Spring fever…

At lunch time today, I went for a walk along rue Jean-Talon to browse in a couple of the pile-em-high grocery stores. One was Wal-Mart, the other was one belonging to the budget chain of the company I work for. Ours was bright, modern, clean and well stocked with fresh produce in the ‘Marché’ half of the store. It was, however, largely empty. Wal-Mart, by comparison, was depressingly crowded to the roof. Not just with shoppers, but with merchandise (bathroom tissue, nappies, tyres… you name it) piled in the aisles.

Outside in the parking lots, the very last of Montréal’s snow is finally melting (we are predicted 16C tomorrow) under the warm rays of a sun shining in clean blue skies. In front of this Sears Décor you can see the sad impression the snow gives. As the snow is ploughed throughout the winter, it picks up the grit spread to provide grip in icy weather (not to mention litter and the odd shopping trolley). These massive banks of snow (sometimes three or four metres tall… see this post for more) are now receding and reducing, but the grit and litter and shopping carts remain. What was once a shining white mountain has reduced to a dirty grey mass. Winter has passed too quickly this year, and it has left some ugly reminders.

Since it’s spring, things are changing. I put it down in some part to this magical week, during which Europe has advanced to summer time, but in which North America will remain without daylight saving for until next weekend. Everything is buzzing… Ryan and I have both independently started cleaning and bustling around the apartment in a frenzied state, desirous of some kind of change. Some of the plants we have come closest to killing off (despite love, attention and water) are now on the balcony benefitting from sun and fresh air. The cats are celebrating the warmer weather by molting hair at an incredible rate, and we remain amazed that there is anything left of Cucu (who molts all year round) considering the amount of hair she is leaving on anything that touches or strokes her. And we hear that across the Atlantic, French society is beginning to grind to a halt and fall apart. Simmering sentiments of angst have found an outlet in the streets, which is surely a more enjoyable and social thing to do now that the days are getting longer.

Most weeknights at 2300hr, I listen to the Prémiere Chaîne of Société Radio-Canada broadcast the news from Radio France Internationale in Paris. For an organisation so renowed for it’s journalism and news reporting, no-one in the SRC seemed to have noticed that due to stike action, the RFI programme from Paris was replaced tonight with a pre-programmed selection of music. I am left without my nightly news from Europe, and without the personal amusement of hearing the RFI announcer remind me that Paris is now seven hours ahead of us. As I lie here in my bed typing this post before I turn the light off, a distant friend in Paris will soon be getting up to go to work (assuming the architects haven’t gone on strike that is…)

*j*

From somewhere to somewhere, via nowhere

“SOUTHBOUND… SOUTHBOUND…” The grey-haired conductor heaves his voice across the platform, just in case the six passengers joining train 68 might have mistaken this train for the only other passenger service to pass through Plattsburgh, New York today; the northbound 71 back to Montréal, which will arrive in a few hours time. I watch as the little yellow steps are taken away from the edge of the track, and the train manager calls “Train 68: Highball” through his radio. At the other end of the five carraige train, a rumbling whine picks up, and the shabby but still sleek silver train disappears around a corner and out of view. A handful of college students disperse, returning to warmer student accomodation after saying farewell to weekending friends from New York City.

I climb up a grassy embankment and find myself on an empty street, residential on one side and with a view across the railway track to the Plattsburgh Water Pollution Control Plant on the other. Not owning a car, and prefering more esoteric days out from Montréal, I’ve found myself here, in upstate New York, on a day trip to the USA. For a British kid who grew up in awe of the idea of trans-Atlantic flights to New York and Florida, I can still get a kick out of the proximity of the USA to my new home in Montréal. In search of middle America, I’ve come here.

Small town America defines the USA, and the USA defines small town America. There are clean, broad, well maintained streets. There’s a recently closed movie theatre with the old projector leaning against the wall in the darkened and partly demolished foyer. There are few pedestrians on a Sunday stroll. Yellow traffic signals hang over intersections. Useful street signs advise you to ‘Yield to the Blind’ and photocopied placards in shop windows encourage denizens to ‘Stop Hate’. All British people have some sort of love affair with the USA, even if they resent the very idea of itself that this nation currently projects. My love affair is declared and fulfilled here, on quiet Sunday afternoons in the places trans-Atlantic tourists have no reason to visit.

I find a crowded looking second hand bookstore that could distract me for hours. I desperately try to find one paperback so that I can get out without spending too much time. A old copy of Lewis Mumford’s ‘Sticks and Stones - a history of American Architecture and Culture’ grabs my eye, and I buy it with the other essential souvenirs of esoteric day-trip: the ugliest postcard I can find (the University of Plattsburgh’s concrete campus) and a copy of yesterday’s local paper, the ‘Press-Republican’. To complete the picture, the weekly edition of the ‘Prairie Home Companion’ is on the radio.

A cluster of early twentieth century walk-up buildings channel the wind in between the streets, very rarely whipping up any litter (because there is none). The two large churches in the town centre are empty after their morning services, and the doors are firmly closed. Few shops and restaurants are open. The one diner that looked set to satisfy my desire for some good old mom-and-pop cuisine (probably with free refills of weak black coffee) looked promising, but it closes at lunchtime on Sundays.

The schedule of Amtrak’s Adirondack service (daily between Montréal and New York, one way fares to New York US$60 adult, US$51 student; Montréal to Plattsburgh US$16 and US$13.60) gives Montréal based visitors to Plattsburgh two hours and fifteen minutes between trains; with a bit less on Sundays. However, forced to run on privately owned tracks that give priority to freight trains, Amtrak are not renowned for their time-keeping. Don’t be surprised if you turn up at an Amtrak station for a scheduled departure and find it empty. Regular passengers know to call a 1-800 number and speak with Julie, Amtrak’s automated agent, to get accurate train running information before even showing up. I find a payphone without difficulty, but Julie does seem to have problems with my accent…

“And you want to know the train status for which station?”
“Plattsburgh, New York”
“I think you said Fort Edward, New York. Is that correct?”

Despite some personal misgivings, I’m drawn to the only remaining option for lunch: Geoffrey’s British Pub on the corner of Broad and Peru Streets. A clear six out of ten is awarded for effort, but such mis-interpreted items on the menu as ‘Toad-in-a-hole’ (’a type of British sausage roll made with filo pastry’) only emphasise the sense of removal.

“So, can I get you something to eat?”
“Yes, I’ll have the Ploughman’s Lunch, please…”
“Pardon me?”
“The Ploughman’s Lunch.”
“I’m really sorry, what did you say?”

We huddle over the menu, and I find the item.

“OHHHH…. the PloughMAN’s Lunch. And would you like something to drink?”
“A pint of Old Speckled Hen, please.”
“Pardon me?”
“That one there…”

I don’t rush back to the station. Sure enough the station attendant has a laminated sign in the window of the waiting room advising that the train is expected sometime after 3.00pm (thirty minutes late). After another verbal contretemps with Julie, I eventually extract the information that the train should pull in at 3.07pm.

With a few minutes to spare, I walk down to the docks, and meander through a yard of yachts and small boats that are wintering out of the icy water on their trailers. The sky is grey, and Lake Champlain is greyer, but in the distance across the water the mountains of Vermont seem to bring shades of blue to this monochrome scene. I turn on my heels, and walk back through the crisp air, gulls cawing above my head, to sit outside the station and wait for my train. For such an unreliable service, Julie’s prediction was frighteningly accurate. I climbed up into the warm carraige, found a vast squishy coach class seat, and watched the landscape of upstate New York slip by, becoming Québec at some indiscernable point between the USA and Canadian customs points. As we waited for everyone to be checked, the sun came out.

Spring approaches…

…and it’s warm enough (just) to dry clothes outside.

Launch of the Space Shuttle Caffeine

When someone comes to visit, we feel obliged to do a number of Montréal specific activities. A pichet and a poutine; a walk through the Mont-Royal Park etc. Today is Gem’s last full day in the city, so while Ryan went off to spend seven hours ‘helping the deaf’, Gem and I took the métro to Jean-Talon Market. I’ve not been since before Christmas, finding the reduced size of the market a little depressing and crowded inside the temporary winter walls. I’ve also become a regular at a number of fresh food stores on avenue du Mont Royal instead, finding equal quality and prices right on my doorstep.

But I was happy to show this Montréal landmark this morning, because we needed to get something that’s a little harder to find on Mont Royal. Between Jean-Talon métro and the market is a crowded little shop that is piled high with cheap electrical goods. No famous brand-names here, just cheap and cheerful important Chinese household electricals that may or may not have fallen off the back of a truck during some part of their round the world journey to Montréal. This week, during a particularly vigorous session of dish washing, I managed to break the glass jug of Charlotte’s coffee maker. Various enquiries this week have made me realise the cost of a replacement jug is about equal to the cost of a new coffee maker. Much to my chagrin, I am now a participant in this horrid throw-it-away consumer culture (although I will hold on to the functioning coffee maker in case we see a jug that’s affordable).

In a moment of tough decisions that reminded me of my car buying dilemma (see God Bless All Who Sail In Her for the result of my Skoda versus Saab decision), I was forced to choose between a) white-and-frumpy or b) shiny-and-sexy (in as much as a coffee maker can be either frumpy or sexy, that is).

So here she is. And bloody hell, is that one intimidating coffee maker. The summary of features on the box pretty much explains the amount of excitement we’re going to be having every morning from now on.

• Special Cleaning Cycle - makes cleaning your coffeemaker quick and easy
• On/Off Indicator Light - Lets you know when your coffeemaker is “on” and “off”
• 2-Hour Auto Shut Off - Keeps your coffee hot for two hours then automatically shuts off
• Brew Strength Selector - Adjust the brewing time to create a more full flavoured coffee
• Adjustable Temperature Warmer Plate Control - Lets you keep coffee at the temperature you like after brewing
• Audible Ready Signal - Beeps when your coffee is ready
• etc etc etc etc etc

Excelling in the workplace…

Hey… look at this… with some help from A.L, my new best when it comes to unnecessarilly long and complex Excel formulas:

=SI(MAX(R4;T4;V4;X4;Z4;AB4;AD4;AF4)-MIN(R4;T4;V4;X4;Z4;AB4;AD4;AF4)=0;”";
(MAX(R4;T4;V4;X4;Z4;AB4;AD4;AF4)-MIN(R4;T4;V4;X4;Z4;AB4;AD4;AF4))/
(MIN(R4;T4;V4;X4;Z4;AB4;AD4;AF44)))

Now we’re sucking diesel… ;)

*j*