole burning through my pocketbook if I had to rent a pair everytime I wanted to step on the ice for 20 minutes.  And yes, I am under no illusions: my flights of fancy on the ice would last for almost exactly 20 minutes.  My feet have special magical skill of turning blue whenever they decide that they are getting too cold.  Spending prolonged periods of time in outdoor temperatures of minus something ridiculous is one of the fastest ways I can think of to tell my toes that I don't need them anymore.

On the other hand of the cost equation, I knew that the likelihood of using the skates again after I left Quebec City would probably be equivalent to me deciding to spend $6 for a head of cauliflower (aka: not likely; does anyone need cauliflower that much?).   The most economical decision therefore was to Google whatever "a thrift store" was in French (un magasin deuxieme-main) and hope that someone else in the city has perfectly average size 8 feet, just like me. 

Fortunately, stressing the perfectly average size of my feet and the abundance of skating ponds in the city, I correctly assumed that such thing would not be difficult to find.  The first thrift store I visited, La Village de Valeurs (translation: Value Village), had exactly 3 pairs of skates that would theoretically fit my feet.  One was missing the laces, the second pair was so rusted over that I wasn't even sure if they could be sharpened, and the third used Velcro fasteners that were falling off.  After weighing my options, I chose the pair with the least amount of rust - option #3 - and discovered that the skates were lacking one vital piece of information: a price tag.

It did not take me long to determine what needed to be done; I needed to go to the till and utilise my fledgling French communication skills to tell the cashier:

1. that I couldn't find the price tag, but
2. that the Velcro on the skates was falling off, and
3. ask if she could quote me a price for the skates. 

It would be like a right of passage for my advancement in Quebec society from "I can't speak French" to "I can communicate in rudimentary, pre-thought-out sentences!"  Advancement! What an exciting and novel concept: never before attempted on such a scale by yours truly!

I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders, taking out my phone.  First things first.  I needed to find out the French word for Velcro. 

Incidentally, it is Velcro.

And so, having officially passed that advancement test with flying colours, I am now the proud owner of a pair of size 8 used ladies skates that sport a minimal amount of rust and velcro that likes to fall off.

The best thing about the purchase was the price: $5.99.  Less than the cost of rentals!  Less than a head of cauliflower!  I am feeling like the queen of bargain hunters!

TA-DA!

Something('s) cooking

I'm pretty sure that my host family in Quebec thinks that I'm trying to burn their house down.  In my defense I want to say that it's not that I am doing it on purpose! It's just that every time I cook lately it seems to result in an ungodly amount of smoke and other burning things.  And it's not that I'm a bad cook either.  ... ... ...  Okay, so I'm not a great cook, but I can get by all right.  When I started travelling more I determined that I would start doing right by my body and stop eating popcorn and nachos for supper.  Like a proper adult I determined to start applying the fundamentals of healthy cuisine. It's amazing how many different ways you can use onion, pepper, rice, eggs, broccoli, and a bit of cheese.

No, the problem with my cooking is not my cooking.  The problem, I've determined, is trying to speak French and cook at the same time!  This is because the process of trying to speak French at a beginner's level is not all sunshine, roses and pamplemousse.  It requires patience, dedication, a constant technological lifeline, a ridiculous amount of repeating words over and over again, and absolute focus.  Focus, which cannot be spent on such trivial things as making sure the food that you are cooking doesn't catch on fire.

The first "incident" happened, incidentally, on the night of my birthday.  I had bought a 2 pound bag of carrots from the grocery store because it was on sale and seemed like a good idea at the time.  As I stood there contemplating what to make for dinner, however, I had to acknowledge the fact that I am actually not a person who eats a lot of carrots.  That probably would have been a good thought to have while I was at the grocery store. 

I knew that I  would have to come up with a strategy for consuming said carrots, or my very limited fridge space (which the carrots were commanding a majority of) would be perpetually lost forever.  I looked at my almost-completed dinner and decided that I really should try to include a generous helping of boiled carrots.  I peeled and chopped the carrots and put them on the stove, then sat down to eat my dinner with the rest of the family.

And we started talking, in French.  The French which, if you remember, requires absolute focus.  This time I was able to multi-task enough to remember to eat the dinner that was in front of me.  Unfortunately, I was not able to remember that there were, in-fact, carrots cooking on the stove.  Nope, I did not remember this until my female host Helene left the table, effectively pausing the conversation for a moment.  My brain thus freed up to think about other things than French, I suddenly recalled the carrots I had been cooking and turned around to see a cloud of smoke billowing out of a pot on the stove like someone had just let off a nuclear bomb.  Yikes!  I dashed over to the stove to try and stop the disaster in progress, madly turning on fans while the male host, Franck, ran over to the sliding glass door to vent the smoke into the freezing elements outside.

It was then, when I holding the smoking pot of carrots in my hand that Helene returned to the room with a birthday cake full of lit candles ready to burst into song.  I was caught: orange and black-handed.  For the record, it is probably the most awkward thing in the world to be in the process of burning your dinner while someone else is trying to sing to you Happy Birthday.

I wish I could say that this was the only time that I had nearly set off the smoke alarm in home here, but the sad fact it that within the first month of being in Quebec it has happened, oh, four, or five, or six, or seven, or eight times.  In fact, it's been so regular that Franck finally declared (in English) last week while I in the middle of diffusing another such incident: "When you are cooking, it's English time!"

"Yes sir!"

Even French immersion must yield to the force of nature that is me in a kitchen.

Proof that I can cook a decent meal when it has my full attention!

Something that needs a better version of Google translate

I could see the very first night I had met the host family that there were going to be massive hurdles to overcome in learning the French language.  I greeted them as politely and properly as I knew how to in French (aka: "Bonjour"), and they greeted me back with a string of words that sounded like this to my ears: "Puweki sille ai u hogeons sow m'yden?" I immediately felt like a deer that had just been caught in the headlights: brain completely frozen and unable to process anything.  I tried to communicate my confusion: "Je....je ne......ahhhhh.... je ne sais pas!!!!!!!"  They tried to ask again: "Asayg fioreq titoe u'ka?"  Oh boy, I could tell we were not going to get anywhere fast.  As time wore on, however and I settled into my new home I devised a strategy for circumventing the language barrier:

• Step one: Always have my cellphone or tablet with me so I could look up any words that I didn't know on Google translate.  I'm a bonafide internet addict anyways, so the step proved to feel quite natural for me.
• Step two: Repeat back words I don't understand back to them to make sure I am hearing them right.  For example, today I got my host to repeat the word "Olive" to me four times (which in French incidentally happens to be "olive") because my brain couldn't make the correlation between olives and crackers.
• Step three: If all else fails, just smile and nod and say "oui" as though I totally understand what they are saying.  This last step has proven very successful when I'm at bus stops or in other public places.

Fortunately the language barrier hasn't prevented me from making new friends!

The second evening with the family I was ready to try again.  Armed with my cellphone I sat down opposite them at the dinner table for supper, and thus began the interrogation.  About an hour and a half later they had managed to find out that I had a family with both boys and girls in it and that I liked to travel across Canada every once in a while, and I was finally able to eat my neglected dinner that had surrendered its heat to the time it took for me to look up all the words we had used on the internet.  It was then that I realized that learning to be bilingual will require the sacrifice of a warm dinner every once in a while, all in the name of progress.

Unsatisfied with my continually low rate of comprehension however, as I near the one month mark, this past week I decided that in order to expand my vocabulary more swiftly I should buy a book in French and attempt to read it.  I went to a second-hand store and picked a chapter book out of the children's section that had a title I recognized "Le Livre de la Jungle" (The Jungle Book).  Perfect! I thought to myself.  A child's book should be easy to read and have simple vocabulary!  I went home and happily displayed my new purchase to my host.  "I am going to read this tonight, and I might get two or three pages done!" I proudly announced.  She smiled and laughed a little at my obvious enthusiasm.

Two hours later......  "J'ai terminé!" I announced to the household.  It had been long and arduous work and I had been tempted to give up more than once, but I finally had read two pages!  (Oh my word...as having typed that last sentence I feel shame for how far my lofty self has fallen!)  Of course, even having finished the two pages there were still things that didn't quite translate properly with Google translate so I called over to my hosts for help.  The lady took one look at the phrase I was having trouble with and her face immediately wrinkled in consternation.  She took the book over to her partner and they started to conference over the phrase, as though they didn't quite know themselves what it meant or how to explain it.  I overheard the word "difficile" in their conversation.  Finally, after a couple of minutes the lady comes back to tell me that she doesn't actually know how to the explain the sentence to me, because the language the book is using is actually quite archaic and isn't really commonly used anymore.

Great.  I go out and buy one book - a book for children - thinking that it is going to be filled with simple easily-translatable words about cute fluffy jungle animals, and instead I end up with the French equivalent of Shakespeare!  Go figure.

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 full of holiday cheer

"I wanted to put up a Christmas tree for my birthday", my friend tells me as I visited her in Calgary at the end of November, "but some of my friends have a problem with Christmas trees."

"How can someone have a problem with Christmas trees?" I ask incredulously. "It's a tree with balls.  Lots and lots of balls!"

She takes one look at me and bursts out laughing.  "Oh, I missed you."


Runaway ball!!!

When I was a kid I remember being absolutely mesmerized by the concept of a Christmas tree.  After the tree was dressed I would sit at the base of the tree as the northern sky dimmed at its ridiculously early hour to complete blackness, allowing the multi-coloured illumination of the tree to become a spectacle that would enthrall me for hours on end as I stared up at it in wonder.  In those moments there was no need for thought or agenda; there was only a need for a deep sense of gratitude and joy.  My hyperactive imagination would pause as it stopped to consider the simple and majestic beauty the Christmas tree in front of me represented.  Needless to say, the Christmas tree has always been one of my favourite parts of Christmas.

Four years ago in December my dad died rather suddenly in a car accident. That year there was not much energy to celebrate Christmas, and so the Christmas tree did not go up.  The following year the tree went up only out of duress since we were hosting the family Christmas, but it was a half-hearted effort, going up at the last moment and not staying up past Boxing Day*.  Last year, our version of a Christmas tree was my mom's fake potted plant with multi-coloured lights on it, which we hadn't bothered taking off from the year before.  Maybe that passes for a Christmas tree in some households, but for my family the display was a lack of Christmas spirit at its finest.

Tree-dressing!

Which is why you should be able to understanding my surprise this year at the beginning November, when in mid-conversation my mother suddenly looked at me with a twinkle in her eye and a mischievous grin on her face and announced, "I feel like putting up the Christmas tree!!!"

I laughed and brushed it off, as I headed out the door to play board games at a friend's house.  After all, it was the beginning of November - and who puts up a Christmas tree at the beginning of November?

Well, apparently my family does, because when I got home I was shocked to discover a Christmas tree that I did not recognize standing proudly in the centre of the living room, completely decorated.  While I had been gone for the past 4 hours my mother had gone to Canadian Tire, bought a Christmas tree with my brother, brought it home, had my brother help her set it up in the middle of the living room and then decorated it and went to bed.

The funnier thing though is that this isn't the end of the story.  Dissatisfied with her choice of baubles, balls and lack of ribbon, on November 11th while we were exiled from the home to provide her housekeeper some personal space, we proceeded to travel across half of the West Kootenays in search of new ornaments to dress the tree with.  Then, after we got home, we promptly un-decorate the already-decorated tree in order to re-decorate it with the new decorations.  By the way, that was a completely decorous sentence. ~grins at bad pun~ 

Finished product! ~"Oh Christmas Tree"~

 

So suffice to say my family is in fine Christmas spirit this year.  The tree is up and it is beautiful and mesmerizing.  It has lights that can alternate between pristine white, and psychedelic multi-colour with patterns.  There are lots of balls on it.  The cat has already pulled the ribbon off of it at least once.  Yes, the tree this year is pretty much perfect in every way.  Merry Christmas everybody!

*Boxing day: December 26th, the Canadian equivalent of Black Friday - shopping day extraordinaire that was originally intended to be the day when people would "box up" the tree.

Something adventurous! (part 3)

We were only an estimated half hour away from our destination in biking to Cavendish when my friend Josh stopped abruptly on the road and asked "Where the heck are we? That Google-Maps app can't be right!"  We were on a red-dirt gravel road full of pot-holes in the middle of nowhere that seemed to be leading further into the middle of nowhere, PEI.  Snowie Road, I think it was called.  It was probably called that because it spent the winter buried under untouched, unplowed, untrodden snow. 

Snowie Road

"No, we are in the right place," I tried to reassure him that despite appearances that we were on a dead-end country road, we were on track to our destination.  "There should be a turn off just around the next bend."

Sure enough, around the next bend another dirt road branched off in a perpendicular direction leading the merry jaunt through the abandoned country side.  I wasn't sure whether to find it spooky or beautiful.  On one hand we were getting an up-close and personal look at the Prince Edward Island wilderness complete with the legendary red soil.  On the other hand, it was nearing 4 o'clock and I wasn't sure what kind of wildlife was on the island and when said wildlife observed dinner time.

By this time I was walking my bike more than I was riding it.  My tailbone was so sore from the four hours of bike riding that sitting on the bike was nearly impossible without bringing tears to my eyes.  Still, the promise on the Google-maps app on my phone was clear: Cavendish was only a few more hills away.

When we finally pulled into town there was no cheering, no victory dance, no frolicking in joy.  There was just this sense of palpable relief, exhaustion and pain.  It had taken us just over 4 hours to make a trip that Google-maps had promised would be only 2 hours long.  Never trust Google-maps on a bicycle.  I looked at Josh and whispered to him, shamefully, "I don't think I can make the return trip."  Another 40 kilometers back?  Heck no, not happening.

Our first stop in Cavendish was at the visitor information centre, to find a shuttle that could drive us back to Charlottetown with our bikes.  Then we checked out Green Gables, Avonlea village and finally, the beach.   I had made the trip in faith, being told that Cavendish was an absolutely beautiful and magical place.  Was it worth the pain?  Here are the pictures; you be the judge: (click to view full-sized photo)



Green Gables!!!

Avonlea Village.  It was so adorable, and free to walk around!

On the other side of those dunes on the far left is the lovely beach.



The beach at Cavendish. 
Fun fact: the constant washing of the waves over the dirt washes out the
rust in the soil, removing the red colour.

I wasn't the only one enjoying the beach.



So peaceful....

The landscape was absolutely stunning, even without mountains.

 I am happy to say that despite all the pain, tears and inconveniences that accompanied the adventure, I am glad we took the chance to visit Cavendish.  I got to see an incredible landscape, become intimately acquainted with Prince Edward Island, visit a place that inspire my favourite books, and lived a story that I can now tell on my blog.  But best of all?  I got bragging rights!  That's right 40 kilometres in one day, I biked across and entire Canadian province!

The "I made it! (even though I can't feel my legs anymore)" photo.

Something adventurous! (part 2)

Spare change for tires?

Determined to have a successful bike trip to Cavendish, I resolved to camp out in front of the Canadian Tire until it opened, in hopes of procuring a new tube for my busted bicycle tire.  I reasoned that even if the store didn't open until noon, if the trip took 2 hours, like Google-maps promised, then we would still be able to enjoy a couple of hours in Cavendish before coming home.  In the meantime, our spare time could be spent trouble-shooting where to get lunch.  The whole Maritime devotion to observing a day of rest was seriously hampering our attempts at locating a place to buy a sandwich. Fortunately, Pita Pit came to the rescue with its yummy custom-wrap goodness, and then, 10 minutes before the Canadian Tire opened, the owner of the bike rental place showed up with a new bike for me.  YAY!  The trip was delayed but not defeated.  Optimism had won!

Actually.... naivety had won.

The first clue I had that this trip would not be all that I envisioned it to be happened shortly after we detoured off the Confederation Trail and reached the crest of the first hill, only to be confronted with a landscape that looked like this:

At least you know that none of the hills go higher than 400m over sea level.

 Forging onward, we reached the top of that hill only to find an almost identical hill behind it.  And an identical hill behind that one.  And an identical hill behind that one.  The whole island was a freaking roller coaster on bicycle!  And, remember, I had not seriously ridden a bicycle for 15 years.  Oh God, what had I gotten myself into?

We might need directions.

I was a good sport for the first two hours, suffering patiently as I dragged my sorry bike-pedalling ass up hill after hill.  It was slow, excruciating work, so I did expect that we would be a bit behind Google-maps estimate - but nothing can describe the depths to which my heart sank after those first two hours to find out that we had only made it 1/2 of the way!  "How many kilometers is it to Cavendish?"  Josh finally asked and I realized, shamefully, that I had never looked that information up.  All I had depended on was Google-maps time estimate, as hours were the true Canadian way of calculating distance.  So I checked it out then and there and discovered that the route we were following was over 40 kilometres long from Charlottetown to Cavendish.  40 KILOMETRES!!!!  My eyes nearly bugged out of my head, and there was an incredibly low sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.  Still, we were halfway there and in the middle of nowhere.  Our only company on these pastoral roads were the potatoes in the red-soiled fields around us.  The only logical choice was to forge on ahead, through the rollercoaster hills.

My butt was beginning to hurt.  My legs felt like jelly.  I knew in the pit of my gut that I could not stop moving, because if I did I would not be able to start again.  Every time we reached a crest of a hill and saw the next one, just as high and steep at the last an audible groan erupted from my mouth, vocalizing the pain and disappointment I felt inside at my lack of poor judgement.  Still, defiantly I declared to Josh as we neared the 3 and 1/4 hour mark that I was not going to give up!  "I am going to get this done so I can say I can bike across Prince Edward Island in a single day!!!"  That silly, stubborn thought was thing that kept me going as I pedalled up the next hill like the Little-Engine-That-Could thinking to myself, "Bragging rights.... bragging rights... bragging rights...."

Part 3 is in the works!

Something adventurous! (part 1)

"You should really go to Cavendish; Cavendish is absolutely beautiful."  This is what everyone told me when I mentioned that the next stop on my trip was Prince Edward Island.  "Not to mention, it was the inspiration for Anne of Green Gables book series."  Okay, those are my favourite books from my childhood so... SOLD! To Cavendish it is!  There was only one problem: we (me and my travel buddy Josh) were only going to be on the island, staying in Charlottetown, for 3 nights.  Quite simply, a long day trip couldn't be accommodated without shifting some plans around.  Fortunately, I am the queen of shiftable plan-making.

Welcome to Charlottetown, PEI!

When I was researching Prince Edward Island and touristy activities that could be done there, I stumbled upon a technological wonder called the Confederation Trail - a 435km trail system spanning the entire length of Prince Edward Island made out of converted rail grade.  Following the easy trail system, one could walk or bike across the stunning pastoral vistas and shorelines of PEI without having to worry about breaking too much of a sweat.   This sounded ideal to me.  After all, the last time I had tried to ride a bike I ended up on my butt on the side of a highway after trying to brake down a gravelly hill.  Not smooth at all. I may not have ridden a bike seriously in over 15 years, but a trail system at my level - beginner - sounded like a good place to take up the activity challenge.  Spending a day biking the Confederation Trail while on the island was officially on my bucket list!

Confronted with the need to have shifty plans, however, I started to examine our Confederation Trail bike-riding plans to see how far out of our way we would have to go to take those bikes up to Cavendish as part of our day trip. Bad news #1: the town was on the opposite side of the island.  We would have to ride across the whole island, south to north, to get from Charlottetown to Cavendish.  Good news in response: the island is long and skinny. Going from south to north might actually be possible as that was the skinny direction.  Bad news #2: the Confederation Trail actually didn't go past Cavendish.  It was more of an east to west trail than a north to south one.  Good news in response: there were roads that cut right across the middle of the island.  We could follow the Confederation Trail partway up then detour onto one of those roads with no problem!  Right?

To make sure my plan was absolutely feasible, I google mapped it.  The app told me that, using its route, it would take us 2 hours to reach Cavendish.  Okay, I may be a little rusty on bike riding but I felt optimistic that I could handle 2 hours of easy bike riding.  Prince Edward Island, according to my research, never goes 400m above sea level.  That, in my mind, translated to a lack of hills.  Biking across the island should be simple!  Right?

RIGHT?

Having convinced my travel buddy, Josh, that this was a totally sane and logical plan, we set out up the Confederation trail early on beautiful Sunday morning.  The sky was blue. The temperature was warm.  The trail went up at an easy grade. The sense of optimism dictated our anticipation and excitement over going to Cavendish and seeing the breathtaking vistas and beaches of a land out of legend.

We were half an hour up the trail, on the very edge of the city of Charlottetown, when I commented to Josh that something in my bike didn't feel right.  Not even 20 seconds later, POP! Hissssssss.......  The rear tire on my bike blew a rupture and instantly deflated!  OH NO!!!!!  Optimism still ruled my mind though and I instantly set about solving the problem. 



Josh and I had a few moments as we waited to
hear back from the bike rental place, so we
took advantage of the moment to stage this
photo with his potato pal, Spudz.

First, I phone the place that rented us the bikes, hoping we would be able to get a replacement brought out to us as walking the bikes back would take us over an hour.  Unfortunately it was a weekend and the poor girl at the desk was by herself and couldn't very well do anything for us, being on the other side of the city.  She tried to phone the owner, but couldn't get through, so she left a message.  We were effectively stranded, forced to stop and take pictures of a potato stealing Josh's bicycle, our journey stalled before it could even really begin begin.

My optimism for the adventure was not to waver at this setback, however.  I recalled seeing a Canadian Tire not even a 15 minute walk back up the trail.  Maybe if we couldn't get a bike replacement, I could get a tube replacement for the tire and get the bike company to refund me my rental cost.  I'm the queen of great ideas!  We walked the bikes to the Canadian Tire and immediately faced our second setback.  As mentioned before, it was a Sunday morning and we were in Charlottetown, PEI, a Maritime province.  That morning standing in front of a closed Canadian Tire that did not open until noon I learned an important lesson: people in the Maritimes take their Sundays and holidays very seriously.  None of this treating Sundays like just another day in the week.

We were still effectively stranded.  Josh, suggested that we walk the bikes back to the hostel where we had rented them, but I was still determined to make it to Cavendish, one way or another.  The northern shores of Anne of Green Gables beckoned to me.

Part two is up!

Something wild

Take note: This is not a coyote!

"I want to see a coyote!"  That's what he said. Rob had travelled to Canada from the UK and was on Cape Breton Island to satisfy his burning desire to see Canadian wildlife.   Personally, I didn't get the appeal. Coyotes aren't that exciting. They basically look like medium-sized mutt dogs with fluffy tails: all cute a domestic looking, until you realize that they are totally willing to eat you. 

In fact, I nearly got hunted by a coyote pack once.  I was at a silent retreat centre outside of Banff, AB and decided to go for a walk in the  woods, despite warnings from my fellow retreaters about coyotes nearby.  Sure enough, as I walked down the trail I could hear them howling in the distance - howling: their technique for freaking out and cornering their prey.  The sound of their howls was getting closer and closer so I bent down to pick up a stick.  Wanting to make sure of its sturdiness I whacked it against a tree.  Part of it splintered off with a resounding and satisfying crack, like a gunshot.  I grinned.  FUN!  Within minutes I was armed with two sticks, my weapons of mass destruction as I rampaged through the woods whamming sticks against tree and breaking whatever dead wood I could.  The silent retreat was no longer so silent; but after about 25 minutes of my joyful cacophony the howls were miles away.  Score: me 1; coyotes 0.

So yeah, Canadian wildlife: cute but deadly.  I knew I had to correct some assumptions about Canadian wildlife when Rob began to wish aloud that we would come upon a moose on our hike on the Cabot Trail.  OK, I can understand the appeal of seeing a moose: they are majestic; they are stately; they have awesome racks.  But if there is an animal that I would rate near the top of animal I wouldn't want to surprise in the open bush, moose definitely is near the top of that list.  They can be quite territorial, and their huge size is going to give them the advantage in any fight.  Trust me, if you get in a fight with an angry moose, the moose will win.

Despite my fervent desire to not confront a moose, at the end of the day Rob's wish was the one that came true.  We were coming back from our last hike on the Skyview Trail as the last bits of dusk trailed away into darkness. We were only about 10 minutes from the car when we came upon other tourists stalled on the side of the pathway.  Peering carefully into the darkness, we were able to ascertain what had them hesitating: a huge black shadow moving along the side of the path, not even 10 yards away.  A moose.  Having just spent the last hour educating Rob on the dangers of moose in the Canadian wild, there was a palpable sense of nervousness in the air at being so close to such an amazing creature.  "Well," I reasoned, "there are a lot of us, and it's used to tourists and knows we are here, so if we move slowly and give it as much distance as possible, everything should be fine." And if everything wasn't fine then I was already mentally working on a contingency plan to use trees and my trail-fellows as moose speed bumps. Slowly, ever so slowly we tiptoed single file on the far side of the path, passing within 5 yards of the moose then continuing on to our car for the trip back to the hostel.

"Ok, that was a bit too close for comfort!"  I declared to my hiking partners.  This time even Rob agreed.



Skyview Trail, shortly before we ran into the moose.

Bonus blog content!

My rating system for how nervous Canadian wildlife makes me, from lowest to highest:

• Beavers - sharp teeth, but shy.
• Porcupines - sharp quills, but shy.
• Skunks - Shy, but stinky!  Also doesn't mind living in more urban environments, so beware.
• Raccoons - These can be vicious, but they won't pick a fight with you unless they feel threatened.  They will tear your cat to shreds without hesitation though.
• Black bears - Usually more scared of you than you are of them.  Make noise, don't get between a mother and her cubs and you should be okay.  Only need to be scared if there is a lack of food in the woods, or the bear is acclimated to take food from human sources, like garbage cans.
• Cougars - They will stalk you, but usually just because they are curious.  Only need to be scared if there is a lack of food in the woods or if you are short.
• Coyotes - They may be small, but they hunt in packs and will not hesitate to hunt you if they are hungry and you are alone.
• Moose - They are not scared of you.  They are territorial.  They will gore and trample you.
• Grizzly bears - They are not scared of you. They are territorial. They will maul your face off.
• Wolves - They will hunt you.  They will eat you.  They will corner and devour you until only your bones are left.

Something through a different pair of eyes

My Carpool Entourage

"I have one rule in the car," I announce to my carpooling entourage, "if you see something that you want to take a picture of, tell me to stop!"

I'm pretty sure that was not the rule they were expecting.  After all, how many drivers grant their passengers even marginal backseat driving privileges?  But we were in Nova Scotia, driving along the Cabot Trail, one of the most notoriously beautiful places in Canada - and I was a photophile (my new made up word of the day) - so there really was every good reason to stop as often as possible to take pictures!    Not to mention that my entourage consisted of three men crammed together in the back seat of a compact car and another woman in the passenger seat beside me, so stopping as often as possible to allow the men to stretch their legs was our version of an act of mercy.  At  one point we stopped at a gas station before we entered the national park and the attendant's eyes almost bugged out of his face.  "Where.....How did you manage to fit all of you in that tiny car?!"  Ah, it was a bit snug, but it sure is a great way to get to know each other.  Especially when you frequently unintentionally lengthen the trip by getting "temporarily misplaced" ("We are never lost, only temporarily misplaced." ~ my female passenger that day)

Speaking of temporary misplacement, have I ever mentioned how amazing the internet is?  At one point on my eastern Canada trip an older woman looked at me and all the other people around her holding our phones and electronic devices, doing who knows what mysterious voodoo on them, and declared in a loud scoffing voice "I don't know where all you young people would be without those gadgets."  I simply looked back at her and said, very sincerely, "Neither do I."  My phone with its 5GB of wireless data and its Google maps app are the only things that kept me on my whole trip from getting hopelessly lost.  People I met on my trip would always go overboard in trying to explain directions and it felt so gratifying when I could simply pat my coat pocket and say "It's okay, I got a phone and Google maps, I'm good."  I was a cool navigational badass!

Travelling with strangers in the car can really open your eyes to re-examining experiences through a new pair of eyes.  A couple from Toronto was in the car with us and they got so excited when they saw fog on the road!  "Seriously... fog?" I thought to myself as they were oooing and aaahing over it.  Fog was a fact of life in the mountains of BC, and almost an everyday occurrence in the winter months.  But these two people were seriously excited to be driving through condensed water vapors.  They were also thrilled to be driving up a twisty-turny mountain road in the middle of a mostly-coniferous forest and seeing little tiny waterfalls dripping on the side of the road from mountain run-off water, which is again another everyday experience for us BC-folk.  "I am soooo glad you are driving!"  They exclaimed, as I obviously had experience handling hazards that they would never encounter on their big-city streets.

This is why a photo-stop house rule for the car makes sense. On that trip through the mountains of Cape Breton Island, I found myself taking pleasure in other people's simple enjoyment for things that I would typically take for granted.  I am sure that if I had been travelling alone I would have given very little thought to them, but because I was with these people I took notice of and appreciated something even as basic as fog. Things that I would have normally have passed by without thinking about were suddenly worth time and attention and maybe even a polaroid moment.  The everyday experience became something precious and worthy of celebration.

One of those roadside polaroid moments for me.

Something about Three Rivers

"I've booked three nights in Trois-Rivières."  After days of dragging my feet over settling on the next step of my travel plans, I was ready to divulge them to my fellow German traveller in my hostel in Quebec City.

She wrinkled her nose in disdain.  "I think maybe that is too long." She said in reply.  "There is nothing to do there; you will be so boring [sic]."

Most people would be put off by an endorsement like that.  Me?  I immediately felt exhilarated at the challenge!  I think it is part of my mental programming.  If someone tells me how I should think about something or what I should do my first instinct is to do the exact opposite.  So, nothing to do in Trois-Rivières?  Excellent!  I will make my own things to do.  Nothing to see?  There are always things to see!  They just might require a little more delving and searching.  I might never see this person again, but privately I resolved to have a wonderful time in Trois-Rivières just to prove her wrong.  What a rebel I am.

"Why do you want to go to Trois-Rivières?" Another traveller asked, baffled by my choice in tourist destinations.

"Well, I remember hearing its name when I was in social studies in school, but I don't remember why it was important."  Okay, my reasoning needed a bit of work, I admit, but it was true nonetheless.  I wanted to go to Trois-Rivières because something in my very dimwitted memory reminded me that it was a very important place for Canadian history.  I couldn't remember any of the details except the name, so I wanted to use my trip to remind me in a tangible way why the city was important, despite how trivial the other travellers around me seemed to considered it.

The first day in Trois-Rivières I decided to do a tour of the downtown sites.  I was done in a couple of hours. There was a boardwalk by the Saint Lawrence river that was quite beautiful, a few sculptures scattered around a park, a bunch of information panels written only in French (though later on I found I could scan a code with my cell-phone to get the English version of a lot of them), a free-to-use piano in a public city square and a giant light-brite in the local library (!!!!!).  A large portion of the city had been destroyed in a massive fire near the beginning of the 20th century so there were very few old ornate buildings left in place.  With so little tangible history present it was hard to believe that this was the 2nd oldest settlement in Canada, right behind Quebec City, and the site of a very important battle during the American Revolution that was key in preventing Canada from being absorbed as another state in the new United States of America.   Rather than finding a proud bustling metropolis befitting of such an important status, what I found was an endearing sleepy little city who embraced its history like a true Canadian: modestly.

And yet, despite the lack of tourist-centric organized activities that I probably wouldn't have paid for anyways because I'm so cheap, I found myself deeply captivated by the place.  Borrowing a bike from the hostel was free so I spent hours exploring the city.  I found out that the reason that it is called Trois-Rivières, Three Rivers in English, is because the river that feeds into the Saint Lawrence splits into three right before reaching it due to islands that interrupt the flow.  Those same islands gave me photo opportunities like this one that I took with my iPhone:

I also had the opportunity to go to a very key pilgrimage site for the Roman Catholic church, Notre-Dame-du-Cap, with a local francophone.  We attended a French mass where I didn't understand a single word, except "etre le premier".  Wracking my memory on what place in the Bible has the phrase "to be first", I correctly identified the passage of scripture that the homilist was using for his address. I managed to impress myself with that feat, I admit.  The grounds of the basilica were so beautiful that two days later I would revisit them to spend more time there.

There were a bunch of other things I did in the city while I was there, but what stands out in my memory is just how relaxing I found my time in the small city.  Without so many touristy things demanding my attention I was able to slow down and soak in the experience of this place called Trois-Rivières.  The food was super cheap too, so I bought groceries and ate like a queen during my entire visit there.  Despite the negative endorsement from my fellow travellers, I had found what I  already expected to be true: that the excitement and interest of a place is what you bring to it, not what it can bring to you.