A bit about Montreal

Today is the third day I have not seen the sun and vice versa. I'm by no means unique though, as this same fate has also befallen upon the other Vitamin D-deprived faces that are around me. We are all wrapped in layers of wool, down, and polyester, walking as fast as the sloshy snow under our boots allow us to our destinations where we can finally take off those extra fluffy kilos.

"This is not much at all," said my flatmate, when we stood in front of the kitchen window on that first morning of snow, looking out at the snow-covered roofs and streets, "you can tell from the amount of snow on that window's ledge." She went back to sleep while I went out to the balcony itching to step on the stuff that the younger versions of my sister and I used to scratch with glee off our refrigerator's freezer compartment.

While I rejoice in the early arrival of snow - last winter snow only came in January - I feel a twinge of loss from not being able to see those beautiful autumn leaves adorning the trees and the parks that decorate the city. Montreal, a city with a mountain in its midst, is indeed beautiful in autumn when Canada's most venerated leaf - you know, the one on her flag - is scattered all over the city like magic dust.

And as we say good-bye to autumn leaves, so do we bid au revoir to Montreal's cutest residents: the grey-haired squirrels. It's time for these furry locals to go into hiding until it's warm enough for them to roam around in the outdoors again, unafraid but always alert of humans and their digital cameras. Walking through Parc La Fontaine won't be the same without them, but at least another attraction will take their place: the festive crowd that will flock to the park's largest pond to skate.

With the buildings, streets, and pavements now shrouded in white, the city has inevitably taken on a more mysterious aura. But there is one thing that has become less mysterious, at least to me, and that is the poutine - Québec's contribution to the world of cuisine. In its original version a simple dish consisting of french fries topped with cheese curds and gravy, it was initially hard for me to grasp why this less-than-sophisticated concoction of banal ingredients is so dear to the people of this region that even fast-food chains like McDonald's and KFC (renamed PFK here - Poulet Frit Kentucky) have poutine on their menu. The Québecois are, after all, descendants of the French, who are famous for their fine cuisine. But as the toxic mercury in my key-chain thermometer showed increasingly lower temperatures in the last few weeks, the image of this strange dish has appeared more and more frequent in my head and the earlier incomprehension of poutine's popularity has given way to unconditional acceptance.

I suspect that there exists a more scientific explanation to my attachment to poutine that's been growing in proportion to the number of layers I pile on my body. But I don't know what that is and I won't even try to wikipedia it. I can describe the feeling though: as the trio of french fries, cheese curds and gravy melts humbly in my mouth, I feel the warm, fuzzy, and reassuring sense of home-coming. And that - I'm pretty certain - is what ensures the poutine will stay in demand throughout the cold season!

Most of the bicycles have gone now, with just a scattered few dare-devils braving the slippery road and the stabbing cold. Everyone else... down in the metro! Being limited to catching the bus back home, I relish the speed of this form of transportation. Montreal's metro network is easy to comprehend - I guess it helps that the city is nowhere as big as New York, Paris or London - and its service on time. There are occasions, though, when delays happen and this is when it not being able to understand French in Montreal becomes a problem, because announcements over the loudspeakers are only made in French - and there are no written signs either. Is it a political statement on behalf of the transport network? Who knows, but this issue of language is certainly a source of a lot of debates.

The city is known to be divided into two distinct areas; that on the west of Boulevard Saint-Laurent being the English-speaking camp, that on the east side the French. The architecture between some of the suburbs differ markedly. The neat and orderly suburb of Westmount, for example, with street names like Redfern and Kensington, has clearly been created by people whose descendants may now also be found in the UK or Australia. The residential blocks of apartments here are well distanced from one another - and the buildings have names. The area surrounding Avenue Mont-Royal, on the other hand, has been clearly bred by the French. There is no sense of agreed uniformity in the style of the buildings except that they are roughly of similar height. And... there seems to be more cafés around! Different looks aside, I was surprised the other day when my other flatmate told me that the French-speaking residents didn't really like to have English-speaking people in 'their' bars and that from time to time fights between the two groups broke out. Interestingly, she could not give me a definitive answer when I asked her in what language did they fight in!

This underlying issue of a divided, seemingly bickering community is so far from the surface, however, when you stroll along the streets. For this is no doubt a city that attracts and retains friendly (or at least, friendly-looking) people. Getting a smile from a stranger is an everyday occurrence, so is getting unsolicited help from passers-by when you're reading a street map. "Are you lost? Where do you want to go?" This is definitely not Paris...

Having said that, there is a part of Montreal that looks like a page out of Paris' scrapbook - the historic district of Vieux Montreal (Old Montreal) - complete with narrow cobblestone streets, chalk board restaurant menus, and a cathedral called Basilique Notre-Dame. The presence of this grand old neo-gothic cathedral, however, doesn't perpetuate the christian tradition out of which it was spurred into existence. Like in other western countries, christianity is becoming an increasingly less popular commodity here. And what better way to prove one's dismissal to it than using clergical terms as swear words? Strange but true: instead of saying 'merde' - the staple word for unhappy frenchmen and frenchwomen - here one will hear the likes of 'tabarnac', 'calice', and 'hostie' from the pissed-off. Ooh I can't wait to tell my very Christian mum about this!

Nevertheless, “Tabarnac!” I found myself cursing the other night in true Quebecois style, terribly annoyed and slightly panicky, when I realised that I had missed the last metro – sometime past midnight. The 1.5 hour-long walk home that followed was the price I had to pay for having wanted to party with the hip and hedonistic kids of Montreal and not following it through – to the after-hours bars, that is, which are open well until the metro starts running again.

The freezing wind showed no mercy to my uncovered ears as I walked past the mountain - and its lighted cross on top - that watches over the city I've fallen in love with. I hurried my steps along the quiet Ave du Parc, murmuring "Come on!" in true Lleyton Hewitt style as I progressed over the avenue's cross streets.

I have a plan

It was another ordinary evening in Montreal. The time was 8.45pm, and I decided it was home time after a nice reading session at Chapters bookshop where tonight my conscience finally kicked me in the gut and made me buy something. From the dark and the very very cold outside, I descended the steps leading to Peel station. As soon as my two feet reached the platform, however, a not-so-ordinary thought came into mind.

No no, not a thought.

A brilliant idea. An exciting prospect. A soothing hope that will help me get through the next 1.5 years in Sydney.

I'm going to live out of a suitcase, moving from city to city, starting 2009. Because if there’s one thing that has made me miserable so far in life, it’s settling down.

I have always wanted to ‘get out’ of a place since I was 10. First it was the school. Then it was the country. And after I have succeeded in achieving both, I wanted to do it all over again. As time passed by, the list of things I wanted to get out of grew longer and stronger. My spirit, on the other hand, slipped in the opposite direction.

I was not born as a backpacker, though. The thought of having to move into a new place every week is terrifying. The thought of having to make new friends every week is debilitating. The thought of having to sleep in a new bed every week is agonising. And to seal the no-deal off, I don’t have the physical strength required to be a backpacker.

Luckily, where there’s a will, there’s a way. And there is always more than one way to get around a problem.

A wise friend once said and has repeated himself since, “Being happy is a matter of perspective. It’s not the environment that makes you happy, it’s you who makes you happy.” Or something along that line. That’s one way.

The other is the suitcase way.

I think I know which one I'd choose. This is not a dream, this is a plan.