This entry will be longer than normal, as I wish to update the blog from the day I arrived until the present. Much of this entry will have been in previous postings on the Canada Ahoy blog, so I apologise to regular approved readers of same.
I do not normally place sub headers within my blog, but it seems simplest to do so in this case, until I have brought the blog up to speed in all areas.
Arrival in CanadaIt would not be fair to describe my arrival as an anticlimax; suffice to say, the pessimist in me was a little disappointed that the whole process of becoming a Canadian resident was a lot simpler than my apprehensions had led me to believe. It seems that the alarming volume of paperwork and dire warnings from the government were simply to encourage potential immigrants to cross the t's and dot the i's on their applications. Anyhow, I digress!
I felt nervously excited as I entered the Pierre Trudeau airport for the third time within one year; this time I was accompanied by all of my earthly possessions and starting out on a completely new life. The flight had been unremarkable, although I was a little bored with the choice of movies. The passport control was extremely simple, routine in fact, and I was speedily diverted to immigration. The whole process of becoming a permanent resident involved a ten minute wait, handing over some papers and listening to some declarations. From then I had to proceed to collect my baggage, as per normal!
With my usual luck, I chanced on the most broken down trolley in the airport, which staggered beneath the weight of my luggage; I had to adopt an almost horizontal stance while pushing this trolley through to the customs check. Even worse, when I was diverted through the declaration channel, the waiting area was huge, and I sweated profusely every time I had to move up the queue. Amazingly, the friendly young lady who dealt with my mountain of luggage simply scanned my declaration form, and did not even request me to open my bags. By contrast, a Canadian at the next counter had his sports bag stripped, and confiscated because it contained dirty sports clothing...!
As a consequence of the speedy check in process, I groaned my trolley into the arrivals centre much earlier than expected: my wife and her father had not even arrived yet, and my cellphone could not reach them, so I placed a quick call to mother in law, then hid behind the mound of luggage. I felt more than a little self conscious, and extremely dehydrated, sweating profusely with the effort of moving 150 kilos of luggage on three wheels! All my negative feeling dissolved when I saw the familiar face of my beloved wife moving through the waiting people though! I was not prepared for the huge beard my father in law had cultivated, but as it was effectively 2am in my unadjusted UK time, I was rather past caring.
In a short time we were driving in the familiar pickup truck, out of the airport and bound for home- real home.
My arrival date had been brought forward to coincide with the Easter weekend, so that my wife would have two more days at home with me just after my arrival. I sorted out the luggage on Friday, and sent most of the items off to Sylvie's storage, as she had little room at this house to accommodate the "bottom drawer" items I had managed to bring from the UK. My baggage also included such unusual items as two bags of flour (it could only be one specific type for my perfectionist mother in law, obtainable in England only according to my research!) and several boxes of tea. The tea was for some of Sylvie's work colleagues, and though the same brand was available in Canada, I had taken advantage of the special offers in the UK and used up some shopping vouchers.
It felt wonderful that my wife had devoted so much time and effort to making a space for me, and I dropped into that space effortlessly; for this very reason, I don't believe homesickness is likely to be a very strong factor, though one month is hardly long enough to tell.
The Cabane
The weather was great in the first weekend, and we very quickly found something to do; a prosaic walk in Boucherville was replaced with a trip to a Cabane de Sucre; this is a very Canadian, and very Québecois tradition and has parallels with the "sugaring off" dance made known through the writings of Laura Ingalls Wilder.
Sylvie's cousin Maxim drove us to the Cabane, on the north west of Montréal. Before going to the location, we were launched into the middle of a very French Canadian family (second cousins of Sylvie) and though I felt a little out of place with so few speaking English, I really enjoyed picking up the dialect and experiencing real redneck small town Québec! The stop was to permit the whole family to get together, and we made a large party, around 40 people I believe. Once we were all assembled and had enjoyed a few drinks, we drove to the actual cabane.
This really epitomised an aspect of Canada for me; the long, low cabin, built in traditional style, in a wooded clearing. Steam rose from the boiler house, where the maple syrup was being boiled, and around the clearing, several tapped trees stood with buckets collecting their sap. The biting north wind and small remnant snowdrifts acted as a powerful reminder that the spring had not properly got underway. Inside the cabine, a long queue led to the main hall, which was brightly and warmly lit, and filled with loaded tables and hundreds of place settings. It was neither rustic nor palatial, but homely and welcoming.
On the tables, there were already selections of relishes and pickles, warm bread rolls and little plates of what looked like paté, which turned out to be a pork product known as cretons. When spread over a bread roll, this paste was absolutely delicious and made an instant hit with me. First on the menu, when we were seated and had paid the absurdly low one off fee, was a delicious pea soup. It was then followed by a very maple syrup-themed meal, of pork, pancakes, and many other delicious things. It was most definitely a meal that one would only indulge in once or twice a year. After the meal , there was dancing and a DJ, or for the many who braved the bitter wind, the delightful experience of candy poured over snow and scooped up with a stick. I felt well and truly ingested into the Canadian culture once we started on our homebound journey!
Practical stuffThough the week following the bank holiday was good, it was mostly concerned with practical matters; on the Tuesday, I concentrated on getting all the possible paperwork sorted to process my becoming a resident. After a short trip around Sylvie's office, during which I met some of her colleagues and disbursed the tea, I set out into the now more familiar downtown. I soon got to grips with the Metro instead of walking, and having spent the whole morning in queues, I had obtained my SIN national insurance number and applied for my medical care card. The weather was good, but not perfect, and I was glad that my clothes covered the transition to the pre-spring cold.
The week was also used to start converting the lawn to an English bowling green; as I could not obtain systemic selective weedkiller, my mother in law asked me to kill off everything, and decided we should start over with the grass. I was a little sceptical of this, as she liked immediate results, which I would be unable to obtain without some product such as agent orange! I had my first experience of driving on the right in Canada (There was no trouble in France, in the short time I hired a car there) and though I found the large Ford F150 pickup rather unwieldy, I managed to negotiate it without incident around the locality. I wanted to exchange my UK driving licence for the Canadian equivalent, and booked an appointment to do this during the following week. The only thing I had to beware of in driving in Canada, was the tendency to go down the wrong side when making a left turn, and also the potential to miss stop signs, a very serious offence in this roundabout-free country! (Actually, there is a roundabout less than 1/4 mile from our house here, but it seems to be the only one in the whole of Montréal. They seem to prefer the often-confusing arrangement of "Arret" signs and lines, and hope everyone has their wits about them! It amuses me to see the roundabout rookies squealing their tyres and often stopping dead on the roundabout, being unfamiliar with this kind of obstacle!)
Going to exchange my licence turned out to be surprisingly straightforward, and the buses proved to be a great deal more logical than in dear old London. I had to queue for a long time in the SAAQ (the Québec equivalent of the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency) but it was worthwhile to get prompt service by an excellent English speaker. I was amused and sympathetic while waiting, to listen in to a woman who had moved to Montréal from New York, and who was told in front of everybody that she could not register her car until she paid five outstanding tickets from the USA! I also saw an excellent cross-section of Montréal people, from Lebanese immigrants to Hell's Angels bikers, from very Gallic local couples to African Americans dressed in “traditional” gear. The office was also the centre for driving tests, and I felt a certain empathy that one experiences in dentist's waiting rooms, for the unfortunate and nervous souls waiting to be called.
The following day was the last of the appointments to sort out the mundane aspects of life. I had previously decided to open an account with Bank of Montréal, and it was a rather more involved proceeding than I had been used to in the UK, in fact I felt rather infantile; such is the price of being an immigrant, even in today's seamless world of technology. The lady who conducted my interview had great English skills; when I mentioned that I wanted to take integration classes and to study and speak French a lot better, she smiled and said that her brother in law had not improved in 50 years of living in Québec- a rather gloomy prognosis! Maybe if I set myself to it early enough, I can catch up, though becoming bilingual is not very likely. I certainly won't lose my accent, I can see that!
The following weekend promised to be very warm, in fact unseasonably so. I wondered whether we would find enough to do, as I am still acclimatising myself to living in a house with keen TV watchers, but as is turned out, we were more than catered for.
A trip to the mountains
Sylvie's cousin, Sarah drove up while we were debating in the garden, and as I had not yet said hi to her since arriving in the country, I stepped over for a word. Sarah's Venezuelan boyfriend, Rodrigo, was also in the trim little car, and I made his acquaintance. It turned out that the whole of the family (Sylvie's uncle, aunt, cousin Maxim, his girlfriend, and Sarah and Rodrigo) were going out for a family picnic to one of Montréal's nearest tourist spots, Mont Ste Hilaire. They invited us to go, an invitation we were more than glad to take advantage of.
After purchasing a picnic and donning more appropriate attire (though I glanced anxiously at Sylvie's rather inadequate walking sandals) we waited in the sunny street with a couple of bottles of beer, then set off for the park. It was a beautiful day, and made even the very indifferent countryside to the north East of the city look quite attractive. Although it was spring, the leaves had barely burst through their buds, and the country looked a little gaunt. When we neared our destination, one of three small hills that stick up from the Monteregie floodplain, the countryside resembled that of my home country, near Wisbech, with the fruit trees, spacious rural houses, and atrocious roads. The destination reminded me of the wonderful time my wife and I enjoyed nearby last September, picking apples in the heavenly sunshine and tucking into a hog roast later in the day.
The park's car park was full to brimming, as it seemed all of Montréal had headed out to walk in the attractive surroundings, and we had to park in a small overflow garden that a friendly local provided at reduced rate. We still had to pay an admission fee to the park itself, which seemed very reasonable taking into account the high standard of maintenance. We climbed a short way to the side of a beautiful lake; the sunshine was fierce, despite the partial shade of the leafless trees, and we were glad of the cooling breeze that was not entirely blocked by the mountainside.
The picnic was a big success, and Sylvie and I ate very healthily, mostly vegetables and fruit, looking rather longingly at uncle Louis' spread; I always admire his skill of being able to produce culinary miracles in the open air! I was extremely glad that we had not eaten anything really heavy, as the going got extremely tough for poor Sylvie, unused to a lot of climbing. We stopped frequently on the way up, for which I was thankful, as it was very close and hot, and we had inadequate water supplies despite the large amount we'd packed.
We stopped at a vantage point some three quarters of the way to the top, and surveyed the lake now far below. The wildlife, about which Uncle Louis was knowledgeable, was very attractive, particularly a cloud of hawks that were soaring on the afternoon thermals from between the peaks. I was disappointed not to meet a skunk, chipmunk or possum, though no doubt they will show themselves sooner or later.
After a supreme effort, we reached the glossy rock of the top of “pain de sucre” or sugarloaf hill and surveyed a massive expanse of landscape. The wind threatened to blow away the less well ballasted members of our crew, and it was quite cool, but very refreshing. The mountain was one of only three bumps in a huge plain, one of which was Mount Royal, the spikes of the city's skyscrapers nestling against it at this distance. To the right we could see the glow of the silvery St Lawrence, and the unmistakable Olympic stadium. Below us spread a small township on a river bank, and the hawks (or buzzards?) circled below us waiting for an incautious sightseer to step too near the brink.
The way down was a great deal smoother, and we had fun watching the people toiling uphill. On arrival back at base camp my fears proved well-founded, as Sylvie's toe had blistered in the inappropriate sandals, then the cut had opened to admit a healthy dose of trail dust. All the same, it was a very refreshing experience, and we slept extremely well that night, after a celebratory barbecue.
More Everyday lifeAfter the trip, we settled back to a more “normal” routine. Sylvie of course, had to work during the day, and that meant I was more of a homebody to help with the daily tasks. I enjoyed the contemplative start to the day, sitting out in the morning sunshine and experiencing the sights and sounds of the garden while imbibing very good coffee! I managed to persuade my wife that I could make coffee equally as well as any other family member, and felt privileged to make her the first lifesaver of the day. She would grab the lunch, coffee and other necessaries, put on her facials, then catch the dad-wagon to work. I could then spend perhaps half an hour chilling with mother in law, listening to the familiar and the unfamiliar birds. Starlings, sparrows and the noisy crows threw me back to days in the UK, particularly the starling's metallic screech; on the other hand, the amazing plumage and calls of blue jays and cardinals was far removed from anything I grew up with, and added a splash of the exotic.
I progressed slowly with the door, which I had stripped down for repainting. I felt practically emasculated or perhaps I should say infantised by the lack of my familiar tools to use, and my complete knowledge blank about which brands worked and could be trusted. In the circumstances, and with an extremely perfectionist mother in law overseeing every second of the process, I think I have finally achieved a tolerable job! Maxim was very helpful, loaning tools and advice, as was his dad, although I would have preferred not to have uncle Louis and his sister as spectators while I painted and sanded, it was akin for me, to having someone standing very close behind while using a urinal: distracting!
The diet is amazingly good, and most days my mother in law makes at least one homemade loaf. We have many tastes in kindred; while Sylvie and her father prefer white bread, we prefer wholegrain and seeds in bread. This meant that she could justify making full size loaves, though the religious adherence to the recipes sometimes made me smile wryly when I recall my own cooking methods! They take extremely good care of me here, and once they learn of a particular favourite of mine, it appears in the grocery shopping or jumps out of the fridge at me; examples include Shreddies, cretons, cheese bread, Havarti cheese and orange punch (high quality sqaush back in the UK). I wish with a passion that Branston Pickle and Bovril were both available in this country from regular outlets, along with the organic bread flour that we can only seem to order over the internet from England. I find it hard to believe that in the country purported to be the breadbasket of the world, high quality flour is virtually unobtainable. It confirms my preconcieved view that the North Americans have a prediliction for dough foods- donuts, bagels, soft white bread, huge glutious burger buns... ah me!
A trip DowntownMy wife and I had an invitation from one of her friends to have an evening meal in the centre of Montréal last Friday (I am progressively catching up!) so I cleared up the painting things early and caught the bus to the town in the mid afternoon. We went shopping on Ste Catherine (Montréal's Regent Street) for some essentials for myself, then had a drink at a bar on Rue Peel. The day had begun very sunny, but now an incredible wind was whipping up the street straight off the mountain, and almost lifting the shoppers off their feet. We killed some time before rendezvous in a bookshop, then made our way to the Italian Restaurant. Sylvie's friend, Genevieve and her ex-Romanian husband Dragos were thankfully conversant in English, and very sweet in their praise of my clumsy French. I understood most of their French discussions too, which afforded me some quiet amusement! We stuffed ourselves on some very good food before exploring Ste Catherine on foot.
Ste Catherine at night always shows a slightly darker side of this city, with huddled tramps on the church steps and very interesting individuals accosting one on the sidewalks. We had a starbucks and then were ferried home by Sylvie's helpful friends, who lived not far away in the city. Over dinner we had discussed a trip out, and planned for this coming saturday to go back to Parc Ste Hilaire for another walk. This will be very beneficial for Sylvie, getting her breathing back to something approaching normal, and I can always walk on with Dragos if the ladies prefer to take it easy! I am just hoping that this weekend the weather will improve, as it has rained much more this week than the early sun led me to expect!
And more routines...
I have also incorporated myself into more routines such as feeding the girls (Doudonne and Bébitte, our gorgeous cats), routine cleaning, making tea after the evening meal, and such trivial things. I am looking into web publishing as a potential money maker, as my father in law has good knowledge of this and is a natural with computers, something which could alienate myself from my wife if I let it!
So to summarise: I am fitting well into daily life, encouraged that it has not been too much of a struggle. I am looking forward to other promising things, such as being able to establish a vegetable garden out back, and in the more immediate future, I shall be in town again tomorrow evening, as it is Sylvie's day off. We want to watch a movie together, have a meal out, and enjoy shopping for some more essentials. Simple things, but full of pleasure for being done in one another's company. This is what life is really about.
