tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63628397446969634832024-03-05T20:15:00.775-05:00enRouteUn petit Suisse trouve son chemin à Montréal... et un peu partout au monde!
<br>And now: An English message will follow.Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comBlogger236125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-36414324627222532062019-06-20T20:28:00.001-04:002019-06-20T20:32:19.840-04:00Coup de coeur<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIPEjAuPO5VxJtgt9z_gaaN2FkTmpwXdTFLh6y6JTPS5nb3SbnjWDP9U4nAPzFgq-ZiNb2-8NVxHrHIlpDXpMtEYOXO5mBBFEBRXso93AvItoxcFHqHgYhwL8U_ATLK3O_4-JbYxGrkPe-/s1600/IMG_20190619_1909378.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIPEjAuPO5VxJtgt9z_gaaN2FkTmpwXdTFLh6y6JTPS5nb3SbnjWDP9U4nAPzFgq-ZiNb2-8NVxHrHIlpDXpMtEYOXO5mBBFEBRXso93AvItoxcFHqHgYhwL8U_ATLK3O_4-JbYxGrkPe-/s320/IMG_20190619_1909378.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">We sat down for lunch in a small café on Ste-Catherine, like we had so many times in the old days. My friend looked at me, tilted her head and asked: "So, how do you like being back home?"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I thought back to that most perfect day I just had. How could I even verbalize that wonderful, fuzzy, warm sensation? I gave it my best shot. And so I told her.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">About starting a sunny and warm June day in Outremont, wandering the leafy boulevards and gazing at the stately mansions, wondering in which <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chief_Inspector_Armand_Gamache">Armand Gamache</a> might live. Much like him, enjoying a café au lait and a flaky croissant on Avenue Bernard, reading the morning paper.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">About strolling east towards Avenue Parc, past Hassidic students standing outside their Yeshiva, Tora in hand. While they were concentrating on the spiritual teachings the Jews brought to Montréal, having my own mind firmly set on the more earthly pleasures: On Rue St-Viateur, an oven-warm bagel was simply too good to resist, despite firm intentions to save the appetite for another Jewish delicacy: Down along <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Laurent_Boulevard"><i>The Main</i></a>, just before noon, awaited Schwartz's Delicatessen and a medium smoked meat sandwich.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">About the indulgence of sitting in a little park off St-Laurent, enjoying said sandwich while watching the world go by: Street artists, businessmen, mothers with kids in tow, lots of twenty-somethings in <i>activewear</i> and bearded hipsters on their fixed gear bikes.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">About the ongoing gentrification - or is that hipsterization? - of the <i>Plateau</i>, as evidenced on continued ambles on Rue Rachel, up St-Denis and to Avenue Mont-Royal, the neighborhood's main artery. Chain outlets and somewhat dodgy boutiques have definitely given way to an ever-growing number of craft breweries, <i>microtorréfacteurs </i>and vegan bistros, catering to what seems to be insatiable demand fuelled by the city's new creative class.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">About breaking for a little siesta in the shade of Parc Wilfrid-Laurier, to the calm and meditative views of the small pool slowly filling with water, so that the season can begin on <a href="https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/F%C3%AAte_nationale_du_Qu%C3%A9bec"><i>la Saint-Jean</i></a>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">About the reenergizing Bixi ride on the new bike path up to Little Italy, and the first Québec strawberry samples of the season being proffered by the merchants of Marché Jean-Talon there. Vitamin levels thus replenished, indulging in an equally appealing Cannelé and, yes, a locally roasted espresso shot, acknowledging that it is just the thing for whiling away the afternoon while watching the planes from Europe coming in overhead. (Naturally, the one with the white cross on the red tail was right on time.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">About zipping downtown on the métro, to emerge in the heart of the <i><a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2012/07/festival.html">Quartier des Spéctacles</a>, </i>where the Francofollies filled the summer evenings with countless free shows. Sitting down on the lawn, feeling a light breeze on the skin while listening to a young Québec folk singer sharing her travelling songs from journeys across this epic land, and wishing for summer to never end (a hope shared, presumably, by the rest of the audience who had been through yet another brutal <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2016/02/vortex.html">Montréal winter.</a>) </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">About finally heading out to the recently remodelled <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2014/07/pleasure-island.html">Parc Jean-Drapeau</a>, where a generous open-air stage abuts a new, wide boulevard linking the métro station to the river, with a panoramic view of this unique city and its <i>Mont Royal</i> rising beyond.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">And about the final Bixi ride, across Pont de la Concorde and into the Montréal sunset, elated and grateful for a perfect day in this oh-so-special place.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">My friend smiled a warm and compassionate smile. "Well, I think I have my answer", she said. "But you know, when I asked 'How do you like being back <i>home', </i>I had thought of Switzerland...."</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-32850292717111119862018-06-30T16:00:00.000-04:002018-06-30T16:00:59.424-04:00What you leave behind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have just arrived in Zurich from Montréal. For the second time, that is, since I left the city on a rainy April night after nine years of residence.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now it was just a vacation trip back - the "new normal" for my encounters with the Great White North. In the past nine years, I had established a tradition of <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2010/06/plan-b.html">returning home</a> for my birthday, using the occasion to throw a little party and catch up with many friends. The concept has worked so well that I have decided to keep it going, just now the other way round: Hence forth, I will endeavor to be in Montréal for the day, which falls conveniently close to the province's own <i>fête nationale</i>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The first iteration of the new birthday ritual went swimmingly, and much to my delight, there were even attendants that had previously been regulars at the Swiss event. A reassuring sign that oceans don't necessarily keep people apart. Even if it means turning yet another year older, I am already looking forward to next year.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Over the course of the evening, and of the few days I got to enjoy in Québec again, what struck me most was how much the "new normal" felt like the "old normal", i.e. the life described in these pages since 2009. It's not just because my situation in Switzerland remains a mess filled with all sorts of temporary fixes that I have been aching for familiar grounds, but because I realize more than ever just how much Montréal has become an integral part of me.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There were <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2010/08/key-envy.html">Bixi</a> rides around orange cones on the way to <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2013/11/adonis.html">Adonis</a>. There were reassuringly boring <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2010/05/boring-banking.html">visits to the bank</a>, where I discovered new fees introduced in the two months since I left. There were sunny afternoon swims in <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2014/07/pleasure-island.html">Parc Jean Drapeau</a>. There were <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2012/01/brunch.html">brunches</a> and new <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2015/10/restaround.html">ethnic eats</a>. Not to mention juicy strawberries and blueberries from <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2010/08/terroir.html">Québec's fields</a>. There would have even been <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2012/07/festival.html">free musical performances</a> - although a summer rain put paid to that.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Despite my frequent griping about <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2017/05/375.html">poor politics</a>, <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2010/05/revenue.html">high taxes</a> and an <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2013/06/prevention.html">overwhelmed health system</a>, this is a place that I have come to love, and to miss. After nine years, Montréal, too, is filled with memories <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2015/12/on-every-street.html">on every street</a>. And with people near and dear to my heart.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So is this the last chapter? Probably, hopefully, not. For it is in returning to Switzerland that I have come to understand what I leave behind: Home.</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-40899331913591864032018-05-21T13:58:00.004-04:002018-05-21T13:58:50.473-04:00Simple privilege<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">An appointment was not required. The counter is open five days a week, come anytime. I didn't even have to pick a number and wait my turn. Instead, I simply walked up to the counter at the town hall, plopped down my ID, my <a href="https://www.nzz.ch/schweiz/identitaet-heimatort-bedeutungslos-aber-wichtig-ld.153950"><i>Heimatschein</i></a> and a copy of my lease, and said: "I'd like to register as a resident."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Five minutes later, I was 20 francs poorer, but walked away with a confirmation of being a legal resident of Switzerland once again. From this moment on, all my <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2015/09/game-of-thrones.html">voting materials</a>, tax documentation, official notifications, social security receipts and so on will come to my new address. I am back.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No questions asked, no need to give reasons for settling, proof of income or employment, no forms to fill - by showing a Swiss ID, I had established my right of abode. Simple as that. The clerk even gave me a welcome pack containing useful information, a map, discount chits, a transit timetable and <b>one</b> official garbage bag for the town (no Canadian has ever heard of <a href="https://www.eda.admin.ch/dam/eda/de/documents/publications/AuslandschweizerinnenundAuslandschweizer/Auslandschweizerstatistik/2016-Auslandschweizerstatistik_de.pdf"><i>Sackgebühr</i></a>).</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Arriving in Canada nine years ago, this same process took much more time, money, visits to several government offices, and lots of paperwork. Part of this was of course due to my status, at the time, of a temporary worker. But it was also at least partly down to Canada not keeping a centralized register of its residents.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">These days, I know that in not doing so, Canada is in good company: Amongst liberal democracies, it is Switzerland that it is the outlier. While the Swiss find it perfectly normal that they need to register with the local municipality where they reside, others would be aghast at the prospect of the government tracking their every move. It reeks so much of totalitarian surveillance that <a href="https://www.economist.com/britain/2018/05/03/britains-windrush-mess-revives-support-for-id-cards">Brits don't even have ID cards</a>. And I remember once trying to build a business case around Canadians abroad, only to find that the government has no reliable numbers on just how many Canucks live elsewhere.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Blessed with a history of good governance, the Swiss do not second-guess their system. Even Swiss living abroad are meant to - and do - register with the local embassy or consulate, enabling the government to <a href="https://www.eda.admin.ch/dam/eda/de/documents/publications/AuslandschweizerinnenundAuslandschweizer/Auslandschweizerstatistik/2016-Auslandschweizerstatistik_de.pdf">publish precise statistics</a> on how many citizens live where (26'109 in the Montréal district, moins moi).</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Similarly, the Swiss are often puzzled about debates raging in other countries around voter ID requirements and "registration drives" before big elections. Much like the gerrymandering of electoral districts, these concepts simply don't exist in Switzerland. Districts never change, and their weighting is adjusted to the registered population.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If nothing else, having lived abroad offers another perspective on basic processes I have taken for granted. And it lets me better appreciate these simple, but massive privileges I enjoy.</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-54240470276245917872018-04-26T10:29:00.000-04:002018-04-26T10:29:34.402-04:00All good things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2018/04/its-about-time.html">previous post</a> to this blog was about the importance of timing. It was two weeks ago - and timing was indeed of the essence. For two weeks represent my contractual notice period at work.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After nine years, a big chapter of life will come to a close as I have decided to leave Canada and return to Switzerland. As long as it took to reach this decision, as quickly will it be executed. In just a few days from now, I will be on a plane, and most of my belongings in a container on a boat to Europe.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By extension, this will also mark the imminent conclusion of this blog (although Google will preserve its contents for posterity). What had <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2009/06/debut.html">started</a> soon after my arrival in Montréal nine years ago, at the suggestion of a friend, has evolved into a form of personal diary of this big Canadian adventure. Just like the time in the Great White North itself, it has outlasted my wildest dreams.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Any attempt at a summary of the past nine years would be futile - too rich, too varied, too rewarding has the time been. What remains is an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards this country and its <i>habitants</i> for having welcomed and integrated me the way they did. In fact, they did so to the point of irreversibility: They made me <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2016/02/final-frontier.html">one of their own</a>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And it is therein that lies hope. For while I have concluded that the next chapter will be written in Europe again, close to friends and family but far away from her, that next chapter need not be the final one. I now have the privilege of returning to Canada whenever I choose. Just as I never thought that I had left Switzerland for good, I don't feel I am leaving Canada forever now.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Nonetheless, there is a strong sense of sadness (or is it nostalgia?) taking hold of me. As if to tease me, the first signs of spring just started emerging after what felt like an eternal winter. I took my first <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2010/08/key-envy.html">Bixi</a> ride of the season, sat with friends in a sunny backyard, saw the signs for the <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2012/07/festival.html">festivals</a> go up.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My final week is filled with farewell lunches, culminating in my own <i>5à7</i> tonight. In the absence of a real family here, the colleagues I worked with closely in these years have become a big part of my life. Them too, I will leave behind. And if I don't feel much remorse for leaving the company, I do so for them.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The new opportunity awaiting me in Zurich is exciting, and while I am not looking forward to the logistics of moving and re-settling in Switzerland, I now have the confidence of having <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2009/07/degoutant.html">been through worse</a> and prevailing. But I am curious as to how it will feel to come back to a country that will have changed since I left it - as have I.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All of this pales, though, in comparison to the challenge of engaging in a long distance relationship for the foreseeable future. What our industry coldly calls "VFR Traffic" (visiting friends and relatives) will become a vital trans-atlantic lifeline.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of all good things, this is the one that will not end. </span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-16178807205604702092018-04-10T12:23:00.001-04:002018-04-11T06:23:48.075-04:00It's about time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was 6:01am this morning, and it was pitch black outside. Not because of the early hour, but because the train was in a tunnel. And that was the problem: According to the schedule of the <a href="http://www.sbb.ch/">Swiss Federal Railways</a>, this train was meant to arrive at Zurich Airport at 6:01. Instead, it was standing still in the tunnel leading to the airport.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Not a minute later, messages started appearing on the screens in the train, explaining that there was a delay due to "operational reasons". Simultaneously, the conductor came on the tannoy to explain that our arrival would be delayed by a few minutes since a preceding train was still blocking the track at Zurich Airport.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">By that time, a lot of huffing and puffing had already ensued with the bleary-eyed commuters around me, with one lady calling someone to explain that she'd miss her connecting bus because that there were "delays <i>again</i>", and that she'd now have to wait another 30min for the next bus.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As she hung up, our train set into motion again. In the end, we arrived at the airport a full five minutes late. I easily made my flight, from which I am writing this now. But to my compatriots, the event surely confirmed their impression of degrading service reliability, and ruined their day early.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Taking the train has been a recurring feature of my most recent trip. Yesterday, I was travelling from Frankfurt to Zurich, using a deeply discounted <i>Sparpreis </i>ticket that restricts users to specific trains - at least in theory. In practice, my first <a href="https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/ICE">ICE</a> was running over ten minutes late, and when we got to my planned connecting station, I learned that the other train was over 45 minutes behind schedule. The German conductor shrugged and suggested I continue riding the first train all the way to its terminus in the border city of Basel and figure out a way to Zurich from there. By the time we reached Switzerland, station announcements proclaimed that the connecting train had now been cancelled completely. Gone, disappeared, presumably vanished along the tracks with all hands aboard. <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oCIxjVXVZ-U">Die Bahn kommt</a> </i>not, and it didn't much care, either.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The Swiss Railways, on the other hand, immediately mobilized a replacement train from its stand-by reserve in Basel, in order to keep its famed <i><a href="https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geschichte_der_Schweizer_Eisenbahn#Taktfahrplan">Taktfahrplan</a> </i>intact. This was taken for granted by my connecting countrymen, and we reached Zurich with a delay of a full three minutes. The Germans, including the ICE train staff, were baffled.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Punctuality, then, is as much a cultural as a chronological concept. That in nine years in Canada I have never taken <a href="http://www.viarail.ca/">Via Rail</a> already says a lot. But every time I walk across the lobby of Montréal's <i>Gare Centrale </i>on my way to grab lunch, I glance at the big arrivals and departures board hanging from the ceiling. Not only does it show but a handful of trains running all day, inevitably at least half of them also post a delay. And we're not talking five minutes here: Half an hour or more are the norm, with revised arrival times indicated as "estimates". No one seems to mind. <i>"That's just how it is"</i> my colleagues would say. It probably helps that Via Rail's main competitor is an airline that <a href="https://www.flyertalk.com/forum/air-canada-aeroplan/1894966-air-canada-ranks-dead-last-among-large-na-carriers-time-performance-again.html">finished dead last</a> in North American punctuality statistics.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The Swiss, then, are both fussy and spoilt with their trains. Yet there is one country that puts Switzerland to shame with its rail performance. That country, to which I had bought a rail pass for this vacation, is of course Japan. In the land of the rising sun, delayed trains would be considered rude and shameful. And therefore, they simply don't seem to exist.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On my entire trip, not one of the many trains departed even a minute late. Whether it was one of the fabled <i>Shinkansen</i> super expresses, or a simple suburban train, they all left smack on time. The entire system is perfectly calibrated for maximum efficiency and reliability, and the Japanese are masters at lining up in the right spots, letting people off first, getting on quickly, and whoosh... we're off. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The latest statistics I found indicate that the average delay for a <i>Shinkansen </i>train was 52 <b>seconds</b>, down from a record 17 seconds in 2007. This is in an island nation with anything from typhoons to blizzards happening, with the occasional earthquake thrown in for good measure. It's mind boggling. Throughout my trip, I saw precisely one sign indicating a delay, prompting instant jokes about that train driver committing <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seppuku"><u>seppuku</u></a></i> at the end of his shift. Speaking of suicide, urban legend has it that it is dishonorable for Japanese to throw themselves in front of a train during rush hour, since the ensuing delay would inconvenience too many others...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Reflecting on the different perceptions of punctuality will hopefully help me putting things into perspective the next time I find myself on a delayed train. And until then, it will give me new found appreciation for doing things <i>just in time. </i>Or, as they say when the Montréal metro is stuck: <i>D'autres messages suiveront.</i></span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-81275601271745567212018-03-17T16:27:00.000-04:002018-09-16T13:50:37.553-04:00Pay As You Go<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7QzMdED6qH5MR3L0JPeG7XpSMt7VKsD1bzM6cL85jqj5w-2XRV10ginRKsiMigtuks0Jg7zXXC6Wf3WKQk5jOm64UfJBrNATaTb0NYdJX5zhvZafYqR5xcst8k8tKX7SxkXNulZdAoCAt/s1600/payasyougo.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="656" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7QzMdED6qH5MR3L0JPeG7XpSMt7VKsD1bzM6cL85jqj5w-2XRV10ginRKsiMigtuks0Jg7zXXC6Wf3WKQk5jOm64UfJBrNATaTb0NYdJX5zhvZafYqR5xcst8k8tKX7SxkXNulZdAoCAt/s320/payasyougo.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"I made almost $5000 today!" she exclaimed triumphantly the other day, returning from an afternoon spent with the tax advisor. Spring is tax season, and she had just filed her (two!) declarations with the provincial and federal government.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As I have <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2010/05/revenue.html">discovered many years ago</a>, Canada operates a tax-withheld-at-source system, meaning that employers deduct the expected income tax amount from each paycheck and remit it directly to the government. Taxpayers then file their returns and, depending on the various tax breaks, credits, subsidies and exemptions they are entitled to, will get some part of these previously withheld taxes back.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When I first learnt about this system in 2010, I saw how it shifts the balance of power towards the taxman. Essentially, the government gets its money up front and doesn't have to run after it with a laborious collections bureaucracy. The onus to file a tax return is on the individual, who will not get anything back unless he completes the annual paperwork.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The above certainly still holds true, but over the years I've come to realize that there is another reason for the tax collection to work the way it does. And that reason lies in the relative financial immaturity of the typical Canadian.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A <a href="https://globalnews.ca/news/3933617/average-canadian-consumer-debt-ipsos-poll/">recent study</a> found that the average Canadian has over $8500 in consumer debt, i.e. not including any mortgages. However, as 46% of respondents reported no debt, this means that the other 54% each shouldered an average of over $15'000, typically in high-interest vehicles such as revolving credit cards and lines of credit.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.theglobeandmail.com/globe-investor/personal-finance/household-finances/one-third-of-canadian-households-living-paycheque-to-paycheque/article12056287/">Another survey</a>, back in 2012, noted that a third of Canadian households lives paycheck to paycheck, i.e. they don't manage to put any money aside at all. The study found the household savings rate at a paltry 3.8% of income, down from 19.9% in the early 1980s.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">These are the kind of numbers that make this debt-averse Swiss author pale. But they are indicative of a culture where basic financial literacy is scarce, and discouraged. Start with the tax example: She didn't "make" $5000 by filing her tax returns, she reclaimed money that she had already earned and her employer had withheld in excess. Consequently, a tax refund shouldn't be any more reason to go on a spending spree than a regular paycheck would be. And yet an entire seasonal custom has formed about "what to spend your tax refund on".</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Speaking of paychecks, <a href="https://www.cnt.gouv.qc.ca/salaire-paie-et-travail/paie/index.html#c4644">the law</a> stipulates that these need to be issued no less often than every 16 days. Meanwhile, in Switzerland parents switch from handing out pocket money every week to every month when their kids turn 15 or so, in order to teach them financial responsibility. Many Canadians simply wouldn't manage to spread their salary evenly across a month, even though the amount of money per period wouldn't change at all.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Finally, and most egregiously, the government is complicit in the greatest of all deceits, by allowing retailers to advertise their prices without taxes. Time and again, I hear friends talk about this great sofa or that cool gadget that they were able to snag for "only $999". In reality, they spent $1151 on it, with the 15% difference going to the government. But it's cash out the door just the same, no matter how hard both buyer and seller try to deny it.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Which brings us back to the tax system. I understand now that the other reason for it being pay-as-you-go is that too many people simply would not be able to hold on to the cash for deferred payment if they ever got their hands on it. That's a sad and troubling thought.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If there is one place where the Swiss, and Europeans in general, really love pay-as-you-go, then it is with cheap cell phone plans. As any traveller on a shoestring has found out, the best way to stay connected in Europe, Asia and many other parts of the world is to buy a local SIM card, upload a few dollars' worth of airtime, and then use it up bit by bit. In Canada, the oligopoly of three large telcos and their subsidiaries has entirely prevented this customer-friendly pricing concept from taking hold. In the Great White North, home to some of the <a href="https://openmedia.org/en/confirmed-canadians-pay-some-highest-prices-some-worst-telecom-service-industrialized-world">highest wireless fees in the developed world</a>, "prepaid" plans simply mean that customers must upload money first, and are then still charged monthly fees of $10 or more, irrespective of usage.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In a nutshell, we have financial immaturity, deceitful and inflated pricing, and soaring household debt. Could there possibly be a connection? Let the penny drop.</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-57452381763262593272018-02-27T22:28:00.002-05:002018-02-27T22:32:56.821-05:00East goes South<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">15 years it has been since my last proper beach vacation. Then, as now, it took me to Asia. In fact, the beaches in question are a mere 250km apart, although on opposite sides of the Thai / Malaysian border.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">While not much has changed for me - a few good books and a deck chair keep me merry for a few days, then I get bored - the tourism market around me certainly isn't the same anymore.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In 2003, I found myself in a four star resort in Thailand, run my Caucasians for an entirely western clientele. We fit right in with the German families, Scandinavian sunseekers, British lobsters and French hippies on their way to the full moon parties. Courtesy of cheap long-haul flights, Asia was no longer an unaffordable, exotic dream destination, but the four season-proof alternative to old European beach playgrounds in Ibiza, Cyprus and the Adriatic Sea.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In 2018, popping my head up in a Malaysian swimming pool and looking at the loungers around it, I stared into mainly Asian faces. The Chinese had arrived in force, edging out the quieter Korean contingent. The Lebanese were easily identified as the ones calling the pool boys <i>habibi</i>, and the Saudis as the guys in shorts and flip-flops holing hands with the gals under a Niqaab. The many local Malay guests directed torrents of instructions in <i>Bahasa Malysia</i> at waiters and probably got far spicier curries than everybody else in return. The Singaporeans sing-sung their English (la!) in designer swimwear. Europeans were few and far in between, and nary an Ozzie or a Yank was to be found.<br /><br /> Clearly, Asia has arrived at its beaches. And while my <a href="http://www.economist.com/">favorite newspaper</a> has written about the emerging Asian middle class for years now, this was for me the most tangible manifestation to date of that economic shift.<br /><br /> Far from complaining, I noted the change in guest mix with content. Not only does it represent a happy turn in the fortunes of the newly affluent, it also makes this pale-skinned guest feel less like a member of a colonial occupation force. On a more practical level, more Asians translated into better and more varied food offerings at the resort, while fewer Germans meant I didn't have to go reserve a beach chair at the crack of dawn. Speaking of which, the shade-seeking Asians seemed more concerned about their parasols than the sun anyways. And instead of tacky Europop and teutonic oompah-oompah, they listened to K-Pop, where the lyrics blissfully pass me by.<br /><br /> Resort management, also in local hands these days, does a good job at catering to the needs of their new clientele. There were many special deals, decorations and even little red packets given out for Chinese New Year. Wifi coverage was fast, free, unlimited and extended to the farthest reaches of the property. The resort map even suggested the ideal spots for Instagram-worthy selfies. And they were used extensively.<br /><br /> I looked on bemused, and perhaps a bit sad, as old and young guests alike missed out on the gorgeous sunset while they stared at their screens and video-chatted with the folks back in Tianjin and Wuhan (no time difference to deal with!). But I was glad that they were there, for they made this Malaysian resort live up to the slogan the country's tourism board has coined years ago :Truly Asia.</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-54233199493082316552018-02-05T21:15:00.003-05:002018-02-05T21:15:51.441-05:00Need to vent<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If there's not a word for it, there is probably not a need for it. And if there is not a need for something in one culture, it makes you wonder: Why is it so important in another culture?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Or so I thought one night, as I once again dodged her bewildered looks and opened the bedroom window, letting in the icy winter air. As any Swiss, I wanted to <i>lüften</i> the room before going to sleep. And as any Canadian, she considered that sheer madness. I tried to explain, but I was quite literally lost for words.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"To air out" or "to ventilate" are the translations the dictionary lists when I look up the German term. But while that may correctly describe the technical process of exchanging the air in an enclosed space, it falls far short of capturing the cultural importance <i>lüften</i> has to the Swiss.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In Switzerland, <i>lüften</i> happens everywhere, and all the time. Those who don't sleep with their bedroom windows ajar will at the very least open them before going to bed and after getting up. Kitchen windows open after cooking. In school, one student per class is inevitably put in charge of opening and closing the windows, just like someone has to clean the blackboard. In the army, we received detailed orders on the proper <i>lüften</i> of our barracks on day one of boot camp (diagonally across the hall, at least three times a day, no less than 5 and no more than 10 minutes). Until the recent advent of air conditioned train sets, even train windows could be opened to ensure adequate ventilation.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And in Canada? Complete incomprehension prevails. In the summer months, windows are cranked open and left that way for weeks on end. And in the winter they are kept shut. "We are paying to heat up the air in our house" she said sternly. "I do not want to contribute to global warming outside!"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Don't they understand? How can they not be concerned about the stale air inside a home, and want to exchange it for the crisp and pure variety outside? Aren't they afraid of.... well, what exactly?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Unsettled, I turned to the handy <a href="https://read.amazon.ca/kp/embed?asin=B00B6080KA&preview=newtab&linkCode=kpe&ref_=cm_sw_r_kb_dp_OHqEAb3633SRV">Xenophobe's Guide to the Swiss</a> for a neutral perspective. And sure enough, a section in the chapter on Obsessions reads</span></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>The Swiss are subject to numerous obsessions. One of the strongest is their preoccupation with air. Inside Swiss homes the uncontrolled movement of air in the form of draughts is detested. The Swiss believe that exposure for even a few seconds to a draught will bring on every ill known to mankind. Thus rigorous efforts are made during the construction of Swiss houses and apartments to eliminate the slightest possibility of a draught ever being allowed in. Yet each morning, they seem to put aside their phobia when they fling open their windows to air their bedclothes out.</i></span></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And suddenly, it all made sense. The Swiss are so fixated on <i>lüften</i> because they are so opposed to any naturally occurring flow of air. Whereas they build their air raid-proof houses with eternity in mind, Canadians take a more relaxed approach to construction: When I sit in our kitchen behind the (closed!) balcony door, I can still feel the cold seeping in. And while we have replaced all the windows recently, the wind blows right through the cracks between their frames and the crooked walls.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I can relax now. There really is no need for a translation of <i>lüften</i>. In Canada, even the oldest buildings do it all by themselves. </span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-12097914440280363982018-01-21T17:14:00.001-05:002018-01-21T17:14:19.652-05:00Vuelta<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">+60 degrees Celsius. That alone was a strong incentive for my recent jaunt down to Santiago. But as it turned out, it was also a trip down memory lane.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Loyal readers of this blog will recall that I spent <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/search/label/Chile">6 months in Chile</a>'s capital in 2011, managing a project for my employer and using any spare time to discover bits of this diverse country and its people.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This marked my first return to Santiago since, and the first time I experienced the city at the height of the southern hemisphere's summer, which made for the stark contrast in climate to Montréal's icy winter. I eagerly expected the heat, packing my bathing suit and sunglasses.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What I didn't expect was the strange sense of wistfulness that took hold of me pretty much from the moment I got into a taxi at the airport. From the smell in the air (no, not the jet fuel!) to the Chilean accent of the taxista, things seemed so familiar. Later that day, as I strolled down the streets of Providencia, I reacquainted myself with many of the stores and cafés I used to go patronize. Soon, I sat on a shady patio munching away on <a href="https://www.interpatagonia.com/recetas/empanadas_pino/"><i>empanadas de pino</i></a> and drinking a cold <a href="https://cervezaaustral.cl/">Austral</a>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Nostalgia didn't cloud my vision enough not to notice that the city has progressed remarkably. There was an gigantic new shopping mall at the foot of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_tallest_buildings_in_South_America#Ranking_criteria_and_buildings">South America's tallest tower</a>. The <i>parque metropolitano</i> had a new cable car, and new signage throughout. And the eco-certified office building which just broke ground in 2011 was now the location of my client meetings. Yes, Chile has done well in the meantime.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So what about myself, I inevitably started wondering as I sipped a Pisco Sour in the warm evening light. The boundless enthusiasm and optimism of 2011 have given way to a more cautious realism. I have changed roles twice, but not employer. I am still in Canada, but now as as citizen, rather than a temporary worker. I may have grown a bit wiser, but probably also more cynical (the depressing sight of the former site of our Chilean office, long-since shuttered, didn't help). Much like to the Pisco, there was a touch of bitterness to it.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But bitter goes with sweet, and not just in the <i>chocolate araucano</i> ice cream that rounded off my dinner. I have also found companionship, and the continued privilege of roaming the globe (including a trip to the Chilean-administered <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2013/05/moai.html">Easter Island</a> in 2013).</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Still, when I left Santiago after an all-too quick return visit, I did so with a sense that the city had advanced more in the last 6 years than I had.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sub-zero temperatures awaited me back in Canada, freezing everything solid. But just like I to Santiago, spring will eventually make a comeback to Montréal. And with it, things will start to flow again...</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-19228901307321208502018-01-05T13:24:00.001-05:002018-01-05T13:24:33.691-05:00Try me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRYZySFn0_fa9rqHZ3ij0DjhdzMDLXDyNKjG3gtesu-tFbYE_nxV8Bmngs0mh3X22sojiDUyGTS1TJEwKM_zm0W6mT5SAo6XR7IpBypb88anjRIDZv0-eZo0oIB4Iq-X7yl7MP_khZUYa/s1600/tryme.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRYZySFn0_fa9rqHZ3ij0DjhdzMDLXDyNKjG3gtesu-tFbYE_nxV8Bmngs0mh3X22sojiDUyGTS1TJEwKM_zm0W6mT5SAo6XR7IpBypb88anjRIDZv0-eZo0oIB4Iq-X7yl7MP_khZUYa/s320/tryme.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was the Saturday before Chirstmas, and the market in one of Zurich's middle-class neighborhoods was bustling. While most people were busy picking up the last groceries for the coming holiday orgy, we had just arrived in the country and were browsing the stalls only out of curiosity, knowing that the family would feed us well over the next days.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As we ambled past bakers, butchers, fruit vendors and the like, she noticed something: None of the merchants offered any samples! Indeed, the little trays so common at Montréal's Atwater market (and many others around the world) were nowhere to be seen. No Swiss vendor deemed it necessary to tempt the clientele with little bits and bites, and no Swiss customer seemed to expect any.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What a difference when we made it to the back of the market, where an Italian cheesemonger was proudly standing behind big wheels of <i>fontina, provolone </i>and <i>pecorino</i>. The moment he heard us speak English, he chimed in with his thickly accented "Ello! Come try formaggio!", sticking out a plate. And when I responded in Italian, he immediately started cutting thick slices of <i>formagella</i> for us to try... and, unsurprisingly, buy.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, this market is not the only place where the Swiss show their stingy - or is it snotty? - side. I vividly remember leading a group of 20 American visitors into the main branch of <a href="http://www.spruengli.ch/">Sprüngli</a>, Zurich's flagship chocolate store, many years ago. I sung the praises of their signature macarons, <i>Luxemburgerli</i>, which were sitting pretty in their alluring colors behind the counters. The Americans looked intrigued. The Sprüngli staff was unimpressed. When asked how they taste, their answer was: "Very good." </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Naively, I thought that a cultural misunderstanding was happening, and sprung into action. "I think they'd be curious to try", I advanced in Swiss German. "Certainly", came the response. "What size of box do you want to buy?"</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was dumbstruck. And then I got angry. "Clearly, this store wants you to buy the cat in the bag", I said, loud enough for all the store to hear. "Let's leave." 20 American credit cards disappeared into wallets again, and we stamped out.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Obviously, things did not change since. Time and again since, I witnessed bewildered tourists at Sprüngli's airport stores experiencing the same obnoxious parsimony. "You can also buy single truffles if you want to try them first" was one of the stand-out lines put to a shocked Japanese once. It's revolting.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And yet... I keep buying those damn good chocolates. And the markets are as popular as ever. Like any good Swiss, I roll my eyes, frown in disgust, and then pay up. For as long as I do, vendors are vindicated. When it comes to free samples, they'll have the last laugh as they say "Just try me!"</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-53513248091061196302017-12-15T22:24:00.000-05:002017-12-15T22:24:06.009-05:00Mann spricht Deutsch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggwjH471NPLr6WlW9DqmVn3QcVWq4lgjzlktRyen0Kj_qC5OtFpLUonpFLNJvMkHECCVJaciC1UakqHwp3tUusuN-v4muWutSe26Gv95uIomuGuxT4N_sYVNJGqIqeg3LDfHTjxRmCl1F2/s1600/manndeutsch.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="499" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggwjH471NPLr6WlW9DqmVn3QcVWq4lgjzlktRyen0Kj_qC5OtFpLUonpFLNJvMkHECCVJaciC1UakqHwp3tUusuN-v4muWutSe26Gv95uIomuGuxT4N_sYVNJGqIqeg3LDfHTjxRmCl1F2/s320/manndeutsch.png" width="267" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had just finished my evening swim. Exhausted and famished in equal measure, I sprinted up the stairs at Berri metro station to catch my connecting train home. Just as the <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120148/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1">sliding doors</a> started closing, I squeezed in and plopped myself down on a chair.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As the train set off, my ears perked up. They had caught pieces of a conversation in German. My eyes scanned the metro and settled on two women across from me. <i>"Und was, wenn der Deutsch spricht?"</i> asked one. The other shrugged. <i>"Ach, fast keiner kann hier Deutsch."</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I stifled a smile. Very few people in Montréal speak German, indeed. But some do. My curiosity was piqued, not the least because I had noticed that neither of the two people across from me sounded like a native German speaker. Why, then, would they go to the trouble of speaking a foreign language to each other?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Soon, I noticed that the conversion seemed to be about men. And not any men, but one particular specimen, and his particular attributes. This was going to be interesting. I reached for my water bottle, surreptitiously leaning forward to catch more of the chatter over the din of the <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2016/11/retro-metro.html">50 year old subway</a> cars. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>"He doesn't wear a band or anything"</i> said one. <i>"Don't get too excited now" </i>replied the other, snickering. I paused. It sounded like the man they were talking about was in sight. I looked around the carriage. There were a few mummified creatures in winter parkas with their backs to us, their gender impossible to discern. And to my left, there was a poorly shaven 20-something guy, wearing big headphones and staring at his phone. Other than that, nobody was in sight.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I caught their eyes for a moment, but they flinched and blushed. I turned my gaze to the window and the blackness of the tunnel beyond, noticing my reflection on the glass. They couldn't possibly... no, surely not. And yet, the long-winded German adjectives they used could conceivably be applied to yours truly.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My musings were interrupted by the tinny voice announcing my stop. Just as I got up, I clearly heard <i>"aww... now he's leaving"</i>. Now it became almost impossible to contain my laughter. What were the chances?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Before I knew it, the train pulled into the station. And right as I was about to get off, one of the women got up, thrust her business card into my hand and said, in English: "My friend here would like to go on a date with you." At which point I just could not help myself: I smiled before replying in my best Hochdeutsch: <i>"How nice. And I wish you a very pleasant evening."</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The doors slid closed behind me, and as I turned around with a massive grin on my face, I was relieved to see that the two friends were almost literally rolling on the floor laughing. They had certainly made my day - and I, presumably, theirs.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oh, and as for that business card, you wonder? Well, date or not, <i>Sprache verbindet Menschen</i>!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i> </i></span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-91405268223620305932017-11-25T16:59:00.001-05:002017-11-25T16:59:35.231-05:00Hold the line<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ZcDIUoidUAThRkeXHQQRopXLLIW7PBdYYkkFgiF1MD7-iRtkdO7ykez5ZEZD4abzlhwpS9xXOCq1PinfS23wpjwMNOLzHt0Vw8bJIRmNkDmKXgMIhR3kA1P6Qw5L6FuXgmut2x76g9-A/s1600/holdtheline.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="918" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ZcDIUoidUAThRkeXHQQRopXLLIW7PBdYYkkFgiF1MD7-iRtkdO7ykez5ZEZD4abzlhwpS9xXOCq1PinfS23wpjwMNOLzHt0Vw8bJIRmNkDmKXgMIhR3kA1P6Qw5L6FuXgmut2x76g9-A/s320/holdtheline.png" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Waiting in line is not fun. Not at the grocery store, not at the airport, not at the bus stop, and not at the <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2010/10/inspection.html">doctor's</a>. And yet, we all do it, time and again, wasting precious moments of our lives to poor organization. Technology helps: When I recently spent an hour waiting for a routine blood test, I was the only one reading a magazine. Everybody else was fidgeting with an electronic gadget.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If only the clinic in question was as technophile as its clients - there must be a smarter way to manage queues. Or is there?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"The line is part of the fun" stipulated none other than Walt Disney, when he set about building his first theme park. He realized that people wouldn't feel the joy of his "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Disneyland">happiest place on Earth</a>" if they spent most of their day standing in dull lines, waiting. So his engineers and designers set out to incorporate the zig-zagging line-up areas before any ride into the attraction's theme. Over the years, these pre-ride zones have gotten more and more sophisticated, setting the stage with sounds, sights, videos, props and sometimes even animated characters.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But even basics keep prospective riders entertained: I remember a visit many years ago to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matterhorn_Bobsleds">Matterhorn Bobsleds</a> at Disneyland, where the inevitable Swiss theme materialized itself in a cantonal coat of arms being affixed to each pillar of the faux-wood roof covering the waiting area. Unfortunately, Switzerland has only 26 cantons, but the roof had more pillars. So the Disney gang simply continued adding made-up coats of arms to the extra pillars. We laughed so hard that we barely noticed the hour or so spent waiting in line.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sadly, Walt Disney is dead, and greedier managers have taken over running theme parks. These days. waiting in line is for poor schmucks. At most parks, "<a href="https://www.sixflags.com/magicmountain/store/flash-passes">Quick Access</a>" tickets allow the more free-spending to bypass queues, skipping right to the front of the line. The price for this privilege is variable: More on busy days, less on slow ones. There are even ticket machines placed outside major rides, letting you buy up from a regular admission once you see the daunting line-up.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This of course means that managers now have different incentives than old Walt did. The less attractive and longer they make the wait, the more likely they are to rake in extra cash from Quick Access tickets. When I last visited a roller coaster park, I endured dull, cattle-like queueing, while giving the evil eye to those rich folks passing by in their dedicated lane - sometimes twice before I got on.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This time, the roles were reversed, for yours truly took the bait and spent the dollars for Quick Access. Sure enough, in a day at <a href="https://buschgardens.com/tampa/">Bush Gardens</a>, I got more stomach-turning thrills than ever before. Triple launch coaster, inverted coaster, dive coaster, sit-down coaster, I rode them all. First row, last row, hands in the air. And again.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was a lot of fun. But something wasn't quite right. It took me a while to put my finger on it, but I finally found the missing ingredient: Anticipation. Not having to wait meant not watching the coaster go by time and again. Not hearing the people scream. Not visualizing every twist and turn. I just ran up the stairs, flashed my Quick Access barcode, and was on. And two minutes later, off again. There just wasn't the time to get anxious and excited, and then to have all that tension release as the train drops from the sky.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Walt Disney was right all along. The wait is part of the fun. It makes you appreciate what you are about to get, and lets you savor it more intensely when it is finally here. So, dear readers, if you thought that the latest post to this blog was a long time coming... you are welcome.</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-53779861991988793372017-10-31T22:08:00.003-04:002017-10-31T22:08:23.381-04:00Social committee<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFk1jN3qGfVFlcg0p_NpvsJjpuFhYL-j_OhXkT3jneSnO8POoDPDBQHDpNhgMhlFIMMC6DquTZBD4DUZ_-uybX0Up0KLn6UN4j8Dpm3_lTibI5nCChTKNsT9szjp0gq_M9ephqXYMUTOEo/s1600/socialcommittee.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="865" data-original-width="1154" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFk1jN3qGfVFlcg0p_NpvsJjpuFhYL-j_OhXkT3jneSnO8POoDPDBQHDpNhgMhlFIMMC6DquTZBD4DUZ_-uybX0Up0KLn6UN4j8Dpm3_lTibI5nCChTKNsT9szjp0gq_M9ephqXYMUTOEo/s320/socialcommittee.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I barely made it home, evading on my way blood-stained nurses, Indiana Jones, a werewolf, Princess Leia, a giant panda, Beelzebub, and even an Air Canada Rouge flight attendant. It was a grizzly sight.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Yes, Halloween is upon us once again. After <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2009/10/trick-and-treat.html">initial ignorance</a>, my time in Canada has by now made me well-acquainted, but <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2010/10/masquerade.html">no more enthusiastic</a>, about the North American version of carnival. It remains an asinine, unnecessary, embarrassing and highly commercialized aberration.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Only recently, though, have I started noticing that the dressing up isn't just limited to rugrats and the alcohol-infused university set. Last year, I was irritated when on October 31st, I was served by a bank teller in a fairy queen outfit (good thing she didn't go for the bank robber look). But this year took the institutionalized silliness to new heights.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A few days ago, a company-wide email from the social committee (the first I heard of such a body) arrived in my inbox, alerting me not only to a communal pumpkin carving in the cafeteria and a ghoulish potluck (aren't they all?), but also officially inviting me to wear my costume both on the day before and on Halloween itself. Ever the cynic, I laughed at the hopeless attempt by company cheerleaders to lighten the workplace mood, and promptly deleted the message.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But as it turned out, many colleagues did not: For the past two days, I have worked side-by-side with cowboys, cops, Hotwarts wizards, and random creations with silly wigs. What seemed utterly undignified to me appeared to be great fun to my - normally straitlaced - colleagues.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">For marketers and merchandisers, extracting not just kids' pocket money, but adults' hard-earned dollars for Halloween costumes surely is the holy <strike>ghoul</strike> grail, and they seem to have gotten much better at it in recent years. So much so, in fact, that even the Prime Minister <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/player/play/1085484611556/">showed up to work in a Superman costume</a>. There must be a House social committee as well.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Fortunately, in Canada the hubbub will be over by tomorrow. South of the border, though, they are not so lucky. There, a serially bankrupted former Reality TV star has been acting as President since January. <i>Who ya gonna call?</i></span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-66148068482427957522017-10-23T00:30:00.000-04:002017-10-23T00:30:01.872-04:00Contes des îles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdOGXILP4zSyU-plXXtEnb-144BD2GSyA9QgDW1nEKEGw4k0p2ebCNBZZ5UhTf37-mJIN_a38KZuLllwQsEHiW_uuIfW1lepVnhDVRLKIjU3cB8D4ZeWLV5HyfZ4nydGezfteY7dNILXUi/s1600/IMG_2716.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdOGXILP4zSyU-plXXtEnb-144BD2GSyA9QgDW1nEKEGw4k0p2ebCNBZZ5UhTf37-mJIN_a38KZuLllwQsEHiW_uuIfW1lepVnhDVRLKIjU3cB8D4ZeWLV5HyfZ4nydGezfteY7dNILXUi/s320/IMG_2716.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For no more than $600, you could get yourself a round-trip ticket from Montréal to Paris. On such a flight, by about the time you fold down your tray table for the rubber chicken, you'd be soaring over a tiny archipelago in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. But unfortunately, if this is where you wanted to land, the flight would have cost you nearly twice as much.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The islands in question are the <a href="https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%8Eles_de_la_Madeleine">Iles de la Madeleine</a>, a cluster of 7 sandy shoals located half-way between <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2012/10/maritimes.html">Prince Edward Island</a> and <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2014/08/trail-mix.html">Cape Breton</a>, inhabited by 13'000 Acadians and a handful of anglophone descendants of <a href="http://www.bbc.com/travel/gallery/20170523-a-tempestuous-isle-of-1000-shipwrecks">shipwrecked sailors</a>.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Despite their remote location, the islands are politically part of Québec. And that held the key for us to get there cheaply: The 3-stop flights that link them with Montréal are considered "intra-province" and as such available for only a handful of frequent flyer miles. And so we clambered aboard an ancient Dash 8 aircraft one sunny fall morning, and soon found ourselves on approach over the sandy dunes.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sand, indeed, is not in short supply: Over 300km of unspoilt beachline meant that we didn't need to leave our cozy Bed & Breakfast early to put down our blankets at the best spot. Not that they would have stayed there for long anyways: The constant wind, which makes the archipelago a mecca for surfers and kite-flyers, would have swiftly swept them away.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Our visit was at the
very end of the short summer season, meaning that many attractions and dining choices had already closed for the year and the
weather had gotten too cool for any water sports.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Rather than hoards of German tourists, it was seals and migrating birds that kept us company on our long walks along the water, and up onto the crumbly red sandstone cliffs that mark parts of the shore.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Low tide reveals grottos and caves under these cliffs, and it was there that the most magical of events took place one full moon night: As part of the <a href="http://www.conteseniles.com/">Contes en Iles</a> festival, torches and bonfires were set up, and storytellers from the near and far set out to spin their yarn in their light. The locals were clearly entranced, and we were enchanted, if by nothing else than the colorful local accent, so different from the <i>grande terre</i>, as they call the mainland.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Which, as it happens, is just as expensive to get to for the <i>madelinots</i> as it is the other way round. While this leads to high prices for goods that need to be ferried in (i.e. everything), it also fosters a close-knit, trusting and welcoming attitude: Houses and cars were routinely left unlocked. At our second visit to the local bistro, the staff started gossiping with us. At the farmer's market, villagers loaded their own baskets with produce and paid in a honor system. This, I thought, must be what rural life had been like everywhere in centuries past.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Of course, recent times have brought some changes (for instance mobile phones in 2003, as the tourist guide proudly proclaimed), including the micro-breweries, cheesemakers, and crafts shops that holidaying urbanites look for in their quest for authenticity. A recent surge in visitor arrivals, albeit still very reasonable, rewards the locals' initiatives.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It is not hard to see how word spreads about these mystical islands with their charming inhabitants. The highlight of our tale about the <i>Hawaii of Québec</i> however isn't its delicious food, or its unique <i>madelinot</i> accent, or even the adventurous way to get there. It is the otherworldly beauty and rough charm of a landscape so different that it has to be seen to be believed.</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-72164721131094919902017-09-27T21:51:00.000-04:002017-09-27T21:51:03.917-04:00Mean streets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTks2i_FGBlJ-y-V85zXEgw3SKbw3J4hgCA9yrAxbGRppYhScWsCjhRGZqLqI8LN_kzRYzsZBjrI-VsQ0L1jkF1heGKiaEqXic6FegDAYPGe_zBYqFjUFzV1qL9bJGFOsfuYg1XlP-WmJ-/s1600/meanstreets.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="571" data-original-width="765" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTks2i_FGBlJ-y-V85zXEgw3SKbw3J4hgCA9yrAxbGRppYhScWsCjhRGZqLqI8LN_kzRYzsZBjrI-VsQ0L1jkF1heGKiaEqXic6FegDAYPGe_zBYqFjUFzV1qL9bJGFOsfuYg1XlP-WmJ-/s320/meanstreets.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It was the year 2000, and it was the capital of the self-proclaimed <i>Land of the Free</i>. Our group leader gathered the gaggle of teenage travellers around her, put down a city map and drew a fat red line all the way across it. "Listen up", she said. "Do not venture north of this line. Not ever. It's a no-go area. Understood?"</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Since then, similar red lines have been drawn for me in too many cities, from <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2011/08/volver.html">Buenos Aires</a> to <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2016/08/in-chains.html">Detroit</a> and from <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2009/11/marathon.html">New York</a> to <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2015/04/beach-bum.html">Rio</a>. Never, though, in Montréal.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It wasn't until a recent quality-of-living study that I became conscious of the fact that there aren't really any "no-go areas" in my adopted home city. And that this is probably the exception rather than the rule in North America.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Yes, there may be a few neighborhoods where you'd feel out of place walking in the middle of the night. And there are definitely areas that just feel inherently hostile to pedestrians at any time of day, with roaring traffic, abandoned sidewalks and bland warehouses lining the roads for <strike>miles</strike> kilometers. But even there, the biggest threat is likely to be run over by a distracted driver not expecting anyone on foot.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The kind of random violence that mars many other big cities is rare in Montréal. CTV has put together a <a href="https://www.google.com/maps/d/viewer?mid=1yDTSXzghplVygLvjGIiHKdWjSW0&hl=en_US&ll=45.5063929838705%2C-73.59157147333985&z=11">homicide map</a>, which is remarkable not just for its relatively low number of occurrences (26, plus 7 people killed by police in 2016) but also its even distribution over the entire island. There are no "bad places".</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Unfortunately, the map doesn't specify each murder's circumstances, but I can't recall any media coverage on random shootings or violent assaults on strangers. It would seem that even Canadian pickpockets - of which there are plenty - are essentially gentle.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">All of this serves to illustrate an important aspect of quality of life: The freedom from fear for one's life. Too many urbanites on this planet do not have this luxury, and those who do, including this blogger, often don't value it enough. Canada may not call itself the <i>Land of the Free</i>, but it would arguably have a better claim to it.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">With this in mind, I stroll through the city with newfound appreciation for its safety. Which leaves me free to worry about the true dangers of Montréal roads: <a href="https://www.thestar.com/news/canada/2011/08/01/montreal_tunnel_collapse_a_lesson_to_the_entire_country.html">Collapsing tunnels</a>, <a href="http://www.on-sitemag.com/construction/champlain-bridge-to-undergo-emergency-repairs/1002746581/">crumbling bridges</a> and <a href="http://montreal.ctvnews.ca/sinkhole-swallows-backhoe-in-downtown-montreal-1.1398446">man-eating potholes</a>!</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-19443873126376431672017-09-10T12:34:00.001-04:002017-09-10T12:34:32.254-04:00Nanny state<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><span id="goog_480541562"></span><span id="goog_480541563"></span>"A message from the government of Canada"</i> says a friendly voice at the end of many TV and radio commercials. They advertise various projects the government of the day deems worthwhile, from vaccination drives to compost collection and the latest tax credits. There is even a toll-free number for you to call (1 800 O CANADA, if you must try). The campaigns are evidently political, in that they promote the signature policies of the governing party, and are often timed around elections.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Inevitably, the opposition of the day decries such advertising as a colossal waste of public funds for partisan means - until it is their turn to govern, at which moment they do exactly the same. When the Liberals replaced the Tories, the focus of the messages changed radically, but their frequency did not.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Coming from Switzerland, where the tax-funded take-over of the airwaves is both much less prevalent and typically much more technocratic (the health ministry promoting <i>safer sex</i>, the firefighters informing about the proper use of candles on Christmas trees), Canada's government propaganda has always seemed a bit unseemely for a democracy.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But it wasn't until my recent visit to Singapore that I realized just how overbearing even a non-totalitarian government can be. It is an open secret that the political competition in the flourishing city state is, ahem, somewhat limited, and consequently the governing party may feel less of an urge to promote blatantly partisan causes. That doesn't mean the state stays out of your face, though.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Much more so than on any previous visit, I realized how ubiquitous public admonishments were. The buses I rode had no commercial advertising at all, but were plastered with signs telling riders where to sit, how to stand, where not to put their belongings, how to properly pay their fare and so on.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In parks, people were exhorted to pick up and recycle their garbage, not to waste water from the fountains, not to run and play outside of playgrounds, and to limit their use of pick-nick tables on busy days.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And at the signature hawker centers, into which Singapore has organized its street food vendors, nagging public hygene and behavior rules (always wash your hands! return and separate your waste!) left a bit of a sour taste, no matter the sweet cartoon characters used. The few days in this nanny state started to get to me.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Clearly, the tremendous success of the tiny, multicultural, clean and perfectly efficient country speaks to the effects of such campaigns, and its citizens must have internalized all the rules of proper behavior. So much so that when I swam at the public pool, where a broad section was reserved for lap swimming but I was its sole user, the pool attendant stopped me and pointed to a big sign: It explained how to properly swim up on one and down on the other side of the section. My objection of being the only swimmer present was dismissed with a bewildered look: <i>"But these are the rules."</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Well then. I for one am glad to be back on my way to Canada, where at least half of the political spectrum seems to mind government publicity at any one time. And the public reacts to it the same way as to any other advertisement: By tuning out.<i> </i></span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-91180436561922438342017-08-23T21:33:00.002-04:002017-08-23T21:39:32.576-04:00Gone with the wind<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhLSSBKQpLDvY-Wrpt7LDL42f0pjY2sSWReFks0hqmgYKu9Jgj_gDCcbss4a-t3dQ399xnxdtNPiBfde12trBetaK6cI2I6JKgnmVhZhmWeOcNX7u7YCZOkm-xBP233pV4pK9yHzaOBNnR/s1600/gonewiththewind.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="613" data-original-width="920" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhLSSBKQpLDvY-Wrpt7LDL42f0pjY2sSWReFks0hqmgYKu9Jgj_gDCcbss4a-t3dQ399xnxdtNPiBfde12trBetaK6cI2I6JKgnmVhZhmWeOcNX7u7YCZOkm-xBP233pV4pK9yHzaOBNnR/s320/gonewiththewind.png" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">For a few short years, every Swiss was
an expert. In the wake of <i>Alinghi</i>,
the Swiss-owned (but mostly Kiwi-crewed) yacht racing to two consecutive
victories in the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/America%27s_Cup"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto;">America’sCup</span></a>, the vernacular and technique of sailing became part of everyday
conversation in the land-locked alpine republic.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">The Swiss followed every tack of their
boat, debated the merits of double-hull designs and whether the spinnaker or
the jib ought to have been hoisted at any given moment. The media graciously
offered background and strategy lessons, courtesy of telegenic experts from
Down Under. And a good many wannabe skippers took to the lakes in pursuit of
the odd breeze.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Inevitably, <i>Alinghi</i>’s moment of fame passed, and the enthusiasm for boating
quickly ebbed away.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Not so in more maritime nations.
Canada, with its national motto of <i><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto;">a mari usque ad mari</span></i></span> and the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bluenose"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto;">Bluenose</span></a> on its 10cts coin<i>, </i>has a proud sailing tradition and sees the activity practiced
regularly, both along its coasts and on the aptly-named Great Lakes.<span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">It was on one of these, Lake Ontario,
where I was recently given the opportunity to set sail courtesy of a thoughtful
birthday gift. Captain Andy welcomed us aboard his 34 foot boat (the metric
system stays ashore) and we soon set course for the open water.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">In the light breeze, our kind skipper
explained us some of the basic dynamics of sailing, and it became clear that on
the massive lake system at the heart of the American continent, varied
conditions and significant distances mean that “freshwater captain” is no
insult at all – this man knew his stuff.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">The same cannot be said for yours
truly, but nonetheless, I was soon asked to <span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto;">take the helm a</span>s Andy went below deck. With
minimum instructions, a compass and a wind arrow, I found myself at the big
wheel. Keeping the boat at the proper angle to the wind and getting used to the
inherent inertia which met any steering inputs took a bit of time. But standing
there with the sun in my face, the wind in my hair and but the sound of the
water in my ears, also felt majestic – even more so given the stark contrast to
the garish powerboats of <a href="https://pokerrunsamerica.com/"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto;">Poker Run</span></a> which had come to raid the port the previous evening.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">As we came out from behind a
sheltering island, the wind picked up speed and so did our vessel. With Captain
Andy back in charge, we soon made a good 7 knots, the boat leaning into the
wind and skimming across the lake at a seemingly precarious angle. I started
humming the tune of Vangelis’ <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYeDsa4Tw0c"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto;">Conquest of Paradise</span></a>, and for a brief moment, wondered how
different it must have been when the wind was the only propellant for overseas
travel.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Eventually, we found shelter in a
protected bay, and while I relaxed on the top deck, my <s>first</s> best mate and
the stewardess emerged from the galley beneath with a delicious champagne lunch.
I was spoiled so much that our captain suggested I should have birthdays more
often.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">By the time we returned to port, we
were a bit sunburned, but relaxed, with our spirits lifted and a new
appreciation for a timeless mode of travel. This was definitely a past-time I
could get used to, although preferably with a skipper included, for the work
going on before, during and after such cruises seems considerable.</span> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">No, Switzerland is not a nation of
sailors. But Canada has more shoreline per capita than any other country. And
this fresh-off-the-boat immigrant is keen to explore more of them. Ship ahoy!</span></span>
Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-63310831142933120922017-07-31T21:17:00.000-04:002017-07-31T21:17:04.689-04:00Wild Wild West<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfrrLZlwuVO05Q-gR4umRXJmVP8Fo6mLdsUfy6_sGJaIcj9F7pE_gmzGko_WFSFk5Je5AuSGFcJjnm6YhqAgJcblRxImu0sQDTM9A5hZKsIqXcR7V1v_9am2kEGunmoz768UbAyuwMvi9P/s1600/stampede.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="880" data-original-width="1316" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfrrLZlwuVO05Q-gR4umRXJmVP8Fo6mLdsUfy6_sGJaIcj9F7pE_gmzGko_WFSFk5Je5AuSGFcJjnm6YhqAgJcblRxImu0sQDTM9A5hZKsIqXcR7V1v_9am2kEGunmoz768UbAyuwMvi9P/s320/stampede.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When Canadians talk about what defines them, cultural diversity often comes up near the top of the list. As the story goes, in Canada arrivals from all over the world don't have to melt into one big American mass, but instead are allowed to retain their distinct heritage in a multi-colored mosaic.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cultural diversity, though, exists even within the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Anglo-Saxon_Protestant">WASP</a> bedrock of Canadian society, as I found on a recent jaunt to Calgary. While the western city was mostly associated with the boom and bust of the <a href="http://www.economist.com/node/17959688">oil sands industry</a> (Canada's dirty secret) in recent years, its original claim to fame was as a hub for farming and ranching where the endless prairies meet the Rocky Mountains.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It is to this heritage that the town dedicates 10 days each summer, when it hosts the <a href="http://www.calgarystampede.com/">Calgary Stampede</a>, described with signature modesty as <i>the greatest outdoor show on earth</i>. The festival of everything western had been on my bucket list for many years, and what better year than that of Canada's 150th anniversary to make tick it off?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From the moment I stepped off the plane, it was clear that this wasn't Montréal (or Toronto, for that matter): Cowboy hats abounded, boots and bolo ties were everywhere. Hotels had set out mock saloon doors and horse troughs. Everybody wore checkered shirts.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Things got more intense at the vast Stampede park. Apart from the standard fairground rides, there were large sections dedicated to agricultural exhibits (the maize of Manitoba, the berries of B.C.) and stables where prize artiodactyls were groomed, shoed, paraded and judged. Not much of an expert myself, I was impressed by the wide range of bovine cosmetics available.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The real fun, of course, was to see the beasts in action. Professional riders named Cody, Curtis or Clay competed in Bareback and Saddle Bronc riding, where success is measured in seconds on the back of a ferocious bull. Others preferred the rodeo staples of steer wresting and tie-down roping, their looks and skills putting <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucky_Luke">Lucky Luke</a> to a shame. And the most daring harnessed four thoroughbreds to a chuckwagon and raced them around a dusty track, much to the crowds' delight.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">More remarkable still than their skills seemed the cowboys' pedigree, if you pardon the pun. These were not Disney performers in funny costumes, but true farm boys from small prairie towns north and south of the border. After the race, they could be seen smoking cigarettes and drinking Bud Lights by their pick-up trucks.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of course, not everybody in boots and hats had the same <i>stallgeruch</i>: My Calgarian colleague happily confessed that his cowboy gear comes out exactly one time a year for the Stampede, and then swiftly disappears in the basement again. "This little shin dig is our western Halloween", as he put it.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But dressing the part certainly adds to the atmosphere. As I grabbed a watery beer and joined the crowds at the <i>Nashville North</i> scene, where country bands were playing and people were line-dancing, I suddenly realized that at the very least, I should have worn my Edelweiss shirt and the suspenders embroidered with Appenzell cattle. After all, we Swiss are cowboys as well. Yee-haw!</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-40996655789271424362017-07-12T22:11:00.000-04:002017-07-12T22:11:09.463-04:00Jukebox<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxCUyuzLc81YhcRj1CBI4TNN8GiK7XTn3PjA64d06ztQWEy_tvsv1S31W2bPN8oSZV4_SCW_ixkohGzNC9SGzW46NYMtbWXe5a6M7aCEGe__ZoQwv7AJM94K25r1yESaR47bm6MlmynH-h/s1600/jukebox.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="891" data-original-width="668" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxCUyuzLc81YhcRj1CBI4TNN8GiK7XTn3PjA64d06ztQWEy_tvsv1S31W2bPN8oSZV4_SCW_ixkohGzNC9SGzW46NYMtbWXe5a6M7aCEGe__ZoQwv7AJM94K25r1yESaR47bm6MlmynH-h/s320/jukebox.png" width="239" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the age of mp3 players and streaming music platforms, few people remember jukeboxes. Once the staple of bars, cafés and bowling alleys, they held a limited selection of popular songs, which users could dial up and play for a dime or two.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Similar to a jukebox of old, individuals seem to cultivate only a limited personal universe of musical tastes. Studies such as <a href="https://wesfiles.wesleyan.edu/courses/musc108/2002FaFin/Mag/articles/features/preferences.html">this one</a> argue that adolescence is a particularly important time for forming these preferences, and that once the universe has been established, it changes only very gradually over a listener's lifetime.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Granted, these days the gadget in your pocket can hold many more tunes than the best Wurlitzer ever could, and in theory the internet offers infinite selection. But services such as YouTube and Spotify build on users' tastes and offer more of the same, driving us ever deeper into the limited realm we have a predisposition towards. It is not unlike the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Selective_exposure_theory#Media">news selection bias</a> created by social media.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In Montréal, the <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2012/07/festival.html">festival summer</a> is in full swing (well, jazz, actually) and one of its joys is the opportunity to spend warm evenings aimlessly wandering around the <i>Quartier des Spectacles</i> and letting oneself be surprised by whatever performances are going on at the various outdoor scenes. It is a perfect opportunity to invite serendipity and to discover new acoustic worlds.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And so it was last weekend, when a little misunderstanding meant I found myself in front of a different stage than my friends. But onto this stage leaped a woman who had just come back from a lengthy hiatus. In <i>my</i> formative music years, <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2012/07/festival.html">Lee Aaron</a> was Canada's metal queen. Now, two children and three decades later, she has drifted towards solid rock and blues. With her fantastic voice, vivid presence and great tunes, she catapulted herself right into the center of my attention.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That same night, I downloaded her music and made her a headliner in my playlists. Out of nowhere, a new sun had risen in my acoustic universe - and reminded me how enjoyable it can be to look over the horizon.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But while there are new tunes to sing along, has Lee opened up a new genre to me? Not really. I still love Rock 'n' Roll. <a href="https://youtu.be/xL5spALs-eA">So put another dime in the jukebox, baby!</a></span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-17260349291170497642017-06-30T05:49:00.001-04:002017-06-30T05:49:46.663-04:00Svalutation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2oFndnNjdTQxCoWpMPUFfYL0JaUPBiMpAv_bDpZSnmHfMn-g9bjH_gD1qBCauqw7j4Vo3BzsvwapKTis9ewyOQ4wECaJtVZhTZebFoLvXsQ0lzyNs3eAQDFlm39ePRzX3Qdp5_mNNIkx_/s1600/svalutation.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="790" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2oFndnNjdTQxCoWpMPUFfYL0JaUPBiMpAv_bDpZSnmHfMn-g9bjH_gD1qBCauqw7j4Vo3BzsvwapKTis9ewyOQ4wECaJtVZhTZebFoLvXsQ0lzyNs3eAQDFlm39ePRzX3Qdp5_mNNIkx_/s320/svalutation.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">More than ten years ago, I spent a little while living with a host mum in Buenos Aires. Her apartment in the chic Palermo neighborhood exuded an air of faded glory, and in our many conversations over <i>asado</i> and Malbec she reminisced of the times when her family was wealthy.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then came the currency devaluations. In the tragedy that is Argentine politics, my host saw the value of her savings diminish time and again, as the peso took a plunge, inflation soared and incomes stagnated. Wistfully, she spoke of those friends smart enough to park <i>dollares</i> in an offshore account across the river Plate.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A typical South American tale of poor government and short-sighted policies, I thought back then. Little did I know that a decade later, I would find myself in a similar predicament.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I moved to Canada in 2009, one Canadian Dollar bought approximately 0.95 Swiss Francs, a rate that increased to 1.1 by the summer of 2010. Since then, though, it's been a steady decline. Today, that same <i>loonie</i> buys a mere 0.73 Francs. That is a 25% loss of value from 2009 or 34% from 2010.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And it is not just against the Swiss Franc that the Canadian currency has fared poorly. Exchange rates against the greenback and the Euro have similarly declined. (Comfortingly, the value against the Argentine Peso has doubled over the same period.)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It goes without saying that Canadian salaries have not grown proportionately to the decline in exchange rates. And why should they? Compound <a href="http://www.inflation.eu/inflation-rates/canada/historic-inflation/cpi-inflation-canada.aspx">consumer price inflation</a> in the country since 2009 has been a mere 13%, with an annual average well below 2%. So within their own borders, Canadians are mostly doing okay. If you happen to travel abroad, however...</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Visiting Switzerland has <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/01/21/map-expensive-countries_n_6510018.html">never been cheap</a>, but the continuous erosion of Canadian purchasing power really starts to bite now. If it weren't for accommodation and transport provided by friends and family, my current trip would be a true splurge, but without the glamour factor. Or so it felt when I bought a <i>Butterbrezeli</i> the other day and realized that it cost the equivalent of a Montréal sushi lunch.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Will I let this malaise spoil my vacation? Surely not. But it gives me more of an appreciation for what people unlucky enough to earn "soft" currencies have to contend with all the time. Not much they can do (save for that offshore banking account - surely just a coincidence that the Swiss have long excelled at that trade) - they just have to live with devaluation.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And they do: The other day, walking across the lawn at the local <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2012/06/badi.html">Badi</a>, I came by a latino-looking man lying in the sun, flipping through the flyer of a hard discount grocer. Next to him, an old-fashioned FM radio played the classic by Italian singer Adriano Celentano that drove home the point: <a href="https://youtu.be/YdfVG1Or-6k">Svalutation!</a></span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-56751065875969733692017-06-04T12:01:00.001-04:002017-06-04T12:01:43.820-04:00Borderlands<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDln2vGxTofr5l1LY34Oe1XJEvoLu5Q_9M6GG27HxL6rrXWX9-jfxrVqiiDUZ9anwsF02fKnIAKikLOK-eVn6-vNzwBt1GQozV68JtGZlqm6ryRQvcLWzu2q7UfhPTpG64O3mcRh5ckFmg/s1600/borderlands.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="843" data-original-width="918" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDln2vGxTofr5l1LY34Oe1XJEvoLu5Q_9M6GG27HxL6rrXWX9-jfxrVqiiDUZ9anwsF02fKnIAKikLOK-eVn6-vNzwBt1GQozV68JtGZlqm6ryRQvcLWzu2q7UfhPTpG64O3mcRh5ckFmg/s320/borderlands.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Crossing borders is an integral part of travelling. But how such crossings take place can vary greatly, as last month's trips have illustrated.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">First came a visit to a small country in the heart of Europe. No, not <i>that </i>country. But the one that is home to an even smaller village - 500 residents, I am told - which became synonymous with hassle-free border crossings, and whose name now separates airport terminals from Finland to Malta. Tacked on to business meetings in Frankfurt, I took a little side-trip to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schengen_Agreement">Schengen</a>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In doing so, I was able to experience the liberties provided by the eponymous agreement first hand: My flight from Canada arrived in Brussels. There, I pulled out my <a href="https://www.schweizerpass.admin.ch/pass/de/home/ausweise/idk.html">Swiss ID card</a> and showed it to a Belgian border guard. After that, I was able to take another flight to Germany, drive a car to Luxembourg, walk back and forth between it and Germany, keep driving into France, back into Luxembourg, and eventually back to Frankfurt. All without ever showing any form of ID again. It was only when I boarded a flight back to Toronto that a bored German policeman at Frankfurt airport had another quick glance at my ID.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ever since the Schengen agreement came into effect, and notwithstanding short interruptions during the recent migrant crisis, this painless mobility is a reality across 26 European countries (and yes, this does include that <i>other</i> small nation). For Europeans, crossing borders without stops or inspections has become the default. But it is anything but.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The second trip in the same month was to another small nation, for which its borders are very much an existential, and contested, subject. Israel has seen its territorial boundaries shift several times since its foundation in 1948, and usually not in a peaceful way.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Consequently, it fortifies and diligently polices its borders, with the crossing procedure differing widely depending on the person in question. Unlike other nations, which at best distinguish between citizens and foreigners, Israel unashamedly applies a much more sophisticated profiling grid, which can make entering and leaving the country a breeze, or a serious pain. Fortunately, I have found myself placed closer to the former end of the spectrum. But the stern looks of the Israeli officials certainly do not let one take that for granted.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And how about the borders I cross most frequently? Canada and the U.S. still don't have any formal exit checks: There are no procedures involved for leaving either of these countries. When entering, though, the process has become more complicated and segregated in the years since 9/11. For non-citizens, visa requirements have been tightened and even visitors from countries without a visa requirement now need to apply for an online "travel authorization" before arrival. The U.S. introduced this paid process in 2008, and coaxed Canada into following suit last year. With every version, the form becomes longer and more intrusive.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Canadian and U.S. citizens remain exempt from these requirements, but they do now need to travel with a passport or "secured" Driver's License. Gone are the days of entire school buses of Canadians driving to the U.S. on the strength of their team football jerseys alone. All of this leads to slower, more cumbersome border crossings.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On the upside, though, there has also been a lot of investment into making the experience smoother for those deemed "<a href="https://www.cbp.gov/travel/trusted-traveler-programs">trusted travellers</a>". Taking a page out of the Israelis' book, American and Canadian officials have established a joint screening process which allows cleared individuals to obtain a card entitling them to bypass lines and use dedicated kiosks or automated gates to enter either country quickly.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The program is called <a href="http://www.cbsa-asfc.gc.ca/prog/nexus/menu-eng.html">Nexus</a>, and when I was handed my membership card, the ability to seamlessly weave my way in and out of the country was very much presented as a privilege, not an entitlement. My recent travels certainly drove that point straight home.</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-34044053950704885352017-05-17T22:00:00.000-04:002017-05-17T22:00:19.177-04:00375<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCtxGme6lKxd_tSc5plMSlFWHzxwkWgjSFmjxnkpn3VgU-m7uZR3K7hZb1HJ-XDbhlzXywQSNC7kpR_uKpXZ8coR9wcTNeLs0R5mia9KTURFvwxzepME2z3hS1s7kwYeoYN-F_QPXndymZ/s1600/375.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCtxGme6lKxd_tSc5plMSlFWHzxwkWgjSFmjxnkpn3VgU-m7uZR3K7hZb1HJ-XDbhlzXywQSNC7kpR_uKpXZ8coR9wcTNeLs0R5mia9KTURFvwxzepME2z3hS1s7kwYeoYN-F_QPXndymZ/s320/375.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I was a teenager, my hometown celebrated its 1250th anniversary. A few years prior, Switzerland feted its 700th birthday, based on the nation's mythical founding on an alpine meadow on August 1st, 1291. I recently came upon the commemorative coin we got in school.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1250 years, or even 700 years, that seem<i>s</i> like an unfathomable amount of time. Or as Eddie Izzard put it: <a href="https://youtu.be/J6hijsqO8H0"><i>No one was alive then!</i></a> But it is far from unusual in Europe, where history comes from.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By and large, the town and the country have aged well. Today, modern conveniences are abundant, the infrastructure is first class, and even if the population is ageing, it can rely on cutting-edge health care to keep adding candles to the birthday cake.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In North America, <i>old</i> has a different meaning, and people here are not willing to wait for millennia to pass until they can throw a party. This year, Canada is turning 150, and the federal government is <a href="http://passport2017.ca/">going all out</a> with events to mark the occasion. It also hopes that Canadians will follow it to the great outdoors, courtesy of free admission to all National Parks.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Montréal, of course, ever uneasy with just waving the Maple Leaf flag, prefers to focus on a celebration of its own. And it has found a reason.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">375 years ago today, on May 17, 1642, Paul Chomedey de Maisonneuve put a flag in the ground on the base of Mont Royal and founded Ville-Marie, the nucleus of what grew into Montréal. (He was likely sold on the location when he saw the splendid Boulevard de Maisonneuve running the length of the city, bicycle lanes and all....) This event must be commemorated, and only a sourpuss would point out that Samuel de Champain had already established a first trading post on the island in 1611, not to mention the Iroquois village of Hochelaga, which had existed long before that. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A <a href="http://www.375mtl.com/">website</a> was launched, and even a mobile app found its way on my phone. Tonight, with much fanfare (courtesy of the city's symphony orchestra), a spectacular light show on the Pont Jacques-Cartier was inaugurated. Countless artsy events will follow throughout the summer - your (provincial!) tax dollars at work.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One could use the occasion to take a look at the city's health. Such a checkup would reveal a stagnating economy, crumbling bridges and roads, lacking or endlessly delayed public transit infrastructure, corruption in police and politics, excessive wait times for health care, and the highest tax rates in North America. No surprise, then, that the city prefers to direct citizens' attention to shiny lights.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But don't think that I am just a negative nancy. I don't mean to rain on the parade, not least because I plan on attending it. As the <a href="http://montrealgazette.com/opinion/columnists/josh-freed-montreal-should-take-pride-in-being-cone-capital-of-the-world">world capital of orange construction cones</a>, Montréal is quite literally work in progress. A bit more modesty and honesty wouldn't hurt, but these are not traits typically associated with grandiose French character.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This does not mean the city has no reason to be proud: 375 years after its foundation, my home town consisted of a few feudal farms and a mill. The residents lived in subservient conditions under the thumb of local aristocrats, before succumbing to the plague or the flu at age 35. By comparison, Montréal is paradise indeed!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So for its birthday, let's cut the city some <strike>pork</strike> slack. <i>Joyeux anniversaire, Montréal</i> - here's to many more!</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-53648811483459442062017-04-30T16:39:00.001-04:002017-04-30T16:39:16.686-04:00Mani talk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">How do you shut up an Italian? - Tie his hands behind his back!</span></span></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This may be an old joke, but it has not lost any of its wit - or its veracity, as we were able to witness on a recent trip to the <i>bel paese</i>. For a sunny spring week, we enjoyed not just the stunning beauty of Liguria, but also the joy of watching Italians... well, be Italian.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I once tried to explain it like this: The Germanic people north of the alps <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2016/09/paint-it-white.html">paint their houses white</a>, because they are reserved and conservative. The Latin people south of the alps plaint their houses in gaudy colors, because they are lively and extroverted. And in Italy, that extroversion starts the moment you leave the airport: We were honked at, and had headlights flashed before we even reached the <i>autostrada</i>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In Parma, kids in the street were fidgeting with palm fronds their parents had received at mass (Palm Sunday and all that) earlier in the day, while in the piazza outside the cathedral, black-robed priests straight out of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0043918/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1">Don Camillo</a> were using the branches to underline their points like a conductor would.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the little <i>osteria</i> in Portovenere, the fat owner behind the bar barely talked at all, but with a combination of gestures and expressive mimics directed his hard-working waiters around, while visibly appraising all entering patrons - blonde Canadian women got a nod of approval.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Just as I started to adapt to the beloved Italian way (surprising how quickly foreign swear words come to you when some Alfa Romeo cuts you off), we came across a restrained and strangely non-manual receptionist at a hotel. But I quickly grew suspicious of the accent in his Italian: Sure enough, he was Swiss-German.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At one little convenience store where we filled our backpacks for the hikes along the <a href="http://www.cinqueterre.com/il-sentiero-n1-alta-via-dei-monti-liguri/">Alta Via delle Cinqueterre</a>, a cashier petted and caressed a customer's toddler, while at another, two old ladies in front of the deli counter had their hands so high up in the air that I could barely see the <i>salumi</i> behind them.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Not all the gesticulating is friendly: At a supermarket in Genova, we got into an argument with the staff around the price of cheese (yes, loyalty programs were involved) which led to raised voices and those hand movements that you know from <i>Goodfellas</i> and <i>The Godfather</i> - we did not get our cheese.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By and large, though, the handful of <i>Italianità </i>we got to experience was magnificent. Gorgeous landscapes, impossibly beautiful towns, splendid (if strenuous) hikes and delicious cuisine day after day.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Most enjoyable of all, though, was to simply sit in the sun on a promenade, and watch Italians going by. It was thus that we were treated to the observation that reminded me of the old joke: An elderly, immaculately dressed couple was strolling down the street, the man holding on to his wife with one hand and to a cane with the other. Suddenly, they spotted two friends, rising from a park bench and walking towards them. Hugging and greeting ensued.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And then, the man stepped over to the bench, carefully deposed his walking stick, and turned back around to the rest of the group. After all, how could he have talked with his hands full?</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-41961188906868012542017-04-21T22:00:00.002-04:002017-04-21T22:00:39.993-04:00Mister Proper<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeyIdmDaNjiMNVEjAfXLARVmvr_yBKk9Xsfq_ZwJWqszhK6nvzNgY5a74uo-kPVRnsdT5hyi-NMH2xOK3Ia1HYlYNrwsgMDEOKx1Ubfc_8RcGQZvRZVO99lmmtN75-Tv2CazjI1i7uDH_C/s1600/sauberrein.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeyIdmDaNjiMNVEjAfXLARVmvr_yBKk9Xsfq_ZwJWqszhK6nvzNgY5a74uo-kPVRnsdT5hyi-NMH2xOK3Ia1HYlYNrwsgMDEOKx1Ubfc_8RcGQZvRZVO99lmmtN75-Tv2CazjI1i7uDH_C/s320/sauberrein.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I routinely entrust pilots and taxi drivers around the world with my life. I entrust </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">chefs in Vietnamese soup kitchens and American burger joints</span></span> with my health. I rely on fresh-faced bank tellers and computer algorithms to manage my savings. I even trust in Montréal engineers as I swim <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2017/03/olympian.html">below the Olympic Stadium's leaning tower</a>. So why is it so hard to entrust my dirt to a cleaner?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We had debated the issue for a long time. With a larger <i>demeure</i> than in the past, long work days and frequent travel, we often found ourselves dedicating weekend days to the mop and the broom. It did not feel like a good use of a precious resource - free time, in this case.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The solution was as obvious as it was awkward. Neither of us was accustomed to having a paid professional clean the house. We weren't even comfortable with referring to somebody else doing our chores (The Economist <a href="https://www.1843magazine.com/dispatches/domestic-angst">sympathizes</a>), much less interacting with such a person.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Not so our friends, colleagues and relatives, most of which habitually outsource housekeeping and showered us with references. Reluctantly, I started calling them up, beginning with the <i>sous la table</i> operators that seem most common in the city.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The initial responses reinforced our hesitation: These folks seemed disorganized, uninterested, unreliable, inflexible ("there is no guaranteed parking?") and pretty pricey. I quickly learned that this is a seller's market. Add to that my general aversion to black labor, and we decided that this was not the route to go.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">With the dust bunnies multiplying in the corners and the parquet floors losing their luster, I pressed on and called the last number on my reference list: A cleaning company. And before I knew it, I had an appointment for a comprehensive appraisal of the work to be done.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Precisely at the agreed time, an immaculately dressed gentleman ran my doorbell, and swiftly proceeded with a walk-through of our house, clipboard in hand, assessing the work and explaining the tools and methods he would use. The entire process concluded with a remarkably reasonable quote, presentation of a corporate insurance certificate and the willingness to issue tax receipts - I was floored.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And those floors soon became squeaky clean again, as our new Mr. Clean and his wife started their bi-weekly visits. The awkwardness remains: I am not quite ready yet to hand over the keys and let them home alone, so I hole up in the study while the house gets a makeover. I try to be polite and friendly, while at the same time being unhelpful. After all, me not doing the work is why they are here. When the moment comes to pay, I fork over the cash with the same guilt-ridden feeling as one would have tipping a rickshaw driver before escaping into a five star hotel.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But then I close the door, hear my feet squeak on the shiny floors, smell the bleachy air in the kitchen, look at the spotless bathroom mirror, and realize: Yes, I can get used to this.</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6362839744696963483.post-55835744245808490012017-03-20T22:07:00.000-04:002017-03-20T22:07:02.165-04:00Olympian<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKO74jG1yyNXWDKuigzt5qTGUzswbKG10dkMrfkzaTWIFECjZ7voEbUw9SlV3i5xBryawdQAcO_I0QIwPUDP20ZKWZFyBUja4CDum8zK9DpCrjWdY0AsHvwTXbV9HXZ_jUhuzPAshwfzQv/s1600/olympian.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKO74jG1yyNXWDKuigzt5qTGUzswbKG10dkMrfkzaTWIFECjZ7voEbUw9SlV3i5xBryawdQAcO_I0QIwPUDP20ZKWZFyBUja4CDum8zK9DpCrjWdY0AsHvwTXbV9HXZ_jUhuzPAshwfzQv/s320/olympian.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Montréal certainly had its share of woes with the <a href="https://www.olympic.org/montreal-1976">Summer Olympics</a> it hosted in 1976. Although the games itself were a success, the brainchild of mayor <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2014/07/pleasure-island.html">Jean Drapeau</a> left the city with a stadium capped by a roof that collaped under snow, an unfinished inclined tower, and debt of well over $1bn. It took the province 30 years to pay it off, and by the time the dues were paid, the venues were in need of a comprehensive renovation. They joined most of the other infrastructure from the city's 1967-1976 boom years in the queue, and gradually fell into disrepair.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So far, so familiar. In fact, many more recent host cities for the games have let their stadiums, tracks, velodromes and ski jumps <a href="https://www.dmarge.com/2016/08/abandoned-olympic-venues.html#show_image=6">crumble in far less time</a> - not the testament to sustainability the IOC likes to trumpet.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And yet: As our guide pointed out on a recent tour of Montréal's Olympic stadium, this is one of the few venues built for games that has been in continuous athletic use ever since the flame was extinguished. $100M of tax money has just been sunk into an overhaul of the aquatic center, <a href="http://affaires.lapresse.ca/economie/quebec/201605/02/01-4977115-renovation-du-parc-olympique-une-facture-de-400-millions-en-20-ans.php">with $300M more to follow</a> for the rest of the grounds in the next 20 years (apply a generous multiplier to future amounts to account for Québec's inevitable cost overruns.) </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I suspect it would have cost less to just build a new pool from scratch, but at least the $100M investment has indeed produced a very nice and modern facility. So much so that, despite its out-of-the-way location in the city's east end, I have just signed up for an annual membership.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This comes at the expense of the <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2014/03/ymca.html#.WNCAVWfasUM">YMCA</a>, whose facility maintenance and swim lane availability have steadily declined over the last 3 years. I was generally unimpressed with the Y's business acumen and concern for customer service - perhaps the flipside of it operating as a charity. The final drop in the <strike>pool</strike> bucket was an announcement that the YMCA closest to my workplace would close because the administrators failed to produce a viable business model to account for rent. By the time they <a href="http://www.ymcaquebec.org/en/About-Us/Newsroom/2017/The-Guy-Favreau-YMCA-will-remain-open-next-year">managed to secure a 1-year extension</a> from the building owners, I was already gone.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Now, I am doing my laps where great athletes (and steroid-laden GDR swimmers) have won medals before. Even if I remain faithful to the <a href="http://enroute.olimade.com/2015/03/non-compete-clause.html">non-compete clause</a>, seeing the Olympic rings hanging over the pool makes elevates my workout: I am now the <i>Oli</i>mpian!</span></span>Olihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003392133228369192noreply@blogger.com