Okay, here's the deal. If someone tells you that they're having a cinq-a-sept party in Montreal, don't believe them, and certainly don't arrive at 5pm. 5 a 7 is the time in Montreal when cheap drinks are had in many bars around town, to attract the after work drinkers, but the term is now used to generally denote an afternoon, or early evening drinking session, also with the implication of cheap or interesting drinks.
So, we're invited to a 5 a 7 party, which, as we're leaving the house, I notice has been changed to 5 a 9 party on the English invite. Odd, I think, I wonder why.
Just the week before the host, Ike, had told me that it would indeed be a brief party.
'Yeah, we'll drink there for a few hours, then all go out.'
'Okay.' I say.
So, we're the first to arrive. Ike looks surprised to see us at 5.30pm. He is, in fact, still cleaning the apartment. We try and leave to come back later, but he'll have none of it.
So we reluctantly enter and proceed to poke around all his empty rooms and examine his furniture and music collection, as one does.
I crack open my first beer. Now, Imagine, I think we'll be home by 10pm at this point.
It gets to 7pm and there aren't many people.
'This is it, Ike.' I joke.
He looks confused, then says, 'No, most people will come soon, or around 8pm.'
Then the truth comes out. The party will be all night, the only reason he says 'start at 5' is to ensure that people come for 8. If he said 'come at 8', then people would come at 11, and cause a small riot with the neighbours.
'Ah,' I say, seeing clearly.
So, we go out to buy beer at Provigo, for the long haul.
Provigo is amusing – it is a taste of the future, and good example of the general stupidity of people.
I will explain.
There are about six 'automatic' checkouts where you can basically scan all your own food, weight your fruit and veg, pack it into bags and pay with cash or card into a mechanical slot.
So what's stupid about that? Well, for one thing, there are hoards of staff there to 'help' people use the system, as no-one understands it. I mean, it talks to you and complains if you do things 'wrong'. So, if there are people there to help you use it, what good is having it at all?
The second, important point here is that people are volunteering to do what people are normally paid to do – work as a checkout clerk for 10 minutes. Why would you do that? Wouldn't you rather give the job to a student who needs the money?
Anyway, I digress. I end off buying 'President's Choice' lager, which was awful – truly bland and watery. If that's really the beer that the President drinks then I'll be mightily surprised, I can tell you.
I use the 'real-life' check-out clerk.
Back at the party, it's swinging. There are cartoons projected on the walls; loud music; people dancing; people talking drunkenly about the nature of relationships between men and women; people talking drunkenly about the future of the modern society given more and more immigration; and there are even people telling the same old stories to the same old people, but the recipients are either too polite, or too drunk, to mention it.
I notice all this, as I'm on my new diet of 'just beer', to the extent of even shunning the tequila shots on offer. This is, in fact, the first time in my entire life that I have refused tequila. It is quite a liberating / mortifying experience, let me tell you.
So, on my 'beer only' diet I observe the party in a way that I never have before – from the perspective of a merely drunken person. I remember almost every word of every conversation, and even recall names and faces today. Quite amazing, in fact.
So then the dancing starts. I sit and create a masterpiece of a playlist on iTunes for the dancing enjoyment of the tequila-sodden masses, which is listened to for two songs and then overwritten by drunkards who imagined that they knew better than me. No, 'm not bitter. No, not at all.
It was marvellously chaotic – which was, incidentally, the topic of another conversation had during the evening I had with Xena, during the course of which I even said something terribly clichéd like this:
'Yes, but Asia isn't really chaotic, everything works, just more slowly, in the west we look at their system and call it chaos, but it isn't really – it's just perspective, you know, our society could function like that – it could work!' And so forth... (You get a good idea about my drunken conversations now. Perhaps, as I mull this over, it is better to forget the next day after all?)
Leaf corners me and asks me to play football the next day. He knows I can't violate my own rule of never-arrange-anything-especially-sports-when-drunk, but tries anyway. I think he is ambitious, but already has at least 5 names on his list.
And, all too soon, as I'm sitting outside smoking a cigarette, the whole world leaves en mass, and there are just six of us left. The fridge, which was so full of hundreds of beer bottles, is suddenly empty.
Just minutes before this I had a lengthy discussion with someone on the ethics of beer stealing at the end of parties – you know, when your supply of beer has gone and you're almost sure that someone must have had one of yours, so you take a bottle that isn't yours to retaliate... A vicious circle, that.
So it's that time. I sip at a very small glass of wine (not really wanting to violate the 'just beer' diet) and then we take a cab home.
At 4.30am we're crashing blindly around our apartment in the dark, swearing, and looking for the light. I'm shouting, very loudly indeed, rather unpleasant things about our house-mate, who obviously turned everything off before going to bed.
'Shhhhh! He'll hear you.' Hisses the wife.
'F**cking good!' I shout, then calm down.
Today I saw Qbert in the lounge and told him that I was cursing him at 4.30am last night.
'That's funny, I thought I heard you shouting something about me...' He says.
Sunday, August 15, 2004
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Ambassade
I don't normally date reviews as I like them to be, ahem, timeless, but in this case, I think it is important, as this bar has just opened. Otherwise, if you read this in six months time you might wonder what on earth I'm talking about. It is August 2004.
So, down a side-street, next door to the 3 Brasseurs in the Latin Quarter is L'Ambassade, a new bar which hasn't even gotten around to mounting a sign with the name of the bar yet. To glean this information you have to peer at the chalkboard outside.
You can tell it's a bar though, as rather loud techno music is blasting out and people are cheering and whooping inside. There is also a crusty looking chap balanced on the chalkboard, doing yoga type postures, rather shakily. He's either calmly drunk, or excitedly stoned. Somehow he manages to not break an ankle, as we walk by and inside to meet Mary and PVC.
The pub is long and very thin. There is a walkway on one side with some tables on the other. The absence of tables opposite the bar signifies the area where people jump up and down and shout (dancing, I think it's called), and on the bar itself, next to a lot of pint glasses and water, is a pair of decks and a DJ spinning his stuff.
The music is great, kind of funky, very danceable techno. It is busy inside, however, and very loud. The girls can't spot Mary and PVC, so they beckon me to return outside with them. We stand on the street.
'What are we doing?' I ask.
They don't know. Shall we wait inside? Will we stay? Is it too loud? Where are Mary and PVC?
Eventually we go back inside and buy drinks after a bit of a battle and wait.
As I wait for the wife at the bar, I roll a cigarette. A man walks by, then pauses and looks at my half-rolled fag.
'Is that weed?' He says.
'No, just tobacco.' I tell him, and wave the drum packet at him.
He frowns, 'Because if it was weed, I'd have to arrest you!' He laughs, too loud.
I smile and make a ha-ha noise.
He hasn't finished - this is a joke, it seems: '... Arrest you to smoke it with you!' He laughs again and walks upstairs to where another floor will be next month (so we're told).
We take a position near the door, in the walkway. I look around. The décor is still unfinished. The walls are bare and new plaster is visible in places.
Ah, Mary and PVC arrive. The look instantly unhappy at the venue. PVC spends less than a minute inside before going next door to the 3 Brasseurs. Mary stays whilst we finish our drinks, and is set upon by an odd man:
He holds out his hand and says, 'Weigh my ring.'
'What?'
'Go on, weigh my ring.'
She does, lifting his hand lightly. He seems happy.
'Heavy isn't it?' He says.
'Oh, yes.' Agrees Mary.
He wanders off.
Tina turns to me and tells me that this place used to be a water bar.
'A what?' I ask.
'A water bar.'
'What the hell is a water bar?'
'A bar that just sells water.'
I think about this, then ask, 'Did it work?'
Well, obviously not, as the place is now a beer bar. What an idea - a bar selling only water. Perhaps in a desert, but not in Montreal.
Facts
1. Address: Next door to 1660 Rue St-Denis, Montreal
3. Map Link: View
4. Nearest Metro: Berri
So, down a side-street, next door to the 3 Brasseurs in the Latin Quarter is L'Ambassade, a new bar which hasn't even gotten around to mounting a sign with the name of the bar yet. To glean this information you have to peer at the chalkboard outside.
You can tell it's a bar though, as rather loud techno music is blasting out and people are cheering and whooping inside. There is also a crusty looking chap balanced on the chalkboard, doing yoga type postures, rather shakily. He's either calmly drunk, or excitedly stoned. Somehow he manages to not break an ankle, as we walk by and inside to meet Mary and PVC.
The pub is long and very thin. There is a walkway on one side with some tables on the other. The absence of tables opposite the bar signifies the area where people jump up and down and shout (dancing, I think it's called), and on the bar itself, next to a lot of pint glasses and water, is a pair of decks and a DJ spinning his stuff.
The music is great, kind of funky, very danceable techno. It is busy inside, however, and very loud. The girls can't spot Mary and PVC, so they beckon me to return outside with them. We stand on the street.
'What are we doing?' I ask.
They don't know. Shall we wait inside? Will we stay? Is it too loud? Where are Mary and PVC?
Eventually we go back inside and buy drinks after a bit of a battle and wait.
As I wait for the wife at the bar, I roll a cigarette. A man walks by, then pauses and looks at my half-rolled fag.
'Is that weed?' He says.
'No, just tobacco.' I tell him, and wave the drum packet at him.
He frowns, 'Because if it was weed, I'd have to arrest you!' He laughs, too loud.
I smile and make a ha-ha noise.
He hasn't finished - this is a joke, it seems: '... Arrest you to smoke it with you!' He laughs again and walks upstairs to where another floor will be next month (so we're told).
We take a position near the door, in the walkway. I look around. The décor is still unfinished. The walls are bare and new plaster is visible in places.
Ah, Mary and PVC arrive. The look instantly unhappy at the venue. PVC spends less than a minute inside before going next door to the 3 Brasseurs. Mary stays whilst we finish our drinks, and is set upon by an odd man:
He holds out his hand and says, 'Weigh my ring.'
'What?'
'Go on, weigh my ring.'
She does, lifting his hand lightly. He seems happy.
'Heavy isn't it?' He says.
'Oh, yes.' Agrees Mary.
He wanders off.
Tina turns to me and tells me that this place used to be a water bar.
'A what?' I ask.
'A water bar.'
'What the hell is a water bar?'
'A bar that just sells water.'
I think about this, then ask, 'Did it work?'
Well, obviously not, as the place is now a beer bar. What an idea - a bar selling only water. Perhaps in a desert, but not in Montreal.
Facts
1. Address: Next door to 1660 Rue St-Denis, Montreal
3. Map Link: View
4. Nearest Metro: Berri
Keywords: areadowntown metroberriuqam
Friday, July 16, 2004
Police
Hands up who likes the police?
Come on, no-one's looking, you can admit it if you like? No? Any real reason for this dislike?
Well, I'll admit that I've had a few (relatively) harmless run-ins with the police in this lifetime, some of them a little too risqué to detail here, but at least one is a good example of why I have a deep-seated mistrust of even the jolliest and best-intentioned of cops.
How is this connected to Montreal, I hear you cry? Well, it isn't directly – I wanted to write a story about the police here, and realised that it would be skewed by my lack of objective thought, and so I thought you might like to hear my police story first.
So, I used to work in a London pub called The Standard, which at the time was a rather lively rock venue and home to numerous punks who would order snakebite and black in huge quantities. The stories I could tell about the manager of the pub alone would fill a website, so, just to give you a taste of the man he was, here's a quickie:
The manager is wandering, drunkenly back from the stage (where he has just interrupted in the middle of some poor band's act to play five minutes of harmonica solo, which he loved to do after a few drinks), when he spies a punk peddling LSD tabs in the corner.
He approaches and says to the youth, 'I don't want you selling that shit in my bar...'
The youth just stares at him, wondering if he should run or not.
So the manager goes on, '...I wouldn't mind if it was good shit, but it's not, is it? There's no good LSD any more... And I don't want you selling that shit in my pub.'
The youth thinks this over, and says, 'It's not shit, it's really good.'
'Oh yeah?' The manager, a burly and large man, leans over him, and grabs the sheet of tabs.
He then stuffs the whole sheet into his mouth and starts chewing.
'If they're so good,' he says, between chews, 'then come back and see me in half an hour, and if I'm off my head, then you can sell your stuff in here. Alright?'
'Err, okay.' Says the youth, and disappears through a fire exit.
The barstaff, and his wife, look at the manager, dubiously. Someone raises the question that's on all our minds – 'What if it is good after all?'
'Well,' he muses, 'it'll be an interesting night, won't it?'
About half an hour later he stumbles towards the door that leads upstairs, 'I'm just going for a lie down,' he whispers.
So, in this bar, I'm sure you have a good picture now, I'm drinking on my night off, and I get talking to some guy at the bar. He's okay, and buys me a drink, I think he's a bit straight, but nice enough.
'Ah,' he says, 'you like me now, but if I tell you what I do for a living, you won't want to know me any more.'
'Oh yeah?' I say, 'Try me.'
He sighs, 'I'm a copper.'
'Ah,' I say, and stare into my pint.
'That's the problem,' he tells me, 'that's why coppers and the youth are so alienated – how can I be friends with people like you if you won't even give it a chance. You know, when I'm off duty, I'm off duty, I don't care if you smoke pot or drink-drive.'
'Really?' I ask, doubtfully.
'Yeah, and I like to drink, get drunk, go to parties, chase girls, like any bloke. It'd be so much better for our community if we all understood each other more. I've got this idea where we could take people out on patrol with us – the youth, you know, like you, so you could see what we do. Closer integration, it's the future, for sure.'
I think he has a good point. The bar is closing, so I offer to take him around to the late night section where incredibly loud bands play until 2am, for free. He accepts and once around there we stand at the bar, drink more beer and talk about how great the future will be with the youth and cops trusting each other.
Then it happens. The event that killed my faith in cops evermore.
He urinates.
Where?
Why, against the bar of course...
I stare, for a few seconds, at him splashing away merrily. I can't quite believe my eyes. It's very busy, but no-one else seems to have noticed yet.
'What the hell are you doing?' I shout.
He looks at me, with disdainful eyes, 'I'm pissing. I can't be bothered to go to the bathroom.'
I walk away and find the manager.
'There's a drunk copper pissing against your bar,' I say, matter-of-factly.
'There's a what?!' He screams, and runs over...
Now, I know what you're going to say – one bad cop doesn't mean they're all bad. Yes, perhaps, but once bitten, twice shy, that's what I say...
On the other hand, I'm mellowing towards cops in Montreal, as I've had no bad experiences with them, yet. They even rescued me (see London Pub) from drunken lost-ness once. I've asked them for directions to places, and they've told me. I've been to parties where they arrived at 4am, and didn't ask everyone to go home.
Now, perhaps, given time... if one asks me to have a pint with him...
Come on, no-one's looking, you can admit it if you like? No? Any real reason for this dislike?
Well, I'll admit that I've had a few (relatively) harmless run-ins with the police in this lifetime, some of them a little too risqué to detail here, but at least one is a good example of why I have a deep-seated mistrust of even the jolliest and best-intentioned of cops.
How is this connected to Montreal, I hear you cry? Well, it isn't directly – I wanted to write a story about the police here, and realised that it would be skewed by my lack of objective thought, and so I thought you might like to hear my police story first.
So, I used to work in a London pub called The Standard, which at the time was a rather lively rock venue and home to numerous punks who would order snakebite and black in huge quantities. The stories I could tell about the manager of the pub alone would fill a website, so, just to give you a taste of the man he was, here's a quickie:
The manager is wandering, drunkenly back from the stage (where he has just interrupted in the middle of some poor band's act to play five minutes of harmonica solo, which he loved to do after a few drinks), when he spies a punk peddling LSD tabs in the corner.
He approaches and says to the youth, 'I don't want you selling that shit in my bar...'
The youth just stares at him, wondering if he should run or not.
So the manager goes on, '...I wouldn't mind if it was good shit, but it's not, is it? There's no good LSD any more... And I don't want you selling that shit in my pub.'
The youth thinks this over, and says, 'It's not shit, it's really good.'
'Oh yeah?' The manager, a burly and large man, leans over him, and grabs the sheet of tabs.
He then stuffs the whole sheet into his mouth and starts chewing.
'If they're so good,' he says, between chews, 'then come back and see me in half an hour, and if I'm off my head, then you can sell your stuff in here. Alright?'
'Err, okay.' Says the youth, and disappears through a fire exit.
The barstaff, and his wife, look at the manager, dubiously. Someone raises the question that's on all our minds – 'What if it is good after all?'
'Well,' he muses, 'it'll be an interesting night, won't it?'
About half an hour later he stumbles towards the door that leads upstairs, 'I'm just going for a lie down,' he whispers.
So, in this bar, I'm sure you have a good picture now, I'm drinking on my night off, and I get talking to some guy at the bar. He's okay, and buys me a drink, I think he's a bit straight, but nice enough.
'Ah,' he says, 'you like me now, but if I tell you what I do for a living, you won't want to know me any more.'
'Oh yeah?' I say, 'Try me.'
He sighs, 'I'm a copper.'
'Ah,' I say, and stare into my pint.
'That's the problem,' he tells me, 'that's why coppers and the youth are so alienated – how can I be friends with people like you if you won't even give it a chance. You know, when I'm off duty, I'm off duty, I don't care if you smoke pot or drink-drive.'
'Really?' I ask, doubtfully.
'Yeah, and I like to drink, get drunk, go to parties, chase girls, like any bloke. It'd be so much better for our community if we all understood each other more. I've got this idea where we could take people out on patrol with us – the youth, you know, like you, so you could see what we do. Closer integration, it's the future, for sure.'
I think he has a good point. The bar is closing, so I offer to take him around to the late night section where incredibly loud bands play until 2am, for free. He accepts and once around there we stand at the bar, drink more beer and talk about how great the future will be with the youth and cops trusting each other.
Then it happens. The event that killed my faith in cops evermore.
He urinates.
Where?
Why, against the bar of course...
I stare, for a few seconds, at him splashing away merrily. I can't quite believe my eyes. It's very busy, but no-one else seems to have noticed yet.
'What the hell are you doing?' I shout.
He looks at me, with disdainful eyes, 'I'm pissing. I can't be bothered to go to the bathroom.'
I walk away and find the manager.
'There's a drunk copper pissing against your bar,' I say, matter-of-factly.
'There's a what?!' He screams, and runs over...
Now, I know what you're going to say – one bad cop doesn't mean they're all bad. Yes, perhaps, but once bitten, twice shy, that's what I say...
On the other hand, I'm mellowing towards cops in Montreal, as I've had no bad experiences with them, yet. They even rescued me (see London Pub) from drunken lost-ness once. I've asked them for directions to places, and they've told me. I've been to parties where they arrived at 4am, and didn't ask everyone to go home.
Now, perhaps, given time... if one asks me to have a pint with him...
Sunday, July 11, 2004
Jana's Party
Okay, so Jana has another party. Only this time she knows all about this website and even greets me with the words,
'Oh Ralph, I hope you will write about this party. But, I'm not drunk enough yet to say anything funny.'
At this moment it is 12.30am and we have just arrived. We are outrageously late due to many, complex, and difficult reasons:
Football.
No, not American football, but real football, where you spend more time using your feet than hands during the game. Leaf had the crazy idea that perhaps it would be good to recreate the European cup in our own way, on the playing fields of Parc Jeanne-Mance, at 4pm.
At first report, I wasn't keen, in fact, my initial reply to his email ran like this:
"Playing football? You mean like actually kicking a ball around and running after it in the sun? I think I will have a sprained ankle on Saturday..."
But, despite all of my alarm bells and spider-sense tinglings, I turned up at the park, bright and early, and even with two other foolish players. But, it didn't start well... After literally two minutes of running around I was red in the face and panting like a Saint Bernard.
My god, I have a stitch, I said to myself. And then to others, 'You know, it's ten years since I played football'. And, that's not really a lie.
There was, unlike teenage footballing years, a queue to take a turn in goal, which was seen as a kind of chill-out zone.
So, after two hours, a pitch invasion, and several gung-ho latino strangers later, we left and went to Le Reservoir for a pint, where we talked about aching limbs and special football moments. No one in the world could have denied that we all deserved a pint at that moment. No-one.
At this point, perhaps the sun, and goal-keeping duties, had an odd effect on my wife's brain:
'At home, I'm going to make a skirt for the party tonight.'
'Hmm.' My stock reply.
So, we go to Santropol for a quick sandwich, and then get home for 9.30pm. My wife then begins to make a skirt whilst I shower and massage my painful legs. At 10.30pm the skirt is taking shape, but I'm dubious. After a small discussion we decide that that skirt-making will be suspended for the evening, and we leave, in alternative clothes.
I first went to a party at Jana's one year ago. I looked for, and found, a reminder - an email I sent to some friends at the time:
...So, to continue the theme, we attended a multi-national party a few nights ago where my shocking memory for names and faces took a turn for the worse when faced with a multitude of names like Oki, Ahmed, Miljana and Xenja - 'Sorry, what was your name again?'
This party was full of the strangest mixtures of people I've ever come across - lots of half people - including a half-Swedish-half-Egyptian, a half-Russian-half-Brazilian, and a few half-French-half-Germans. At one point the conversation waned until someone mentioned Scotland and everyone excitedly told each other how much they loved the Scottish accent. There then followed a very surreal five minutes where all the half-People tried to do the 'lovely Scottish accents', very badly indeed.
To come back to where I started, almost, I was left alone for a few minutes and a rather drunken half-Iranian, half-Canadian woman was suddenly talking to me:
'Ooooh, I love your accent. Talk to me.'
'What do you want me to say?'
'Ooooh! That's it, say something else.'
'Like what?'
'Ooooh!'
This went on for a while as I looked around the room for my wife. Eventually, after a few minutes of swooning at my Englishness, she changed the subject:
'I've finished my mid-terms you know.'
'That's nice, what are mid-terms?'
'Ha ha ha ha ha!'
At this point the half-Swedish half-Egyptian man grabbed my elbow and took me to one side:
'She thinks you are professor at the university.'
He winked at me, downed a very, very large glass of Absolut, and wandered away. Confused, I found the company of a 100% Canadian until we left, who would laugh tremendously loudly in my ear, which made me rather wary of saying anything funny at all.
So, with this in mind, we arrive at 12.30am and find a full house. For the first ten minutes of any party I'm never particularly sociable, my mind, as it is, concentrated solely upon making Gin and Tonic.
There is football banter. A few comments about legs, red faces and such. I enjoy being party of this group. There is much back slapping and I am congratulated, drunkenly, concerning a cross that I made, which resulted in a goal. One of my finer moments of the game (in-between cramps).
Then I see the Iranian girl that I wrote about in my email, a year ago. I wander over and someone tries to introduce us.
'Oh, we've already met.' I say.
The girl looks at me and says, 'Oooh, I love your accent.'
I stare, and wonder if she is teasing me, but apparently not.
I confess that I don't remember her name. She tells me and I stare at here for a few moments longer, before saying,
'That's why I don't remember.'
It's a complex name. Well, for me it is. I tell her that I have trouble with Anglo-Saxon names, and that it can take three months to remember someone called 'Dave' for me. So, obviously with cultures that use tend to utilise long runs of harsh consonants in words, it's slightly harder.
As I repeat the name I try to find a visual association to help.
'Think farmyard.' Suggests a man nearby.
That's not bad, I muse, then she says, 'In Asia they used to call me Pharmacy, but I didn't like that very much.'
'No, I imagine not.' I say, and then take my leave, to get another drink -- as I arrived sober, at midnight, I'm drinking rapidly, trying to catch up with the other guests. As an experiment I'm alternating my drinks between Gin and Beer, just to see what happens.
In the kitchen I'm introduced to a sombre looking man, and before I have a chance to say anything he says,
'If anyone else asks where I live, I will cut my wrists...'
This has the effect of blocking my initial questions and I mull over a suitable topic of conversation, whilst a vacant-looking girl wanders up and says, 'So, hi, where are you from?'
I look at him expectantly, but he doesn't go for the knife.
At this point I'm told a joke:
'Did you hear that Saddam Hussein has been given the death penalty? No? Well, he's quite happy about it, as David Beckham is going to take it.'
Then, cruel alcohol, I start to blur and forget. I go to the gin bottle and find it empty. I open the fridge and find all the beers gone. Jana helpfully reveals her secret litre bottle of gin, and the world is fine for a while...
Then the police arrrive.
We thought that all the neighbours were at the party, but one must have been missed, and called 911 – a noise emergency. The police didn't enter, but talked at the door. There was a lot of 'Shhhhhhhhhush!'-ing, whenever anyone tried to talk in the room during this conference, which annoyed me, and I moved to the balcony to avoid being stupidly abusive to people carrying guns.
Why don't I like the police? Remind me to tell you my policeman story sometime, and you'll see.
So, I then I black out, and wake up the next day.
I suppose I caught up quite effectively.
Today my wife says to me, 'So, you were quite drunk last night, at the end. Do you remember going to bed? I had to force you to brush your teeth.'
'Hmm.' I say.
'Oh Ralph, I hope you will write about this party. But, I'm not drunk enough yet to say anything funny.'
At this moment it is 12.30am and we have just arrived. We are outrageously late due to many, complex, and difficult reasons:
Football.
No, not American football, but real football, where you spend more time using your feet than hands during the game. Leaf had the crazy idea that perhaps it would be good to recreate the European cup in our own way, on the playing fields of Parc Jeanne-Mance, at 4pm.
At first report, I wasn't keen, in fact, my initial reply to his email ran like this:
"Playing football? You mean like actually kicking a ball around and running after it in the sun? I think I will have a sprained ankle on Saturday..."
But, despite all of my alarm bells and spider-sense tinglings, I turned up at the park, bright and early, and even with two other foolish players. But, it didn't start well... After literally two minutes of running around I was red in the face and panting like a Saint Bernard.
My god, I have a stitch, I said to myself. And then to others, 'You know, it's ten years since I played football'. And, that's not really a lie.
There was, unlike teenage footballing years, a queue to take a turn in goal, which was seen as a kind of chill-out zone.
So, after two hours, a pitch invasion, and several gung-ho latino strangers later, we left and went to Le Reservoir for a pint, where we talked about aching limbs and special football moments. No one in the world could have denied that we all deserved a pint at that moment. No-one.
At this point, perhaps the sun, and goal-keeping duties, had an odd effect on my wife's brain:
'At home, I'm going to make a skirt for the party tonight.'
'Hmm.' My stock reply.
So, we go to Santropol for a quick sandwich, and then get home for 9.30pm. My wife then begins to make a skirt whilst I shower and massage my painful legs. At 10.30pm the skirt is taking shape, but I'm dubious. After a small discussion we decide that that skirt-making will be suspended for the evening, and we leave, in alternative clothes.
I first went to a party at Jana's one year ago. I looked for, and found, a reminder - an email I sent to some friends at the time:
...So, to continue the theme, we attended a multi-national party a few nights ago where my shocking memory for names and faces took a turn for the worse when faced with a multitude of names like Oki, Ahmed, Miljana and Xenja - 'Sorry, what was your name again?'
This party was full of the strangest mixtures of people I've ever come across - lots of half people - including a half-Swedish-half-Egyptian, a half-Russian-half-Brazilian, and a few half-French-half-Germans. At one point the conversation waned until someone mentioned Scotland and everyone excitedly told each other how much they loved the Scottish accent. There then followed a very surreal five minutes where all the half-People tried to do the 'lovely Scottish accents', very badly indeed.
To come back to where I started, almost, I was left alone for a few minutes and a rather drunken half-Iranian, half-Canadian woman was suddenly talking to me:
'Ooooh, I love your accent. Talk to me.'
'What do you want me to say?'
'Ooooh! That's it, say something else.'
'Like what?'
'Ooooh!'
This went on for a while as I looked around the room for my wife. Eventually, after a few minutes of swooning at my Englishness, she changed the subject:
'I've finished my mid-terms you know.'
'That's nice, what are mid-terms?'
'Ha ha ha ha ha!'
At this point the half-Swedish half-Egyptian man grabbed my elbow and took me to one side:
'She thinks you are professor at the university.'
He winked at me, downed a very, very large glass of Absolut, and wandered away. Confused, I found the company of a 100% Canadian until we left, who would laugh tremendously loudly in my ear, which made me rather wary of saying anything funny at all.
So, with this in mind, we arrive at 12.30am and find a full house. For the first ten minutes of any party I'm never particularly sociable, my mind, as it is, concentrated solely upon making Gin and Tonic.
There is football banter. A few comments about legs, red faces and such. I enjoy being party of this group. There is much back slapping and I am congratulated, drunkenly, concerning a cross that I made, which resulted in a goal. One of my finer moments of the game (in-between cramps).
Then I see the Iranian girl that I wrote about in my email, a year ago. I wander over and someone tries to introduce us.
'Oh, we've already met.' I say.
The girl looks at me and says, 'Oooh, I love your accent.'
I stare, and wonder if she is teasing me, but apparently not.
I confess that I don't remember her name. She tells me and I stare at here for a few moments longer, before saying,
'That's why I don't remember.'
It's a complex name. Well, for me it is. I tell her that I have trouble with Anglo-Saxon names, and that it can take three months to remember someone called 'Dave' for me. So, obviously with cultures that use tend to utilise long runs of harsh consonants in words, it's slightly harder.
As I repeat the name I try to find a visual association to help.
'Think farmyard.' Suggests a man nearby.
That's not bad, I muse, then she says, 'In Asia they used to call me Pharmacy, but I didn't like that very much.'
'No, I imagine not.' I say, and then take my leave, to get another drink -- as I arrived sober, at midnight, I'm drinking rapidly, trying to catch up with the other guests. As an experiment I'm alternating my drinks between Gin and Beer, just to see what happens.
In the kitchen I'm introduced to a sombre looking man, and before I have a chance to say anything he says,
'If anyone else asks where I live, I will cut my wrists...'
This has the effect of blocking my initial questions and I mull over a suitable topic of conversation, whilst a vacant-looking girl wanders up and says, 'So, hi, where are you from?'
I look at him expectantly, but he doesn't go for the knife.
At this point I'm told a joke:
'Did you hear that Saddam Hussein has been given the death penalty? No? Well, he's quite happy about it, as David Beckham is going to take it.'
Then, cruel alcohol, I start to blur and forget. I go to the gin bottle and find it empty. I open the fridge and find all the beers gone. Jana helpfully reveals her secret litre bottle of gin, and the world is fine for a while...
Then the police arrrive.
We thought that all the neighbours were at the party, but one must have been missed, and called 911 – a noise emergency. The police didn't enter, but talked at the door. There was a lot of 'Shhhhhhhhhush!'-ing, whenever anyone tried to talk in the room during this conference, which annoyed me, and I moved to the balcony to avoid being stupidly abusive to people carrying guns.
Why don't I like the police? Remind me to tell you my policeman story sometime, and you'll see.
So, I then I black out, and wake up the next day.
I suppose I caught up quite effectively.
Today my wife says to me, 'So, you were quite drunk last night, at the end. Do you remember going to bed? I had to force you to brush your teeth.'
'Hmm.' I say.
Friday, July 02, 2004
Camping Checklist
Camping
• Stove
• Pans
• Gas
• Roll mat
• Sleep bags
• Tent
• Tarp
• Rope
• Ziplocs
• Lighter
• Matches
• Torch & batteries
• Lantern & candles
• Paper (for fire)
Mother
• Roll mat
• Long zip
• Stove
• Pan
• Ice Pack
• Cooler
• Clothing
• Long zip pants
• Pants
• Boots
• Sandals
• Socks
• Swimsuits
• Tshirts
• Hats
• Scarf (head)
• Raincoats
• Fleece
• Bags (daypacks)
• Towels
Food
• Water (Drinking)
• Foil paper
• Cooler
• Icepacks
• Potato
• Corn
• Pasta
• Onion
• Peppers
• Tomatoes
• Veg pate
• Banana
• Chocolate
• Fruit
• Cheese
• Bread
• Butter
• Snack bars
• Cute drinks
• Cutlery
• Cutting knife
Other
• Road Map
• Maps
• Suncream
• Mosquito stuff
• Toilet paper
• Dish soap
• Tea towel
• Books
• Bite cream
• Water bottles
• Sheet
Can Tyre
• Off!
• Gas
• Coils
• Stove
• Pans
• Gas
• Roll mat
• Sleep bags
• Tent
• Tarp
• Rope
• Ziplocs
• Lighter
• Matches
• Torch & batteries
• Lantern & candles
• Paper (for fire)
Mother
• Roll mat
• Long zip
• Stove
• Pan
• Ice Pack
• Cooler
• Clothing
• Long zip pants
• Pants
• Boots
• Sandals
• Socks
• Swimsuits
• Tshirts
• Hats
• Scarf (head)
• Raincoats
• Fleece
• Bags (daypacks)
• Towels
Food
• Water (Drinking)
• Foil paper
• Cooler
• Icepacks
• Potato
• Corn
• Pasta
• Onion
• Peppers
• Tomatoes
• Veg pate
• Banana
• Chocolate
• Fruit
• Cheese
• Bread
• Butter
• Snack bars
• Cute drinks
• Cutlery
• Cutting knife
Other
• Road Map
• Maps
• Suncream
• Mosquito stuff
• Toilet paper
• Dish soap
• Tea towel
• Books
• Bite cream
• Water bottles
• Sheet
Can Tyre
• Off!
• Gas
• Coils
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Job Seeker
I'm early, of course, so I sit outside McGill metro on a hard stone wall. After several minutes in the sun I realise that I'm beginning to sweat, a definite no-no at interviews, so move to the shade, where I'm cold.
I'm sitting in the informal smoking area of all the staff from the nearby arcade. Girls come out in small groups, sit next to me, and blow smoke in my direction. Normally I wouldn't care, but I realise that I'm going to smell of smoke afterwards, which is another minus point.
'Oh, il fait frit!' Exclaims one of the girls between a lungful of smoke. She eyes me, sideways-ly.
Eventually I move on and wander towards a building that contains a large-ish employment agency. I have an appointment at 10am concerning a terrible job that I don't want. I suppose I don't have much of a positive outlook.
I try to sneak past the fat desk clerk, who seems to be hunched over, perhaps eating doughnuts secretly, but he spots me and mumbles some questions.
I tell him the name of the company, and he grunts a reply.
I stare at him, as I didn't understand a word.
He manages to clear his mouth and finally says, 'Fourteenth floor'.
I find the office with time to spare, but enter anyway and announce myself. I'm kept waiting, so read the paper, which is full of dull election news. The paper tells me that the west of Canada wants independence now too. Interesting.
A few minutes late, my agent arrives and escorts me to a small room of the kind commonly found in police interrogation units. Except the chairs are softer. Just.
We follow the usual routine that Canadians take when talking to English people – we discuss where I'm from, struggle to pinpoint it geographically, finally locate it with the aid of Liverpool, discuss the places they have been in England and the friends they have there, and then finally how wonderful London is, but isn't it expensive, eh?
Then, onto the job.
Along with 120 other poor, lost souls I will receive a constant stream of telephone calls from a large pharmaceutical company's overpaid scientific employees who can't find their email icons. It's 40 hours a week, no chance of promotion, shift work, and $12 an hour.
Wow, what a catch, I think, sarcastically.
We then have a long conversation about road rage and how terrible drivers are in Canada.
'In England they drive really fast, but well.' She says.
'And the roads there are narrow.' I say, then add, 'And no-one indicates here.'
'Oh I know, we're terrible. It's like that in America too, I'm told.'
'Really?'
'Oh yes, I think so.'
We then decide that I shouldn't actually apply for the job. I'd be frustrated, bored, and leave quite soon after taking it, so it seems. I think we're right about that.
'You should get a job in a café.' She tells me, 'At least you'd learn more French.'
She's right. Tomorrow, I'll trawl the pubs with CVs in hand.
Though, that often goes terribly wrong....
I'm sitting in the informal smoking area of all the staff from the nearby arcade. Girls come out in small groups, sit next to me, and blow smoke in my direction. Normally I wouldn't care, but I realise that I'm going to smell of smoke afterwards, which is another minus point.
'Oh, il fait frit!' Exclaims one of the girls between a lungful of smoke. She eyes me, sideways-ly.
Eventually I move on and wander towards a building that contains a large-ish employment agency. I have an appointment at 10am concerning a terrible job that I don't want. I suppose I don't have much of a positive outlook.
I try to sneak past the fat desk clerk, who seems to be hunched over, perhaps eating doughnuts secretly, but he spots me and mumbles some questions.
I tell him the name of the company, and he grunts a reply.
I stare at him, as I didn't understand a word.
He manages to clear his mouth and finally says, 'Fourteenth floor'.
I find the office with time to spare, but enter anyway and announce myself. I'm kept waiting, so read the paper, which is full of dull election news. The paper tells me that the west of Canada wants independence now too. Interesting.
A few minutes late, my agent arrives and escorts me to a small room of the kind commonly found in police interrogation units. Except the chairs are softer. Just.
We follow the usual routine that Canadians take when talking to English people – we discuss where I'm from, struggle to pinpoint it geographically, finally locate it with the aid of Liverpool, discuss the places they have been in England and the friends they have there, and then finally how wonderful London is, but isn't it expensive, eh?
Then, onto the job.
Along with 120 other poor, lost souls I will receive a constant stream of telephone calls from a large pharmaceutical company's overpaid scientific employees who can't find their email icons. It's 40 hours a week, no chance of promotion, shift work, and $12 an hour.
Wow, what a catch, I think, sarcastically.
We then have a long conversation about road rage and how terrible drivers are in Canada.
'In England they drive really fast, but well.' She says.
'And the roads there are narrow.' I say, then add, 'And no-one indicates here.'
'Oh I know, we're terrible. It's like that in America too, I'm told.'
'Really?'
'Oh yes, I think so.'
We then decide that I shouldn't actually apply for the job. I'd be frustrated, bored, and leave quite soon after taking it, so it seems. I think we're right about that.
'You should get a job in a café.' She tells me, 'At least you'd learn more French.'
She's right. Tomorrow, I'll trawl the pubs with CVs in hand.
Though, that often goes terribly wrong....
Friday, June 25, 2004
La Mauricie
Getting out of Montreal is one of the pleasures of living in Montreal. Every so often, it is essential to leave the city and surround yourself with trees, rolling fields, and fresh air. So, we loaded up the car with all kinds of un-essential things and headed for the highway.
Now, I don't like driving in Montreal. For several reasons. Of course, everyone is driving on the right hand side of the road, which is confusing for me. No-one indicates, which raises the temperature of my blood somewhat; and no-one knows how wide their vehicle is. This results in people swerving wildly about the road to avoid things they worry they will hit, when in fact they have a good ten foot of clearance.
But I'm not going to get involved in a road-rage rant. Not now.
So we head east, and the traffic thins out eventually and we're left on a dual-lane highway that goes in a straight line for hours on end. There are trees on either side, and for long periods you can't see the traffic flowing in the other direction. This leads to moments of panic when you suddenly imagine you're in the wrong lane of a normal road, and accounts for yet more swerving.
I watch, idly, the jeep in front of me veer onto the emergency lane of the highway and then veer back onto the road just before hitting the grass verge. It then wanders into the left lane, and wobbles back only when about to hit the barrier. The driver is obviously drunk, or simply stupid.
Two hours later we finally enter the national park.
'La Mauricie'
We park in the visitors' centre and procure maps. We then pay $10 for the privilege of entering the countryside, which makes me slightly angry. I think the countryside should be free, personally.
But, it's quiet, and we don't see any people around, which is good, as far as I'm concerned. If you see entire families, pushing infants around, or old ladies with walking frames, then I know I'm not likely to enjoy myself.
Solitude. Fresh air. Peace. Quiet. Black bears.
Black bears?
I picked up a leaflet in the visitor centre entitled, 'You're in Black Bear Country!'
Yikes. The most dangerous thing in the countryside of England is, other people. Or perhaps an angry badger.
There are some tips:
'If you spot a bear on the side of the road, consider not stopping.'
'Do not surprise a black bear.'
'If you encounter a bear: Keep calm. Don't run. Give the bear space. Leave the area.'
The guide goes on to say that it isn't common for a bear to attack you, but if it does, then:
"...react aggressively and try to intimidate the bear. If this fails, fight back with anything at hand such as bear spray, rocks, sticks, knives or other possible weapons..."
So I enter the woods with my head full of images of bears bearing down on me (excuse the pun) and I, waving a stick in its face, screaming...
I shake my head and try to enjoy the flowers and bees. It's very pretty. It's quiet, we walk. We see a snake, a hare, some dragonflies, lots of birds, beetles, and mosquitoes.
Hmm. Quite a lot of mosquitoes.
All we have with us is a citronella spray, which I bemoaned at the time we bought it, saying, 'But it doesn't bloody well work.'
'It's better than nothing,' said the wife, and bought it anyway.
We applied a coating and walked on. The trail we took was 11km long, not too tough, as we only arrived at 2pm.
As we made our way on, the mosquitoes became worse. When we stopped to try and eat lunch, about five million of them descended upon us and proceeded to suck our blood in great haste. We, wailing, and waving arms, applied half of the bottle of citronella spray in one go.
It didn't help.
We took to waving cloths around, slapping them over our backs and heads, to keep the onslaught off a little.
Then the deer flies arrived.
They hover around you and refuse to go away, landing whenever you fail to notice them, and then taking a huge chunk out of your flesh, leaving a bleeding wound.
Ah, nature.
Don't get me wrong. I love nature. I have been in mosquito infested places all around the world... but... I usually try and carry some nasty chemicals to keep them away. Or, some long, baggy, light clothing to wear. But, we had none of this, and simply suffered a hundred bites as we walked.
Upon reflection, the day was wonderful. The countryside, views, trail, hike, flora and fauna (except the mosquitoes) made up for the discomfort, 100%.
http://www.canadianparks.com/quebec/lmaurnp/index.htm
Now, I don't like driving in Montreal. For several reasons. Of course, everyone is driving on the right hand side of the road, which is confusing for me. No-one indicates, which raises the temperature of my blood somewhat; and no-one knows how wide their vehicle is. This results in people swerving wildly about the road to avoid things they worry they will hit, when in fact they have a good ten foot of clearance.
But I'm not going to get involved in a road-rage rant. Not now.
So we head east, and the traffic thins out eventually and we're left on a dual-lane highway that goes in a straight line for hours on end. There are trees on either side, and for long periods you can't see the traffic flowing in the other direction. This leads to moments of panic when you suddenly imagine you're in the wrong lane of a normal road, and accounts for yet more swerving.
I watch, idly, the jeep in front of me veer onto the emergency lane of the highway and then veer back onto the road just before hitting the grass verge. It then wanders into the left lane, and wobbles back only when about to hit the barrier. The driver is obviously drunk, or simply stupid.
Two hours later we finally enter the national park.
'La Mauricie'
We park in the visitors' centre and procure maps. We then pay $10 for the privilege of entering the countryside, which makes me slightly angry. I think the countryside should be free, personally.
But, it's quiet, and we don't see any people around, which is good, as far as I'm concerned. If you see entire families, pushing infants around, or old ladies with walking frames, then I know I'm not likely to enjoy myself.
Solitude. Fresh air. Peace. Quiet. Black bears.
Black bears?
I picked up a leaflet in the visitor centre entitled, 'You're in Black Bear Country!'
Yikes. The most dangerous thing in the countryside of England is, other people. Or perhaps an angry badger.
There are some tips:
'If you spot a bear on the side of the road, consider not stopping.'
'Do not surprise a black bear.'
'If you encounter a bear: Keep calm. Don't run. Give the bear space. Leave the area.'
The guide goes on to say that it isn't common for a bear to attack you, but if it does, then:
"...react aggressively and try to intimidate the bear. If this fails, fight back with anything at hand such as bear spray, rocks, sticks, knives or other possible weapons..."
So I enter the woods with my head full of images of bears bearing down on me (excuse the pun) and I, waving a stick in its face, screaming...
I shake my head and try to enjoy the flowers and bees. It's very pretty. It's quiet, we walk. We see a snake, a hare, some dragonflies, lots of birds, beetles, and mosquitoes.
Hmm. Quite a lot of mosquitoes.
All we have with us is a citronella spray, which I bemoaned at the time we bought it, saying, 'But it doesn't bloody well work.'
'It's better than nothing,' said the wife, and bought it anyway.
We applied a coating and walked on. The trail we took was 11km long, not too tough, as we only arrived at 2pm.
As we made our way on, the mosquitoes became worse. When we stopped to try and eat lunch, about five million of them descended upon us and proceeded to suck our blood in great haste. We, wailing, and waving arms, applied half of the bottle of citronella spray in one go.
It didn't help.
We took to waving cloths around, slapping them over our backs and heads, to keep the onslaught off a little.
Then the deer flies arrived.
They hover around you and refuse to go away, landing whenever you fail to notice them, and then taking a huge chunk out of your flesh, leaving a bleeding wound.
Ah, nature.
Don't get me wrong. I love nature. I have been in mosquito infested places all around the world... but... I usually try and carry some nasty chemicals to keep them away. Or, some long, baggy, light clothing to wear. But, we had none of this, and simply suffered a hundred bites as we walked.
Upon reflection, the day was wonderful. The countryside, views, trail, hike, flora and fauna (except the mosquitoes) made up for the discomfort, 100%.
http://www.canadianparks.com/quebec/lmaurnp/index.htm
Sunday, June 06, 2004
The Wife's 30th Birthday
I think perhaps that I should leave parties an hour before the end, to avoid the bizarre and hazy events that generally ensue after hearty alcohol consumption at 2AM. But, if the party is your own (or your wife's), then you're honour-bound to stay until the end.
I have no concept of 'enough' once I get into the end-of-the-party zone, and will continue to top up my glass with rum and drink it merrily until I realise that I'm sitting alone, and all my guests have gone home.
'Where did everyone go?' I ask.
This evening started well enough, and I actually managed to avoid drinking the Rum that I had bought, and stuck to the various beers that lined the fridge. I had made a fruit punch which contained a sturdy measure of the hard stuff, but I only had a couple of cups of it before it was polished off by others.
Thankfully.
So I remained fairly clear until about midnight, or perhaps 1AM, when the veil of stupidity fell upon me and I started to talk nonsense to whoever was unfortunate enough to be close to me.
I spent some time trying to learn a trick for opening beer bottles using only a bottle top and some thumb pressure.
Unsuccessfully.
This resulted in a lot of beer bottles being opened at the same time, which then, of course, all had to be consumed.
I avoided inflicting my own party tricks on people, preferring instead to tell people how much I loved them and / or that they were my new best friends.
'Whenever you're in town, call me, we'll go out for a beer. You can stay here whenever you like. Look, I'll give you my telephone number.'
'You already gave it to me. Twice.'
'Oh.'
At one point I go to get a card with our address and phone number on it. When I get back to the lounge I've forgotten who I'm supposed to give it to. I spy someone leaving and guess that it must be them.
'Here's that card,' I say, holding it out.
'Um, I already have one, thanks.'
'Oh.'
My golden rule of drinking stood me in excellent stead during the evening:
"Never, ever, arrange to do anything with anybody, whilst drunk."
Picture the scene, it's 9AM and you have a hangover from hell, then, as you wobble towards the bathroom it hits you like a thunderbolt:
Oh my god, I arranged to go hangliding / waterskiing / mountain climbing / play rugby today with that guy from the pub last night.
You hope that he won't remember, but no, there's a knock on the door and you are doomed.
So, although the offer of 'sailing tomorrow' is very appealing, I ask for a telephone call in the morning to confirm the event.
'I never arrange anything when drunk.' I slur, in bad French.
'A real sailor goes to sea if he says he will, no matter how bad he feels.' He replies.
There was no phone call this morning.
The evening's last memory for me is a very intense conversation where I feel like I'm saying inappropriate and bizarre things, and then everyone is gone.
'Where did everyone go?' I ask.
Luckily, everyone else was rather drunk too. No sober people taking notes.
I hope.
This morning we found a lot of Gin, Rum, beer and cameras. Now you know it was a good party when people actually leave half a bottle of Gin behind, too drunk to remember to take it when they leave, focusing all their concentration and energy on the task at hand – getting home.
But today I was surprised to learn that most of the people who left all had the intention of going to eat a Poutine at 3AM.
I'm somewhat glad I didn't feel hungry.
I have no concept of 'enough' once I get into the end-of-the-party zone, and will continue to top up my glass with rum and drink it merrily until I realise that I'm sitting alone, and all my guests have gone home.
'Where did everyone go?' I ask.
This evening started well enough, and I actually managed to avoid drinking the Rum that I had bought, and stuck to the various beers that lined the fridge. I had made a fruit punch which contained a sturdy measure of the hard stuff, but I only had a couple of cups of it before it was polished off by others.
Thankfully.
So I remained fairly clear until about midnight, or perhaps 1AM, when the veil of stupidity fell upon me and I started to talk nonsense to whoever was unfortunate enough to be close to me.
I spent some time trying to learn a trick for opening beer bottles using only a bottle top and some thumb pressure.
Unsuccessfully.
This resulted in a lot of beer bottles being opened at the same time, which then, of course, all had to be consumed.
I avoided inflicting my own party tricks on people, preferring instead to tell people how much I loved them and / or that they were my new best friends.
'Whenever you're in town, call me, we'll go out for a beer. You can stay here whenever you like. Look, I'll give you my telephone number.'
'You already gave it to me. Twice.'
'Oh.'
At one point I go to get a card with our address and phone number on it. When I get back to the lounge I've forgotten who I'm supposed to give it to. I spy someone leaving and guess that it must be them.
'Here's that card,' I say, holding it out.
'Um, I already have one, thanks.'
'Oh.'
My golden rule of drinking stood me in excellent stead during the evening:
"Never, ever, arrange to do anything with anybody, whilst drunk."
Picture the scene, it's 9AM and you have a hangover from hell, then, as you wobble towards the bathroom it hits you like a thunderbolt:
Oh my god, I arranged to go hangliding / waterskiing / mountain climbing / play rugby today with that guy from the pub last night.
You hope that he won't remember, but no, there's a knock on the door and you are doomed.
So, although the offer of 'sailing tomorrow' is very appealing, I ask for a telephone call in the morning to confirm the event.
'I never arrange anything when drunk.' I slur, in bad French.
'A real sailor goes to sea if he says he will, no matter how bad he feels.' He replies.
There was no phone call this morning.
The evening's last memory for me is a very intense conversation where I feel like I'm saying inappropriate and bizarre things, and then everyone is gone.
'Where did everyone go?' I ask.
Luckily, everyone else was rather drunk too. No sober people taking notes.
I hope.
This morning we found a lot of Gin, Rum, beer and cameras. Now you know it was a good party when people actually leave half a bottle of Gin behind, too drunk to remember to take it when they leave, focusing all their concentration and energy on the task at hand – getting home.
But today I was surprised to learn that most of the people who left all had the intention of going to eat a Poutine at 3AM.
I'm somewhat glad I didn't feel hungry.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
A day in the life
Such is the capriciousness of life that if I vary the time that I leave the house on a morning, by so much as a minute, then I arrive a good twenty minutes later at French School.
I have fine-tuned my alarm clock's wake-up time to exactly 16 minutes past 7am now, whereas before it was at 18 minutes past. Now I manage to get up, eat breakfast, drink a strong espresso and get out of the house in time. Just, mind you. The thing that confuses me is that there appears to be no difference between the two journeys – both involve mildly long waits and exactly the same route.
Anyway, I'm standing at the bus stop, knowing that I'm late today (due to being distracted for a minute on my way out), and reading my book. The sky is blue, the sun is out, and the bus arrives shortly.
I make my way to one of the many empty seats. Behind me there is a queue about fifty metres long. I'm always amazed at the length of a line of people that can be crammed into a bus.
So I sit down for, oh, perhaps three seconds, and then leap out of the seat. Something wet has penetrated my jeans. I look suspiciously at the seat, designed, incidentally, in a hollow fashion so as to preserve any liquids left in it for the next user. There is indeed a pool of clearish liquid where I just sat. I move into the aisle seat and stare at the liquid.
Is it urine? I wonder.
I rub my backside and my hand comes away wet. I cautiously sniff my fingers. I can't smell any urine, thank god. But sometimes urine doesn't smell so bad, does it?
I start to worry.
The bus is filling up. I realise that I'm now sitting in the aisle seat, leaving the window seat empty. I really hate it when people do that – what do they think they will achieve? Do they think that they will be spared the horror of sitting next to someone? No, it just delays the inevitable until the point is reached where all the easy seats are taken, then you have to approach these bastards and say, 'excuse me, could I get into that seat?' And they moodily swing their legs to one side as you limbo past. On principle, I choose these seats before the available aisle seats, just to annoy them.
(Before I get mail complaining that people do this due to having five foot long legs or something, yes, yes, there are perfectly good reasons for doing this, I'm sure).
So, I realise that I'm in the position that I hate in other people. It's too late to change seats now, however, as the bus is full (obviously, my window seat is the last to go). I wonder what I should do.
Then I see the man coming down the aisle, looking at the empty seat. I realise that he's going to take it and sit in the pool of liquid. My mind races, frantically, trying to work out how to say in French, 'Oh, there's a pool of suspicious liquid in that seat.'
But it's too late, he's squeezing past me as my lips move, but no sounds come out. As he sits down I bury my face into my book and pretend I can't see him.
Three seconds later he leaps up and looks underneath him. He spies the pool of liquid and casts a terrible glance at me. I pretend not to notice.
He gets some tissues out of his back, and mops up the liquid. He's obviously not as worried about the urine possibility as me.
*
In the supermarket there is a line that has a sign above it that reads '8 items or less'. In these lines the true nature of humanity can be seen clearly.
I have counted my items already – 12 bottles of beer (1 item), some tomatoes in a bag (another item), butter, 3 yogurts, and some chocolate milk. Yes, I never said it was wholesome. Anyway, seven. See, seven items. I'm allowed to use this queue.
As usual I begin to count the items of the people in front of me. The woman in front has nine. Not too bad, I suppose. But the lady at the front of the queue has about 16. She must know that she's got too many items to use this queue. I stare at her shopping as it is scanned through, into multiple bags. She catches my eye and gives me a look that says, 'I know I have more than 8 items, so what are you going to do about it?'
She's in the queue because the other lines are all really long, full of people with hundreds of items. But that's why there's an 8 items or less queue – so people like me don't have to wait half an hour to get out of the shop.
I know that if I was a cashier in a supermarket, I'd be nazi-like in my enforcement of this rule: 'Sorry madam, but two melons cannot be considered a single item, you must leave the queue immediately!' And so forth. Perhaps I'm just too anal about this. I'm not sure.
So, back in the queue - I have the feeling that I'm buying the worst beer in Canada – an American beer called Milwaukee's Best Dry. It's called a 'Strong' beer on the box in big letters, but it's only 5.9%. I suppose that in the USA, that IS strong beer. Anyway, I've heard jokes about this beer, and the people behind me in the queue talk about it too, laughing. They're a young couple with 12 bottles of Corona. Now, I'm sorry, but Corona is trendy piss. Milwaukee's Best Dry cannot be worse, I reason.
And, Milwaukee's Best Dry is only $9.99. Corona is somewhat more.
The cashier eyes my beer with distain as I fail to give the correct amount of cash and cause a confused delay. He rolls his eyes, which then rest upon the Corona.
'Ooooh! Corona!' He says, camply.
'Yeah.' Says the trendy piss-drinker, as if it isn't.
I have fine-tuned my alarm clock's wake-up time to exactly 16 minutes past 7am now, whereas before it was at 18 minutes past. Now I manage to get up, eat breakfast, drink a strong espresso and get out of the house in time. Just, mind you. The thing that confuses me is that there appears to be no difference between the two journeys – both involve mildly long waits and exactly the same route.
Anyway, I'm standing at the bus stop, knowing that I'm late today (due to being distracted for a minute on my way out), and reading my book. The sky is blue, the sun is out, and the bus arrives shortly.
I make my way to one of the many empty seats. Behind me there is a queue about fifty metres long. I'm always amazed at the length of a line of people that can be crammed into a bus.
So I sit down for, oh, perhaps three seconds, and then leap out of the seat. Something wet has penetrated my jeans. I look suspiciously at the seat, designed, incidentally, in a hollow fashion so as to preserve any liquids left in it for the next user. There is indeed a pool of clearish liquid where I just sat. I move into the aisle seat and stare at the liquid.
Is it urine? I wonder.
I rub my backside and my hand comes away wet. I cautiously sniff my fingers. I can't smell any urine, thank god. But sometimes urine doesn't smell so bad, does it?
I start to worry.
The bus is filling up. I realise that I'm now sitting in the aisle seat, leaving the window seat empty. I really hate it when people do that – what do they think they will achieve? Do they think that they will be spared the horror of sitting next to someone? No, it just delays the inevitable until the point is reached where all the easy seats are taken, then you have to approach these bastards and say, 'excuse me, could I get into that seat?' And they moodily swing their legs to one side as you limbo past. On principle, I choose these seats before the available aisle seats, just to annoy them.
(Before I get mail complaining that people do this due to having five foot long legs or something, yes, yes, there are perfectly good reasons for doing this, I'm sure).
So, I realise that I'm in the position that I hate in other people. It's too late to change seats now, however, as the bus is full (obviously, my window seat is the last to go). I wonder what I should do.
Then I see the man coming down the aisle, looking at the empty seat. I realise that he's going to take it and sit in the pool of liquid. My mind races, frantically, trying to work out how to say in French, 'Oh, there's a pool of suspicious liquid in that seat.'
But it's too late, he's squeezing past me as my lips move, but no sounds come out. As he sits down I bury my face into my book and pretend I can't see him.
Three seconds later he leaps up and looks underneath him. He spies the pool of liquid and casts a terrible glance at me. I pretend not to notice.
He gets some tissues out of his back, and mops up the liquid. He's obviously not as worried about the urine possibility as me.
*
In the supermarket there is a line that has a sign above it that reads '8 items or less'. In these lines the true nature of humanity can be seen clearly.
I have counted my items already – 12 bottles of beer (1 item), some tomatoes in a bag (another item), butter, 3 yogurts, and some chocolate milk. Yes, I never said it was wholesome. Anyway, seven. See, seven items. I'm allowed to use this queue.
As usual I begin to count the items of the people in front of me. The woman in front has nine. Not too bad, I suppose. But the lady at the front of the queue has about 16. She must know that she's got too many items to use this queue. I stare at her shopping as it is scanned through, into multiple bags. She catches my eye and gives me a look that says, 'I know I have more than 8 items, so what are you going to do about it?'
She's in the queue because the other lines are all really long, full of people with hundreds of items. But that's why there's an 8 items or less queue – so people like me don't have to wait half an hour to get out of the shop.
I know that if I was a cashier in a supermarket, I'd be nazi-like in my enforcement of this rule: 'Sorry madam, but two melons cannot be considered a single item, you must leave the queue immediately!' And so forth. Perhaps I'm just too anal about this. I'm not sure.
So, back in the queue - I have the feeling that I'm buying the worst beer in Canada – an American beer called Milwaukee's Best Dry. It's called a 'Strong' beer on the box in big letters, but it's only 5.9%. I suppose that in the USA, that IS strong beer. Anyway, I've heard jokes about this beer, and the people behind me in the queue talk about it too, laughing. They're a young couple with 12 bottles of Corona. Now, I'm sorry, but Corona is trendy piss. Milwaukee's Best Dry cannot be worse, I reason.
And, Milwaukee's Best Dry is only $9.99. Corona is somewhat more.
The cashier eyes my beer with distain as I fail to give the correct amount of cash and cause a confused delay. He rolls his eyes, which then rest upon the Corona.
'Ooooh! Corona!' He says, camply.
'Yeah.' Says the trendy piss-drinker, as if it isn't.
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
Hypocrite
I can see the man, in the distance, and I know that he has decided to home in on me, to beg for some change.
On some days I attract the needy like wasps to cider.
I don't try and avoid him, but rather walk on my intended path, even though it now has the obstacle of him in it. He's in his mid thirties, tall, strong looking, in fairly clean clothes. As I get closer I can see that his face is scarred, burnt, and leathery. I glance at his hands, they are the hands that my mother would describe as 'strangler's hands'. The knuckles are lumpy with thick scar tissue – ever the sign of a man who has had many fist fights.
'Got any spare change?' He says, as I approach.
'Sorry, no.' I say, and keep on walking.
Now, you may think that I'm a bad person, or not, depending on your viewpoint, but I do - I used to give something to all homeless people I met, even if it was only a few cents. I used to put all my spare small change into a different pocket, and simply take some out to give away. Now this change mounts up on my bedside table, is eventually counted, taken to the bank, and added to my meagre funds.
The man doesn't give up, but walks alongside me.
'You know, I was asleep back there,' he points backwards, 'it's my patch you see. Full of rich folks, Ferraris and all sorts park there.'
'Ferraris?' I ask, and then wish I hadn't.
'Yeah, so anyway, I'm there and I've made thirty bucks, and I fall asleep, and when I wake up someone's taken it from my hat. Thirty bucks!'
I shake my head to show that I'm listening. We're still walking.
'Who would do that? Steal thirty bucks from a pan-handler?' He sounds sad as he says this, as if realising that the world was full of bad people, for the first time.
'That's pretty low.' I agree.
He changes now. Anger flashes across his face, 'Do you know how long it takes to make thirty dollars begging? Do you?'
I shake my head.
He goes on, shouting, 'I'll kill them if I find out who did it! If I catch em, I'll kill em!'
'Bloody right.' I say, agreeing.
He's getting quite excited now, 'I'll cut em up, I'll quarter them!' He makes an unholy cross motion, as if cutting a person into four bits. He sounds quite serious.
'Look,' I say, 'I'd give you something if I could afford it, but I'm an immigrant, and I don't have a job, and no money.'
We stop and he stares at me. My excuse sounds lame. He didn't even ask for it, but I felt compelled to try and explain why I'm not giving him any money.
'Aye.' He says.
I'm saved by a rich looking passer-by. 'Any change sir?' He says, changing direction, and walking with his new mark.
'Good luck.' I say.
'What?' He turns back, 'Oh, yeah, thanks.' And runs back to the man who is shaking his head.
So where am I on my way to?
The pub of course, to spend ten dollars on beer.
So, I have no money? No change to spare? Depends on your perspective. But from his perspective, I'm a lying, hypocrite.
On some days I attract the needy like wasps to cider.
I don't try and avoid him, but rather walk on my intended path, even though it now has the obstacle of him in it. He's in his mid thirties, tall, strong looking, in fairly clean clothes. As I get closer I can see that his face is scarred, burnt, and leathery. I glance at his hands, they are the hands that my mother would describe as 'strangler's hands'. The knuckles are lumpy with thick scar tissue – ever the sign of a man who has had many fist fights.
'Got any spare change?' He says, as I approach.
'Sorry, no.' I say, and keep on walking.
Now, you may think that I'm a bad person, or not, depending on your viewpoint, but I do - I used to give something to all homeless people I met, even if it was only a few cents. I used to put all my spare small change into a different pocket, and simply take some out to give away. Now this change mounts up on my bedside table, is eventually counted, taken to the bank, and added to my meagre funds.
The man doesn't give up, but walks alongside me.
'You know, I was asleep back there,' he points backwards, 'it's my patch you see. Full of rich folks, Ferraris and all sorts park there.'
'Ferraris?' I ask, and then wish I hadn't.
'Yeah, so anyway, I'm there and I've made thirty bucks, and I fall asleep, and when I wake up someone's taken it from my hat. Thirty bucks!'
I shake my head to show that I'm listening. We're still walking.
'Who would do that? Steal thirty bucks from a pan-handler?' He sounds sad as he says this, as if realising that the world was full of bad people, for the first time.
'That's pretty low.' I agree.
He changes now. Anger flashes across his face, 'Do you know how long it takes to make thirty dollars begging? Do you?'
I shake my head.
He goes on, shouting, 'I'll kill them if I find out who did it! If I catch em, I'll kill em!'
'Bloody right.' I say, agreeing.
He's getting quite excited now, 'I'll cut em up, I'll quarter them!' He makes an unholy cross motion, as if cutting a person into four bits. He sounds quite serious.
'Look,' I say, 'I'd give you something if I could afford it, but I'm an immigrant, and I don't have a job, and no money.'
We stop and he stares at me. My excuse sounds lame. He didn't even ask for it, but I felt compelled to try and explain why I'm not giving him any money.
'Aye.' He says.
I'm saved by a rich looking passer-by. 'Any change sir?' He says, changing direction, and walking with his new mark.
'Good luck.' I say.
'What?' He turns back, 'Oh, yeah, thanks.' And runs back to the man who is shaking his head.
So where am I on my way to?
The pub of course, to spend ten dollars on beer.
So, I have no money? No change to spare? Depends on your perspective. But from his perspective, I'm a lying, hypocrite.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
The Compleat Vegetarian
I often joke with people that I became a vegetarian to impress a couple of hippy girls I once lived with, and although this is partially true, it is not the whole truth. At the time I had been reading a lot of books on religion, learning about meditation and generally becoming, well, more hippy than I was anyway. Slowly, over time, I began to have nagging doubts about meat.
Like a lot of people, I had distanced meat from the animal somewhat, so that pork chops were just tasty slices of loveliness and not actually a thin bit of pig. Sausages were only very vaguely connected to the cows I saw in fields. I had a minor revelation, realising that I wouldn't be able to kill a pig, or a cow, or even a fish for that matter, and so was being hypocritical in my meat eating. The conviction grew with time, and now, after ten years or more, there's no going back really.
Now, my reason for vegetarianism is a purely personal one, and not one I would advocate for anyone else, in fact, I don't care if other people want to eat meat - I don't actually have a problem with that - for me, it's pure personal, nothing more. The type of people who push their own opinions on others - what they think is right - I find arrogant and distasteful.
So, therefore, this essay isn't designed to turn you into a vegetarian if you're not already one, more, it's just an essay about some of the myths, misconceptions and dull arguments that people use against vegetarians. It's merely to inform, not preach.
Definitions
"I'm a vegetarian, but I eat fish".
This is a phrase I hear quite a lot, and although I'm not a fan of labels, I do think that we should be clearer about what a vegetarian is, for a few different reasons.
One is that I don't like to be put into the same class as 'fish-eating vegetarians', as for me these people are just picky eaters. You might as well say that I don't eat fruit, but I do eat apples. It makes no sense to me - fish are animals too. Anyway, for my purposes, I'll be using the traditional definition, simple and to the point:
One who does not eat flesh, fish or fowl.
The fine lines and boundaries of this definition are discussed later in this essay in the arguments section.
The other main class of vegetarians are the vegans, who can be thought of as an extreme vegetarian, as someone who won't eat anything that exploits animals, and perhaps won't wear any leather, etc. Many vegans won't eat honey, due to bee exploitation, and will carefully examine additives in food to check for suitability (some additives are blatantly animal-based, discussed later in the pitfalls section).
No matter what you think of vegans, you should be aware of them and the differences between them and just general, run-of-the-mill vegetarians.
There are different attitudes within the vegetarian community to how strict you should be in your diet. Many vegetarians will eat any cheese they can find, oblivious (or not caring) that a lot of cheese is made using a calf stomach by-product. Likewise, they might eat any sweets that they can find, despite the fact that they may contain gelatine, which is a fish by-product.
Now the reason for this is as diverse as the reasons that people become vegetarian in the first place, which can be broadly categorised as follows:
1. Spiritual / religious reasons (life is sacred).
2. Squeamish disposition (I couldn't kill a bunny rabbit).
3. Health (It's good for you, eliminate risk of strokes, etc).
4. Picky eating (those fish-eaters again).
5. Ethical (animals are treated badly, I don't eat meat as a protest).
There are probably more, as I say, there are many reasons.
Another reason for having good labels is so that when I tell someone in a restaurant that I'm a vegetarian, then they'll understand and give me something that I can eat. This is where fish-eaters that call themselves vegetarians muddy the water somewhat.
The word doesn't translate well either. In South Korea I had a tremendously difficult time getting vegetarian food (outside of Pizza Hut Margaritas). When I used the words in my phrase book, dishes would arrive full of fish, or chicken generally. In the end I got a kind young man to write down for me, in Korean, on a bit of paper, 'I'm a vegetarian'. The translation was a full side of paper, as it had to list every single thing that I couldn't eat - 'I cannot eat chicken, beef, pork, fish, bacon, squid, eel, etc..'
The same trouble can be had in Japan, where 'vegetarian' dishes often appear, topped with bacon.
A tip for you travellers in Asia - try asking for 'Buddhist food', or 'Monk food'. If in India, try asking for 'Jain food', which is Vegan (you'll have no problem getting plain old vegetarian food in India!).
The History
"It's just a fad."
People have been vegetarians for thousands of years, and the fact that it is still around should tell us something. Mind you, war has been around for just as long, and that isn't necessarily a good thing.
The Arguments
"What about a mushroom? Do you eat mushrooms?"
Vegetarians either spend a great deal of time arguing with meat-eaters, or simply learn to smile when people taunt them and offer half-baked, ill-informed bits of information. I'm in the latter group, having spent five years or more defending my values, now I simply don't bother. It isn't important to me. It is however, important to realise that people that want to argue with you about how wrong it is to be a vegetarian, are extremely unlikely to be convinced by your arguments or ever, ever change their minds. Better then to save your breath and live a little longer.
Anyway, these are some of the top arguments that people use to attack vegetarians, and some responses to the same.
1. Starving to Death
"If you were stranded on a deserted island, would you kill and eat animals to survive?"
Quite frankly, yes. The whole point for me is that because I have a choice, that I can live happily and healthily without meat, that I choose to do that. If that choice is taken away, then I'll kill the wild pig, apologise, and roast it over a fire like any other hungry castaway.
I'm never exactly sure what point people are trying to make with this argument, it's as if they think that by making say that you would eat meat under certain circumstances somehow validates meat-eating as a lifestyle. The fact is that I'm not attacking meat-eating, nor the people that do it, I'm merely defending my life choices. So what if I would eat meat if I was starving? People who are starving eat humans too, to survive, but wouldn't consider doing it if they weren't forced to by fear of death.
Cannibalism is an interesting defensive tool. If you ask someone what they think about cannibalism, they would probably say that it is disgusting, or that they would do it only to survive. Well, I feel exactly the same about eating any animals, not just humans.
2. Nutritional
"You can't get all the vitamins/minerals/protein you need without meat."
A myth. There's nothing you can't get from a vegetarian diet.
"It's unhealthy for a child to be brought up as a vegetarian."
Nonsense. I'd like you to tell that to the hundreds of millions of Indians that are vegetarians from birth, and have been for thousands of years. A common counter argument to this is for people to point out that Indians are small compared to westerners. I find this generally offensive, frankly. Also, you may think that some westerners are actually a little too big - in a rather obese way.
3. Evolutional
"We evolved to eat meat - look at our teeth."
There's no denying that we have the kinds of teeth that other omnivores (animals that eat meat and plants) in the animal world have. Those troublesome canine teeth eh? There's no doubt that we evolved eating meat, since the dawn of time, but we've always eaten vegetables and plants too, and as soon as we could we settled down a grew crops as well as keeping domestic livestock.
I'm not trying to argue that it isn't natural to eat meat. We also evolved to resolve our problems with violence and killing, but we restrain ourselves (mostly). This is the thing - I'm aware of the choice, and I find, personally, that to live by not eating meat is a nobler existence. In a spiritual sense, again personally, I find my life purer without the lives of animals on my hands. If you're not spiritual, you won't understand, but that doesn't matter.
My only point is this: does the fact that you evolved doing one thing mean that it should continue to be done, without exception, into the future? This isn't a question that I can answer for you.
Another thing to point out here is that holy, historical figures, have had different attitudes to eating animals. Jesus fed the masses with fish, and we have to assume that he ate fish along with them. Buddha on the other hand ate no animals. If Buddhism had spread as Christianity has done around the world, then this essay would be redundant, we'd all accept vegetarianism as an understood (if not practised) thing.
A further note here: it is generally unwise to bringing up religion when arguing about vegetarianism - it just fuels the fire.
4. Feeding the World
"If everyone in the world was vegetarian, there wouldn't be enough food for us all."
The implication is that if we used all the cow fields for crops, we would all die of famine. Well, half the world is already dying of famine, you could point out to begin with. It's also a myth - ask any farmer, you can feed the same amount, if not more people with grain grown in a field than with the same field filled with cows.
Anyway, I'm not asking for all the world to turn vegetarian.
5. Eggs and the Grey Area
"Do you eat eggs? Eggs are life."
Well, welcome to the grey area. Where do you draw the line being a vegetarian? The grey area is a vast one, from the extremes of vegan bee exploitation, to the fish eaten by the picky eaters. We all draw a line somewhere in that area and try not to cross it.
Gandhi ate eggs incidentally. He didn't for many years, being a strict vegetarian and believing eggs to be life cut short. One day a man pointed out to Gandhi that the eggs were not life-to-be, as the eggs had never been fertilised by a cock. The eggs, if sat on by the chicken would not grow and hatch into chicks - they would just rot and decay. Unfertilised eggs have no life potential - they are, to put it bluntly, chicken periods.
You can rest assured that the eggs that you buy at the supermarket are unfertilised eggs and devoid of life. The chickens that lay these eggs will probably never see a cock in their entire lives. Some argue (myself included) that you should only buy eggs from free-range chickens, where the animals can run around outside and don't just live in a two foot cage for their whole existence.
The grey area extends, so people like to contend, to such things as snails, clams and mushrooms. What constitutes life? People will ask. Is it a face? Eyes? Legs? A Brain?
A difficult question indeed. We must all draw our own lines and come up with our own definitions of life that we won't devour. Plants are alive too, but we have to eat something. I imagine that if plants ran away when we tried to pick them, then I would tend to class them as life too and become a fruitarian or something.
Fruitarians. Ah, if you do extend life into plants then the only thing left to eat is the fruit of plants, which the plant produces specifically to be eaten and distribute their seeds. Picking fruit doesn't kill or hurt a plant, in fact, it helps it. Nuts fall into this category too.
Fruitarians tend to look a little pale, as it is hard to fulfil all your body's dietary needs on fruit and nuts alone.
And lastly, mushrooms. Mushrooms are the fruit of the fungus which lives under the ground. They serve only to distribute spores. Picking a mushroom does not damage the fungus.
6. The Bacon Sandwich
"But how can you live without bacon sandwiches?"
Well, it depends on your reasons for being a vegetarian. If you have a good reason, you can live happily without bacon sandwiches. If you have a less solid reason, then you'll cave in one night after a couple of pints, and eat two or three in one go.
Pitfalls
"Don't read the label!"
As I mentioned earlier, there are a lot of products that are added to foods which are animal based, which renders seemingly innocent foods inedible to some vegetarians. I'll list some of the more common ones:
Rennet (Pressure in French): Some kind of cow-stomach-lining by product used in cheese making. Alternatives are cheap and widely available, but under-used. It can be particularly hard to find parmesan cheese without rennet. Goat cheese is usually rennet free.
Gelatine: Some kind of fish based material used to thicken things, like sweets, yoghurt and ice-cream. Again, there are alternatives, but they are under-used.
Whey powder: A by product of cheese making, may not be always be vegetarian. These appear in a wide variety of products.
Cooking
"How do you cook rice again?"
If you want to be a vegetarian, you'd better learn to cook, or you'll be eating a lot of junk and get spots and fat, or eat nothing and get much too pale and thin.
Look at the average meal in India - a vegetable based dish, lentils, bread and yoghurt. This is a good meal with all food groups accounted for. You might also, during the day, eat an egg and drink a lot of sugary tea.
You need to ensure that you eat a varied diet when a vegetarian. If you find yourself eating the same thing, day in, day out, then there's something wrong, and you'll get sick. The body is very good at adapting to a poor diet, so you'll survive for a long time on a poor vegetarian diet - you can survive surprisingly long on bread water and lemons, but I wouldn't recommend it.
Ensure that you eat bread, rice, pasta, beans, lentils, nuts (people always say that don't they? I use nuts in cooking sometimes), plenty of cooked and uncooked vegetables, fresh fruit (or at least fruit juice), butter or margarine, oils, eggs, milk, cheese, tofu, yoghurt, salads, and some cake. If you find yourself eating all these things during a week, then you'll probably do well. Listen to your body, if you crave something, eat it, but don't give into excess and only eat cake all week. You need variety!
People worry too much about how much protein, carbohydrate, vitamins, folic acid, iron, zinc, etc, etc, they are getting every day. All I can say is that as long as you eat a balanced diet as described above, then you'll be fine. Don't stress about the details. The ill people are the people who don't cook their own meals, but live on junk food, fast food, take-away food and pre-cooked food - I'll say it again - learn to cook if you want to be healthy.
And, lastly, the secret of vegetarian cooking - herbs and spices. If you think vegetarian cooking is bland and tasteless, then you've obviously never eaten Indian, Thai or Chinese vegetarian food. The use of herbs and spices is most essential in vegetarian cookery to avoid the dull, insipid, tedious, pasta with red sauce that tastes of nothing, that everyone cooks for you when they know you're a vegetarian. 'What shall I cook?' They scream. 'I know, a tin of tomatoes on top of some pasta - perfect.'
Like a lot of people, I had distanced meat from the animal somewhat, so that pork chops were just tasty slices of loveliness and not actually a thin bit of pig. Sausages were only very vaguely connected to the cows I saw in fields. I had a minor revelation, realising that I wouldn't be able to kill a pig, or a cow, or even a fish for that matter, and so was being hypocritical in my meat eating. The conviction grew with time, and now, after ten years or more, there's no going back really.
Now, my reason for vegetarianism is a purely personal one, and not one I would advocate for anyone else, in fact, I don't care if other people want to eat meat - I don't actually have a problem with that - for me, it's pure personal, nothing more. The type of people who push their own opinions on others - what they think is right - I find arrogant and distasteful.
So, therefore, this essay isn't designed to turn you into a vegetarian if you're not already one, more, it's just an essay about some of the myths, misconceptions and dull arguments that people use against vegetarians. It's merely to inform, not preach.
Definitions
"I'm a vegetarian, but I eat fish".
This is a phrase I hear quite a lot, and although I'm not a fan of labels, I do think that we should be clearer about what a vegetarian is, for a few different reasons.
One is that I don't like to be put into the same class as 'fish-eating vegetarians', as for me these people are just picky eaters. You might as well say that I don't eat fruit, but I do eat apples. It makes no sense to me - fish are animals too. Anyway, for my purposes, I'll be using the traditional definition, simple and to the point:
One who does not eat flesh, fish or fowl.
The fine lines and boundaries of this definition are discussed later in this essay in the arguments section.
The other main class of vegetarians are the vegans, who can be thought of as an extreme vegetarian, as someone who won't eat anything that exploits animals, and perhaps won't wear any leather, etc. Many vegans won't eat honey, due to bee exploitation, and will carefully examine additives in food to check for suitability (some additives are blatantly animal-based, discussed later in the pitfalls section).
No matter what you think of vegans, you should be aware of them and the differences between them and just general, run-of-the-mill vegetarians.
There are different attitudes within the vegetarian community to how strict you should be in your diet. Many vegetarians will eat any cheese they can find, oblivious (or not caring) that a lot of cheese is made using a calf stomach by-product. Likewise, they might eat any sweets that they can find, despite the fact that they may contain gelatine, which is a fish by-product.
Now the reason for this is as diverse as the reasons that people become vegetarian in the first place, which can be broadly categorised as follows:
1. Spiritual / religious reasons (life is sacred).
2. Squeamish disposition (I couldn't kill a bunny rabbit).
3. Health (It's good for you, eliminate risk of strokes, etc).
4. Picky eating (those fish-eaters again).
5. Ethical (animals are treated badly, I don't eat meat as a protest).
There are probably more, as I say, there are many reasons.
Another reason for having good labels is so that when I tell someone in a restaurant that I'm a vegetarian, then they'll understand and give me something that I can eat. This is where fish-eaters that call themselves vegetarians muddy the water somewhat.
The word doesn't translate well either. In South Korea I had a tremendously difficult time getting vegetarian food (outside of Pizza Hut Margaritas). When I used the words in my phrase book, dishes would arrive full of fish, or chicken generally. In the end I got a kind young man to write down for me, in Korean, on a bit of paper, 'I'm a vegetarian'. The translation was a full side of paper, as it had to list every single thing that I couldn't eat - 'I cannot eat chicken, beef, pork, fish, bacon, squid, eel, etc..'
The same trouble can be had in Japan, where 'vegetarian' dishes often appear, topped with bacon.
A tip for you travellers in Asia - try asking for 'Buddhist food', or 'Monk food'. If in India, try asking for 'Jain food', which is Vegan (you'll have no problem getting plain old vegetarian food in India!).
The History
"It's just a fad."
People have been vegetarians for thousands of years, and the fact that it is still around should tell us something. Mind you, war has been around for just as long, and that isn't necessarily a good thing.
The Arguments
"What about a mushroom? Do you eat mushrooms?"
Vegetarians either spend a great deal of time arguing with meat-eaters, or simply learn to smile when people taunt them and offer half-baked, ill-informed bits of information. I'm in the latter group, having spent five years or more defending my values, now I simply don't bother. It isn't important to me. It is however, important to realise that people that want to argue with you about how wrong it is to be a vegetarian, are extremely unlikely to be convinced by your arguments or ever, ever change their minds. Better then to save your breath and live a little longer.
Anyway, these are some of the top arguments that people use to attack vegetarians, and some responses to the same.
1. Starving to Death
"If you were stranded on a deserted island, would you kill and eat animals to survive?"
Quite frankly, yes. The whole point for me is that because I have a choice, that I can live happily and healthily without meat, that I choose to do that. If that choice is taken away, then I'll kill the wild pig, apologise, and roast it over a fire like any other hungry castaway.
I'm never exactly sure what point people are trying to make with this argument, it's as if they think that by making say that you would eat meat under certain circumstances somehow validates meat-eating as a lifestyle. The fact is that I'm not attacking meat-eating, nor the people that do it, I'm merely defending my life choices. So what if I would eat meat if I was starving? People who are starving eat humans too, to survive, but wouldn't consider doing it if they weren't forced to by fear of death.
Cannibalism is an interesting defensive tool. If you ask someone what they think about cannibalism, they would probably say that it is disgusting, or that they would do it only to survive. Well, I feel exactly the same about eating any animals, not just humans.
2. Nutritional
"You can't get all the vitamins/minerals/protein you need without meat."
A myth. There's nothing you can't get from a vegetarian diet.
"It's unhealthy for a child to be brought up as a vegetarian."
Nonsense. I'd like you to tell that to the hundreds of millions of Indians that are vegetarians from birth, and have been for thousands of years. A common counter argument to this is for people to point out that Indians are small compared to westerners. I find this generally offensive, frankly. Also, you may think that some westerners are actually a little too big - in a rather obese way.
3. Evolutional
"We evolved to eat meat - look at our teeth."
There's no denying that we have the kinds of teeth that other omnivores (animals that eat meat and plants) in the animal world have. Those troublesome canine teeth eh? There's no doubt that we evolved eating meat, since the dawn of time, but we've always eaten vegetables and plants too, and as soon as we could we settled down a grew crops as well as keeping domestic livestock.
I'm not trying to argue that it isn't natural to eat meat. We also evolved to resolve our problems with violence and killing, but we restrain ourselves (mostly). This is the thing - I'm aware of the choice, and I find, personally, that to live by not eating meat is a nobler existence. In a spiritual sense, again personally, I find my life purer without the lives of animals on my hands. If you're not spiritual, you won't understand, but that doesn't matter.
My only point is this: does the fact that you evolved doing one thing mean that it should continue to be done, without exception, into the future? This isn't a question that I can answer for you.
Another thing to point out here is that holy, historical figures, have had different attitudes to eating animals. Jesus fed the masses with fish, and we have to assume that he ate fish along with them. Buddha on the other hand ate no animals. If Buddhism had spread as Christianity has done around the world, then this essay would be redundant, we'd all accept vegetarianism as an understood (if not practised) thing.
A further note here: it is generally unwise to bringing up religion when arguing about vegetarianism - it just fuels the fire.
4. Feeding the World
"If everyone in the world was vegetarian, there wouldn't be enough food for us all."
The implication is that if we used all the cow fields for crops, we would all die of famine. Well, half the world is already dying of famine, you could point out to begin with. It's also a myth - ask any farmer, you can feed the same amount, if not more people with grain grown in a field than with the same field filled with cows.
Anyway, I'm not asking for all the world to turn vegetarian.
5. Eggs and the Grey Area
"Do you eat eggs? Eggs are life."
Well, welcome to the grey area. Where do you draw the line being a vegetarian? The grey area is a vast one, from the extremes of vegan bee exploitation, to the fish eaten by the picky eaters. We all draw a line somewhere in that area and try not to cross it.
Gandhi ate eggs incidentally. He didn't for many years, being a strict vegetarian and believing eggs to be life cut short. One day a man pointed out to Gandhi that the eggs were not life-to-be, as the eggs had never been fertilised by a cock. The eggs, if sat on by the chicken would not grow and hatch into chicks - they would just rot and decay. Unfertilised eggs have no life potential - they are, to put it bluntly, chicken periods.
You can rest assured that the eggs that you buy at the supermarket are unfertilised eggs and devoid of life. The chickens that lay these eggs will probably never see a cock in their entire lives. Some argue (myself included) that you should only buy eggs from free-range chickens, where the animals can run around outside and don't just live in a two foot cage for their whole existence.
The grey area extends, so people like to contend, to such things as snails, clams and mushrooms. What constitutes life? People will ask. Is it a face? Eyes? Legs? A Brain?
A difficult question indeed. We must all draw our own lines and come up with our own definitions of life that we won't devour. Plants are alive too, but we have to eat something. I imagine that if plants ran away when we tried to pick them, then I would tend to class them as life too and become a fruitarian or something.
Fruitarians. Ah, if you do extend life into plants then the only thing left to eat is the fruit of plants, which the plant produces specifically to be eaten and distribute their seeds. Picking fruit doesn't kill or hurt a plant, in fact, it helps it. Nuts fall into this category too.
Fruitarians tend to look a little pale, as it is hard to fulfil all your body's dietary needs on fruit and nuts alone.
And lastly, mushrooms. Mushrooms are the fruit of the fungus which lives under the ground. They serve only to distribute spores. Picking a mushroom does not damage the fungus.
6. The Bacon Sandwich
"But how can you live without bacon sandwiches?"
Well, it depends on your reasons for being a vegetarian. If you have a good reason, you can live happily without bacon sandwiches. If you have a less solid reason, then you'll cave in one night after a couple of pints, and eat two or three in one go.
Pitfalls
"Don't read the label!"
As I mentioned earlier, there are a lot of products that are added to foods which are animal based, which renders seemingly innocent foods inedible to some vegetarians. I'll list some of the more common ones:
Rennet (Pressure in French): Some kind of cow-stomach-lining by product used in cheese making. Alternatives are cheap and widely available, but under-used. It can be particularly hard to find parmesan cheese without rennet. Goat cheese is usually rennet free.
Gelatine: Some kind of fish based material used to thicken things, like sweets, yoghurt and ice-cream. Again, there are alternatives, but they are under-used.
Whey powder: A by product of cheese making, may not be always be vegetarian. These appear in a wide variety of products.
Cooking
"How do you cook rice again?"
If you want to be a vegetarian, you'd better learn to cook, or you'll be eating a lot of junk and get spots and fat, or eat nothing and get much too pale and thin.
Look at the average meal in India - a vegetable based dish, lentils, bread and yoghurt. This is a good meal with all food groups accounted for. You might also, during the day, eat an egg and drink a lot of sugary tea.
You need to ensure that you eat a varied diet when a vegetarian. If you find yourself eating the same thing, day in, day out, then there's something wrong, and you'll get sick. The body is very good at adapting to a poor diet, so you'll survive for a long time on a poor vegetarian diet - you can survive surprisingly long on bread water and lemons, but I wouldn't recommend it.
Ensure that you eat bread, rice, pasta, beans, lentils, nuts (people always say that don't they? I use nuts in cooking sometimes), plenty of cooked and uncooked vegetables, fresh fruit (or at least fruit juice), butter or margarine, oils, eggs, milk, cheese, tofu, yoghurt, salads, and some cake. If you find yourself eating all these things during a week, then you'll probably do well. Listen to your body, if you crave something, eat it, but don't give into excess and only eat cake all week. You need variety!
People worry too much about how much protein, carbohydrate, vitamins, folic acid, iron, zinc, etc, etc, they are getting every day. All I can say is that as long as you eat a balanced diet as described above, then you'll be fine. Don't stress about the details. The ill people are the people who don't cook their own meals, but live on junk food, fast food, take-away food and pre-cooked food - I'll say it again - learn to cook if you want to be healthy.
And, lastly, the secret of vegetarian cooking - herbs and spices. If you think vegetarian cooking is bland and tasteless, then you've obviously never eaten Indian, Thai or Chinese vegetarian food. The use of herbs and spices is most essential in vegetarian cookery to avoid the dull, insipid, tedious, pasta with red sauce that tastes of nothing, that everyone cooks for you when they know you're a vegetarian. 'What shall I cook?' They scream. 'I know, a tin of tomatoes on top of some pasta - perfect.'
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Memento
Have you ever seen that film, Memento? Well, if I drink spirits, then my life becomes like that.
I sit here, today, with unexplained bruises, an empty wallet, and a sore head. What the hell happened last night?
It begins in the London Bar, where I was soundly ripped off and spent every penny I had in a terrible drinking game, designed, I think, to make the newcomer pay for everything.
And then I leave the bar, with my $60 bill, and stagger into the street. Still lucid at this point, and consider my options.
Then...
[blank]
I'm in a bar. I don't know it, it must be new to me. I'm standing between a booth by the window, and the bar itself. It is busy. I don't know if I have a beer here or not. I wonder if I should sit at the table. Then...
[blank]
I'm crouching in front of a car. What am I doing here? I'm hiding, obviously. From what? I'm not sure. The street is typical east end Montreal. It is quiet, I have the feeling that I've escaped my pursuer for now. But why am I hiding? I think back...
[blank]
I'm in a bank. It is late at night and I'm clutching my cash-card, which I'm staring at. I'm not sure if I have just withdrawn cash, or am about to. I have the feeling that I'm deciding something important. A taxi waits for me outside...
[blank]
I'm staggering along. It is dark, very dark. There is an old train to my right. The ground is uneven and stony. I stumble a great deal. What am I doing here? I don't know. I walk on, unsure of my destination. I'm tired now. The empty trains around me seem as tempting as a warm bed. But I resist, I feel that I have to keep on going. To my left is a steep slope and I worry about falling down it. I walk across tracks. There are no moving trains. Empty warehouses pass me by on my right hand side...
[blank]
'Do you have any ID?'
'What?'
'Any ID sir?'
'Sure, I have some.'
I fumble in my pocket, extract my wallet, and take out a few cards. I stare at them. They all mean nothing. I realise that I'm drunk. I offer them all and the police officer takes my driving license from amongst them.
'Where do you live?'
This must be a trick question, as it's written on my license, I think. But I decide to tell him anyway, I'm feeling miserable and want to make friends with the police.
[blank]
'That's it! I live there!' I'm excited as I leave the police car, thanking my saviours, and make my way home, at 3am.
I sit here, today, with unexplained bruises, an empty wallet, and a sore head. What the hell happened last night?
It begins in the London Bar, where I was soundly ripped off and spent every penny I had in a terrible drinking game, designed, I think, to make the newcomer pay for everything.
And then I leave the bar, with my $60 bill, and stagger into the street. Still lucid at this point, and consider my options.
Then...
[blank]
I'm in a bar. I don't know it, it must be new to me. I'm standing between a booth by the window, and the bar itself. It is busy. I don't know if I have a beer here or not. I wonder if I should sit at the table. Then...
[blank]
I'm crouching in front of a car. What am I doing here? I'm hiding, obviously. From what? I'm not sure. The street is typical east end Montreal. It is quiet, I have the feeling that I've escaped my pursuer for now. But why am I hiding? I think back...
[blank]
I'm in a bank. It is late at night and I'm clutching my cash-card, which I'm staring at. I'm not sure if I have just withdrawn cash, or am about to. I have the feeling that I'm deciding something important. A taxi waits for me outside...
[blank]
I'm staggering along. It is dark, very dark. There is an old train to my right. The ground is uneven and stony. I stumble a great deal. What am I doing here? I don't know. I walk on, unsure of my destination. I'm tired now. The empty trains around me seem as tempting as a warm bed. But I resist, I feel that I have to keep on going. To my left is a steep slope and I worry about falling down it. I walk across tracks. There are no moving trains. Empty warehouses pass me by on my right hand side...
[blank]
'Do you have any ID?'
'What?'
'Any ID sir?'
'Sure, I have some.'
I fumble in my pocket, extract my wallet, and take out a few cards. I stare at them. They all mean nothing. I realise that I'm drunk. I offer them all and the police officer takes my driving license from amongst them.
'Where do you live?'
This must be a trick question, as it's written on my license, I think. But I decide to tell him anyway, I'm feeling miserable and want to make friends with the police.
[blank]
'That's it! I live there!' I'm excited as I leave the police car, thanking my saviours, and make my way home, at 3am.
Thursday, April 01, 2004
Bily Kun
Ah, jazz night. I used to go to a great little pub in Lancaster, England on a Sunday afternoon where a jazz band used to play and they gave away free sausages. It was, inventively, called 'Jazz and Sausages', or something equally clever. The point is this though, I used to love those Sunday afternoons in that pub.
So, I see something called "Jazz - Frans Ben Callado", advertised at the Bily Kun at 6pm on a Tuesday. I pack my bag and head down there for five thirty, to get a seat.
The Bily Kun is famous (at least for some people) because of the ostrich heads it has, stuffed and mounted on the walls. A whole line of the birds leer at you as you drink your pint, and I suspect that the odd feather floats down as they creep into decaying old age. I often wonder if people would be as enthusiastic if they had cow heads on the wall, or horses.
But, they certainly add character, along with the wall of light-switch fittings, old wood, and comfy 'sofa-area', where you are forced to rub knees with strangers on busier nights.
The crowd, pre-jazz, is different to the usual Friday night techno-lovers, I note – suits, rich dresses, cultured accents, raised chins, older average age. I fancy that the atmosphere is like the bar in any theatre, ten minutes before curtains.
An old man with a silk scarf leans towards me and asks a question about something finishing. All I catch is 'blah blah blah terminer?', the rest is lost in the noise of the pub.
I suspect he's asking if the band has finished already, but I err on the side of caution and say, 'Je ne sais pas.' Which is true.
At ten to six I start to have doubts. There is no sign of any band. There is a piano, but nothing else. There is jazz playing over the speakers in the bar, but nothing live is going to happen. My heart sinks – this isn't like my Sunday afternoon fantasy at all.
Six O'clock comes and goes and I realise that the odd crowd is merely the after-work drinkers, and that's why there are suits and nice dresses and older people too. The theatre atmosphere is all in my mind.
I drink my pint and leave. I prefer it on Friday night.
Facts
1. Address: 354 Mont Royal, Montreal
2. Telephone: (514) 845-5392
3. Map Link: View
4. Nearest Metro: Mont-Royal
5. Website: www.bilykun.com
6. Additional: (Alleged) Live jazz on Tuesdays
So, I see something called "Jazz - Frans Ben Callado", advertised at the Bily Kun at 6pm on a Tuesday. I pack my bag and head down there for five thirty, to get a seat.
The Bily Kun is famous (at least for some people) because of the ostrich heads it has, stuffed and mounted on the walls. A whole line of the birds leer at you as you drink your pint, and I suspect that the odd feather floats down as they creep into decaying old age. I often wonder if people would be as enthusiastic if they had cow heads on the wall, or horses.
But, they certainly add character, along with the wall of light-switch fittings, old wood, and comfy 'sofa-area', where you are forced to rub knees with strangers on busier nights.
The crowd, pre-jazz, is different to the usual Friday night techno-lovers, I note – suits, rich dresses, cultured accents, raised chins, older average age. I fancy that the atmosphere is like the bar in any theatre, ten minutes before curtains.
An old man with a silk scarf leans towards me and asks a question about something finishing. All I catch is 'blah blah blah terminer?', the rest is lost in the noise of the pub.
I suspect he's asking if the band has finished already, but I err on the side of caution and say, 'Je ne sais pas.' Which is true.
At ten to six I start to have doubts. There is no sign of any band. There is a piano, but nothing else. There is jazz playing over the speakers in the bar, but nothing live is going to happen. My heart sinks – this isn't like my Sunday afternoon fantasy at all.
Six O'clock comes and goes and I realise that the odd crowd is merely the after-work drinkers, and that's why there are suits and nice dresses and older people too. The theatre atmosphere is all in my mind.
I drink my pint and leave. I prefer it on Friday night.
Facts
1. Address: 354 Mont Royal, Montreal
2. Telephone: (514) 845-5392
3. Map Link: View
4. Nearest Metro: Mont-Royal
5. Website: www.bilykun.com
6. Additional: (Alleged) Live jazz on Tuesdays
Keywords: areaplateau metromontroyal musicdj musictechno musicjazz
Barraca
Barraca brings back hazy memories of an extremely long and confusing film, watched at mostly-naked hippy festivals, some years ago. So, I'm loaded with these connections when I wander in, at about 7pm on a Tuesday.
It's thin, and artsy, but cosy and well lit too. There's a terrace at the back that reminds me of my Dad's back garden, and a long bar where expert and inexpert barstaff alike mix cocktails and count their tips in quieter moments.
I take a seat at the bar and try to scan the beer pumps before the barmaid reaches me. She arrives too soon and I decide on the closest – St. Ambroise.
I order a pint of it. She stares at me with a look of incomprehension.
I try again, pointing too. She looks at the pump, and then cranes her head around to the front to see what on earth it was that I'm trying to say so badly. She gives me a look which is a mix of amusement and weariness.
I start to remember that St. Ambroise is pronounced something difficult like 'ahmbrwah', and not like my Anglicised version of 'am-broze'.
The barmaid now makes the usual gestures of 'big glass', 'little glass' rather than trying to speak to me any longer. I make a 'big glass' sign and try and smile convincingly.
When I get my pint it's missing a lot of beer, so I ask for a top up using international bar sign language. She doesn't mind.
Then a young woman comes and sits very close to me on the next barstool. There are plenty of barstools further away, but she chooses the one next to me.
She orders a drink and then sits there fiddling with her fingers, or rubbing her thighs with her hands. A tension builds.
I imagine what it would be like for me if I wasn't married in this city, and was trying to meet women in bars. Difficult, I conclude. If I have trouble ordering beer and talking about the weather, then what hope would I have?
We sit in silence, side by side, for fifteen minutes until her boyfriend arrives, finally. I'm thankful as they get up and leave. A few minutes later my barmaid arrives with plates full of tapas and drinks. She looks at the empty barstool next to me and says to me, 'Did you see them leave?' In English.
I didn't.
Facts
1. Address: 1134 Mont Royal, Montreal
2. Telephone: (514) 525-7741
3. Map Link: View
4. Nearest Metro: Mont-Royal
It's thin, and artsy, but cosy and well lit too. There's a terrace at the back that reminds me of my Dad's back garden, and a long bar where expert and inexpert barstaff alike mix cocktails and count their tips in quieter moments.
I take a seat at the bar and try to scan the beer pumps before the barmaid reaches me. She arrives too soon and I decide on the closest – St. Ambroise.
I order a pint of it. She stares at me with a look of incomprehension.
I try again, pointing too. She looks at the pump, and then cranes her head around to the front to see what on earth it was that I'm trying to say so badly. She gives me a look which is a mix of amusement and weariness.
I start to remember that St. Ambroise is pronounced something difficult like 'ahmbrwah', and not like my Anglicised version of 'am-broze'.
The barmaid now makes the usual gestures of 'big glass', 'little glass' rather than trying to speak to me any longer. I make a 'big glass' sign and try and smile convincingly.
When I get my pint it's missing a lot of beer, so I ask for a top up using international bar sign language. She doesn't mind.
Then a young woman comes and sits very close to me on the next barstool. There are plenty of barstools further away, but she chooses the one next to me.
She orders a drink and then sits there fiddling with her fingers, or rubbing her thighs with her hands. A tension builds.
I imagine what it would be like for me if I wasn't married in this city, and was trying to meet women in bars. Difficult, I conclude. If I have trouble ordering beer and talking about the weather, then what hope would I have?
We sit in silence, side by side, for fifteen minutes until her boyfriend arrives, finally. I'm thankful as they get up and leave. A few minutes later my barmaid arrives with plates full of tapas and drinks. She looks at the empty barstool next to me and says to me, 'Did you see them leave?' In English.
I didn't.
Facts
1. Address: 1134 Mont Royal, Montreal
2. Telephone: (514) 525-7741
3. Map Link: View
4. Nearest Metro: Mont-Royal
Keywords: areaplateau metromontroyal foodgeneral atmoschilled
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Immigration D-Day
Of course, we only actually look at the letter in detail, mulling over its consequences, the night before my interview, which is at 10am the next day.
‘Passport?’ Check.
‘Birth certificate?’ Check.
‘Driving license?’ Check.
‘Selection Certificate of Quebec?’ Check.
‘Hundred of dollars?’ Check.
‘Special photograph?’ ... What?
Ah, that special photograph. The kind that has to be taken by particular photographers in a particular way for a large sum of money - the only kind that are accepted by the immigration people? Yes, that kind.
No, we don’t have one of those. So it’s 7pm and everywhere is shut. All answering machines when we try some numbers. I spend perhaps two hours searching the web for photography shops that will be open early in the morning, and that might do immigration pictures. At the end of some very frustrating time I have a list of four, one of which opens at 8am. My interview is at 10am. Maybe I’ll make it.
Next morning, 5:30am. My wife is up at this time to go to work, so I get up and stay up too. This way I can maximise the time I’m awake and worrying about getting there on time. I pack my bag full of documents about five times and pace up and down for a while, drinking coffee. I leave early, at perhaps 7:20am.
There is a queue of immense proportions at the metro as it is 1st December, the day when everyone buys their monthly passes in the morning. I thank my lucky stars as I discover two old metro tickets in my pocket, and walk past the queue.
Half an hour later, the Photo shop is closed and I sit on a wet bench outside, waiting until they open. Ten minutes later I’m not smiling and having my picture taken. It is a digital camera, and it is printed in a minute and dried with a hairdressing blow-dryer. I pay my $12 and head back to the metro, past the lengthy queues and use my last metro ticket.
It’s now rush hour and the platforms are full of commuters. I manage to cram my way onto a metro much to the disgust of the other people (as Montrealers seem somewhat polite and will actually wait for the next metro rather than squeezing every man woman and child into every available space). Well, I’m used to London, and so I pushed my way on.
I pop out of the metro carriage at Berri, which is the busiest station on the Metro I think, and consult a map. Ah, I have to continue on the metro I just got off. I look back at the swarm of humanity, queuing patiently for the next metro and realise I’ll never get back on within the next half hour. I decide to take another tube which runs parallel and then walk at the end. I have a map, how hard can it be?
I don’t know the time because of course, I have no watch. I have to consult telephones for the time - they flash up the current time, lazily, every so often.
The other platform is crowded too, but I’m in no mood for waiting, so push my way on again, leaving confused looking people on the platform wondering why they can’t do what I just did.
It takes longer than I thought to get to the road, but I arrive eventually anyway after stopping to feed a friendly squirrel some nuts (there’s always time for that). I’m looking for number 1010, and according to Microsoft’s web map I know where it is. Except the building they point to seems to contain cafes and other such non-governmental businesses. I ask the reception desk if I’m in the right building for 1010?
The bored looking girl merely raises her eyes towards a huge xmas display on the wall which reads simply ‘1000’.
‘So do you know where 1010 is then?’ I ask.
She gestures vaguely back to the road, in both directions, ‘Somewhere around there.’ And turns away from me.
I try not be upset, as I want to retain a positive attitude today.
Back on the street I walk for a few blocks, looking in vain for numbers and when I find one it is shockingly 896. I walk back, more quickly. There are no phones, I don’t know what the time is. Anyway, would knowing the time actually help me find the building? I think it would just induce panic and not help at all.
I’m checking all the buildings on the way, and having no luck at all, with mildly rising panic. I then stumble across a small family of Indians who are clutching a bit of paper from immigration with an address on. The same address that I’m looking for.
‘Yes, I’m looking for it too!’ I tell them.
They have a better strategy than me for finding the building - they humbly hold the paper out to passing strangers, pointing at the address tearfully. A busy looking woman takes pity and look at the paper. She points across the street at a building that obviously had been hiding from us all this time.
I lead the dash, the Indians following close behind.
It’s actually all very nice once you’re inside. After the gun check, you meet lots of smiling, happy looking people who work there, and a lot of anxious, crazed looking people who don’t.
I pay my large amount of cash to a man who takes literally forever to count it out, and then take a seat.
It is a large room, with uncomfortable plastic chairs. All nationalities are here, it is the U.N. of Montreal perhaps. So everyone speaks in twenty languages and everyone has a child that screams too. In amongst this din, the counter officers whisper difficult to pronounce (for them) names which are transmitted through a device which turns them into electronic, tinny noises that no-one can understand. The officers will wait for a moment and then try another pronunciation.
A Chinese couple in front of me sit there, smiling blissfully for ten minutes whilst their names are shouted, incorrectly, from the counter window. In desperation the counter-woman tries what I imagine should thought was the least likely way of saying it, at which point the couple leisurely rise, smiling, and walk to the window.
An hour passes (I steal time from looking at the wrists of strangers) and I’m finally collected by a man and taken into the bowels of the office. No tinny speakerphone and Plexiglas for me. As we walk to the officer’s desk I wonder if this is a good or bad thing.
Well, it’s good. He’s jolly and spends all his time ca-va-ing and shaking hands with people, including me. It’s all going very well until he asks for my picture.
I hand it over.
He stares at it, pulling the kind of Galic face normally reserved for my attempts at French speaking.
‘Oh no, zis is no good.’
‘What?’ My stomach sinks.
He explains that the photographer has cut off too much of my neck and shoulders. It is useless. I get an old passport photo out of my wallet and offer it, like the Indians outside had their paper. He looks at it and sadly shakes his head.
‘What happens now then? I ask, imagining expiring visas, deportation and police cells.
‘Oh, well we will just take another, no? Come with me.’
They have photography facilities there, and it’s free. Good to know.
So I sign my form and gain the rights of the nation (except voting) and he gives me a list of things I should do today with my new paperwork. He shakes my hand and propels me, good naturedly, out of the door and onto the street.
I’m a resident. I don’t feel very different.
First stop, Quebec’s immigration service. These are the people to speak to if you want a social security number or French lessons. I can’t get a SS number yet, but do want some French lessons.
It takes perhaps 45 minutes to walk there and find the building (which is cunningly hidden by scaffolding).
The extent of this fine service is two security guards and a few telephones on some hastily erected tables in a room where the walls are made from untreated gypsum board. After explaining what I want to the security guard, he points me to a phone and tells me to pick it up, without dialling, and explain it again to someone else.
The table has a fetching lamp (of the kind perhaps found in your grandmother’s home) casting a homely orange glow into the unfinished sterility of the room. I pick up the phone it rings and then goes dead. I try again, it rings and goes dead.
Third time: ‘Allo?’
I explain my request and she listens patiently.
‘Can you ‘ang up and call again please?’
‘What?’
‘Can you ‘ang up and call again please?’ She repeats.
‘I have the wrong number?’ I ask confused. How you can you get the wrong number on a phone that you don’t dial?
‘Yes.’ She says and hangs up.
I try again.
‘Allo?’ A man this time.
‘Ah bon, vous-parlez Anglais monsier? Je ne parle pas bien Francais.’ I say.
‘What?’
‘Never mind, I’d like some French Lessons please.’
‘You are Canadian Citizen?’ He slurs.
This call goes on for quite some time. He can’t understand my English or French and I don’t really understand him very well either. We spent a long time spelling things, for example, my road:
‘De Rouen. D-e-r-o-u-e-n.’
‘Diaoin? Where is that?’
‘No, no, De Rouen. D-e-r-o-u-e-n.’
‘D-i-a-o-u-i-n?
‘No, D-e-r.....’
And so on.
So, I have French lessons in some unknown part of the city, sometime in February. Quite a result I think.
Next on the list is the Health Card. This building takes an equally long time to find -- the department being hidden inside what looks like a hotel.
I manage to painlessly acquire a ticket and take a seat. I wait perhaps an hour before my turn. The woman is nice and helpful and takes all my details and gives me a list of all the things I have to do before they’ll give me health card, which includes getting my house-mate to swear an oath in front of an ‘oath-taker’. All sounds rather dramatic to me.
So she gives me some papers and I leave, destination: Pub.
I reason that I deserve a pint.
I have an Irish pub in mind, so walk for fifteen minutes towards it when I start to have a sinking feeling. The feeling that all is not well in the world. I stop and look through my bag. My Selection Certificate of Quebec and my newly acquired Residency Papers are missing. My heart sinks for the second time today.
I indulge in some swearing and find a place to sit down and check the papers properly. The bag was closed, so how could I have lost them? I check every paper, then all my pockets. Not there. The woman in Health Canada must still have them. She didn’t give them back to me! I could see a visual image of her photocopying them and then leaving them on the scanner bed for the next user to find, and discard.
I practically run all the way back and arrive, puffing and panting in the office. The security guard lets me in and takes me to her desk. Empty, closed up, locked, void.
‘Ah, she is at late lunch. You come back.’
‘But when?’ I splutter.
‘Two?’
I walk around the block for an hour in the snow, cursing my luck, and standing in phone boxes frequently.
Well, I got them back. Eventually she returned and, smiling to me, handed them over, apologising and smiling some more.
I went to the pub, finally.
‘Passport?’ Check.
‘Birth certificate?’ Check.
‘Driving license?’ Check.
‘Selection Certificate of Quebec?’ Check.
‘Hundred of dollars?’ Check.
‘Special photograph?’ ... What?
Ah, that special photograph. The kind that has to be taken by particular photographers in a particular way for a large sum of money - the only kind that are accepted by the immigration people? Yes, that kind.
No, we don’t have one of those. So it’s 7pm and everywhere is shut. All answering machines when we try some numbers. I spend perhaps two hours searching the web for photography shops that will be open early in the morning, and that might do immigration pictures. At the end of some very frustrating time I have a list of four, one of which opens at 8am. My interview is at 10am. Maybe I’ll make it.
Next morning, 5:30am. My wife is up at this time to go to work, so I get up and stay up too. This way I can maximise the time I’m awake and worrying about getting there on time. I pack my bag full of documents about five times and pace up and down for a while, drinking coffee. I leave early, at perhaps 7:20am.
There is a queue of immense proportions at the metro as it is 1st December, the day when everyone buys their monthly passes in the morning. I thank my lucky stars as I discover two old metro tickets in my pocket, and walk past the queue.
Half an hour later, the Photo shop is closed and I sit on a wet bench outside, waiting until they open. Ten minutes later I’m not smiling and having my picture taken. It is a digital camera, and it is printed in a minute and dried with a hairdressing blow-dryer. I pay my $12 and head back to the metro, past the lengthy queues and use my last metro ticket.
It’s now rush hour and the platforms are full of commuters. I manage to cram my way onto a metro much to the disgust of the other people (as Montrealers seem somewhat polite and will actually wait for the next metro rather than squeezing every man woman and child into every available space). Well, I’m used to London, and so I pushed my way on.
I pop out of the metro carriage at Berri, which is the busiest station on the Metro I think, and consult a map. Ah, I have to continue on the metro I just got off. I look back at the swarm of humanity, queuing patiently for the next metro and realise I’ll never get back on within the next half hour. I decide to take another tube which runs parallel and then walk at the end. I have a map, how hard can it be?
I don’t know the time because of course, I have no watch. I have to consult telephones for the time - they flash up the current time, lazily, every so often.
The other platform is crowded too, but I’m in no mood for waiting, so push my way on again, leaving confused looking people on the platform wondering why they can’t do what I just did.
It takes longer than I thought to get to the road, but I arrive eventually anyway after stopping to feed a friendly squirrel some nuts (there’s always time for that). I’m looking for number 1010, and according to Microsoft’s web map I know where it is. Except the building they point to seems to contain cafes and other such non-governmental businesses. I ask the reception desk if I’m in the right building for 1010?
The bored looking girl merely raises her eyes towards a huge xmas display on the wall which reads simply ‘1000’.
‘So do you know where 1010 is then?’ I ask.
She gestures vaguely back to the road, in both directions, ‘Somewhere around there.’ And turns away from me.
I try not be upset, as I want to retain a positive attitude today.
Back on the street I walk for a few blocks, looking in vain for numbers and when I find one it is shockingly 896. I walk back, more quickly. There are no phones, I don’t know what the time is. Anyway, would knowing the time actually help me find the building? I think it would just induce panic and not help at all.
I’m checking all the buildings on the way, and having no luck at all, with mildly rising panic. I then stumble across a small family of Indians who are clutching a bit of paper from immigration with an address on. The same address that I’m looking for.
‘Yes, I’m looking for it too!’ I tell them.
They have a better strategy than me for finding the building - they humbly hold the paper out to passing strangers, pointing at the address tearfully. A busy looking woman takes pity and look at the paper. She points across the street at a building that obviously had been hiding from us all this time.
I lead the dash, the Indians following close behind.
It’s actually all very nice once you’re inside. After the gun check, you meet lots of smiling, happy looking people who work there, and a lot of anxious, crazed looking people who don’t.
I pay my large amount of cash to a man who takes literally forever to count it out, and then take a seat.
It is a large room, with uncomfortable plastic chairs. All nationalities are here, it is the U.N. of Montreal perhaps. So everyone speaks in twenty languages and everyone has a child that screams too. In amongst this din, the counter officers whisper difficult to pronounce (for them) names which are transmitted through a device which turns them into electronic, tinny noises that no-one can understand. The officers will wait for a moment and then try another pronunciation.
A Chinese couple in front of me sit there, smiling blissfully for ten minutes whilst their names are shouted, incorrectly, from the counter window. In desperation the counter-woman tries what I imagine should thought was the least likely way of saying it, at which point the couple leisurely rise, smiling, and walk to the window.
An hour passes (I steal time from looking at the wrists of strangers) and I’m finally collected by a man and taken into the bowels of the office. No tinny speakerphone and Plexiglas for me. As we walk to the officer’s desk I wonder if this is a good or bad thing.
Well, it’s good. He’s jolly and spends all his time ca-va-ing and shaking hands with people, including me. It’s all going very well until he asks for my picture.
I hand it over.
He stares at it, pulling the kind of Galic face normally reserved for my attempts at French speaking.
‘Oh no, zis is no good.’
‘What?’ My stomach sinks.
He explains that the photographer has cut off too much of my neck and shoulders. It is useless. I get an old passport photo out of my wallet and offer it, like the Indians outside had their paper. He looks at it and sadly shakes his head.
‘What happens now then? I ask, imagining expiring visas, deportation and police cells.
‘Oh, well we will just take another, no? Come with me.’
They have photography facilities there, and it’s free. Good to know.
So I sign my form and gain the rights of the nation (except voting) and he gives me a list of things I should do today with my new paperwork. He shakes my hand and propels me, good naturedly, out of the door and onto the street.
I’m a resident. I don’t feel very different.
First stop, Quebec’s immigration service. These are the people to speak to if you want a social security number or French lessons. I can’t get a SS number yet, but do want some French lessons.
It takes perhaps 45 minutes to walk there and find the building (which is cunningly hidden by scaffolding).
The extent of this fine service is two security guards and a few telephones on some hastily erected tables in a room where the walls are made from untreated gypsum board. After explaining what I want to the security guard, he points me to a phone and tells me to pick it up, without dialling, and explain it again to someone else.
The table has a fetching lamp (of the kind perhaps found in your grandmother’s home) casting a homely orange glow into the unfinished sterility of the room. I pick up the phone it rings and then goes dead. I try again, it rings and goes dead.
Third time: ‘Allo?’
I explain my request and she listens patiently.
‘Can you ‘ang up and call again please?’
‘What?’
‘Can you ‘ang up and call again please?’ She repeats.
‘I have the wrong number?’ I ask confused. How you can you get the wrong number on a phone that you don’t dial?
‘Yes.’ She says and hangs up.
I try again.
‘Allo?’ A man this time.
‘Ah bon, vous-parlez Anglais monsier? Je ne parle pas bien Francais.’ I say.
‘What?’
‘Never mind, I’d like some French Lessons please.’
‘You are Canadian Citizen?’ He slurs.
This call goes on for quite some time. He can’t understand my English or French and I don’t really understand him very well either. We spent a long time spelling things, for example, my road:
‘De Rouen. D-e-r-o-u-e-n.’
‘Diaoin? Where is that?’
‘No, no, De Rouen. D-e-r-o-u-e-n.’
‘D-i-a-o-u-i-n?
‘No, D-e-r.....’
And so on.
So, I have French lessons in some unknown part of the city, sometime in February. Quite a result I think.
Next on the list is the Health Card. This building takes an equally long time to find -- the department being hidden inside what looks like a hotel.
I manage to painlessly acquire a ticket and take a seat. I wait perhaps an hour before my turn. The woman is nice and helpful and takes all my details and gives me a list of all the things I have to do before they’ll give me health card, which includes getting my house-mate to swear an oath in front of an ‘oath-taker’. All sounds rather dramatic to me.
So she gives me some papers and I leave, destination: Pub.
I reason that I deserve a pint.
I have an Irish pub in mind, so walk for fifteen minutes towards it when I start to have a sinking feeling. The feeling that all is not well in the world. I stop and look through my bag. My Selection Certificate of Quebec and my newly acquired Residency Papers are missing. My heart sinks for the second time today.
I indulge in some swearing and find a place to sit down and check the papers properly. The bag was closed, so how could I have lost them? I check every paper, then all my pockets. Not there. The woman in Health Canada must still have them. She didn’t give them back to me! I could see a visual image of her photocopying them and then leaving them on the scanner bed for the next user to find, and discard.
I practically run all the way back and arrive, puffing and panting in the office. The security guard lets me in and takes me to her desk. Empty, closed up, locked, void.
‘Ah, she is at late lunch. You come back.’
‘But when?’ I splutter.
‘Two?’
I walk around the block for an hour in the snow, cursing my luck, and standing in phone boxes frequently.
Well, I got them back. Eventually she returned and, smiling to me, handed them over, apologising and smiling some more.
I went to the pub, finally.
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