Vive le Quebec!

I love a parade. Ever since my childhood in the days when the local floats and firetrucks would throw candy to the children (before we worried that the candy might be tainted), I have loved watching bands, cheerleaders, and random assemblies of uniformed individuals march past. So you may naturally be surprised that in my four years in Quebec, I have never gone to the parade for St. Jean Baptiste... until today.

But first, a little history... The festival for St. Jean Baptiste is also known as the Fete Nationale du Quebec. Even those of you not fluent in French may be wondering... the National Holiday of Quebec? I thought Quebec was only a province, not a nation? Well, according to our fair Prime Minister Stephen Harper among others, Quebec is a great nation within a united Canada. As far as I'm concerned, if this language makes the separatists feel better, so be it.

Even though I'm not a big flag waver, I am a big fan of this province where I live, so I dressed MGP for the occassion.


Papa looks on as Mitch kicks around wearing his "Fait au Quebec" (made in Quebec) bib.

Then off we went to watch the festivities. We saw large effigies of some of Quebec's best known leaders.

That's a 30-foot effigy of Rene Levesque on the right - and probably the only time he's been seen without a cigarette.

But then Mitch got a bit overheated, so we needed to head into the shade and take in some cool breezes:

"Mama, I'm hot. And I don't just mean good looking..."

And finally, after gazing at such a handsome baby all afternoon, I saw Quebec nationalism looking for a place on the "don't wear this" section of the style page:

Quebec pride meets Cat in the Hat.

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.