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
17 March 2018
Pay As You Go
As I have discovered many years ago, 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.
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.
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.
A recent study 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.
Another survey, 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.
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".
Speaking of paychecks, the law 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.
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.
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.
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 highest wireless fees in the developed world, "prepaid" plans simply mean that customers must upload money first, and are then still charged monthly fees of $10 or more, irrespective of usage.
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.
Labels: Canada, culture, Quebec
# posted by Oli : 16:27
23 October 2017
Contes des îles
The islands in question are the Iles de la Madeleine, a cluster of 7 sandy shoals located half-way between Prince Edward Island and Cape Breton, inhabited by 13'000 Acadians and a handful of anglophone descendants of shipwrecked sailors.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 Contes en Iles 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 grande terre, as they call the mainland.
Which, as it happens, is just as expensive to get to for the madelinots 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.
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.
It is not hard to see how word spreads about these mystical islands with their charming inhabitants. The highlight of our tale about the Hawaii of Québec however isn't its delicious food, or its unique madelinot 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.
Labels: culture, Quebec, travel
# posted by Oli : 00:30
24 November 2016
Uberholspur
Today, I met Ivan. Or Evo. Or possibly Evan; it's hard to say from the scribble on the paper receipt he handed me at the end of a 20 minute, stop-and-go, round-about slog through Montréal's downtown in his beat-up taxi, whose passenger seat was covered in suspicious stains. While this guy didn't speak a word to his customer, he yapped on his phone non-stop.
Gustavo, Guy and Juan are part-time Uber X drivers. None of them considers driving a taxi to be their life's vocation, but they all told me how they appreciate the ease and flexibility of making a few extra bucks when they want to. They know that at the end of each trip, I will rate them on a 5-point scale, and they clearly make an effort to provide 5 star service. Similarly, they will rate me, giving me an incentive to be just as personable.
Uber has revolutionized the transportation business, and in the process has become the best-funded Sillicon Valley start-up company ever. It smartly connects supply and demand, prices competitively but dynamically, and uses technology and peer reviews to ensure excellent standards of service. It is also very convenient for business travellers: Passengers link their credit card to the app, with trips being billed automatically. Gone is the frantic search for (often foreign) cash, and instead of illegible paper scraps, the company sends perfectly formatted email receipts that can go directly into expense reporting.
One can now hail an Uber in nearly 540 cities around the world, and I have done so in many countries, often grateful for the way in which the app helps overcoming language barriers.
Of course, I also use Uber in Montréal, but not as often as I like to. It is not by choice that I end up in the taxis of Ivan and his ilk, but because of their effots to block the newcomer at every turn. In a typically French attempt to block progress and innovation, and defend entrenched monopolies, taxi drivers have been staging demonstrations, blockades, and even acts of vandalism against UberX vehicles throughout the summer. In none of their arguments did "customer preference" ever matter.
In an effort to find a compromise, Québec's provincial government has now agreed on a 12 month pilot project, under which UberX becomes more regulated (and more expensive), but is officially sanctioned to operate, although prime spots such as airport pick-ups remain off limits.
The increased paperwork requirements under the deal has led to a - hopefully temporary - drop in UberX drivers active in the city, which is how I ended up in yet another shabby taxi today. But in the longer term, the superior product will likely prevail.
Gustavo, Guy and Juan struggled to believe when I told them of the intimidation and vandalism their peers in Montréal have to deal with. Here's to hoping that even in Québec, Uber's innovative disruptors will soon see the obsolete taxi fleet fade in the rear-view mirror.
Labels: Quebec, technology, travel, USA
# posted by Oli : 22:36
26 September 2016
Paint it White
In Québec, this is not as obvious a decision as I had hoped, for the province combines both exuberant Latin style and North American taste for gaudiness. This leads to many walls, both on the inside and the outside of homes, being painted in ghastly shades of color. Whereas my no-nonsense Germanic taste is for the clean and pure, that is not the norm in the belle province: She's a Rainbow.
If not the entire province, then at the very least I had to convince the better half of a timeless color which does Not Fade Away. White makes rooms seem larger, brighter, more modern and more calm. Why would you want your walls to be in any other color? I don't want my home to be a disco, but to Gimme Shelter.
Love is Strong, and it is not as if I wasn't willing to compromise. Any of a 147 shades of white would be fine, whether it is "Roman Column", "First Star" or even the mysteriously named "Swiss Coffee". But she still had Mixed Emotions.
So before long, we were off to a place where I came close to my 19th Nervous Breakdown: The DIY wonderland that is Home Depot, where tools and appliances pile high into the sky and the home improvement-averse are overwhelmed endless aisles of intimidating gear. My head started spinning, and while she headed straight to the section with the paint samples, I strayed into the lands of piping, floor tiles and kitchen sinks. Soon I was lost. Anybody Seen My Baby?
Luckily, we found both the exit and compromise, because You Can't Always Get What You Want. One wall of our office would be blue (but not turning to grey). The painters moved in, did as they were told, and after a day or two of Ventilator Blues, the paint has dried and our house is now resplendent with brightness.
It's All Over Now, and it is mostly white. At last, I got my Satisfaction.
# posted by Oli : 20:00
15 February 2016
Vortex
Since Friday, temperatures have been dropping to around -25C, and with gusty winds the perceived temperature fell to -40C on Saturday. When people talk of a personal low, that's not usually what they mean. I, though, have lived through this new low.
While cold days in Québec winter are not news to the readers of this blog, a fresh experience can now be added to the warming yarn of vortex survivors: While walking against the wind on Saturday, the water from my eyes froze around my eyelashes, making it almost impossible to keep them open. It was, per se, a rather fascinating phenomenon to experience, although heresay would have been good enough. At least I now understand why some people wear ski goggles when walking their dogs in the vortex. The dogs, in turn, are dressed in no less silly looking coats and boots.
Proper gear, then, is the key to survival in these conditions, when even major cities see temperatures usually reserved for the Arctic. Those Canada Goose jackets, so frequently found in the tropical heat of St. Moritz and Vail, find their true calling here.
Nonetheless, even hardy Canadians can only take so much punishment. On Monday, talk around the office
So why was I still out there, frozen eyelashes and all? The polar vortex had perturbed my weekend plans as well. Snowshoeing in the countryside was put off in favor of another indulgent winter activity, whose main component needed to be picked up at Atwater market's fromagerie. This weeked, instead of raquette, I enjoyed raclette!
# posted by Oli : 22:50
22 November 2015
Montréal's Mallorca
As I found out this week, Montréal also has its Mallorca. It is not in Spain, of course. But it, too, enjoys warm climes, sandy beaches, cheap flights from the motherland and all the conveniences of home. A conference brought me to Southern Florida's Fort Lauderdale, and thus into the heart of Floribec.
That Canadians enjoy escaping their long cold winters for a few days of sun is not news. But until this week, I had not quite appreciated just how much the Québecois are concentrated on a small stretch of ocean-lining suburbia north of Miami.
It didn't take long after arriving to spot the first fleur de lys flags outside motels, restaurants and convenience stores. And a quick stop at a Walmart brought the first sighting: "Lucien!" called a female voice from the cereals aisle, "t'en veux-tu des Fruit Loops?" A grey-haired man in white socks and an oversized Hawaii shirt shuffled over. "Ouais", he responded, "sont-ils en sale icitte?" When leaving the store, I noticed the minivan with the Québec license plates in the parking lot.
That night, as I sat down at a mid-priced chain steakhouse, I immediately noticed the two elderly men in the booth behind me twaddling in the thickest of Québecois accents. Somewhat maliciously, I continued to eavesdrop as the waitress approached them, curious to hear how they would struggle in Hanglish to order their food. Imagine my surprise, then, when I heard them nonchalantly asking for their steak in French - and the waitress responding in the very same tongue!
Yes, Floribec has its own ecosystem, which extends beyond restaurants and accommodation to include a monthly magazine and even three branches of the Caisse Désjardins, which I suspect to specialize in cashing Canadian pension cheques and arranging condo mortgages. While there are no clear numbers, the size of the resident French-Canadian population must be large enough to support this community year-round. It is not for nothing that Florida's two hockey teams, Tampa and Miami, play in the same NHL Division as the three Eastern Canadian teams of Montréal, Ottawa and Toronto: A few years ago, a study found that the Florida teams make more than 50% of their revenues from ticket sales from Canadians, keen to see their home teams play while they are on holiday down south.
During the school breaks, droves of families with their kids head for Florida's beaches, but the off-season mainly has retirees choosing the sunshine state's tropical weather over the cold of the motherland. Some keep a second car down south to navigate the uninspired suburbia of Floribec, while others drive all the way from Canada in their van or roulotte.
Much like in Mallorca, which I have also only visited on business trips, the charms of Floribec have eluded me. There was, however, one positive effect of my stay in Montréal's Mallorca that I cannot deny: Looking at my fellow passengers as I settled in on my return flight from Fort Lauderdale, I basked in a rare sensation of youth and sophistication. What the Québecois have known for a long time is true, then: La Floride, là, ça te fait du bien!
Labels: Quebec, travel, USA, work
# posted by Oli : 18:47
29 March 2015
Liquid Gold
The precious liquid comes in different grades, ranging from light and delicate to dark and sticky, as determined by strict guidelines. Applications vary, but all of the grades store an abundance of energy and can refine everyday staples that deliver precious power to humans.
It is no surprise, then, that the crude product and its derivatives are sought after around the world. Traditionally sold barrelled, it is easy shipped anywhere. Nonetheless, Canadians are very keen on a projected pipeline that would give its producers a direct conduit to the massive US market to the south - no surprise given how addicted the Americans are to the stuff. That pipeline project remains in limbo as the administration in Washington chews through its merits.
A blatant delay tactic from a country keen to protect its own inferior producers, fumes Canada. Not at all, retort the Yankees. They claim serious concerns about the environmental effects of Canada's production methods. Some tree huggers talk of nefarious long-term health impacts and wide-spread deforestation.
Nothing could be further from the truth, as my third visit to one of the production plants last week showed. Quite the contrary, the trees were very well cared for and the entire site sat harmoniously in a peaceful late winter landscape. Only a light smell in the air hinted at the sticky business going on in the boiling room.
Not being an experienced commodity trader myself, I had arrived in the assumption that I could fill up my personal reserves on the cheap at the site's very own factory store. But I was mistaken, for the spot price per liter sat far above the market price in Montréal. I had to content myself with the small samples offered directly off the production line.
The corruption and inequality associated with the resource curse notwithstanding, Canada is really fortunate to sit on such a green and renewable source of energy. The source of the liquid gold has become the quintessential symbol of the Great White North. Deeply grateful, in 1965 Canadians even put it on their flag. And I will now put it on my pancakes. Eat this, Greenpeace!
# posted by Oli : 21:58
19 October 2014
Monsieur Croque
I had told my visiting family that the climate in my adopted province did not really lend itself to growing grapes, unlike that of the Niagara Peninsula or even the mild Okanagan Valley out west.
Nonetheless, in that oh-so-European quest for products from the local terroir, they could not pass on the opportunity to order the bottle on this Montréal bistro's wine list, and so here it was. "A solid table wine", opined the person responsible for ordering it, bravely taking another sip. At the end of a good meal, the six convives had managed to put away about half of the bottle (unlike the White Burgundy, which disappeared faster than our apéro nibbles...)
Winemaking is not Québec's forte, then. Something else, however, is. It makes for products that are no less authentic and delectable than wine. For the climate in the province (or at least its south-western parts) is perfect to grow apples. And grow they do!
This time of year, farmers' markets, roadside stalls, grocery stores and even town squares are overflowing with apples and derived products. A Honeycrisp Cortland Gala invites keen crunchers, with Macintoshs readily available for those who think different. And just when you believe you've had it all, the Empire strikes back!
When I took my parents to the market, they were offered an abundance of samples, both of the raw fruit and its various processed states: Pies, sauces, chutneys, jams, juice, chips... you name it, they make it. Grown-ups find a wide selection of still and sparkling ciders, and the late-harvest cidre de glace is one of the most authentic and unique local specialties.
An apple a day keeps the doctor away, as the saying would have it, and given Québec's average wait times in hospitals, even die-hard PC fans like yours truly find themselves actively promoting Apples.
If samples and my word were not enough, the warm endorsement of our local dining companion, who grew up amidst the orchards of the Cantons de l'Est, should have been enough to make the penny (or rather, the apple) drop. And yet, here was this bottle of Québec wine.
When life gives you lemons, make lemonade, goes the proverb. Life gave the Québecois apples. Better not to find out what they make out of grapes.
# posted by Oli : 11:31
29 August 2014
Splendid Isolation
It was right there before my eyes, in Montréal. But for the first five years of my time on the island, I had no reason to spend time on its western tip, in the well-heeled suburbia collectively called the West Island. Even Francophones call it le West Island, and they might as well refer to a foreign country - one that has nothing in common with the rest of the province.
Thanks to her extended family, many parts of which live in any of the towns such as Beaconsfield, Dollard-des-Ormeaux ("DDO" for its residents), Dorval or even Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue (Ste-Anne-de-Banlieue, as my recent Swiss visitor immediately named it), I have at last discovered Planet West Island.
What I found was a self-contained sphere, populated seemingly by 100% Anglophones, who are oblivious and immune to the multicultural metropolis that happens to share "their" island. Having visited on a few occasions this summer, I got the impression that West Islanders only leave their planet to head over the bridge to adjoining Ontario, or to hit the airport (located at the border between the West Island and the city) and fly away to the States.
Other than that, it's born in West Island, school in West Island, date in West Island, marry in West Island, live in West Island, work in West Island, shop in West Island, eat in West Island, party in West Island, retire in West Island (Florida, if you did well) and die in West Island. French is a completely foreign language, in which most residents are functionally illiterate at best. (To calm the language police: Yes, the loi 101 is formally respected in that signs and menus are in French first. Good luck finding somebody to help you in that language, though.)
Endless streets of houses, all-English schools, big box stores and malls, and a plethora of uninspired, pseudo-fancy restaurants (with big parking lots) define this lifestyle. West Islanders seem perfectly content, unaware (and somewhat afraid) of the diversity, excitement and cultural riches of downtown Montréal, a mere 30min drive away.
The disinterest is mutual, as evidenced by this snooty blog post. Very few Montréalais spend much time in the West Island, and when they do, they typically talk about it the same way they speak about dentist appointments - unpleasant, but inevitable. And even fewer people move between the two spheres.
She, fortunately, is an exception. Perhaps because she was originally from the countryside, she managed to ultimately escape the gravity of Planet West Island. Now firmly landed downtown, she has no interest of ever going back to live there. She does, however, get a kick out of returning to the West Island every now and then to see what she has left behind. And I was glad to be taken along: I had not been to a zoo in a long time.
Labels: culture, language, Quebec
# posted by Oli : 04:36
28 January 2014
Chill out
That rule may be scientifically inaccurate, and "not cold" is certainly an impression open to debate. But if you find yourself living in Québec this winter, then "cold" refers to days with the mercury around -24C, and a wind chill factor that removes another ten degrees from that. So when a snowy day raises temperatures to a mild -6C for a while, you too will start to appreciate the shovelling duty as a welcome side-effect of a hot spell.
A week or two of arctic lows are not unusual for Montréal in January, and this journal has reported on them and the associated rituals before. What makes this winter worse was not only the early onset of the deep-freeze conditions in the first half of December, but also their persistence ever since.
I made it out of the Great White North just before a mighty "Polar Vortex" took a hold of much of the American Northeast at Christmas, and when my plane descended into Montréal again after the New Year, I was amazed to see the St. Laurence river and its shipping canal frozen solid - something the strong currents and fleet of icebreakers typically prevent.
Of course, while the Vortex brought much of the U.S. to a stand-still and forced Toronto's Pearson Airport to close, Montréal is much better equipped to handle such events. Hydro-Québec sets its electricity output to max, citizens crank up their cheap baseboard heaters, and everybody stays indoors. The fabulously warm Hudson's Bay Blanket that I found under the Christmas Tree didn't arrive a minute too soon.
Unfortunately, I can't just cuddle up and wait for spring to arrive. The office calls, and if it doesn't snow, the five minute walk to the metro becomes just ridiculously cold. The uninitiated fail to grasp precisely how cold -32C is. As you step outside, it is as if the air had gone. Your lungs are in shock and refuse to breathe for a moment. You set out, and before you've made it to the corner of your street, the cold has infiltrated however many layers you are wearing, and is now creeping down your back. You try not to slip on the layer of fresh slush, which sits atop a glacier-like base of solid ice, formed from past freeze-melt-freeze cycles.
By the time you made it to the first traffic light, you can feel how your metal watch case has cooled down so much under your glove that it now starts chilling your wrist. Your nose goes numb, which at least stops it from running. You protect your face by holding your mittens in front of it, and yet by the time you reach the sanctuary of the subway, you can wipe mini ice flakes from your lips. Your cheeks are so rosy they'd glow in the dark.
I am not exaggerating. And while the odd day like this can be a fun experience (in a dip-into-the-cold-after-sauna kind of way), week after week of it starts wearing me down. Unlike in Switzerland, winter doesn't really take breaks here. When the first snow falls in late November, it stays on the ground until April.
"We had a 55 degree temperature difference", said my colleague who spent a few days in Florida, where her in-laws were horrified to notice that Canadian conditions made the Celsius and Farenheit scales converge. Not in my hottest dreams would I dare asking for a trip to Florida. No, I'd be perfectly happy with a chance to chill out for a few hours in the balmy confines of my grocery store's walk-in beer freezer. It's set to +2C.
Labels: Montreal, Quebec, weather
# posted by Oli : 22:33
14 July 2013
Premium
Yes, prices at the marché are higher than they are in the grandes-surfaces, but not quite as much. No, I have bought one kilo of the finest, coarse, pink Himalayan salt from Pakistan. My salt grinder had gone empty, and given how long its first fill has lasted, I expect this kilo to last until approximately my great-grandson's death.
Which does not change the fact that I'd spent $14.99 on something that would have cost $0.99 at Walmart.
So I finally had to acknowledge something which I'd been suspecting for a while, but like any good, secretive, egalitarian-affluent Swiss, had been trying to ignore: I am a Premium Canadian. I am part of the very target group my employer claims to penetrate more successfully than any other marketing organization. I am part of that reasonably thick, and yet still markedly buoyant cream layer of society that salesmen of all industries are drooling over. And it feels weird.
For I certainly don't consider myself rich, or even wealthy, in any regard. I live in a rented apartment, have so little in furnishings and property that I had to reduce my home insurance quote twice, own no yacht, no car, not even a bike. My wardrobe comes from Old Navy and Giordanos. A Great Gatsby, I am not.
And yet, I had to realize that the average annual income in Québec is $34'300, or $53'300 for those employed full-time and year-round. I do admit coming in above that.
Where, then, does the money go? Travel is the obvious culprit, and one I am very conscious of. But it is the everyday things (yes, including the $14.99 kilo of salt) that make me realize the relative privileges I enjoy. I spend impressive sums of money at the local fromagerie. I do not think twice before buying organic beef, on the rare occasions that I buy meat (no $5.99 dozen of Chicken Wings for me, please). I buy my lunches instead of bringing leftovers from home. And I do not find it odd that all my leaf tea comes from Frankfurt, London and Hong Kong. Applying Swiss standards, it all seemed perfectly normal to me, leaving me somewhat confused when a friend from Ontario, on a recent pre-dinner stop at the SAQ, commented my pick with "You always struck me as more of a $25 per bottle kind of guy." So this is Premium, then.
I am unsure as to where this leaves me, other than on the acquisition lists of every credit card company in the country, and in plain sight of greedy separatist Québec politicians. Today, I am a more conscious, and grateful, Premium consumer. And I take all of this talk with a grain of pink, coarse, Himalayan salt.
P.S. Note to prospective burglars: The image in this post does not depict my mansion.
# posted by Oli : 21:13
10 June 2013
Prevention
Knock on wood. I have no desire for the above to change.
And yet, the situation finally came to a head. Over the last few years, a growing number of friends and relatives started suggesting that I have a little check-up. Just in case. No harm, you know? I think it was when the analogy was drawn with my old car, which served me faithfully and which I had serviced regularly, that I finally accepted that I should go in for inspection.
My last one, it has to be said, was only two years ago. That examination was particular however in that it took place as part of my application to become a permanent resident of Canada. As such, it was performed by a physician retained by the immigration authorities, and although I was very much the subject at hand, the results were not actually shared with me. It is only by implication (I got my desired permit) that I believe not to carry any mortal condition.
Now, time has come to be sure. So I called the only clinic I have ever visited, and asked for an appointment. Without hesitation, I was told that all the clinic's doctors were fully booked, and no more appointments would be available for new patients. Confused, I hinted at the private health insurance provided by my employer. "Well, in that case", the tone suddenly changed. How would I like the coming week? And that would be $650 please.
Unsettled by the amount, I deemed it wise to check with the health insurer whether they would really pay. And they wouldn't. Why? Because I was healthy. No condition, no payment. However, I could always go see my family doctor, where annual physicals would be covered by the régie de l'assurance maladie. Other than that, it's either pay or wait until you get sick.
Family doctors are a rare breed in Québec, so much so that one of my favorite Canadian movies is about attracting one. Politicians like to claim that they can magically make more of them appear, but a recent study found that 46% of immigrants to la belle province have to survive without one. The fabled Canadian public health system is admittedly excellent at treating emergencies regardless of a patient's origin and financial prowess, but when I filled in the borough's form to go on a waiting list, it didn't lift my spirits. Thanks to my luxury problem, I answered all the questions promising a fast track (chronic conditions? recent accidents? drug abuse? smoking? family illnesses? pregnancy?) in the negative. As one friend succinctly put it, the best way to have a family doctor after four years in Québec is to start looking four years ago.
Imagine my surprise, then, when less than a week later, my phone rang and a friendly nurse from a private clinic down the street was on the line. I was baffled to learn that the government had forwarded my application, and I was kindly invited to come by this week for an interview with the nurse. Whoa!
Less than half an hour after I'd arrived at what seemed to be a bright, modern, well-run establishment, my initial examination was over, and the competent nurse started an apology. Due to the upcoming summer vacations, it would take her a bit longer than usual to get me my family doctor. At worst, it could take up to two months. Would that be acceptable?
Despite all the horror stories I'd heard, Québec for once seems to redeem itself. I'll hold my judgement until after I've actually met my family doctor. But as far as the two month wait is concerned, after a decade without one, I feel confident to say... I'll survive!
# posted by Oli : 22:35
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