Driving in the city of Montreal is nothing like walking through it. On foot, blocks seem longer, cars are dangerous metal bullets, and the right footwear can make our break you. I have learned the hard way that in winter snow rugged tread can save the exhaustion of slipping all up and down the city sidewalks.
Driving on the other hand comes with its own characteristics. Rather than curse the cars for cutting me off while I stroll across the sidewalk, I angrily wait for slow walkers to clear the path. When parking I notice the unusual system of parking meters and have become wary of those small orange signs that pop up out of nowhere indicating a parking ban for snow removal. There is a steep fine for not noticing those signs, believe me, I’ve learned the hard way.
Yet having a car in the city does come with a few perks. A heavy winter jacket can be traded for something a bit less practical and more stylish. I can wear heels and not worry about slipping on ice and falling on my face, and most importantly grocery shopping doesn’t mean that I have to haul bags upon bags of groceries back to my dorm.
That’s why this weekend, with a car at my disposal, I traveled to the Atwater Marche to do some fresh grocery shopping. The trip was actually unplanned, but after a quick lunch at my favorite microbrewery Le 3 Brasseurs with some visiting friends, we jumped in the car and decided to visit the famous market.
I had first heard about Atwater when doing some research on the city while still in Vermont. It is famous for its large outdoor market in the summer as well as super fresh produce, meats, and dairy products. The building is noticeable from a mile away. A huge cement column raises high in to the sky spelling out “Atwater.” We parked our Jeep in a very confusing parking lot and made out way into the building. As soon as the front door opened a terrific kaleidoscope of colors lay before us. Flowers of every variety were displayed in one vendor’s booth and they smelled otherworldly.
The level we had entered on resembled a crowded, colorful hallway with vendors selling fruits, vegetables, and flowers lining one side and doors to actual shops lining the other. The shops were encased in glass and I got a good view of the selection offered without even having to enter the store. Great organic and healthy options filled these stores and they resembled the co-ops I know from Vermont. Liberte Yogurt, soy milk options, hundreds of varieties of designer cheeses were just a few of the items I saw. The vendors displayed their produce like gems. Asparagus was held in bundles with bale rope, strawberries cradled in small baskets, and the zucini and squash were stacked tall like green and yellow bricks.
Delis selling smoked meats, both cooked and uncooked, completed the second floor. Row upon row of meat vendors offered some mouth-watering rib eyes and ground beef. Some even sold pre-sauced ribs for an unbelievable price. It was hard to resist snatching up the beautifully displayed food and go home to create a culinary masterpiece like a Food Network chef. I restrained myself though and only bought the items I had ventured to the market for: fresh fruit.
Surprisingly, the place was un-crowded, though I could attribute this to the lateness of a Sunday afternoon. In any case the excursion was unforgettable and I left with a large amount of very fresh apples, honeydew melon, pineapple, dried mango, and freshly sliced smoke turkey. I know that this trip is going to be repeated many times, with or without a car. While the market is certainly a long distance from the dorm, there is a metro station not too far from Atwater. The metro has its own set of characteristics, but I’ll save that experience for another day.
--b--
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Distance Makes the Heart Grow Fonder: Leaving Canada for a Weekend
I left Montreal for the first time since my arrival this weekend. To put it simply, leaving was the best thing I’ve done in a long time. Now I’m hardly saying this in a negative way. In fact, I mean to say that by leaving Montreal for a weekend I learned more about it than I would have if I’d stayed.
In order to describe this I need to first tell you where I went this weekend. I first stopped in Vermont for a night before heading towards New York City to spend some time with a close friend of mine. I was excited to take this mini vacation but I had no idea how much it would affect me.
More or less, the second I crossed the border I experienced a little culture shock. I was entering my home country, my home state, and still I instantly felt that something was different. Even road signs that were written in English I immediately thought of in French. When stopping at a U.S. gas station I pulled out my Canadian money and handed it to the cashier only to be told that “no, we don’t take that here.” The green of a dollar bill I almost forgot. There was not a demand for “loonies” and “toonies” (a one and a two dollar coin in case you didn’t know).
My friend had made a few mix CDs for the long trip. His CDs were comprised of our favorite songs and some oldies but goodies. I asked him “who does this song” about seven million times and what was the reply? “Oh this group from Nova Scotia,” or “this dude from Montreal.” Anne Marie, DTM, Nelly Fertado, and Shania Twain (my guy friend admits to loving “Still the One") all these artists that played track after track were Canadian. It looked like Canada was everywhere.
Upon finally arriving in New York City I would have assumed that my slight culture shock would have worn off. This wasn’t the case. Walking down the crowed city streets of Times Square I kept hearing bits of French conversation like the background hum I was used to hearing in Montreal. Yet these folks weren’t speaking French at all. I repeatedly asked my friend if he heard them speak French and he assured me that they were not. Was I going a little crazy?
No, I don’t think that I was going crazy at all. I think that by leaving the country for a few days I was able to take a look at the culture from a fresh perspective. I never would have noticed these differences had I opted to not study abroad in Montreal. Who would have known that such a mini-vacation could end up teaching me more about Canada than I would have expected?
--b--
In order to describe this I need to first tell you where I went this weekend. I first stopped in Vermont for a night before heading towards New York City to spend some time with a close friend of mine. I was excited to take this mini vacation but I had no idea how much it would affect me.
More or less, the second I crossed the border I experienced a little culture shock. I was entering my home country, my home state, and still I instantly felt that something was different. Even road signs that were written in English I immediately thought of in French. When stopping at a U.S. gas station I pulled out my Canadian money and handed it to the cashier only to be told that “no, we don’t take that here.” The green of a dollar bill I almost forgot. There was not a demand for “loonies” and “toonies” (a one and a two dollar coin in case you didn’t know).
My friend had made a few mix CDs for the long trip. His CDs were comprised of our favorite songs and some oldies but goodies. I asked him “who does this song” about seven million times and what was the reply? “Oh this group from Nova Scotia,” or “this dude from Montreal.” Anne Marie, DTM, Nelly Fertado, and Shania Twain (my guy friend admits to loving “Still the One") all these artists that played track after track were Canadian. It looked like Canada was everywhere.
Upon finally arriving in New York City I would have assumed that my slight culture shock would have worn off. This wasn’t the case. Walking down the crowed city streets of Times Square I kept hearing bits of French conversation like the background hum I was used to hearing in Montreal. Yet these folks weren’t speaking French at all. I repeatedly asked my friend if he heard them speak French and he assured me that they were not. Was I going a little crazy?
No, I don’t think that I was going crazy at all. I think that by leaving the country for a few days I was able to take a look at the culture from a fresh perspective. I never would have noticed these differences had I opted to not study abroad in Montreal. Who would have known that such a mini-vacation could end up teaching me more about Canada than I would have expected?
--b--
There Certainly Is Always Something To Do Here
So much has happened this week, I don’t even know where to start! I’ve listened to opera in the Metro, I’ve eaten at the famous Schwartz’, I’ve been to Costco (yes, there are even Costco’s in Canada), I’ve been to the largest movie theater I’ve ever seen, I’ve ordered delivery pizza (an adventure unto itself) and I’ve watched the Superbowl with French commentary.
But why stop there? In the last month more has happened than I have had a chance to write about. Kellie and I have explored numerous city streets, sampled espresso all up and down Saint Denis, tried on every pair of shoes on Saint Laurant, made home made putine (pronounced PuTIN by the way, not PuTEEN), gotten lost in rather frightening part of town, danced next to igloos, and wandered the halls of many museums.
We have made a best friend out of the near by Esso gas station attendant “Bad,” who has gotten to know our buying habits of ketchup chips and Nibbletts. Kel and I have traveled to the port and back, and braved many windy snow flurries.
While I write this I can’t help but think that while I seem to have done so much, there is still more that I want to do. How can I make the time to see everything before I have to return to Vermont? I still want to visit the Oratory, shop for fresh produce at the Atwater Marche, ski at Mount Tremblant, ice skate above the city at Mount Royal, and so much more.
Let’s see how much of these I can get done before I go back home! The best part is that new experiences can come out of no where. February is going to be great!
--b--
But why stop there? In the last month more has happened than I have had a chance to write about. Kellie and I have explored numerous city streets, sampled espresso all up and down Saint Denis, tried on every pair of shoes on Saint Laurant, made home made putine (pronounced PuTIN by the way, not PuTEEN), gotten lost in rather frightening part of town, danced next to igloos, and wandered the halls of many museums.
We have made a best friend out of the near by Esso gas station attendant “Bad,” who has gotten to know our buying habits of ketchup chips and Nibbletts. Kel and I have traveled to the port and back, and braved many windy snow flurries.
While I write this I can’t help but think that while I seem to have done so much, there is still more that I want to do. How can I make the time to see everything before I have to return to Vermont? I still want to visit the Oratory, shop for fresh produce at the Atwater Marche, ski at Mount Tremblant, ice skate above the city at Mount Royal, and so much more.
Let’s see how much of these I can get done before I go back home! The best part is that new experiences can come out of no where. February is going to be great!
--b--
Gimme Some Dim Sum!
The line was long. It actually extended around two corners and was about three people wide at any spot. Parents stood while their children kicked in strollers, couples sat next to each other on the small wooden benches that lined one of the walls, and groups of friends laughed while they anxiously shuffled, waiting for their number to be called. Why the wait? These patient people were literally lining up for one of the best Dim Sum restaurants in all of Montreal and somehow I was one of them.
I admit that when I was woken this morning from a deep Sunday sleep I had no idea that I would be headed towards China Town for an adventure into the Asian pallet. But sometimes the best adventures are the surprises. My roommate Zen, a native Chinese student from Beijing, had offered to take Kellie and I out to one of his favorite restaurants for lunch. We were joined by two other Champlain students, Shwa and Alex.
Finally our lunch crew’s number was shouted into the lobby over a microphone, “Number 19! Number 19! 19! 19! 19!” The woman's rapid, urgent voice reminded Shwa of a rodeo caller. I almost agreed.
The host lead us through the crowded dining floor. The entire room was packed from wall to wall with its noisy lunchtime crowd. Huge tables were littered with plates and silver tea kettles. Men half-reclined with their chairs pushed back from their tables, obviously taking in the post-feast stretch.
We picked our way through the crowd towards a back corner table. No sooner had I noticed the great view from our corner window than our first treat arrived. The dish was presented by a woman who spoke a few words of quick Chinese and placed the small, white porcelain bowl on the table. She waved her hand over the curious concoction of mushrooms, noodles, and dark broth. Zen gave her the okay and the dish was ours. She briskly turned away and presented the same dish to a neighboring table. This style of dining is called Dim Sum and is what the restaurant is named after.
The entire meal was presented in this way. Single dishes were brought to our table where we gave the yay or neigh. If we chose to eat the dish a quick mark in blue pen was placed on a white card that sat in the center of our table. This, I would learn later, was our bill. If we chose to pass, the server would move on. The portion style could be related to tapas. Two plates could easily fill me up, yet 7 or 8 could be shared among a small group. At least 25 dishes came our way. We ordered about 12 of them.
Food came at a quick fire place. Dishes flew like frisbees from the waitress cart to our table. Before we knew it our table was a mess of fried noodles, pork bones, bean buns, sticky chicken rice, dumplings, and shrimp rolls, to name a few.
My favorite dish was by far was something that resembled a flakey pastry. The crispy layers were sweetish and hearty. I learned from Zen then the pastry-like wrap was in fact made of egg whites and the dish was a close cousin to the American omelet. I tasted no relation. Still, the dish was by far one of the most unique and delicious plates ordered.
It was clear that none of the food was going to waste. Though we ordered enough food to feed the entire Habs hockey team, almost every scrap was gone by the time we threw down our napkins.
The best part? All that food, that spot on service, and the entire unique experience was only $15 per person. The lines in front of the restaurant should have given it away from the very beginning. I can not wait to go again!
--b--
I admit that when I was woken this morning from a deep Sunday sleep I had no idea that I would be headed towards China Town for an adventure into the Asian pallet. But sometimes the best adventures are the surprises. My roommate Zen, a native Chinese student from Beijing, had offered to take Kellie and I out to one of his favorite restaurants for lunch. We were joined by two other Champlain students, Shwa and Alex.
Finally our lunch crew’s number was shouted into the lobby over a microphone, “Number 19! Number 19! 19! 19! 19!” The woman's rapid, urgent voice reminded Shwa of a rodeo caller. I almost agreed.
The host lead us through the crowded dining floor. The entire room was packed from wall to wall with its noisy lunchtime crowd. Huge tables were littered with plates and silver tea kettles. Men half-reclined with their chairs pushed back from their tables, obviously taking in the post-feast stretch.
We picked our way through the crowd towards a back corner table. No sooner had I noticed the great view from our corner window than our first treat arrived. The dish was presented by a woman who spoke a few words of quick Chinese and placed the small, white porcelain bowl on the table. She waved her hand over the curious concoction of mushrooms, noodles, and dark broth. Zen gave her the okay and the dish was ours. She briskly turned away and presented the same dish to a neighboring table. This style of dining is called Dim Sum and is what the restaurant is named after.
The entire meal was presented in this way. Single dishes were brought to our table where we gave the yay or neigh. If we chose to eat the dish a quick mark in blue pen was placed on a white card that sat in the center of our table. This, I would learn later, was our bill. If we chose to pass, the server would move on. The portion style could be related to tapas. Two plates could easily fill me up, yet 7 or 8 could be shared among a small group. At least 25 dishes came our way. We ordered about 12 of them.
Food came at a quick fire place. Dishes flew like frisbees from the waitress cart to our table. Before we knew it our table was a mess of fried noodles, pork bones, bean buns, sticky chicken rice, dumplings, and shrimp rolls, to name a few.
My favorite dish was by far was something that resembled a flakey pastry. The crispy layers were sweetish and hearty. I learned from Zen then the pastry-like wrap was in fact made of egg whites and the dish was a close cousin to the American omelet. I tasted no relation. Still, the dish was by far one of the most unique and delicious plates ordered.
It was clear that none of the food was going to waste. Though we ordered enough food to feed the entire Habs hockey team, almost every scrap was gone by the time we threw down our napkins.
The best part? All that food, that spot on service, and the entire unique experience was only $15 per person. The lines in front of the restaurant should have given it away from the very beginning. I can not wait to go again!
--b--
Shop 'Til You Drop: Fashion and I In Montreal
I would be lying to say that my favorite past time so far in Montreal isn’t the shopping. I have never been one to resist the temptation of a glamorous window display or to pass by a neon SALE sign. Yet no matter how much I love to spend an entire afternoon rattling clothes hangers I have also never been one to actually buy.
In short, I have a horrible case of perpetual buyers remorse. There is something about the thought of parting with my minimal monetary reservoirs for a pair of buttery brown calf-high boots that I just can’t shake.
I may admire a muted, satin gray, empire waist tank top for a good twenty minutes while a not-enthused sales staff stands buy. My requests for some dark wash straight legs and black mary-jane inspired heels are granted, yet the items almost always left in the dust as price tag phobia settles in.
Yet since I have moved to Montreal I am noticing a little change in my window gazing habits. First of all, it seems that fabulous stores line every block . Mannequins decked out in trendy ensemble beckon from windows left and right. It seems that the mannequins themselves have escaped from their glass show boxes and are perusing the icy sidewalks as real people. The majority of the population of the city is uber fashion conscious, a real 360 from the snowboarder chic/ crunchy hippy scene of Vermont.
It is slowly becoming clear why citizens of the city are so sharply dressed. It is because the prices are actually affordable. This is the second reason why my shopping habits are slowly changing. No longer am I simply trying the clothes for a quick test drive in front of the dressing room mirror. I can buy them, too!
For too long I have been accustomed to visiting the same stores on Church Street to update my wardrobe while wistfully gazing at the store fronts of Echo or Sweet Lady Jane. Now, similar styles of even better quality are at my fingertips for a fraction of the price. I believe that my days of preconceived buyers remorse are coming to a more reasonable close. Is Montreal some sort of retail therapy? Who knows, but I really love this place.
--b--
In short, I have a horrible case of perpetual buyers remorse. There is something about the thought of parting with my minimal monetary reservoirs for a pair of buttery brown calf-high boots that I just can’t shake.
I may admire a muted, satin gray, empire waist tank top for a good twenty minutes while a not-enthused sales staff stands buy. My requests for some dark wash straight legs and black mary-jane inspired heels are granted, yet the items almost always left in the dust as price tag phobia settles in.
Yet since I have moved to Montreal I am noticing a little change in my window gazing habits. First of all, it seems that fabulous stores line every block . Mannequins decked out in trendy ensemble beckon from windows left and right. It seems that the mannequins themselves have escaped from their glass show boxes and are perusing the icy sidewalks as real people. The majority of the population of the city is uber fashion conscious, a real 360 from the snowboarder chic/ crunchy hippy scene of Vermont.
It is slowly becoming clear why citizens of the city are so sharply dressed. It is because the prices are actually affordable. This is the second reason why my shopping habits are slowly changing. No longer am I simply trying the clothes for a quick test drive in front of the dressing room mirror. I can buy them, too!
For too long I have been accustomed to visiting the same stores on Church Street to update my wardrobe while wistfully gazing at the store fronts of Echo or Sweet Lady Jane. Now, similar styles of even better quality are at my fingertips for a fraction of the price. I believe that my days of preconceived buyers remorse are coming to a more reasonable close. Is Montreal some sort of retail therapy? Who knows, but I really love this place.
--b--
Getting Comfortable
Week one has run its course and already I have found myself slipping a little more into the groove of Montreal living. Every morning the sun pours into my bedroom and wakes me up, I make my peanut butter toast and drink my glass of O.J. then pack by bags for classes. It is so simple! I find myself doing the same things I would be doing back home in such a foreign place, and this I am coming to love. It is almost startling how quickly a person can go from feeling like a total outsider to feeling more in place.
I can in no way say that my French has miraculously gone from nil to beautiful prose, but even being able to say the most simple things in the native language has made a huge difference. Going to the gas station to buy ice or a magazine and trying so hard to avoid an English word may be difficult, but once I leave that store and recognize that the clerk never once suspected I was not a local is an amazing feeling. Yet there are still some obstacles I have had, and still am, working on to overcome. Take for example the arrival of my new roommate, a student from France who speaks almost no English. Once that was clear I tried resorting to the big hand movements and slow speaking I blindly assumed would instantly turn my English words into words the new roommate would understand. The result, you can be assured, was not so. My clumsy and ignorant attempt had only made her think that I was insulting her, or so I could have guessed from her gaze. Who knows, maybe I was misinterpreting her too?
Now I need to figure out how to make a connection that goes beyond language or cultural road blocks. I believe that this is not a lesson I am going to learn from French class or any other course I am taking at Champlain. This is a type of learning that must go on outside of the classroom and between people instead.
--b--
I can in no way say that my French has miraculously gone from nil to beautiful prose, but even being able to say the most simple things in the native language has made a huge difference. Going to the gas station to buy ice or a magazine and trying so hard to avoid an English word may be difficult, but once I leave that store and recognize that the clerk never once suspected I was not a local is an amazing feeling. Yet there are still some obstacles I have had, and still am, working on to overcome. Take for example the arrival of my new roommate, a student from France who speaks almost no English. Once that was clear I tried resorting to the big hand movements and slow speaking I blindly assumed would instantly turn my English words into words the new roommate would understand. The result, you can be assured, was not so. My clumsy and ignorant attempt had only made her think that I was insulting her, or so I could have guessed from her gaze. Who knows, maybe I was misinterpreting her too?
Now I need to figure out how to make a connection that goes beyond language or cultural road blocks. I believe that this is not a lesson I am going to learn from French class or any other course I am taking at Champlain. This is a type of learning that must go on outside of the classroom and between people instead.
--b--
The First Hurdle, Language
My family arrived Friday afternoon to the U QUAM dorms. Bustling students were unloading cars and bidding farewells to their families. Here I was in Montreal embarking on my first study abroad experience and I could not wait to explore the city. With energy and enthusiasm high I joined orientation students in a dinner at a local sports bar, went shopping for groceries with my family, and attended an NHL game at the Bell Center. Initially I had worried that I would feel out of place and lost in a city that spoke English as a second language, and in a world where the names on street signs sound like the names of fancy pastries. My parents do not speak French at all, yet in their company I felt no pressure to interact with native Montrealers. Yet when my family pulled into traffic and out of sight on Saturday evening I began to feel that tingle of nerves in the pit of my stomach.
I was now officially on my own. No one else was going to hold my hand the way parents do when they coo over what kitchen towels are needed or wither five tubes of toothpaste will last me the semester. It wasn’t that I had no interest in delving headfirst into the culture of Montreal. I had plugged the cities name into Google many times before in order to get a heads up on what's going and what to expect. It wasn’t the thought of venturing out my own to a restaurant and sitting alone in a corner booth. I had my good friend Kellie to act as my partner in crime and thousands of other U QUAM students and about 30 other Champlain College students to do that. My main fear, the one that keeps my mouth shut when buying gum at the corner convenience store, is not knowing the language.
Silently, I go over a phrase I picked up from the French for Dummies book my mother bought for me at Boarders before I departed. A simple phrase even, one that may translate to “where is the restroom” or “may I please have a cup of coffee.” is too much to muster in my awful American accent. I fear putting the wrong emphasis on the wrong syllable, and saying “Oooo” instead of “Ouuuu.” I fear the flush of embarrassment when a French Canadian hears their butchered language. Kellie, my suite mate, is much more fluent in the language than I. Cabbies instantly warm up to her friendly attempts at conversation. She does make mistakes at times, as any high school level French student would. Yet what I have noticed this far is that native Montrealers are thrilled to hear an attempt at their language than nothing at all.
My most brazen moment so far has been at lunch time this past afternoon. Kellie and I joined the friends of some friends from back home at Saint Huberts, a chain restaurant popular in Quebec. Each was a native of Montreal, though they had also spent years in Toronto, an English speaking part of Canada, as well. Before the complimentary coleslaw even landed on the table the conversation was flickering between English and French as easily as a scanning radio station. I could pick up few words here and there in French, but not much. Ryan, the oldest at the table with a scruffy beard and small square glasses heard me mumble to Kellie about not understanding items on the menu. “You want chicken fingers?” he said and as I nodded he turned to the waitress and repeated my order in French. The waitress left the table and conversation flowed on in the strange mix of English and French. It seemed to be that from then on if I wanted anything from the waitress, Ryan was my designated translator. I never even had a chance to try a phrase Kellie whispered to me about how to say “Check” or “More water please.” I hated that, being so depended on someone else to do something as simple as place an order in a restaurant.
After today's lunch I have my first goal for the semester. Learn French and learn it well! I recognize that learning the language is my ticket to digging deeper into the French speaking worrld of Canada. Family cannot go to the fishmart and order a filet of salmon for me anymore. This time I am really on my own. In a way I can’t wait to get rolling. Ready, set, go!
--b--
I was now officially on my own. No one else was going to hold my hand the way parents do when they coo over what kitchen towels are needed or wither five tubes of toothpaste will last me the semester. It wasn’t that I had no interest in delving headfirst into the culture of Montreal. I had plugged the cities name into Google many times before in order to get a heads up on what's going and what to expect. It wasn’t the thought of venturing out my own to a restaurant and sitting alone in a corner booth. I had my good friend Kellie to act as my partner in crime and thousands of other U QUAM students and about 30 other Champlain College students to do that. My main fear, the one that keeps my mouth shut when buying gum at the corner convenience store, is not knowing the language.
Silently, I go over a phrase I picked up from the French for Dummies book my mother bought for me at Boarders before I departed. A simple phrase even, one that may translate to “where is the restroom” or “may I please have a cup of coffee.” is too much to muster in my awful American accent. I fear putting the wrong emphasis on the wrong syllable, and saying “Oooo” instead of “Ouuuu.” I fear the flush of embarrassment when a French Canadian hears their butchered language. Kellie, my suite mate, is much more fluent in the language than I. Cabbies instantly warm up to her friendly attempts at conversation. She does make mistakes at times, as any high school level French student would. Yet what I have noticed this far is that native Montrealers are thrilled to hear an attempt at their language than nothing at all.
My most brazen moment so far has been at lunch time this past afternoon. Kellie and I joined the friends of some friends from back home at Saint Huberts, a chain restaurant popular in Quebec. Each was a native of Montreal, though they had also spent years in Toronto, an English speaking part of Canada, as well. Before the complimentary coleslaw even landed on the table the conversation was flickering between English and French as easily as a scanning radio station. I could pick up few words here and there in French, but not much. Ryan, the oldest at the table with a scruffy beard and small square glasses heard me mumble to Kellie about not understanding items on the menu. “You want chicken fingers?” he said and as I nodded he turned to the waitress and repeated my order in French. The waitress left the table and conversation flowed on in the strange mix of English and French. It seemed to be that from then on if I wanted anything from the waitress, Ryan was my designated translator. I never even had a chance to try a phrase Kellie whispered to me about how to say “Check” or “More water please.” I hated that, being so depended on someone else to do something as simple as place an order in a restaurant.
After today's lunch I have my first goal for the semester. Learn French and learn it well! I recognize that learning the language is my ticket to digging deeper into the French speaking worrld of Canada. Family cannot go to the fishmart and order a filet of salmon for me anymore. This time I am really on my own. In a way I can’t wait to get rolling. Ready, set, go!
--b--
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