Only in Québec

For all its old-world charm, Montréal often feels a lot like North America. Wide, straight boulevards. Rectilinear street grid. Ridiculous steel and glass skyscrapers clustered in a downtown core. But sometimes the fact that you're living in Québec is suddenly thrust upon you in the form of some inimitable sign. No, not that kind of sign. This kind.

"Don't you touch 'Bill 101.'"

You're wondering, perhaps, what Bill 101 is. And perhaps also you want a little background, which would help explain why all of these people seem so motivated to protect it. That's what those links are for. And if you're still confused, try imagining the USA--just as a thought experiment--attempting to manage an analogous situation (this last article is extremely helpful for Americans).

As a general rule, H and I don't worry too much about the French language thing. We assume that both French and English are necessary, and the more completely we master both, the better life will be for us here. But living in two languages isn't always easy. When people ask us about language difficulties vis-a-vis McGill, for example, we have to explain that the whole situation is rather a long way from cut and dry. You see, McGill is an English-speaking university in a bilingual city in a French-speaking province in an English-speaking country.

Let me assure you that there is no English Now movement in Montreal.

There are those who, evidently, believe that the whole situation should simply be rationalized. If everyone would just learn English, for example, things would sure be easier for your average American tourist. Then again, if all those Anglophones would just speak French the way God intended, this whole mess would just blow over.

Ever get the feeling that some of your neighbors have a HUGE chip on their shoulders?

There's more behind the history of Bill 101 than meets the eye. It's never been simply a language thing. There are interrelated histories of cultural dominance and exploitation, economic power, wealth, and political power. Still, H and I believe that bilingualism represents the sanest and surest way forward. As any young montréalais will tell you, and as we're verified through our own experience, two languages are most certainly better than one.

Le mort par chocolat

Many of our readers are probably familiar with Lasse Hallström's 2000 film, Chocolat, in which Juliette Binoche uses chocolate and sass to open hearts in a small French town. Not a bad chick flick.

We in Montréal, however, have no need of Ms. Binoche, because we have our own Juliette, who makes the most amazing chocolate [en français] you will ever drink. Ever. The dark hot chocolate fait à l'ancien ("made in the old way") ought to be renamed "sin in a cup" for how deliciously naughty you feel as you let the amazing stuff carry you to cocoa-magic Shangi-La. If the servers teased you by wafting a cup of Juliette's liquid ambrosia under your nose, then told you flat out that even a sip was death to any mortal, you'd order a double and chug it, just to make sure you get to taste the last drop before the gods exacted their revenge.

J plays it cool while facing triple chocolate overload, while H risks brain freeze on top of the injured vanity of the chocolate gods.

Next time you make it up to Montréal, you have only to ask and we can deliver at least the perceived risk of death by chocolate.

A-maize-ing

This past Saturday, our good friends JPB and AP called us up--a bit out of the blue--and asked us if we might be interested in accompanying them on a Sunday daytrip to visit a labyrinthe de maize just outside of Montréal. Let's see here, that would mean a corn maze? Yes, a corn maze. (Maize--also sometimes written maïs--is one of the French words for corn, not for maze; all further puns are fully intentional.) A maize maze, if you will. Hah!

Regular readers know that H and I are almost always game for these sorts of adventures, and JPB and AP are fantastic company, so of course we said we'd go.

In case you didn't know what you were getting into.

Mid-August is fairly late in the growing season for corn in Québec, so the corn was astonishingly tall. We took a few random turns and immediately found ourselves... not exactly lost. But not exactly found either.

"Hold on. Did we turn left or right at the last intersection? Hey, those two look like they know where they're going. Follow them!"

Well, at least we a map. (And yes, they really do plant the corn in this pattern. No mowing. Pretty cool, eh?) Looking at it, perhaps you're wondering what all those little clearings are. We wondered the same thing. Turns out the maze was full of surprises--"a maze to amaze!" Hah! Of course, some of the surprises were hardly surprising.

If you happen upon a beautiful woman eating corn in the heart a corn maze, you're not exactly astounded, are you? Especially if you brought the beautiful woman with you.

But then, other discoveries were less predictable.

It's not every day you chance upon a toadstool princess wielding a quarterstaff.

Turns out that the corn maze is organized as a quest. There are little "stations" set up all over the labyrinth, and at each little station you watch a minimalist performance which contains a bit of crucial information. At the end, you meet the Black Knight, who tests your knowledge with Sphinx-like riddles. (On the order of, "What color were the caps on the witch's toadstools?" Sphinx-like. Oh, yeah.) Wait a second. A Black Knight?

If Elvira and Paddington Bear met for a single, searing night of unprotected passion...

Yes, a Black Knight. And if you "defeat" him by answering his riddles, he gives you directions to the exit. Just imagine how these young Quebeckers are going to treat US tourists when they grow up. "The nearest border crossing, eh? Can you first tell me the number of fleurs de lys there are on the Québec flag?"

On your way out from the Black Knight, though, you are treated to a small wonder.

Each "leaf" is a wish, if I understood correctly.

There is nothing so humble that it cannot inspire wonder, if only our hearts are ready to receive it. Even a wishing tree in a corn maze. Yes, even that.

Birds is the Word

With H up in Trois-Pistoles for five whole weeks, I decided to I needed to find ways to keep busy. Oh sure, for the first few days--weeks, even--it was all about unpacking. But then what? So when my mom invited me to come to St. Louis for a week-long visit, I leaped at the chance.

Needless to say, I didn't get up to anything good. Or at least, not too good. For example, I postponed my return to Montréal for one day so that I could take advantage of an extremely cool invitation. My cousins (and good friends) SR and AS had finagled access to one of the snazzy new luxury suites at the recently rebuilt Busch Stadium for a St. Louis Cardinals game. And they invited me! Me! Can you believe it? (Can you imagine what a dork I must have been in middle school?)

Well, that evening was the only evening I thought to take out my camera, so that's whats I gots fer yuns. Before the game, I got to hang out with one of my favorite little people, RVS. (Apologies for the time-date stamps...)

The droolmaster demonstrates an advanced technique.

Then I got to hang out with some of my favorite big people.

I ask you: What could be better than this?

The mini-fridges come stocked with (gasp!) Anheuser-Busch products. They serve a little buffet of sports food (nachos, wings, burgers, etc.). All in all, the accommodations were strikingly generous. My cousins, it seems, have read Machiavelli:

Rulers either spend their own wealth and that of their subjects, or that of other peoples. Those who spend their own and their subjects’ wealth should be abstemious; those who spend the wealth of others should seize every opportunity to be generous. (Ch. 16)

Mmm... other people's money.

Those who know me well know that baseball used to be my life. When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I was equally likely to answer "Ozzie Smith" or "Willie McGee." When people told me I could be whatever I wanted, I believed them: I was determined to grow up to be a base-stealing, switch-hitting, golden-gloved black man. It didn't work out that way, but it was a good dream while it lasted.

I've since soured on the sport--actually, on all professional sports and most college ones as well--because of the money. Money spoils everything, even when there are no profits, and baseball is no exception. But going to the park on a muggy summer's evening, watching grown men at least pretend to play with sticks and balls in the dirt... not all of the magic is gone. No, indeed. Not all.

The Redbirds at play.