20 June 2019
Coup de coeur
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.
About starting a sunny and warm June day in Outremont, wandering the leafy boulevards and gazing at the stately mansions, wondering in which Armand Gamache might live. Much like him, enjoying a café au lait and a flaky croissant on Avenue Bernard, reading the morning paper.
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 The Main, just before noon, awaited Schwartz's Delicatessen and a medium smoked meat sandwich.
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 activewear and bearded hipsters on their fixed gear bikes.
About the ongoing gentrification - or is that hipsterization? - of the Plateau, 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, microtorréfacteurs and vegan bistros, catering to what seems to be insatiable demand fuelled by the city's new creative class.
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 la Saint-Jean.
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.)
About zipping downtown on the métro, to emerge in the heart of the Quartier des Spéctacles, 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 Montréal winter.)
About finally heading out to the recently remodelled Parc Jean-Drapeau, 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 Mont Royal rising beyond.
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.
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 home', I had thought of Switzerland...."
Labels: culture, food, leisure, Montreal
# posted by Oli : 20:28
30 June 2018
What you leave behind
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 returning home 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 fête nationale.
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.
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.
There were Bixi rides around orange cones on the way to Adonis. There were reassuringly boring visits to the bank, where I discovered new fees introduced in the two months since I left. There were sunny afternoon swims in Parc Jean Drapeau. There were brunches and new ethnic eats. Not to mention juicy strawberries and blueberries from Québec's fields. There would have even been free musical performances - although a summer rain put paid to that.
Despite my frequent griping about poor politics, high taxes and an overwhelmed health system, this is a place that I have come to love, and to miss. After nine years, Montréal, too, is filled with memories on every street. And with people near and dear to my heart.
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.
Labels: Canada, Montreal, Quebec
# posted by Oli : 16:00
26 April 2018
All good things
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.
By extension, this will also mark the imminent conclusion of this blog (although Google will preserve its contents for posterity). What had started 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.
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 habitants for having welcomed and integrated me the way they did. In fact, they did so to the point of irreversibility: They made me one of their own.
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.
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 Bixi ride of the season, sat with friends in a sunny backyard, saw the signs for the festivals go up.
My final week is filled with farewell lunches, culminating in my own 5à7 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.
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 been through worse 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.
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.
Of all good things, this is the one that will not end.
Labels: Montreal
# posted by Oli : 10:29
15 December 2017
Mann spricht Deutsch
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. "Und was, wenn der Deutsch spricht?" asked one. The other shrugged. "Ach, fast keiner kann hier Deutsch."
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?
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 50 year old subway cars.
"He doesn't wear a band or anything" said one. "Don't get too excited now" 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.
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.
My musings were interrupted by the tinny voice announcing my stop. Just as I got up, I clearly heard "aww... now he's leaving". Now it became almost impossible to contain my laughter. What were the chances?
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: "How nice. And I wish you a very pleasant evening."
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.
Oh, and as for that business card, you wonder? Well, date or not, Sprache verbindet Menschen!
# posted by Oli : 22:24
27 September 2017
Mean streets
Since then, similar red lines have been drawn for me in too many cities, from Buenos Aires to Detroit and from New York to Rio. Never, though, in Montréal.
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.
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
The kind of random violence that mars many other big cities is rare in Montréal. CTV has put together a homicide map, 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".
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.
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 Land of the Free, but it would arguably have a better claim to it.
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: Collapsing tunnels, crumbling bridges and man-eating potholes!
Labels: Montreal
# posted by Oli : 21:51
17 May 2017
375
1250 years, or even 700 years, that seems like an unfathomable amount of time. Or as Eddie Izzard put it: No one was alive then! But it is far from unusual in Europe, where history comes from.
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.
In North America, old 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 going all out 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.
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.
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.
A website 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.
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.
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 world capital of orange construction cones, 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.
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!
So for its birthday, let's cut the city some
# posted by Oli : 22:00
21 April 2017
Mister Proper
We had debated the issue for a long time. With a larger demeure 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.
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 sympathizes), much less interacting with such a person.
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 sous la table operators that seem most common in the city.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
# posted by Oli : 22:00
20 March 2017
Olympian
So far, so familiar. In fact, many more recent host cities for the games have let their stadiums, tracks, velodromes and ski jumps crumble in far less time - not the testament to sustainability the IOC likes to trumpet.
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, with $300M more to follow 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.)
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.
This comes at the expense of the YMCA, 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
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 non-compete clause, seeing the Olympic rings hanging over the pool makes elevates my workout: I am now the Olimpian!
# posted by Oli : 22:07
15 December 2016
Winter layers
This cutoff date is obviously way too late, as was vividly illustrated by an absurd car pile-up right outside my office last week, which garnered over 20M views globally and made Montréal a laughing stock for winter preparedness.
But I understand. These are all symptoms of the same condition. Every year, at the beginning of yet another long, dark and cold winter, Montréalers practice themselves in denial. With a combination of wishful thinking and stubborn steeliness, the signs of the season are ignored. When falling temperatures finally put paid to dresses and shorts, we surrender in stages.
The first one is easy: That fall jacket may have spent all summer hanging in the wardrobe, and the airy silk scarf is a fashion statement more than anything. A Stetson hat serves but to protect against fall showers.
Soon, the silk makes way for a cotton scarf, and some leather gloves protect against morning chills. But we'll just slip on a vest under the jacket, and walk a bit more briskly.
It is the first layer of frost that makes the sidewalks slippery, and forces us to upgrade from brogues to the better grip of a trekking shoe. At the same time, with a sigh, the wool coat makes its appearance, and the ears are tucked behind a headband.
In mild years, such as 2015, this stage can last until Christmas. But normally, it doesn't. Every time, though, it takes a few really cold days where Montréalers suffer cold hands, numb toes and - swoosh - sore bums, before the inevitable is acknowledged: Amidst vocal lament, the ski jackets are brought down from the attic, the snow boots are placed on the door-mat by the shovel, and the wool scarf and tuque are reluctantly donned. Fully winterized, we traipse through the glacial city, surrendering to the fact that Jack Frost has once again begun his seasonal reign.
Today is December 15. It is the Day of Reckoning.
Labels: culture, Montreal, weather
# posted by Oli : 21:59
01 November 2016
Retro Metro
The other big birthday gift the city (or more specifically, its spendthrift mayor Jean Drapeau) gave itself was a subway. These days, the métro is celebrating its first half century of service.
It does so with fanfare - literally: As part of the 50th anniversary celebrations, Montréal's Symphony Orchestra premiered a purpose-written piece inspired by the sounds of the trains. Unfortunately, I missed the performances, but I imagine it must sound somewhat similar to Arthur Honegger's Pacific 231.
Yes, that oeuvre represented an accelerating steam engine. But Montréal's métro isn't much more modern: The most benevolent way to describe its rolling stock would be "vintage". The trains have not changed in 50 years, and still ooze of the sixties, with their neon lights and dot-matrix displays. Only in the past months, after years of delay courtesy of the standard inept cronyism, have new trains started arriving.
They will bring a breath of fresh air - albeit not too fresh, for they are still not air-conditioned. Why not? Because Montréal's subway, following the well-honed French tradition of function follows form that also gave the city an Olympic Stadium with a retractable roof that can't support snow, was built with inadequate ventilation. This means it is uncomfortably hot at any time of the year, and there is no way to evacuate the surplus heat that air-conditioned trains would blow off.
While the city prides itself on the public art installed at each station, and their individualized designs (many look like Ken Adam's movie sets), it tends to keep mum on the fact that even the stations with escalators all include at least one unavoidable flight of stairs, frustrating people in wheelchairs or prams and requiring the very costly, and slow, refitting with elevators.
Novelty in the last 50 years has been limited. In 2009, 12 years after Hong Kong, the transit operator started using RFID cards for tickets, but it has continued its restrictive ticketing practices dating back to scratch-card days ever since. More recently, screens indicating time to the next departure appeared, although they still fail to provide accurate information when it is needed most, namely when something is going awry. And while the city has been growing steadily since 1966, the metro has not kept pace: Several planned extensions have been abridged or cancelled, and to this day they remain subject to the political mood of the day.
Shortcomings notwithstanding, the métro remains a safe, largely reliable and efficient way of inner-city transport. 50 years after its inauguration, it doesn't just save time travelling. It also lets you travel back in time.
# posted by Oli : 21:26
11 July 2016
Halfway House
The move went reasonably well, but not without hiccups and not without lots of sweat, for we picked the hottest weekend so far this summer to lift boxes. Still, it could have been worse: By avoiding the province-wide moving day of July 1st, we saved the extortionate surcharges moving companies add on "D-Day".
As it happened, the three Russians hired to manhandle my furniture did an excellent and speedy job. Sadly, the same could not be said for the Latino cleaners we had also booked for the day to remove the previous tenants' grime and the inevitable dirt from movers, electricians, cabinet builders and other assorted craftsmen that had worked in our new home in the preceeding days.
On that sunny Saturday in late June, the cleaners simply no-showed on us (some would say that disappearances without a trace are a Latin American speciality), leaving us very exhausted at the end of a long day, in a dirty house, and unwilling to start stow away our belongings in filthy cabinets.
Instead, we spent the next day moving more surplus stuff into boxes, and transporting these to charitable institutions and garage sales. At the same time, we scrambled to find alternative cleaners. Word-of-mouth eventually led to an energetic woman, who showed up on Monday morning to assess the work, and promised that her team would move in later that day.
Imagine my reaction, then, when I got a text message around 17.30 saying that the cleaners were stuck in traffic and were not going to make it. As the next best available date, they suggested July 11 - today. It would have been unthinkable to live in such a mess for that long, and so we eventually resorted to a shady cleaning business from the online classifieds. They did a mediocre job on Wednesday, and insisted in cash payment - but they got it done.
And with that, we were able to finally start "moving in" for real: Deciding what things go where, finding storage spaces, filling wardrobe and fridge, and cooking meals without disgust.
The job is not done yet. In the two weeks since, we have relentlessly ticked of one after the other of the many smaller items still on the to-do list. Yesterday, the last Scandinavian flat-packs were transformed into furniture. Most of the boxes have been consigned to recycling. Lamps have been hanged, with curtains not far behind. The fight for bathroom shelf-space has ended in a draw.
To the author of these lines, with a perfectionist streak and two left hands, it was not a fun time. Nerves have been frayed, backs hurt, and far too much of a short summer spent with a frown on the face.
But as we slowly settle in, so does a new routine. The sweat and treasure (no blood, fortunately) were an investment, then, and it already starts paying dividends: A few days ago, we enjoyed our first dinner in the finished dining room - an important waypoint on the journey from a new house to a new home.
It is a new chapter. It will require adjustment, nimbleness, and compromise. We are keen, and by now we are well rehearsed... in thinking outside the box.
# posted by Oli : 22:50
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