Authors Note: As I considered writing a few, very short stories on our Montreal experience, I wished to come up with an overall name for these little glimpses into our Quebec life. My first thought was to name it “To Love and Not Belong.” Now…I know what you’re thinking because not long after coming up with the name, I realized it might sound like a ridiculously cheap romance novel and began to laugh at myself. Yet, in essence, it sums up our Quebec experience. We loved living in Quebec, but as ex-pats never quite fit in. Oftentimes, we felt as if it was our home, and it was…for almost seven years, but to completely belong, I think, is for those who are born in Quebec: Les Quebecois.
Dear Quebecois, We enjoyed visiting your country for almost seven years and thank you for your friendly tolerance and your maple syrup, your almond croissants, your chocolate-covered blueberries, your bright red maple leaves, your wonderful architecture, your awesome museums, your flowers in abundance and your propensity to speak several languages at once. Additionally, we promise to never pronounce a superfluous “w” with your mighty, mighty “Q”. Truly, we think you’re brilliant! Love, The As
P.S. Craig wants to thank you for the snow, but I can’t bring myself to second it.
Part Un: The McDonald’s Effect
At heart, Craig and I are rolling stones. As we’ve travelled together over the past twenty plus years, we’ve passed through hundreds of little out of the way places and scores of large cities and wondered what it might be like to live in this spot or that. Therefore, when we originally heard of KPMG’s out-of-country placement program, we began to dream… and when the opportunity arose to take advantage of it, there wasn’t much thought required on our parts. After all, our daughter was only a bit over a year old; therefore, schooling wasn’t an issue. Moreover, the transfers were, generally, for two year stints. If we were going to be adventurous, this would be the time.
So we sold our house, packed our belongings, said goodbye to our families (who were understandably sad by our decision despite the estimated two years) and, toward the end of October ’98, headed to New Jersey where we planned on spending a short time with Craig’s grandparents before driving up to our new home.
Our cheerful 'Sweet Pumpkin' waddled from New Jersey house to house in her bright orange costume that Halloween; the next day, November 1st, we headed for Montreal.
We navigated around the New York City orbit and travelled north through the state proper. I had never been to this part of New York State and was wide-eyed and curious about the terrain and the houses or whatever else might pass by our car.
We passed through the rolling, green Catskills and, there, I spied my last real pumpkin for almost a year at a roadside stand. It was a bright, orange spot quickly fading behind us as we zoomed ahead. I had a strange compulsion to head back and nab it. It needed a home and so did we, yet I ignored my idea. Our greater necessity was to continue forward, and, with a small child in tow, the stops were too frequent and time-consuming to add another.
Then we hit the Adirondacks.
The mountains seemed breathtaking and intimidating all at once. Our way led us through an area where the cliffs hugged us in their gray-green, tight, rocky embrace.
Yes, if the Catskills are beautiful, the Adirondacks are awesome and “in your face,” but forlorn. Honestly, in all our many years of driving through the mountain range to and from New Jersey, I rarely remember a sunny day. If one word personifies those mountains for me, it’s gray. If we were to add a second word, it would be lonely. There are stretches on that road which seem to go on forever. The road winds on and on without an exit, a convenience store or a gas station.
And our backseat Sweet Pumpkin didn’t like it.
At some point while driving through the Adirondacks, she started crying and crying and crying. We, several times, stopped by the roadside to check her bottom and give her a snack. We bounced her around and walked her about, but nothing seemed to calm her. Yes, nothing calmed her…but my singing.
So I sang and sang, but I could only sing for so long, and then the crying would start again.
Our Sweet Pumpkin was bored, and she was letting us know in the only way she had, but it was wearing us down...and the drive from Toms River, New Jersey to Montreal, Quebec was much further than anticipated.
“Why is she crying?” I asked Craig, who seemed much better able to handle the noise than me.
“Should we stop?” I continued.
Craig voted for pressing on. We’d stopped several times to try and calm her; nothing seemed to work, so I started up “My Favorite Things” for the four hundredth time, and we continued on our way.
We did, of course, eventually reach the border. We went in to Customs and Immigration to have our paperwork stamped and various other things done; then breathed a sigh of relief as we passed into Canada.
Now the terrain was flat. Farmland stretched out on either side, and French language signs immediately began cropping up. We were not only in Canada, but Quebec; it wouldn’t be long.
We were almost to Montreal.
Another forty-five minutes or so later we reached the outskirts of the city as the sun was beginning to set.
We crossed over the Pont Champlain, the sparkly lights of Montreal reflecting in the river’s depths, and landed on the island. We continued north on the Decarie, but soon headed “est” on the 720 toward Atwater. Our temporary apartment was located just outside of downtown in Westmount.
We found our exit and began navigating what seemed a proliferation of one-way streets, noticing the diversity of buildings as we drove. Some were much older than we found in Fort Worth and some, similarly, newer. Bright graffiti spiked out at us from the dark, and an inordinate amount of people seemed to be out and walking. But we managed to make our ponderous way through the walkers and the previously unknown streets to the Alexis Nihon, the place where we would be staying.
We tentatively approached our destination intersection and began to circle the huge complex as we fruitlessly searched for the entrance to the apartment building. As we circled, we spied a McDonald’s perched directly across the street which, considering the time of day, was a huge comfort despite the vagrants who seemed to be lounging around the entrance.
Anyway, we were starving.
Now I don’t know about you, but, normally, McDonald’s is not my first choice when it comes to acquiring dinner. But I find when I’m in a foreign country, for some unexplainable reason, seeing a McDonald’s sign gives me comfort. I call it “The McDonald’s Effect” and, let’s face it, McDonald’s serves the same basic food in Paris as in London as in Guatemala City. I’m not sure one can say the same for other chains (I bought food at a Taco Bell in Toronto one time and they served french fries with their combo meals). Yet, for better or worse, McDonald’s menu seems to vary little.
When one travels and isn’t sure where to eat, the comfort of familiarity just might be the thing which keeps you from slipping over the edge. Especially when you’re a hypoglycemic like me.
Anyway, I guess I should continue with my story.
So we circled the building and spied McDonald’s multiple times. Nevertheless, several circuits around the block, and we couldn’t determine where to pull up. We finally decided to enter the parking garage hoping to find the entrance from there.
Well, the parking garage was a nightmare. We had a soft luggage carrier on the top of the Jeep and the building’s ceiling was so low it kept scraping against it. We needed to quickly park or there was a large probability many of our belongings would end up scattered on the garage floor. They didn’t, but, after our long day, it didn’t add to the fun to feel like the Beverly Hillbillies as we tried to find a parking spot.
Eventually, we did park, and Craig finally found an entrance into the apartment portion of the building. Unfortunately, it required a key card. He skulked around for a few minutes and slinked his way in as another person exited.
It’s true what they say: Necessity is the mother of invention.
The Sweet Pumpkin and I waited in the car and weren’t too happy about it. Although he soon came back with the key and directions on how best to unload.
Then we made our way to our transitional home.
At this point, I need to give you a little background. When Craig and I were in Montreal to interview, the partner’s wife (they had moved up from the states only a year before) raved about the wonderful apartments in the Alexis Nihon, and this raised my expectations to an unreasonable point.
When we entered our little one-bedroom to see the luxurious accommodations I had built up in my mind, I was severely distressed and maybe a little depressed to see a very basic set-up with dated Scandinavian looking furniture and everything in shades of gray.
I’ll never forget. I sat down on some steps which led down to our sunken living area and wanted to cry, cry, and cry…just as our daughter had done earlier in the day. In truth, I probably did shed a few tears, but, I believe, quickly pulled myself together.
Thank goodness for my husband. Someone did need to stay with our toddler, but he knew the day had been trying and tiring for me; he took it upon himself to get our belongings upstairs and then headed to McDonald’s.
He knew I needed food to recharge to see things in a calmer and more realistic light.
He was right because the next day, I looked around me. I noticed how clean, tidy and spacious our temporary nest seemed to be. Additionally, it had direct access to a mall with a grocery store (and they delivered for free!), a gym with an indoor pool (which we didn’t access nearly enough) and, even better, below the mall was a Metro stop. Considering we were about to brave our first Canadian winter, we could not have been more well set-up to transition to the incredibly cold weather.
Another consolation, we had done one thing right. We purchased much of our cold weather outerwear from L.L. Bean and Lands’ End before even crossing the border. This was smart because, within the first few days, we were experiencing cold similar to our coldest Texas days. I felt like such a fish out of water. I was the only person walking around with their hood pulled tightly around their ears, but I was warm at least.
I can’t say the same for our Sweet Pumpkin. She hated her snowsuit. I ended up running her around in a fleece pant and jacket set from L.L. Bean most of the winter because she couldn’t stand the restriction of being in the garment. I guess our Pumpkin needed to wiggle.
In fact, I would go as far as to say our Pumpkin needed to wiggle a lot. She wanted to wander and not be hemmed in; however, when you’re living in a busy, traffic-filled city, whether or not to hold Mommy’s hand isn’t an option. I soon went to Canadian Tire or maybe it was Zeller’s to buy her a toddler leash. Normally, I wouldn’t dream of putting one on my daughter, but we frequently took the Metro or navigated the busy streets that winter. I couldn’t risk her getting away from one of us and falling onto the tracks or into traffic.
Not long after we arrived the “Pumpkin Famine” happened. I love pumpkins and had long anticipated buying a few to dress up our temporary abode for the fall season. I knew Canadian Thanksgiving was already behind us, but thought I would still be able to find a few around the city. I was wrong. I looked everywhere, or so it seemed...but couldn’t find a round, orange ornament to save my life.
I finally found a few pathetic burlap pumpkins on sale at Pier One and snatched them up. They needed a home, and I needed them. As little as it was, it cheered me to see the little pumpkins perched on our wide window sill in all their fake glory.
I would often climb up on the sill toward the end of the day. We had a huge window which spanned our living area, and the ledge covered the heating ducts with plenty of room to spare. Anyway, I would sit there at dusk (my favorite time of day) and look out over the city as the lights of downtown began to glow with the falling dark. I remember a huge spotlight would sweep across the sky of le centre-ville. I’m not sure where it originated, but it seemed reassuring in its dependability.
Craig would soon come home, and the three of us would sit down to dinner. Later, after putting our Sweet Pumpkin to bed, he and I would watch old Star Trek reruns on their sci-fi cable channel. Isn't it funny how comforting the watching of old Star Trek reruns can be? It’s almost up there with the sudden convenience of a nearby McDonald’s after a long day.
We soon settled into our routine which contained all the usual things as well as taking our toddler to a nearby community center for play group. We then began visiting churches, looking for a permanent home and exploring our new city.
Another low point came at Thanksgiving. We wanted to celebrate it but decided to drive down to Burlington to have our meal at a hotel. We thought it would be fun to explore into Vermont and relaxing not to have to cook a large meal in a small kitchen with no dishwasher.
As the day dawned, problems cropped up with the weather. It rained almost continually, and, combined with the cold, we would’ve found our exploration extremely unpleasant. Therefore, we drove to the hotel, sat down to a mediocre meal and headed back.
We probably never missed our far away family more than at that point.
You see, it was fairly easy for us to leave. We were together, and we had so much in which to look forward. Assuredly, in our experience, it’s almost always easier to be the one leaving. Conversely, it’s almost always harder to be the one left behind. But...that particular dreary Thanksgiving, we fully knew the price we were paying for our adventure. We didn’t regret it. We still don’t regret it; nonetheless, there was a price to pay, and the price was loneliness. The price was a deep down knowledge we were not where we belonged. We were trying to put out healthy roots, and we were beginning to slowly be successful, but the roots were shallow still.
It didn’t matter how long we stayed, we were only passing through.
