The Long of It: Montreal

This is my beautiful friend Ranoon, with whom I spent close to a week in Montreal. In this first elegant shot Ranoon is gracing us with the Thou Shalt Not Take My Photo pose:



Moments before she got up and ran away from me, I managed to catch a glimpse of her gorgeous face, which I share with you here:



…her dimple will melt the heart of a lucky man some day.

Until then, she’s busying herself with Bio Genetics (I think I have that right, she will correct me, if need be). You can’t see it, but Ranoon has a massive brain that fills up half of Montreal. She writes and publishes things titled: ”Volumetric Characterizations of Protein Denaturation and Ligand Binding”.

To me, that sounds like something about steaks, leggings and added volume to your hair. But I know that’s not the case and that’s because I'm the girl who once thought that peanuts came from…I don’t know, actually. I had to think about it when asked “Where do you think peanuts come from?” in response to my surprise that they grew ‘beneath’, like potatoes. I guess my mind simply assumed that peanuts grew in cans made by Mr. Planter. So it’s really not a far stretch that Ranoon’s work holds no coherence where I’m concerned…but I am super proud of her when she wins Awards, as she recently did for her ground-breaking work on…something to do with molecules and how they break it down when no one’s looking.

As you can see, Ranoon is a tad shy of cameras. Whereas your blogMistress is anything but, as the following pictures shall illustrate. We spent the better part of our days waking up relatively late and enjoying coffees at home and then at Shaika Café on Sherbrooke. The ambiance of the place is simply: local. It’s obvious that everyone knows the staff, that all locals congregate there for weekend breakfasts and coffees and daily conversation. After my second day there, I expected the staff to call out “Maha!” as I walked in to order my café latte “in a bowl, please”. No one did, so I did it back to myself. Ranoon turned around and left the Café until I stopped giggling.

This is how happy it made me to sit across from Ranoon and drink the yummy lattes:



Our evenings were generally infused with dining out in Le Plateau and Old Montreal and then an early night’s walk around the city or a drive around Westmount and Mount Royal where we ogled homes we can not yet afford.

Amidst our adventures, Ranoon and I learned that I have a nose for rain. It’s weird and it’s new and I don’t know to what I owe the pleasure, but I am your regular Rain-Bee (if there be such a thing) and I can tell you whether and when it will rain. I would come in handy if I could be packaged and sold.

Here’s where I realise I am actually cross-eyed. It’s hot:



(But that’s another story for another entry.)

Every night we watched a movie and I nearly killed myself after watching “The Good Shepherd” which I hear was originally titled “Matt Damon Is A Piece of Wood, Angelina Jolie Used To Kick Small Furry Animals After Shooting A Scene Because She Had To Pretend To Play Passive And Demure, No One Believes That Kid Wasn’t Queer And What’s The Plot, Anyway, Because I Can’t Hear Them?”

I then usually read and fell asleep at the crack of dawn.

I dragged Ranoon into Holt’s in order to play. I played with the hats and we both played with the sunglasses. Here’s the proof (again, please note Ranoon refused to have her picture taken for reasons I am not allowed to mention or else I am not allowed entry back into her home!):




(See: I'm cross-eyed again.)


(I'm not posing here, I was trying to tuck my hair into the hat and I was blinking while trying not to laugh out loud at something Ranoon said.)





& the crazy thing is, I’m considering buying those sunglasses. They’re Tom Ford Margaux. I’m in love and I’ve dreamt of them. I may just do it, even though I was told I looked like a cross between Lisa Bonnet and Michael Jackson in the photos. While in Holt's, we ran into my old friend B. B and I went to high school together and I was the first in our school to know he liked boys. B and I were dear friends and he is Montreal's finest make-up artist. If you're ever in Holt Renfrew, make certain to visit him at the Bobbi Brown counter and tell him I sent you; just look for the beautiful Asian man. (You may call him "Kiki", his stage name.)

It was the perfect week. Relaxed, filled with introspection, laughs, excellent conversation, much love and the occasional “No, that’s not right” as a footnote to "If you were standing outside of yourself".

Good friends are a rare thing and I keep thanking my lucky stars for each and every one of mine. This is how happy I was at the end of that trip:





See the entire lame-o photo stream here. I’ve learned that I have to – from here on in – sneak up on Ranoon and take photos when she’s not looking. Otherwise I’m not allowed. And in case you’re interested, she comes with a portable air conditioning unit that has wheels.

Thanks ya Ranoon! (And p.s. I *was* in Montreal last summer for a couple of days, as the hotel staff mentioned; right before leaving for Beirut. How odd that I forgot.)

Wee photos from Montreal

& big hellos...

It took me forever to take this photo - Ranoon just kept refusing...but here she is in all her beautiful dimple-faced glory:


Walking around Old Montreal, we kept missing the down-pour (one word, two or hyphenated?) and I tried to take a photo so you could see how hard it was raining, but it's not all that obvious:


The most precious statue in Old Montreal. The Girls and us had a little palaver (where they told some great secrets, say thank ya, sai King):






While in Le Plateau, we came across this beautiful little shop called Galerie Flowerbox on St-Denis:





More to come, Inshallah...

Kul 3am wa antum bkheir & an art show in Montreal

This weekend begins Ramadan and so a Ramadan Kareem to each and every one of you, Muslim, Christian, Jewish, agnostic, atheist & trans-religioned.

I wish you both inner and external peace.

And for those of you busy hating, I hope you chill the f*ck out I’ll keep you in my prayers.

Oh! And if you want to keep me in your prayers, you can ask that I receive any one of the following items, please:
- Yusturni
- Yi7meeni
- Ywafi2ni
- All of the above for my family, especially mama
- Lots of super hot shoes
- Peace in the middle east
- The perfect shade of rose lip gloss
- A dude

Also, if you can make it to Montreal on the 12th of October, please try to attend the Between States event. If you care about your civil liberties, come out and show your support for Darren Ell’s exhibition opening, where there will be a discussion on immigration and the national security policy in Canada.

October 12, 2006
6 pm
@ Dazibao
4001, rue Berri, espace 202

Full Dispatch: Montreal

If you do a search of ‘Montreal’ on this blog, you’ll find numerous entries about that beautiful city. Although am there at least once or twice a month for work and whatever political issue needs attention, it always feels like a mini vacation.

These past few days have served as the exception to the rule, and I was there for a 100% break from all things work and/or politics related.

Every morning I woke up to a crisp and clear Montreal skyline, without a touch of humidity (this, unusual because summers in Montreal are normally blistering hot and at a 100% humidity rate).

Dining
We breakfasted on rich cafè lattes and later lunched and dined on seafood. Because am so familiar with Montreal, I was terribly excited to discover two new locations: Verses Restaurant & Le Sainte Élisabeth in the Latin Quarters (otherwise known as The Red Light district).

One of my favourite places to dine is Le ‘S’ Restaurant (most notably for brunch) because they have the best smoked salmon which is always fresh and smoked in-house. Their menu is typically French and so all food is rich in crème and butter. I recommend you try their grilled salmon in a cheese crust if you go…

Oddly, Verses has always been right down the street from where I stay, but I never thought to go in and dine because everyone seated in the windows appears to be of a different ‘sort’ / ‘crowd’ than I would enjoy. I go to restaurants such as this with my father, when he picks up the bill and I play pretend: proper.

The strangest thing is that Verses sits in the Nelligan, a typically old Montreal-style boutique hotel I’d never noticed before Friday night. Much to my surprise, and only after we’d finished dining did I notice the front desk. The world’s largest sign above the entrance: HOTEL NELLIGAN, has not once registered in my mind’s eye. In my defence, I do think this is in part due to a combination of the narrow streets of Old Montreal, and their cobblestone ways. 99% of the time, I’m too busy looking down at the cobblestones making certain I don’t trip and land in any given pile of horse poo.

All this to say that at Verses, the food was exquisite, the atmosphere wonderful, the female bartender a form of social inept, and the lobby most definitely seductive. Although I’ve always only stayed in either Le Saint Sulpice or Auberge du Vieux-Port I will test out the Nelligan next am in Montreal.

Pubbing
Saturday evening brought with it Le Sainte Élisabeth. I don’t even know where to begin with this place…

We ate on rue St-Laurent Elisabeth’s (belated) birthday dinner, after which she wanted to go for a drink and recommended this ‘little’ pub. As we were walking down rue St-Catherine and immediately before we turned on to rue St-Elisabeth, this was a little bit of our conversation:

“Elisabeth, we’re not walking anywhere after the night’s over. We’re catching a cab because although it’s still light, I’m already uncomfortable.”
“Yeah. This area’s a little dodgy.”
“Are you sure we’re heading in the right direction? I’ve never come down this far.”
“Especially not at night.”
“Right. Was that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Heh heh heh.”

At which point we walked past a man who graced us with the following: ”Hey ladeeeeeeeeeeeeeees. LADIES! YOU, PIXIE, AND YOU, ANGELINA, LOOK AT ME!”

To which some other man responded with: ”You lookin’ for some bitches! Why don’t you come and get me pretty boy? I’ll show you a little piece of Montreal. Wooo! Hooooo!”

Que Elisabeth: “AH! This is it, here.”
“That’s a pub? Are you sure? It sort of looks like a dive.”
“LAAAADIESSSSS.”
“Fuck it, whatever it is, let’s just go,” and with that, we moved our asses a little faster and walked in…

…to find one of the most beautiful terraces I have ever seen. The ‘terrace’ is in fact a courtyard located between four buildings. Essentially, you find yourself between four brick walls an average of four stories high, all of which are covered in ivy. Your ‘roof’ is one very large and old tree. Among the ivy is hung mild green and blue spotlights, colourful flowerpots and speakers.

This is the photo of the wall that was on our left:


The one that was in front of me:


And this is a photo I took while laid out on my back across two chairs, this is our ‘roof’:


By the time it was 11 pm, I was absolutely exhausted and still couldn’t help but stay because the music was so damn good. I loved it! Just go. No matter what part of North America you find yourself in, just get to Montreal and visit this pub. You will be thankful, I promise.

’The Gays’
Montreal is notorious for its equally beautiful and stylish population. When I arrived, I was taken aback by just how beautiful the men had become. More important was that they were all in top physical form. And none of them had hair on their chest. And many of them were wearing short jean shorts. And holding hands with other boys.

It was the 1st world Outgames and so within 24 hours of my arrival, I just stopped looking at all of the men because I assumed everyone was, as my mother would say, ‘a Gay’. Such a trauma for the straight female community when all of the beautiful ones really are gay. Lucky, Tommy.

Tiny Dispatch from Montreal

Am in Montreal for some much needed relaxation and as we were on our way out of this beautiful Café I was drawn to these P.C.s, against both my will and the wishes of my friend whose currently shaking their head at me. I just wanted to tell you that I’m still not responding to email but I thank each and every one of you for your kind words regarding my miniscule not-nearly-enough contribution to the Crisis Line. You are all some kind of overwhelming…

I’ll be returning home to blog at some point early next week.

In the next few days, I suggest you consider downloading:
- “I Hope Your Heart Runs Empty”, by Neverending White Lights
- “Sweet Religion”, by Imogen Heap
- “Dakota”, by Stereophonics
- “I’m On Fire”, by Heather Nova

xo

20/20 in Montreal

While in Montreal, I needed to get some work completed and so before meeting a friend for dinner, I headed off to Café Dépôt at the corner of de la Montagne & Maisonneuve. As most of you are already aware, I have a tendency to completely zone out. If I’m concentrating on something, I could be staring at my mother and not recognize her. Despite this bizarre idiosyncrasy, my close friends have learned to love and ignore forgive me. Unfortunately, not the person who I encountered at the Café.

I was seated at the corner table by the window next to the Maisonneuve entrance. Every so often, I would look up and peek down the street in search of A who was on foot and coming from St-Denis to pick me up for yummy sushi (the best in Montreal can be found at Sakura).

Because I was writing, I’d taken my glasses off & naturally, my vision wasn’t 100%.

At one point I looked up for A and instead saw a really cute little girl who couldn’t have been over the age of 6. She was standing outside the window waiting for her mom who was a few feet away. I thought she was completely adorable dressed all in pink and in a tiny pair of jeans and matching jean jacket; her mom had even let her carry her own matching pink umbrella!

As I was smiling and staring at her thinking how charming she looked, she turned toward me. When we made eye contact, I gave her a smile and a wave that I save for children. I pointed at her little pink outfit and pink umbrella and with random expressions I also save for children, I indicated how much I liked what she was wearing (I’m friendly that way).

Her reaction caught me off guard because although I couldn't really see clearly, I could tell that she was angry. This 5 or 6 year old kid’s body language was indicative of the fact that she was quite immediately pissed off. I assumed she was upset about something having to do with her mom, until her mom walked over and looked equally angry…while looking in my direction. I looked behind me to see if anyone was being rude, but I was the only one in their line of vision (something which confused me further).

The little girl was pointing her finger at me when the mother grabbed her by the arm and started walking her away (where they stopped a couple of feet later waiting for the light at the intersection).

Please remember this all took place over the span of perhaps one minute and a half…

I honestly had no idea what the hell I’d done that had upset this little kid and her mom.

Until I decided to put on my glasses.

And found that the little 5 or 6 year old girl at whom I’d been making cutesy faces was in fact a 20-something year old little person. And chances are, that wasn’t her mom.

I was a little dumbfounded that she would be wearing so MUCH pink...when she's little (and just in case you missed it the first couple of times, even her f&%$ing umbrella was pink). And it's Easter, anyway...and why would she want to look like an Easter egg? I'm already going to hell, this'll just speed up that process.

But really...had she been wearing chain, black, silver and red, I would have probably still done the same stupid thing hesitated with the cutesy faces.

Ugly Girls in Montreal

Very recently, we dined at one of my favourite restaurants in Montreal. On St-Laurent, close to Sherbrooke, this place is rather small, but packs in quite a group, and is turned into a dance club much later in the evenings.

I was wearing a new black chiffon dress with a relatively low and square décolleté, returning to our table from the washroom. Heading towards me was one of the female wait staff carrying a full tray of drinks (it looked as though she had taken it to the wrong table).

Immediately in front of the waitress (to her left & my right) was another woman (clientele) who was wearing fake breasts and one of those tops that make me laugh (the ones that have no material in either the back or all the way down the front, until the woman’s belly button; essentially, the top looks as though it’s made of two strips to cover breasts and a band to hold it around the waist). Women such as this tend to live la vida loca and so they’re usually fun and interesting to watch, but deadly to chat with.

On this evening, however, this woman was both hideous to watch and be yelled at by…

Let’s situate ourselves once more: I am walking toward the waitress, who is headed towards me. In between us, to my right and to the left of the waitresses is The Woman, standing and chatting to people at a table.

The waitress reached The Woman moments before I did; I slowed down to let the waitress pass. As I did this, The Woman turned toward the waitress and started moving at high velocity.

Crashing into the waitress and her full tray of drinks, The Woman did some intricate dance move to ensure that I too was covered in drinks. I was soaked from the collarbone down, the waitress had drinks on her face and a little on her top, and The Woman had some drinks on the front of her top, but mostly on her left arm. There was no one seated to the left of The Woman and I or else they would have been covered in what was left of the drinks.

It took me a moment to realise what had occurred and why I was suddenly a wee bit chilly.

And then I started to laugh because it was a ridiculously funny situation.

Until The Woman started yelling at the waitress.

I was helping the waitress pick up some of the broken glass and so I didn’t hear everything, but did catch: “YOU F****** IDIOT!” and “WHAT KIND OF F***** WAITRESS ARE YOU?” and “YOU’VE RUINED MY OUTFIT!”

The waitress was in near hysterics because of the screaming banshee; completely discombobulated, she was at a loss, trying to pick up glass and wipe down Breasts, letting out a flow of “I’m so sorry”s.

Now. Women like Breasts – to me, anyway – give The Sisterhood a very bad reputation. Very Bad. And I have a problem: I can’t keep my mouth shut, most especially not if I feel as though someone is being abused or oppressed or generally treated as an inferior human being.

Breasts was doing just that to the waitress. Had it in fact been the waitress’ fault, Breasts would still not have been justified in her behaviour.

And so. I turned to Breasts and calmly said: I don’t think you should speak to her that way; she’s trying to apologise. To which Breasts retaliated with: F*** YOU.

I had two choices: I could either ignore her or engage the F*** YOU and deal with her on her level. It wasn’t a hard decision, and by this point, her two girlfriends had come over, as had the manager.

I ignored the comment (although I must have been smiling because I heard: WHAT ARE YOU SMILING AT?), and turned to the waitress who had begun to cry. I tried to talk her down. I mean, really, it was such a non issue that the drinks were spilled. She was apologising to me about my dress but I couldn’t have cared less. Dress = material = cloth = who cares?

We were pulled out of our little chat because Breasts had begun yelling at both the manager and her two girlfriends, ‘explaining’ how the waitress had spilled all of the drinks on her.

The girlfriends sucked their cheeks in in horror, and the manager apologised profusely for his “new staff”. Breasts kept yelling and wiping at the space between her fake rack.

Before the manager could say anything, I added my two cents: Your waitress didn’t spill anything on her; she smashed into the waitress. Turning to Breasts, I added: You're rude and you need to apologise.

Right after an “I DID NOT”, I got another "F*** YOU", which was the last straw. I don't know why I said it, but I felt obligated. I said: No thanks, I don't like the texture of fake breasts.

It should come as no surprise that she launched into a full-out verbal assault (at a much higher pitch) that I didn't take note of because I turned back to the waitress. Before I knew what was happening, two of the men seated at the table with whom she had previously been chatting, had confirmed to the manager that it was Breasts who'd crashed into the waitress, and not the other way around. Boys rock!

They got the F*** YOUs at this point.

The manager offered to pay for our dry cleaning, which I declined, and to which Breasts railed: IT HAS TO BE HAND WASHED.

The top was metallic, and so where she got “hand washed” is beyond me.

In a huff, Breasts declared that she had to go home and change out of her “RUINED TOP” and how she would “NEVER” come back to (insert name of restaurant) where there was “SUCH POOR F****** SERVICE”.

As she yelled randomly that they wanted their orders cancelled, her girlfriends grabbed jackets and proceeded to storm out. The restaurant was left quiet for a tense 15 seconds, until the first giggle broke out.

The manager, the waitress and I stood staring at one another, with the waitress shaking and wiping at her eyes. The manager looked at a complete loss and so…

I took the waitress into the washroom and helped her get cleaned up, made sure she stopped crying. I also had to wipe down my collarbone and surrounding area because the drinks had dried and I was sticky. I gave her a little pep talk and told her that it wasn’t her fault, and even if it were her fault, no one deserves to be yelled at in that manner. And that one day, she probably would spill a tray of drinks on someone, and it really doesn’t matter.

The rest of the evening was smooth sailing and the manager & I had a brief talk; I wanted to make certain the waitress didn’t get stuck paying for the spilled drinks, or wouldn’t be reprimanded for something she didn’t do.

When it was time to leave, I realised how much nicer the place had become without Breasts or the likes of women she represents. For such a pretty girl, she really is ugly.

Another way to meet a boy: Hit him

Unlike the last two experiences which took place in shopping zones, this one took place in a coffee shop.

It was also typical of my asinine and completely clueless behaviour. While working in Montreal a wee bit back, I stepped out for lunch on St-Catherine. Naturally, I had my laptop with me; it was wrapped in a scarf and inside my purse.

I have a tendency to swing my purse while carrying it. This habit I developed at the age of 4, when I was given my first purse (it was a Strawberry Shortcake purse and it made me smell like strawberries rolled in syrup. I loved it.) and my dad would place change in it. I thought it was cool to swing it around so passers-by could hear how rich I was. Am quite lucky I was fat and cute, otherwise I would have just been ugly, noisy and annoying.

Standing in line at Second Cup, I was bumping my laptop off the counter. Or so I thought.

The gentleman in front of me turned around and asked: Are you having fun? which I thought was an odd question, but I immediately slipped into surfer mode and responded with: Yeah, totally, and smiled because I thought ‘how nice of him to want to know’. He started laughing.

Honestly, I had no idea what was going on, or what I'd said that was so funny.

I kept swinging my purse...only now it had stopped bouncing off the counter.

When R stopped laughing, he said: You know that you've been bouncing that [pointing at my purse encased laptop] off my leg since you stood behind me, right?

Because I had forgotten that my laptop was actually inside of my purse until he mentioned my swinging habit (hee), I offered the stellar response of: Oh my god, I hope I didn't ruin my laptop!

He thought it was funny that I didn't care about his leg.

He was attractive, gregarious and forward, which is really nice (go Montreal boys!)…but still not my type.

He flattered me by telling me I had pretty eyes and a beautiful smile; and as all y'all are aware, flattery will get you everywhere...but not my phone number.

He insisted he buy my coffee, but I refused because I don't like obligation of any type.

He insisted I take his number, which I started to do, because I felt bad...but told him I wouldn't call him...but here's the thing: I was placing his number into my mobile, and by accident, I clicked the Menu button rather than the OK button and so it didn't save. So, I immediately knew I wasn't supposed to even have his number, but I didn't tell him that. The mobile angels had made their decisions and I went along with them; I pretended it was saved. And said goodbye quickly, because am a shit liar.

Of all the boys I have met randomly at this point, he was - by far - the coolest.

I hope R is happy.

U2 & UN

.1. This is why U2 should only be seen in Montreal.

During the entire show on Friday night, T & I were quite aware of the difference in delivery and reception between the band and the crowd.

I think it's because of Montreal's political world and their complete embrace of everything inspired, politically, by U2.

Next tour, I'm going back to Montreal > but, for the final show, rather than the first. Don't you know? It's always better the second time around.

.2. Am thinking of going elsewhere to work with the United Nations.

Will keep y’all posted…and eventually explain why am in such a mood...

U2's Vertigo Tour

T, K, D & I went to U2 last night.

When I landed in Ireland, the first place I went to was The U2 Wall. I got lost, but a really nice taxi driver took me and refused to accept payment. God, I loved Ireland.

If unfamiliar with The U2 Wall, here’s a small blip: ” The U2 Wall is located down an alley way near the docksides on the south side of the Liffey. Marked only with a small plaque, the grafitti covered crumbling walls mark the now vacant Windmill Lane Studios where U2 recorded their early albums in the late 1970s”. My addition to The Wall was: ”You began as the call to one generation and have since become the voice of all that followed. Thank you.”

I hadn’t known what I was going to write, and the fact that I got lost gave me a little more time to think…

Last we saw U2 was during their Elevation Tour, the final night they performed in Montreal. That show was insane because for nearly 60% of it, no one could hear Bono because the crowd was singing so loud. He kept removing his earplugs and laughing.

When he was later asked which of the venues was the loudest and craziest, he said it was the night they played the last show in Montreal. We couldn’t speak for days after that show…

Anyway. Arcade Fire (whose name I originally misheard as 'Our Gay Fire') opened, and although I like the punk edge of their music, I am curious as to how they got together, and what their jam sessions are like. Watch them perform, and you’ll understand my curiosity. They’re a local Montreal band worth catching, and they’re opening again tonight and Monday (in Montreal).

When the lights went down, in preparation for U2’s entrance and we were watching the stage waiting for them to come out, I actually felt as though I were going to explode. The sound was deafening, in anticipation of their arrival and the energy within the Centre was absolutely electric.

Within our section, I was one of five other people on my feet nearly the entire time. At certain points, T & K would stand up…but it was predominantly me, and it was great! At one point, though, I almost climbed over the chairs in front of me to join the other four who were equally rocking out, but they were a little weird.

It’s a U2 concert…how can people remain seated?

The visual of the concert was pure funk. The experience left me teetering between: Feeling as though I were inside of an arcade that had crashed into a lava lamp and / or standing inside one light that’s part of a light show in a Japanese disco. Either one was super cool.

Apart from the regular brilliant performances of Mysterious Ways, Where the Streets Have No Name and Sunday Bloody Sunday, there were a few others which stood out…

I have to say that Original of the Species and A Man and a Woman possess some of U2’s top lyrical content and are reminiscent of their work on Achtung Baby. Listening to their performance live was incredible.

They did a spectacular rendition of One with a lot more guitar, making it sound more bluesy. It’s always been a lazy / lounge song for me, but listening to them perform it the way they did, I was forced to sit down, close my eyes and get lost in the guitar.

The ending of the show was equally unique, with each one of them leaving individually and their screen images fading out. Bono left first, then Adam, the Edge and finally Larry. While Larry was the last one on stage, he pounded out the craziest beats and the crowd went wild. Pardon me while I gush here for a moment; Larry Mullen Jr will always be a fox. He’ll be 78 years old, and a fox. He has the world’s best upper body, and his forearms are. Just. Perfect.

As much as I love Bono, Larry is the definitive of cool. Probably because his controlled exterior looks like it's always on the edge of exploding wide open. But it never does.

After coming home, I couldn’t help but think about the wonder of it. These four boys from Dublin who started as a little punk band and who are, now, to me and so many others, the quintessential band of several generations the world over.

Stadiums in almost every part of this tiny globe erupt when these four men come on stage.

And when all is said and done, they go home to be dads and husbands.

Wow.

Attend this

Le Festival du monde Arabe à Montreal. In particular, try to get to some of the dance & music shows.

It all begins today...

Montreal Lovers

While in Montreal, our days are usually spent walking and our nights on St-Laurent. Frankly, there’s nothing sexier than a humid summer night in that City.

There’s a certain air to Montreal, the language, the sense of style, the attitude that differs from any other part of Canada. There is no urgency in action and no reaction that isn’t slightly languid. On summer evenings, that turns everything sensual.

More intriguing is that, for the most part, no one is quite shy, least of all lovers.

Watching couples walk by, I couldn’t help but wonder What is it that draws and then keeps people together?

So I started polling my friends, both male and female.

Almost certainly, all answers began with something akin to “sexual chemistry, obviously…”

When I asked what that meant, no one could go beyond the words “physical attraction, obviously”.

And so, beyond my immediate distaste for the word ‘obvious’, I started thinking about ‘sexual chemistry’. The reality is, there’s absolutely nothing obvious about sexual chemistry. That it is ambiguous never really occurs to anyone, but rather, they focus on its necessity.

And, it is most definitely a necessity. Nothing can transpire if there is no immediate and almost caustic sexual chemistry. It won’t happen all too often in our lives, it may only happen a number of times; it goes beyond visual appreciation and reaches into something a lot more palpable. The more urgency there is in that initial explosion, the more likely the relationship will at least begin on the right path.

If it were a means of physical attraction and nothing more, then we’d be drawn to thousands of individuals in our lifetime, no one in particular standing out. No one unique creature to whom we keep returning, at least in our thoughts (to return on nothing more than a physical level diminishes this to a booty call).

Personally, I’ve yet to have the pleasure of such an experience. There are gorgeous men everywhere, but not one has been able to keep my attention for very long; terrible, really, how quickly I get bored. But I understand this is because God’s letting me save all of that energy for one very special man. It’ll be interesting when I finally do meet him.

I expect that it will be immediate, even if the relationship itself is not. (Luckily, life isn’t scripted to fit into a 1.5 hour romantic comedy.) I don’t expect that he will be the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes on, nor do I expect to be the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on. But, I do expect that seeing one another through the others’ eyes is when we’ll both reach our full potential.

Look for a certain energy in which you want to be enveloped. If you’re any level of mature, then you should be able to read the energy of the person in front of you; if you find yourself poised, relaxed, attentive, attracted, intrigued and wanting to share in that energy then don’t let that person walk away from you.

And to all men: if you choose to turn your back on a woman because she is the kind who deserves nothing less than everything, then recall Napoleon's Fortune is like a woman – if you miss her today, think not to find her tomorrow, you tool.

Ultimately, it’s that energy which makes people stay together: The ability to work through one another to reach their individual as well as their combined potential. And since we can never reach our complete potential, that process is unbroken and takes the suited lovers with it. Always.

Now. Go buy Natacha Atlas’ Something Dangerous and listen to ’Quand je ferme les yeux’ before any of the other tracks.

Montreal's Wunderbar (snore)

This is worth a mention...

E, R, N and I went to Wunderbar in Montreal. E's brother is there 24/7 when he's not spazzing out at some rave, and so he's been "dying to take [us] because [you're] going to love it."

They did. They had an absolute blast.

For me, the night was a complete bust. The place is gorgeous, but everyone in it appeared to be 1-Dimensional. I was bored and had one too many sparkling waters. The only highlight of my evening was a guy who tried (& failed) to hit on me. He opened with the really incognito yell of "GOD DAMN, GIRL!"

...the rest was almost as entertaining as New Year’s Eve at Tokyo Bar (St-Laurent, with the prettiest bouncers in the world) a couple (or more? Am shit with dates.) when another guy tried to be suave and chat me up as he went to lean on the hanging lamp. Hanging lamps hang from the ceiling, not from the floor. The floor is where he ended up, sprawled out to his entire length. He must still have back problems.

Anyway. Go and at least see Wunderbar, it's worth a peek.

Make certain to suck in your cheekbones or else they may not let you in.

I know I'll be dragged there again and again because of R & N. Next I go, I think I'll wear my baggiest sweater, with a huge Puma zip-up over it, pants two sizes too large and running shoes. I may even wear my hair up in a ponytail, just to freak out the clientele and the staff.

I’ll take a cozy pub over any of these places, any night. Actually, I’ll take my bed and a good book over any of these places, any night.

Personal Notes on Tripping (Pt. 2)

As promised last month, here is the story I referred to as The Time I Fell Right Outside of Foreign Affairs and Landed in the Bushes and Nobody Cared.

I was in a rush to meet M at a restaurant before heading off to Montreal, and so I was dressed comfortably and casually in black bell-bottoms and runners. Carrying my gorgeous and rather large red overnight bag (which had no cover), I flew out of the front doors of 125 Sussex, ran down the stairs and across the pavement and started to step back on to the sidewalk. Am a girl on the move, with French boutiques to find and fashionable cities to conquer. I should just move to Montreal considering how often I am there; but only if a gorgeous man purchases a property in West Mount and makes me his Queen.

Do understand that in front of the entrance to 125 Sussex one can find all of the smokers, the Ministers’ cars, the diplomats and the taxi cabs. I was not alone; I couldn’t even pretend to be alone.

OK. Back to the story…and so I started to step back on to the sidewalk when I felt that my right foot was caught in my left bell-bottom. Since I am a mover and a shaker and getting ready for Montreal, rushed and in bell-bottoms and runners, it is only natural that the bell-bottoms were flapping and the runners going at an extra fast pace. Unfortunately, there was a collision between these two, and I the worse for it.

I had no right foot to land on and so I kept flying forward at an alarmingly rapid rate, right over the step of the sidewalk, the entire sidewalk and nearly half the bushes. Most bizarre was my sense of fear, for it was not about my body, but rather that all of my precious items, those so carefully placed in my overnight bag, were to be damaged as soon as they hit the pavement. Do rest assured that nothing was damaged, for as I went propelling forward towards the bushes, so too did all of my precious items (remember: the gorgeous red overnight had no cover).

Note to self: Would make an excellent pole vaulter; look into how I can make it into the Olympics. Perhaps Tamer Hagras will notice me then.

It must have looked rather poetic actually, as though I had practiced doing just this at that precise moment in front of 125 Sussex, in an effort to provide both food for thought and humor to all those puffing away on cigarettes.

My knees and stomach hurt and my face was itchy; because my glasses were a little askew, I couldn’t see much, and so it took me a moment to realize I was in the bushes, stomach down, ass in the air and with gorgeous red overnight bag still over my shoulder, though practically empty.

As I lay there in the bushes, a gentleman getting into a cab (& carrying a suitcase) was kind enough to yell out – at the top of his voice: “ARE YOU OKAY?” to which I offered the honest response of: “Erm. I don’t think so.”
And to this he yelled back: “WELL. OK”, then jumped in the cab and left. But not before he waved goodbye.

Isn't that nice of him? To wave goodbye as I lay in the bushes? Sunshine was flowing out of his every orifice.

In his defence, he is a fellow employee and considering he was carrying a suitcase, he was probably rushed to get to some other part of the world...as most of us who work here are usually in this state of rushed affairs.

I gathered all of my items, made certain that my gorgeous red bag was without rip or tear, rolled up my pants and headed off toward the restaurant without even one look over my shoulder.

Note to self: Surely, the smokers, they won’t recognize my back side.

Note to self 2: There are cameras at the front entrance of 125 Sussex; am certain there is video footage of this vault of mine. Consider asking security for tape and making it into mpg in order to link to blog.

Note to self 3: Learn how to make mpg.

Jim Morrison said it best when he said “Walk tall, act fine and never look back,” but maybe he wasn’t talking about “Roll out of the bushes, walk tall, act fine and never look back”…but who knows?

Wait. Maybe that was Bowie. Do wonder if he ever fell in such fashionable ways; though would think that getting caught in bed with Mick much more humiliating than falling into bushes.

Ok. Am off to blog about this evening at the posh event, where much fun was had by all and I spoke to the Egyptian Ambassador about Tamer Hagras.

Note to you: Seriously. I have a problem.

Seeing Boaventura de Sousa Santos

.1. Doors opened at 5 pm and D and I arrived at about a quarter after. Got brilliant seats, centre 2nd row (because everyone was outside getting liquored up).

.2. De Sousa Santos sat directly in front of us, and I had to stop myself from reaching over and either tugging on his hair (to make sure he was real), or giving him a kiss on the back of his head (for kissing his forehead meant that I had to move some). Luckily for both D and I, I decided that it wouldn’t be such a hot idea and opted to ignore my impulses and take in the setting instead.

The organizers did a brilliant job because the setting itself was quite lush and visually appealing and engaging. They had three massive screens as a backdrop to the three very comfortable looking seats on stage, waiting and poised for the bums of de Sousa Santos, Gross Stein and Medina. The look of the discussion was high-tech meets money meets tweed meets warm comfortable pillowed seats with a splash of antique. I felt like I was in someone’s den. Well, ok. Maybe not. But I was cozy.

.3. I tried to eavesdrop on his conversation, hoping that I would just “get smart” by some sort of air carrying and generated state of osmosis, but hearing him talk about how he liked his coffee did nothing for me.

.4. Janice Gross Stein is a very polite and happy lady who sits at the edge of her seat and wears really cute little brown slightly open toed sandals (with white nylons). I couldn’t see her rose colored glasses, so I can only assume she was wearing contact lenses. For the duration of the discussion, I wasn’t sure if I was waiting for her to put up her hand or break into show tunes. Having said that, I will also say that she really is a lovely lady and I enjoyed listening to her.

.5. If ever you are having a conversation with de Souza Santos and you hear him say “Eye-Raqi”, know that he is really saying “hierarchy”.

.6. Who is Ann Medina? I believe I am out of some kind of loop on this one.

.7. Was slightly disappointed for the conversation was very apolitical, and done so on purpose. At one point, de Sousa Santos said “fraudulent American elections” and everyone in tweed started fluttering. Ann Medina bulldozed that train of thought in nano-seconds.

.8. A lot of old Montreal money present (donors, perhaps). As D put it, when you covered their faces, you thought you were looking at 20 year olds, but when you took your thumb away, you realized they were…old.

.9. The most intelligent and entertaining part of the entire discussion was de Sousa Santos’ opening remarks. He took it upon himself to deconstruct and then reformulate the question posed by the organizers. Look it up and read about it if you’re interested enough…

.10. Hightailed it out of there as soon as the discussion was over. Downtown Montreal has always been more appealing than a reception with too many pearls and too much wine…and lacking politics.

The Single Girl's Wedding

.1. Over the past 5 and a half months, I’ve had the pleasure of attending eight weddings. Of those eight, there may have been one or two I could have done without. Naturally, and due to the nature of the game (& the way mum raised me), I attended even those I would have rather avoided

At the more noxious weddings, I smiled, congratulated, kissed, and danced my night away as though there were nowhere else I’d rather be. How else is one to behave when there is nothing to do but shake one’s behind and forget that one is at a wedding of folks one will most likely never see again?

Suddenly, I feel as though am an orator.

Anyway. I’ve realized that there’s nothing I enjoy more than being asked why I’m single. Depending on my mood, I usually teeter between “No one thinks I’m worthy of love” or “I thought I’d do something productive with my life.” Oddly, both responses produce the same result: Vacuous glazed stares waiting for the punch-line. So as to ease their idiocy, I wait a little while before smiling, then poking the women in their bellies before saying “Just kidding! I can’t wait till my body changes after I give birth. You look great!”

Yes. I have great capacity to be cruel. It’s the way I protect myself.

My last wedding was this weekend past, one wedding I had been looking forward to and one which I enjoyed immensely. Finally.

.2. God bless Montreal.

Must really one day stay at Le St-Sulpice, because I think it just might be the most handsome hotel in Montreal.

But it should be in the summer heat of that City...it just fits better.

Montreal wedding

.1. Another wedding over (4 down, 3 to go)…and will start taking bets on who’s going to get divorced first. With 7 weddings in one summer, the odds are quite slim that all 14 of these people will grow old together.

.2. Friday’s wedding was the nicest of the four thus far; it was at Chateau Vaudreille (am certain I spelled – spelt? -- that incorrectly) right outside of Montreal, and the ceremony was on the waterfront…just beautiful. The duration of the evening was an absolute riot; ran into some old friends I’d not seen in quite some time and that made for an amazing dinner. Laughed myself silly, tried to do the tango, learned to make birds out of napkins, did a lot of dancing, and enjoyed way too much salmon, cola and coffee until 2 a.m. (none of which I regret). Bride was gorgeous, groom was stressing & I can’t wait for them to come back from their honeymoon.

.3. Humidity does not become me…or my hair.

.4. Diamonds are not a girl’s best friend (sadly, neither are Manolos); bobby pins are.

.5. Came up against that dancing problem, yet again. This time, it was like dancing among live wire; too scared to shimmy this way or shake that way, in case I ran into one of the live wires and caught whatever it was they had. I think I know the secret to dancing well: the farther one is away from the centre of gravity, the less likely they will dance properly, or possess any rhythm. Naturally, the closer you are to the centre of gravity, the more rhythm God will have granted your small frame.

At one point, I thought one gentleman was actually (I kid you not) making fun of dancing…and so, he was dancing all weird like to prove that ‘funny’ dancing. Two and a half hours later, I realized he wasn’t kidding. I almost started crying.

.6. ‘Rhythm’ is a tricky word to spell.

.7. I said this on Friday night, and I will type this out now: When a woman is bellydancing, the male serves no purpose (other than as the receptor of seduction) outside of an accessory.

It should be as follows:
Women bellydance, men appear somber and clap.
Women bellydance, men get on their knees and clap. Women bellydance, men smile and clap.

A man should never, ever, ever try to match a female as she bellydances. At most, and I mean this seriously, a man should put his hands up and out (Zorba the Greek style) and move around the woman, in time to the beat, and every now and then, he should clap.

If that doesn’t make sense to you, and you’re already far away from the centre of gravity, then simply step away from the dancefloor.

.8. Men in their early 20s are a unique breed, something I’d not noticed when I was in my early 20s. A lot of testosterone, and not too much of anything else. They travel (& dance) in packs. I can’t imagine how I made it past 24 without realizing this.

.9. My mum really enjoyed herself and that was a treat to watch.

Montreal's Random Notes

.1. Friday afternoon: I decided to walk along Sainte-Catherine, from Berri-UQAM to R's place. I'd never done that before, and was faced with some really interesting sites along the way:
- I was chased for about a block and a half by what may have been a pimp;
- I was nearly run over by two skateboarders (and then got to watch as an older -- somewhat crotchety -- woman yelled at said skateboarders);
- I was yelled at by one gentlemen because my wallet was at the bottom of my backpack and I didn't have change to give him; and,
- I made the mistake of standing before a certain shop for too long wondering what the colourful jellied objects were before looking up at the sign and figuring out I wasn't in Kansas anymore.

.2. Just for Laughs was on and buskers were everywhere during my walk down Sainte-Catherine. Not only was I (& my backpack) drenched from the rain, I was accosted by a resident clown who was carrying a massive water gun. While eyeing the clown, I lumbered to my slight right because I wanted to give him room to run past me. I didn't realise he was actually running at me...and when he reached me, he took the liberty of smashing me over the head with a soft spongy pink baton and then proceeded to make sure the parts of me that weren't already soaked, would become so at the tip of his water gun.

I have a strong dislike of clowns...but I love Montreal, and there were little children who really thought what he was doing was hysterical, so I played along and pretended I was dying by water gun.

.3. I love shopping. I was on a treasure hunt: emerald green satin wedge heels that would wrap around my ankle. I really thought I would find these little gems in Montreal, but had no such luck. Am still on a wild goose chase and am determined to find them.

.4. St-Laurent on Friday evening was...exhausting & fun.

Bent

Two days back, I had an appointment at one of the buildings on St. Catherine Street in Montreal. Once finished, I had some time to kill before meeting E for lunch. I decided to grab my preferred brand of triple shot, no fat, no foam grande latte and take a spill through the shops.

As I walked, I was watching people around me: a strangely petite man with a latte larger than himself, a woman sneering at what would soon be her ‘ex’, some construction boys in front of the chip wagon and smokers adorning the full frontal of every building.

Then, like a vision, I noticed one woman swaying down the street. She was wearing white jean hip huggers and fitted baby blue top, gorgeous full and shiny hair down to her shoulders, and a tiny little purse slung over her wrist. I was about 15 feet away from her and we were both headed in the same direction and so for a full block, I got to watch her sway through the crowd, flipping her hair every time she hesitated to move at a quick pace. I was fascinated with her movements: every man who walked past her (from either direction) was staring.

I was curious to see her face. I wanted to see how beautiful a woman with such confidence was, or just how beautiful her self-confidence may have made an otherwise normal face. And so my moment approached. She was standing at a street light, waiting for it to give her gracious sway the right of way…I sped up to make certain I would get a glimpse of the head that was carried by those hips.

As I approached, I was trying to figure out a way to get a clear look, without actually tapping her on the shoulder and then running away, giggling. Luckily, she made it easy…as soon as I landed on the corner to her left, she turned, gave me a once-over, a wink and a “nice shoes”…only, she was a man, a stunning Asian man.

We were given the right of way, and I simply stood on the street corner and watched as Mr. Sashay glided across the street without me, flipping his hair to the left as his hips shimmied to the right.

More feminine than I, had nicer hair than I, and knew how to start conversations with complete strangers more. Than. I. What could I do but cross the street in the other direction and wonder: Is he my competition? Is this what single women are up against in 2004? Do we have to dislocate our hips so that we may sway 2 mm more than that guy?

And more importantly, when did it become acceptable for 99% of the male population to check out other men who were so completely queer?

I never used to believe it, but maybe single-dumb really is a bitch.