Our first and only Montreal winter

We totally cheated. When we came here last May, everyone laughed when they found out we were from LA. "Have you been through winter yet? Just wait." Montreal winter is legendary. It's epic. This year though, it's been really mild. Mild enough that even Husband, a notorious cold weather hater, hasn't been able to complain. We may not have been here a whole year, but at least we got to experience all four seasons.

Frost-covered branches look like pipe-cleaners.

Changes

I started this blog seven months ago when Husband and I (and the menagerie) moved from Los Angeles to Montreal. The idea of pulling up roots and starting a new life in a new and unfamiliar place was exciting and nerve-wracking, and this blog was meant to be a way to chronicle and share our experiences. Obviously, I fell pretty short on the chronicling.

Now it seems our time in Montreal is coming to an end. Despite planning to be here for several years, an opportunity has come up that will take us back to Los Angeles next month. Leaving so soon is bittersweet for me. LA is home, but I was just starting to get the hang of things here, had started to make friends, and my French was coming back nicely. But I’m grateful for the chance to have lived here even for a short time. Living outside the U.S. was something I'd always wanted to do, and I was jealous that Husband had had that chance before we met.

I’ve started a bucket list of things to do (and restaurants to visit) before we leave. Current front-runner on the list: get tickets to a Habs game. I’ll never forgive myself if I leave Montreal without going to a hockey game. We’ll be here for about six more weeks, and I’ll try to be a more faithful blogger until we are re-rooted in LA.

On autumn and apples

I’m back. I’ve been trying to figure out what this blog will be about and I think my lack of focus is what’s kept me from posting for a while. We’ve been muddling through, learning more and more about Montreal and Quebec. I’ll try to do the same here…and hopefully gain some sound footing on this blog and out there.

Everyone we meet laughs when they hear we’ve moved here from California, and then asks if we’ve experienced winter yet, I’m starting to worry that the next 6 months will be like life on the Arctic tundra. This fear is making me want to make the most of autumn in and around Montreal so two weeks ago, fearful that fall color had possibly peaked out in the country, I announced that we were going apple picking and leaf-gazing. A smarter person would have checked the weather first; a really smart person would have suggested a rain check.

Summer

Summer in Los Angeles never seemed that different from any other season. We grilled, gardened, and threw dinner parties under the apricot tree pretty much year-round. Things are different here. I’m learning a new vocabulary of weather and atmosphere that is unfamiliar. I can’t quite do the conversion to Celsius in my head, but I’ve learned that 30 degrees is hot. Mix that with high humidity and it makes for a powerful change from what I’m used to. You have to move more slowly in this weather, otherwise you wind up sticky after 5 minutes. 

A Tale of Two Festivals, or Why 62 Drink Tickets Are Too Many.

A couple of weeks ago, Husband and I decided to check out the Mondial de la Bière at Place Bonaventure. We were eager to sample some local microbrews and also get our fix of some of our US favorites. We went on Thursday evening and after waiting in line for about 30 minutes to get drink tickets, Husband decided to buy a bunch rather than have to brave the line again. His version is that he read somewhere that tastings would be between 2-5 tickets. I talked him down to 62 (plus the commemorative beer steins). 

Good thing, since it turned out most tastings only cost 2 tickets.

Today I took a walk

I walked from our temporary apartment to Parc du Mont-Royal, the park on the hill in the middle of town.The park was designed by Frederick Law Olmstead and inaugurated in 1876. Olmstead wanted to highlight the natural beauty and topography of the mountain and had a number of plans to do so, unfortunately the city had some financial issues that prevented all Olmstead's plans from being completed to his specifications. Didn't expect a history lesson, did you?

Regardless, it's a beautiful park. There are brutally steep stairs that take you straight to the summit, or you can take a winding gravel path with a gentle incline. I'm not masochistic, I took the path.

The nice thing about the park is that within minutes the city disappears behind the trees. Almost immediately, the noise changes. The traffic sounds change to bird calls and the sound of your steps crunching along the gravel path.

There were squirrels having a party…

…and lots of chipmunks if you look carefully.

There’s a man-made lake…

…and a sculpture garden. In the background is the CBC antenna.

There's a big cross.

This cross was built in 1924 to commemorate the cross put there in 1643 by Paul de Chomeday de Maisonneuve to thank God for sparing the island from a flood. It's impossible to forget the Catholic history here; there are beautiful old churches everywhere, the streets are named after saints, and there's a 30-meter high cross with LED lights above the city.

Near the cross, there’s a lookout that gives a pretty nice view of my new city.

I should be fluent by now.

Today was the last day of my French class. For the past four weeks, Monday through Friday I have struggled to relearn French.

Here are some depressing observations:

·      I began learning French in nursery school (“College begins at Two”). Several times a week, a nice lady would come to class and teach us basic words and phrases. Sometimes we played Bingo for candy.

I guess we also learned the Can-Can

·      That was 36 ½ years ago, an observation that in itself is depressing.

·      The last French class I took was French 6 at UCLA during my doctoral program. Theoretically that meant I was able to do primary research in French. That class was in 2004. Or maybe it was 2003. It could be that my memory for dates and my memory for French have been similarly compromised by my advancing age.

·      The last time I spoke French was in France in 2005, and I was more than capable of carrying on a conversation. I bought train tickets, I joked with the owner of a restaurant, and I carried on a lengthy conversation in a garage in Burgundy with a wine maker.

·      Now after 4 weeks of daily 3-hour classes, I am no better off than I was in high school. Forget the ability to read French, I can barely form grammatically correct sentences. 36 ½ years of exposure to a language and I’ve got bupkis…or rather, “rien.”

Whiny Dog tries to explain when to use L'Imparfait and when to use Passé Composé.

39 days

It’s been just over a month. Five weeks and four days, if you want to be a stickler. Moving to a new place comes with various difficulties, and moving to a new country sometimes compounds them. I find that we have been spending much of our time trying to get the bureaucratic junk out of the way so we can get on with the business of living here.

Yesterday we drove to the border to pay taxes on importing the car. When we arrived we were told we had a tax exemption. Then yesterday we were told no, we had to go back to the border and pay import taxes. We drove an hour to the border only to be told that we were missing a form and they couldn’t help us. So back we drove. I had kind of hoped my first trip back to the States would be more exciting.

When we aren’t running in circles trying to get license plates, get registered for health care, or try to convince a credit card company that we aren't deadbeats, we’ve made a point of exploring the city.

We’ve gotten Bixi bikes and ridden along the canal to the Old Port and Old Montreal. 

We’ve ridden the opposite direction to Marché Atwater to get food for dinner.

 We walked through Chinatown...

 ...and went to a food festival in the rain.

I still need the GPS to find the vet, but thankfully not to get home again, and I’m petrified I’ll get pulled over because 40km/hr is really, really slow. I can’t seem to find metro stations and walk blocks and blocks out of my way until I find a station 2 stops away from the one I wanted. 

But today is sunny and mild...

...there are flowers blooming everywhere...

...and a pink carriage just drove by my apartment.

I think I’m starting to get it.

Eating the City, Part 1

We’ve lived in Montreal for 3 weeks but until last weekend, we hadn’t ventured out to try the local grub. Oh, we’ve gone out to restaurants and had great meals but we had yet to try the Trifecta of Montreal foods: bagels, smoked meat, and poutine. Realizing that eating all three in one weekend would be overkill, we decided to try for 2 out of 3.

First up, bagels! Since I just got here, I’m not qualified to chime in on the Fairmount vs. St. Viateur debate. All I know is that both are supposed to be the real deal. Saturday morning, Husband went out in search of our first taste of Montreal bagels and came back with a dozen from St. Viateur. These are some excellent bagels, dense and sweet, and very different from the bagels we used to get at Brooklyn Bagel in LA.

Sunday found us wandering the Plateau looking for lunch. The line at Schwartz’s stretched down the block so we decided to skip smoked meat and find poutine instead.

I was a poutine virgin. I’ve had fries with gravy, but never with gravy and cheese curds. Picture hot, salty, oily (in a good way) fries napped in viscous gravy and topped with squeaky, melty cheese curds.

Don’t get me wrong, I liked poutine, but I think it makes more sense after a night of drinking. The next time I’m staggering out of a bar in need of drunk food, I’ll know where to go. Eating poutine in a park in broad daylight with an iced tea just felt wrong.

Coming soon in Eating the City, smoked meat. And stay tuned for my upcoming feature on maple syrup.