Good news! I have a new baby cousin as of this evening at 6 pm! His name is Daanial Ali Jessa, and he’s 20 years younger than me. Phew.
Several things happened this week.
Let me just pause to say that the more time I spend alone, the more I enjoy spending time alone. This may mean either or both that I’m naturally reclusive and/or that I like myself more than I used to. I’m going to go with the latter because it makes me feel good. I find myself making up stories in my head, speaking as though I would to a really close friend. It’s really very nice, and I can’t believe I never realized how much enjoyment I got out if it. (Well that just makes me sound like a schitzo, doesn’t it?).
People I don’t know seem to feel the need to divulge life secrets to me. Sure, I’ve only been stopped for directions six or seven times since I got here, but yesterday morning it was pouring rain on my way to work and I was standing the intersection of Sherbrooke and Aylmer with an umbrella above my head, shielding my new leather purse like it was my baby — er, scratch that, like it was a new leather purse. I probably wouldn’t shield a baby, if we’re being honest here. Anyway, the man standing across from me was miserably hanging his head and letting the rain get into his glasses and just not caring a bit, so I asked him if he was okay. That’s all, just “are you okay?”
And I swear to you, he looked up at me for a second and said, “my wife left me this morning.”
So it took me a second to realize he wasn’t going to follow up with “…to get some eggs and milk,” or anything, and he seemed to expect me to say something more than the requisite “I’m so sorry!” (which, of course, I said the minute I realized she’d left him, left him. As opposed to leaving him). In an unsurprising display of my ineptitude for dealing with awkwardness, I said, “Is she coming back?” and was instantly mortified that that had escaped my mouth. I am such an inconsiderate bitch when I’m caught off guard, seriously. But he sort of glazed over and said, “I don’t know. I hope so.” To which I wanted to reply, “GO GET HER, MAN! NOTTING-HILL STYLE!” But didn’t want to add insult to injury. A good choice, in retrospect.
From July 3rd to the 13th, there are sidewalk sales everywhere. I learned that in the mall, “sidewalk sale” just means that the cheap things are put on a table somewhere, and they’re not that cheap, either. I’ve also learned that despite making a decent hourly wage here, I spend it quickly. And not on fun things, sadly. More like milk, eggs, stamps…that sort of thing.
Speaking of stamps, I got my first letter today, from the lovely Adriane! And I was infinitely grateful to her.
Last Monday I went to my first salsa lesson at Club 6/49, where I’m also going this Sunday night to watch the So You Think You Can Dance? – Montreal competition. Salsa consisted of an hour-and-a-half class after a $1.50 donation at the door. Women and men lined up across from each other and learned basic steps, and then partnered up and practiced as the men were forced to rotate ’round the circle like wind-up monkeys. I was hit on by a couple of creepy middle-aged men, one of whom is from Cuba and has apparently been dancing since he had feet (that’s what he said. Not the “since I could walk” that most people would use, but “since I had feet”). Jorge says I have potential. By which he probably means the potential to hook up with him, since he is, as I said, a rather creepy, tall Cuban man whose voice sounds like that of an evil count. Too bad I’m not into that kind of thing. So that was salsa. Why I was the youngest person at a beginners’ salsa lesson is beyond me, but I suppose old people, too, are entitled to dance lessons and fun and that sort of frivolity. I’ll be returning next Monday because, creepy men aside, it was actually great fun to learn.
On Wednesday I went to the Ladytron concert at La Metropolis, and it was AMAZING. I was surprised because I’m not a huge fan of electro-pop and I’ve only heard a couple of their songs, but I loved it. Datarock opened for them, which was less amazing, but still okay. Datarock kind of skirts the border between really hoppin’ rock (and I mean hoppin’ in the literal sense, since all they do is hop up and down in a style we South-Asian folk like to call “bhangra”) and noise pollution. The first single off their new CD is excellent, though. And then of course, Ladytron was a trippy, wonderful experience that had my whole body vibrating and feeling oddly liberated. I’m a big fan.
On Thursday I was way exhausted at work, so I ducked out early and stopped at the library on my way home. I love the library. It’s connected to the Berri UQAM metro station, the only station in Montreal where all of the various lines meet in a hub of chaos and missed connections, with people frantically shoving old ladies out of the way to get to the next destination, running down escalators in herds and taking unkindly to any disturbance. Oh, and the central bus station is attached to the metro station, so that makes it all the more insane. But you enter the double doors of the library and oh — peace. Calm. And I can breathe again, I kid you not. I take deep breaths and my heart is infinitely happier, just thinking of the books I have on hold and the very concept of borrowing books to read. And I love seeing people sitting in the aisles, sifting through titles and smiling. I love the aura of the library, and the smell of the books, and the five floors — FIVE floors! — available to me. So many unread books, a life can’t even contain them all. I love the simple process of searching a book in the online catalogue, and then the feeling in my chest as I near the author’s name, closer and closer, my eyes darting around the area where the book should be until finally they land on it, little gem in a cluster of rocks, waiting to be slipped out from amongst friends. God. The library is the highlight of my week, anywhere in the world. If I have books, I’m fine. I’m at home.
So I found a cheap threading place close to work. It’s shady, of course. Why are they always shady? You walk in and they lead you into a dimly lit back room, where you lie on a plastic-covered hospital cot wondering whether you’re in the right place or whether they’ll actually remove the hair from your eyebrows before they cut you up and feed you to the homeless in the back alley. I, personally, would like to go out clean and hairless. Furthermore, threading is the oddest thing: a piece of thread, normally associated with pleasant sewing sounds and moms and, ok, maybe Indonesian children in sweat shops, ripping the hair out of you. It’s like how eye drops give you diarrhea. Sort of. Well, in the sense that they have a better use…nevermind.
Way too much walking in this city. We went clubbing last night, a place called Fou-Foun’s that had a giant spider above it and was filled with young people. I couldn’t really feel my feet after the thirty-minute walk there, but it’s all in the name of fun. Ha.
Since I started taking the bus to and from work, I get off, immediately sanitize my hands, and rush home to take my vitamins. Paranoid? No. Because you have not seen the people with whom I ride. You have not witnessed the woman whose fungus-infested toenails grate across the back of the seat in front of her as she sits, legs open, crotch easily accessible to her gnarled fingers. You have not stood next to the Germ Man, who babbles every morning to the person nearest him and coughs an average of three times per sentence, never closing his mouth, so that you want to tap him on the shoulder and explain that, see, in bio class, they taught you that the proper way to cough is into your sleeve, so that the germs travel at 128 mph into the fabric instead of onto the poor girl next to you. You have not witnessed the Dandruff Guy, who pulls his iPod ear phones out and shakes his head only to cover everyone around him with — and this is disgusting — flakes of his scalp.
I hope your sympathies are with me.
1 Comment
6 July 2008 at 11:50 pm
I love you.
I know exactly what you mean about the library. Wow.
I love you.