Who was Cassandra?
In the Iliad, she is described as the loveliest of the daughters
of Priam (King of Troy), and gifted with prophecy. The god Apollo
loved her, but she spurned him. As a punishment, he decreed
that no one would ever believe her. So when she told her fellow
Trojans that the Greeks were hiding inside the wooden horse...well,
you know what happened.
the cassandra pages
words, pictures, and a life
Saturday, May 29, 2004
POSTERS FOR L'ECOLE NATIONALE DE CIRQUE (National Circus School)
Oh, winding down, winding down and it's so sad! Just one more night here, after this one. This evening we walked to our new neighborhood; it was cold here, but a sparkling night with a bright moon and stars that winked through the tree leaves. There were many cyclists out on the bike paths, and through the lace curtains of the houses we were able to get occasional glances into the lives of people on the Plateau, or hear the chatter of voices, music playing, a tenor practicing his arias.
We walked down the grand allee that leads to the fountain in the middle of the lake in Parc de la Fontaine and stood on the overlook for a while, watching the lights play in the tall jets of water, blown this way and that by gusts of wind. I don't think either of us really believes that we're going to come back and spend blocks of time here; it just seems too impossible. Of course, in January the walk we took tonight will be close to life-threatening, but that will make the warm sake at our favorite Japanese restaurant all the more inviting.
This afternoon we saw a newly-opened exhibit at the contemporary art museum, and were invited to take part in an open art workshop in the classroom. That was a lot of fun; there were three other adults and a high school class visiting from Manhattan, and we all worked on a collage project using photocopies of different views of the current, and past four, buildings that have housed the contemporary art museum. There is almost always a class going on there; we've looked through the window many times at the eager schoolchildren and the white-coated instructors, and enjoyed the projects that are often posted in a neaby exhibit space, but it was a lot more fun to actually take part and be able to talk to the instructors about the museum's education program.
After that we wandered around the periphery of a huge contruction site for a new science complex for UQAM (university of Quebec at Montreal). Taking pictures, and then spent a fine, completely unpressured hour at an Oriental rug dealer who was advertising a "liquidation sale". I love looking at carpets as much as I love looking at paintings, and we were fortunate to find a low-key but knowledgeable salesman who enjoyed talking about the trade and the specific rugs; we ended up in the upstairs gallery, sitting on piles of carpets, talking about Armenia. Then we came home and helped our landlady finish the small deck she's making in her garden.
Tomorrow night we're making dinner for our landlady's family and our neighbor, and then it will be time to clean the apartment, pack up, and say au revoir.
This morning we worked, made lunch, and then I went off by myself for a long - very long, as it turned out - walk. My destination was Waldman's, the best poissonerie (fish market) in Montreal (so I've read) but to get there I walked through the picturesque streets of our new neighborhood, took a long stroll through Parc de la Fontaine (where the beautiful fountain in the lake had just been turned on for the summer), and then across a good chunk of town on rue Roy, which has some interesting cafes and restaurants on its corners, finally coming to Blvd. St. Laurent and the famous fish market.
I have to explain that I am a fish market lover. Maybe it comes from growing up landlocked, far from the ocean, but still fond of fishing and fish. When I was in Paris, many years ago, one of my favorite things to do was wander along the fish stalls on Rue de Seine, gazing at the glistening piles of still-bright-eyed fish, the coral-colored langoustines, the spiny sea urchins. Today's destination didn't have the atmosphere of those wonderful Paris markets, but it had more fish, of more varieties, than I've ever seen, as well as octopus and squid, salted fish and frozen fish, and bags of fruits de mer, and eels, and live lobster. It was in a large, concrete-floored room with many counters and boxes where the fish were laid out and nearly covered with shaved ice: flat white flounder, whole salmon, huge tuna and shark ready to be cut into steaks, piles of silvery sardines, snow crabs moving their blue claws ever so slowly. I have no idea how to cook many of these fish; maybe if I become a good customer when we're here and ask a lot of questions I'll learn. Today I felt incomprehensibly shy, and bought only a filet of salmon.
In yesterday's comments, Butuki wrote, "Is there anyone who can explain to me in terms that make sense just why things are so dangerous in the United States?" When I wrote the previous post, I hadn't yet read one of Denny's about living dangerously in Miami. There is no doubt in my mind that Canadian society is much gentler than ours, even in rural New England. I don't know the answer either, but it seems to me that one reason is that there is much less of a gap here between rich and poor, as well as less mythology about equal opportunity, which in the US so often leads to expectation, dashed hopes, and despair. The gap between promise and reality is so big, and getting bigger: how can it not lead to anger and violence? One clear difference is that there seems to be less awareness of economic class here. I noticed this yesterday, when we (the affluent new condo owners) had hired the services of an inspector. In the US, this person would be basically working-class, and unless we already knew him I doubt there would have been such a peer-like conversation or such ease among strangers; he would have been obsequious or he might have had a chip on his shoulder; there would have been some kind of social tension whether we wanted it or not.
In the US, the media presents a vision of "success" and glamour as if it is attainable by everyone, selling a manufactured idea of attractiveness and power that would turn every regular Joe into Donald Trump. This utterly unattainable vision is in the face of everyone, rich and poor, educated or not, immigrant or long-term citizen, and it seeps into every aspect of our lives. Along with the vision comes desire - and unrealized, impossible desire turns into a growing sense of failure and frustration. Besides, the desire never ends, no matter how affluent one has become.
Along with frustration, another major factor that breeds violence is an atmosphere of competitiveness and aggressiveness, and an acceptance of violence as a way to solve disputes or express one's dissatisfaction or frustration. I still think the violence of TV, films and video games is the most important factor in teaching that violence is acceptable, even entertaining. And while repertory films are still very popular here, for example, as well as music and art that are affordable and appreciated by nearly everyone, regardless of position, the big cinemas are showing all the American blockbusters, most of which are filled with blood and violence. It feels, to people like Serge yesterday, like a tidal wave.
One amusing aside: Last night we were at the playground in the park with G. and Marie. Several times, walking by in the evenings, I had heard classical music coming from a big loudspeaker on the outside of the community building adjacent to the playground, and I asked G. about this. She didn’t know about it, but she said, “Recently they’ve been playing classical music in the metro because some experts said that it creates “calm” for “tout le monde” and might reduce the chance of youths acting out, or aggressive incidents. Maybe,” she said, “ they decided that playing classical music in the park might keep the children calmer, or that it might keep bad elements away here too!”
Wednesday, May 26, 2004 Conversation and scorekeeping during a softball game at the park
It's been years since we bought a house, and doing it in a foreign country, in a different language, is quite an experience. Yesterday we met with the real estate agent to go over the condominium co-ownership agreement and rules and most recent minutes - all of which are in French, with a lot of technical terms. Today I had to set an appointment for the closing with a notaire, the type of lawyer who handles property matters - that was also mostly in French.
In the afternoon we had a building inspection by a structural engineer. This is not required, but it's recommended for all property transactions. As it turned out, the inspector, Serge, was a great guy who hit it off with us immediately - possibly because he is an amateur but avid photographer who was very interested in J.'s digital camera. With him we had a complete tour of the building's exterior and interior, and in the process learned a great deal about Montreal's building regulations, techniques of construction, soil types and their effect on structures, potential problems caused by the extreme winters, security, and all sorts of regulations and costs - very different from back home - about electricity, water, sprinkler systems, fire codes, plumbing, venting, roofs...it was quite enlightening. Afterwards, on the street, we talked for close to another hour about politics and culture, gaining a number of restaurant recommendations and trading more camera talk.
Nearly all our interactions have been like this - professional, but very laid back, with plenty of time for informal, friendly chit-chat. The inspection was supposed to take one hour. It ended up being three, and we were charged for one.
The most surprising thing we learned was about security. Most buildings have alarm systems, but when we asked about the potential for break-ins Serge told us, "Because the Plateau is an affluent area, once in a while there will be a theft, but it's not common. Put a sign in your window 'prenez garde du chien' - beware of the dog. And you have an alarm system, and the police are right down the street. You'll be fine."
"Are they armed robberies?" I asked.
He looked totally shocked. "No!" he said. "People in Canada don't have guns. In fact, it's so rare that this winter when there was a hostage situation during an attempted theft at a convenience store in Westmount, it was all over the papers all across Canada. No, no, it's not like in the U.S." Clearly it's not: in our area, we see women biking or walking alone at all hours of the night, and they seem totally unconcerned about their safety.
Another significant event happened yesterday - we finally had a conversation with the owner of that favorite cafe of ours. In fact, he inititated it - he asked J. where he was from. J. told him we were American but that his parents were Syrian and Armenian. As you may remember we have thought the proprietor was Turkish. But, as it turned out, he is Iraqi.
J. brought my moussaka to the table and told me all of this while we ate; meanwhile, the proprietor sat down at one of the small marble cafe tables near two patrons who were playing chess, where he was joined by an elderly man, a retired McGill professor perhaps, who was also watching the intense game. Afterwards we took our dishes back to the counter, and I asked the first question I've addressed to him that wasn't about food: "Is your family all right?"
"Yes," he said. "They are in Baghdad. Right now most of the trouble seems to be in the south. But after June 30, maybe it will be better." He looked searchingly at us.
Monday, May 24, 2004
Today, a week before departure, was the first day it hit me that we’re going home soon. I really have not thought much about my Other Life since we’ve been here; it’s been more like feeling successive layers of stress fall from my shoulders, like winter clothes, and seeing a new, lighter “me” emerge. I don’t want to go back to the way things felt before, and that is going to be the challenge.
However, things really can’t go back entirely: we have bought a small apartment – a condominium – in the Plateau Mont Royal, the section of town where we’ve been living. This was a big leap, and a major life decision for two people who have lived in the same house, in the same village, for the past thirty years. It’s a logical one for us, though, even as we go against the grain by choosing the city for balance, rather than the country. I am ecstatic, and still a little bit in shock that we actually did this. The closing won’t be until July or August, and we won’t be back up here until then. The other part of this decision will be a continued simplification of our life back home; I want to get rid of everything superfluous or un-needed, and to do everything we can to streamline our life there. One thing we’ve come to realize this month is how much the responsibility of owning an old, fairly large house weighs on us. If it’s not ice dams and the roof, it’s clay soil and drainage problems in the basement…the list is endless. It’s also clear to me that I need to re-assess all of my commitments, and to begin to say more “no”s.
Today we drove out to the outer part of the city to the local IKEA, and did some snooping around for furniture – didn’t buy anything, but had fun. Montreal has a population of 3 ½ million (I think) but a rather small downtown; the city is spread out horizontally across the flat floodplain of the St. Lawrence, and it’s only when you get out of the center that you realize how far it goes on. Out there it is a rather ugly sea of warehouses, low office buildings and manufacturing plants, with occasional malls and service areas criss-crossed by the big interstate highways. In the suburban areas the city is quite different; in spite of the French signs it feels more like any industrialized North American city where car-culture reigns. In the inner city, the feeling is entirely other, with the graceful wrought-iron balconies, lace-curtained doors, and residential streets of walk-up brick buildings, rarely more than three stories high.
Our new building, though, is modern; a bow we made to the need to be able to turn the key and leave without worries. It feels like the start of a new way of life to me; I’m still pinching myself.
On summer Sundays, Parc Mont-Royal, the largest and most central of the big city parks, is taken over by thousands of Montrealers who come to be part of Tam-Tam, an African drumming -- umm, what would you call it? -- happening. Drummers of all ages and all personal styles come together with a relaxed, social crowd for an afternoon of drumming, dancing, talking, hacky-sack games, Frisbee-throwing, juggling, and just general lazing around. Sometimes all the drummers – literally hundreds of them – gather at the base of the big monument where, following an expert leader, they pick up a unison rhythm and pattern augmented by improvisation by experts and other instrumentalists who happen to come along. Each “beat” goes on, with elaborations, for ten or fifteen minutes, with a dancing crowd in front, and then changes to something different. All around the periphery of the monument, hippie vendors sell everything from Indian clothing to Nicaraguan hammocks and handmade jewelry, and beyond, on the grass and in the woods that cover the sides of the actual mountain that gave Montreal its name, a huge, good-natured party goes on.
After such a long and harsh winter, it’s easy to understand the joy with which Montrealers greet good weather, and the verve with which they enjoy it. Despite the size of the crowd, I’ve never seen any incidents; people look out for each other; there are old people there and lots of families with children; and alcohol is forbidden in the park (although you do smell another substance occasionally.) There are usually a few cops casually wandering through, and they do enforce the alcohol rule. Today we saw two of them stopping at one of the vendor’s stalls, flashing badges and holding out papers. At first, being Americans I guess, we immediately thought, “Oh, wow, they’re busting somebody.” Then, when we saw them move on to the next stall, we decided they were checking to see if the vendors had the requisite permits. Wrong again. They were going through the crowd holding a picture of a girl who was apparently missing, trying to find out if anyone had seen her. I hope they had some success.
Our visiting friends left around 7:30 pm, feeling, I think, as if they had had a whirlwind culinary, cultural, and leg-stretching tour of the city. Today we took them for a metro ride, toured Chinatown and had a dim sum lunch, then showed them the Place des Arts, the cultural center for classical concerts, dance, and contemporary art; walked up to Tam-Tam; and then came back to the little café I’ve written about before for a quick bite before heading back here on the metro. I’m happy to report that the proprietor of the café not only recognized us this time, but waved to us through the window the other day as we walked past. We still don’t know where he’s from, but it’s almost beginning to feel like we’re “regulars”.
Our good friends and neighbors from home are visiting us, and yesterday we took them on a tour of the market and our favorite shops for food, came back here for wine and cheese and cherries with our neighbors and landlady, and then went out for Turkish food ("we want to eat something we've never eaten")in the late evening. Being very good sports, they wanted to try any famous local dishes, so we thought that was an occasion for leaping into the world of poutine.
For those who have never heard of it, poutine, Quebec's national dish, is a heart-stopping platter or bowl of french fries, covered with gravy and cheese curds. I had only tasted it once, years ago, in a little roadside cafe just across the border from Isle la Motte in Lake Champlain. Once was enough. Yesterday, though, we ordered a bowl and everyone ate some. The fries, from a place called Frites Alors! were perfect, the gravy tasty but, well, weird - who wants soggy French fries? - and the cheese curds just over-the-top in fat and caloric content. But, you know, that's on a warm nearly-summer day. Ask me again in February; poutine might be just the ticket.
11:59 AM
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