Various Follies and Unexpected Awesome

It's a weird adjustment to go from being with someone 23 out of 24 hours a day to living alone. The solitary life has its perks, however. First of all, I've been damn productive. The dishes get washed instantly, the bills get paid early, meals are cooked at home, the to-read pile of books is shrinking and the money is getting made. Second, I get to call all my own shots when it comes to pastimes.

My previous companion was not so big on the genre/indie film watching pastime, so I have been taking advantage of my new-found freedom by seeing as many films as possible at the Fantasia festival. I have absolutely no qualifications to review or recommend anything, music, art, whatever, as I'm not even really sure what I like most of the time. I will, however, say that Love in a Puff by Pang Ho-Cheung is kickass. Unsurprisingly, about love and smoking. Funny, with dialogue that is not contrived in the slightest. Guaranteed to make you want a cigarette desperately for the duration.

Catching up with friends has been a good familiarization with everything from grungy pubs to chauchy (see http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Chauchy) clubs to hipster bars. It seems like the people I know here have absolutely nothing in common, which is actually kind of cool because it gives me a wider perspective on what is good. What's more, it gives me a wider perspective on what is good to drink ... Which in my case this morning, would be less. So much less.

Alas, life is not all leisure. I would like to take this opportunity to disparage my new workplace. I trust that in the unlikely event that any of my coworkers are both literate and adequately motivated to read this blog, they would be one of the good ones, and therefore not offended. Due to the effects of my workplace sucking, I am ashamed to admit that I have become one of those nasal toned, “Well at my last job ...” people that are so very annoying. Some comparisons that come to mind include ...

“At my last job my manager knew my name wasn't Annie ... especially by my 5th shift.”
“At my last job I didn't have to pick cigarette butts and gum out of sidewalk planters after an 11 hour shift with no break.”
“At my last job we didn't staff 10 servers versus two tables.”
“At my last job, the bartender didn't ask what last call was.”
“At my last job, the person who trained me didn't have to ask the MOD how to round to the nearest dollar.”

Can you blame me, really? It helps to gripe.

Speaking of being productive, I should get home and make this evening's difficult decision: Wine in a coffee mug, a plastic bowl, or straight from the bottle? I don't have any of my stuff yet and improvising drinking vessels has become my most recently acquired skill. Onward.

Language Tensions and Hospitals: The Best of Montreal

Just like a true jaded local, my first two weeks in Montreal have been jam packed with spectacles of rage. There are few issues here that get people as hot under the collar as those of language and healthcare, and I have been fortunate enough to have intimate experiences with both in this short time.

Using my first week here to secure an apartment, I ran out of excuses and officially commenced my job search last Monday. I did the Walk of Shame on Crescent Street, up one side and down the other, passing out CVs. One guy was actually waiting for me on the patio of his restaurant with a pen.

I stopped by the notoriously divey Madhatter’s Bar, a black sheep in the yuppy downtown core with its “Golf for liquor” and “All-you-can-eat chili and beer” features. The owner, a big, burly, uninhibited Anglophone woman informed me that although they were currently overstaffed, she would be happy to refer me to some places that were looking for servers. She got to asking where I was from and seemed to identify with me as a non-Quebecker. This triggered a discussion regarding language enforcement laws in the city, which led to her regaling me of tales involving the language police. (For those of you that haven’t heard, there are increasingly active French language enforcers in Montreal who make surprise visits to businesses and evaluate the quality of the service delivered to them in French. If this quality is determined to be unsatisfactory, the business can receive a hefty fine or various other repercussions … http://www.cbc.ca/canada/montreal/story/2008/02/14/qc-olf-0214.html). Not one to mince words, she recalled how she “had to deal with those sons of bitches before”, and that she “told them to get the fuck out of my bar!” Fantastically angry. Fantastically vulgar.

Since then I have done some reading on the plights of idealistic Anglos looking for work on the streets of this city, and gleaned from a variety of opinion pieces (http://www.montrealmirror.com/2008/022108/news3.html) and forums that the options are slim: Telemarketing or escorting - It’s a tough life. Surprisingly, I got a job at the first place I left a CV at. Part luck and part ruthless, self-enhancing lies I guess.

As if job hunting in the heat wasn't enough fun, I was dealing with a minor health concern and had to evaluate my medical options. To visit a clinic before possessing a Quebec health card a fee has to be paid that will be later reimbursed by your province of origin. I’ve gotten this line before and have never received a reimbursement, so I was skeptical. To avoid this process I went to Montreal General’s emergency room. Seven hours later, having had no contact with a doctor, I left. I wasn’t the worst off either, an elderly couple I had spoken to had been there for ten or so hours. Apparently this is par for the course. During my seven hours of alternating naps and coffee drinking, I was visited several times by one of the security guards. We had chats about my “aura and good energy”, his weight loss regimen, and the nutritional value of Starbucks beverages. When his shift was over he stopped to ask if I would like to join him for said Starbucks beverages sometime. I guess being stuck in a hospital emergency room all day can make anyone who isn't saggy or dripping blood look good.

Effort two brought me to Hotel Dieu, the French hospital with reputedly shorter wait times. While waiting, I had a lady sit down beside me and ask if I could speak English. She then proceeded to yell, “Great, there are too many FRENCH people here, so many FRENCH people!” These French people included everyone in the waiting room, and the angry glares commenced. I learned that her husband had hung himself in their garage after losing the use of his legs, and she explained her deep depression following his death. At some point the man beside her turned and started screaming “SHUT UP! SHUT THE HELL UP! I’M TIRED!” Pretty much everyone ignored the exchange, while I contemplated hanging MYself.

I finally made it in, only to find out that the wrong tests had been performed on my blood samples and I would need to give more samples and arrange another appointment. The doctor wrote me a prescription for the meantime, and I chose to skip the follow-up appointment. If and when I return, I will have to be in a bad enough state that my wait time is considerably shorter.

Thus begins week four of life in Montreal. World Cup is over now, so maybe everyone will calm down and simmer in the heat for a while. Not likely, but I look forward to becoming jaded as the best of 'em.