That's where I belong.

Funerals are not good places to meet people. And they, for the most part, are very foreign ground to me. The only thing I remember from my grandfather's funeral was my great aunt Marion making me touch his forehead when he was in the casket. I think this incident prompted me to spend the reception hiding under a table and eating black olives. I was 6. All other funerals that I've been to, I can count two, were for people that I only knew through association; A work colleague of my dad's and a friend's grandfather in middle school. Today, my grand attendance total for funerals was bumped up to four. One of mother's cousins lost his battle with cancer this week in Montreal. I went to the funeral and let's just say I didn't have a lot of choice in the matter. If it was up to me, I probably wouldn't have gone.

I know I've talked a lot about the language barrier I'm having, but let's talk a little about my brain. You would think after two semi-productive years of spanish in high school, 4 more semesters in college, and living in Albuquerque, I'd speak spanish. And you would be wrong! My brain just cannot process other languages. It's probably just a mental block that I can't get down, but dang if it's not there. The highlight of my Canadian day is hearing something in conversation that I actually understand and I've been reduced to reading ads in the newspaper like they're a picture book, trying to sort out the language (by the way, you will learn nothing about grammar by doing this). I wonder if that part of my brain is just retarded, but it really is hard on me. And I don't know what part of my brain thought that being in Quebec was going to be a cakewalk. It hasn't been.

And an even bigger cakewalk under these circumstances would probably be going to an event, a sad event, with 70 members of your extended family you've never met and trying to explain to them that no, you can't speak their language. In fact, you speak the language that's destroying their culture. And did I mention the Catholicism? I have a hard enough time following a Catholic mass in English. In French? Forget about it. This was not my idea of a good day.

It was about as awkward as you could imagine. The man who died just happened to have 9 brothers and sisters, so the event was packed to brim with my gene pool. And every time I met someone new, Rene, the man I'm staying with (and bless him so, so much. Not only has he opened up his home to me, he's my pocket translator everywhere I go), would politely explain that I was from New Mexico and didn't speak English. And I'd just stand there and smile, like a monkey.

At one point during the service, one of the brothers was saying some remarks about everyone who had come to the service. He said something about me, which I had no clue of, until every single person in the church turned to look at me and Rene whispered to me that I was mentioned, since I was from so far away. By about that time, my brain was just hurting from trying so, so hard to translate things in my head, with the limited French I've picked up over the week. Once again, just politely smile. Awkward much.

I ended up in the bathroom crying during the reception, no lies. It's weird to feel this new connection to all these people, telling me they knew my mother when she was a little girl or they loved my grandmother's cooking, but to feel so, completely separate from it. Especially at a funeral.

But once I got out of the bathroom, one of the many women I met over the course of the day came up to me with 2 brownies on a plate and invited me to come sit with her, in English. She was married to one of the deceased brothers and she sat with my for about half an hour, asking me about my trip and my mother, and telling me stories she'd heard from her husband about my family. I didn't even remember her name, you know how it goes. Maybe she sensed I was having a tough time. I know how sad and misplaced I must have looked in that sea of people. And maybe she is just a genuinely kind woman who, like Rene, wanted to know about the part of her extended family that I inhabit. Whatever it was, I was so grateful to her I almost broke down at our little English-speaking table.

When we were leaving, Rene told me it was kind of sad that I met all these people at a funeral, since funerals are such sad places to be. Then he started to say something about them being happy places too, because everyone gets together, that sort of thing. He couldn't quite explain it in English, so I said, "They're a celebration of life, too." He paused for a second. "You stole my words!" he said.

An excellent movie!

I think I’ve talked a lot on here about the “Ohh!”s and the “Ahh!”s of Canada and Quebec. All the pretty pictures, the food, the differences. But what’s this really like for me?


To begin with, this is currently where I am in the grand scheme of the world. As you can see, I’m about as far north as the tip of Maine.


Just right off the fleuve Saint-Laurent (the Saint Lawrence River). I’m about half an hour from Quebec City and 2 hours from Montreal. Sainte-Croix has a population of about 2,300; it’s the size of Maxwell. It has a furniture factory and a few big farms (including the infamous pig farm!). It’s also the site of the public schools for 7 other small towns in the area. It’s known for its gardens in the summer and it has the biggest, most ornate Catholic church I’ve ever seen in a small town.

It’s cold. I mean, really flipping cold. I’ve been through some cold winters in Raton. I’ve seen my fair share of 6 foot snow drifts and I’ve had a few days off from school in a row. But here, it’s just such a completely different kind of cold. It does not get above freezing the entire winter. Their first frost was months ago. It kind of just snows all the time. I think 5 out of the 7 days I’ve been here, I’ve seen snow fall. But the air, the air is so cold. It’s about 90% humidity on any given day. Taking a breath fells like pneumonia every time you’re outside.

People have these temporary car ports and porches made out of tarps and beams in front of their house, just because it reduces the amount of shoveling they have to do. That’s the other thing, you wake up and shovel your driveway. It’s just a given. Interestingly enough, SUV’s aren’t popular here. Good tires on little cars: very popular.

The snow just stays all winter. It never gets hot enough for it to melt. It’ll be here til March, all two feet of it, plus whatever else they get. It’s like a ski resort. It's also interesting that the sun sets at about 4:00 here. It's pitch black by 5:00.

So, that’s been interesting to adjust to. Most people just stay inside as much as possible. I’m really freaking glad I spent $50 on that coat from Old Navy, because if I hadn’t, I’d have frost bite by now. I also have decided I really should have invested in a really warm beanie and an awesome seat of gloves before I left. Wal Mart outerwear ain’t cutting it.

But, I don’t mind the cold. It’s a lot easier to get warm in the winter than to cool off in the summer. It’s just that first minute of when you leave your house… that my friends, is unbearable.

So, there’s the weather. And there’s the language.

Never have I been to a foreign country where a language other than English is the primary language (unless you could Hecho N K-Za shows). I think I’d be okay going to Mexico or anywhere in Latin America. I’ve got enough Spanish down that I’d get by, pretty well actually. My French, on the other hand… it’s damn embarrassing. And for several reasons. The first, of course I just don’t know any French. Which was kind of dumb of me to come all the way up here, knowing it’s a French speaking country and not try to learn at least a little bit. And the second, when you get up into these little villages, outside of the big cities, they hate English speakers. I really can not stress that enough. As angry as I used to get when a Mexican would cuss me out in Spanish at the bar for not knowing their language, that’s how angry people get when I open my mouth here. I’ve been sheltered from it a lot, as my family are the nicest people I have ever met and they want nothing more than for me to feel completely at home. But, I’m not retarded. The looks people give me at the Post Office or at the mechanics yesterday (more about that later) are enough to burn me into the damn ground.

There’s several reasons for it. One, would you like a language that conquered you? No. You would not. Two, as my cousin Lucie put it, lots of French Canadians can speak English. Almost no English Canadians can speak French. And three, the biggie, the immigration.

I guess I’ve always been used to it, having immigrants come to where I live. And I am all for letting any person who wants to be able to gain citizenship. It’s kind of a given that if you want to immigrate to the United States, you should probably know some basic English. Here, no. The immigrants come in, from the United States, mind you, and all they want to speak is English. And they’re winning out.

Slowly, but ever so surely, the numbers of English speakers are growing. Only 80% of the country know considers French to be their primary language. That is unheard of. There’s definitely a subset of the population, mostly in Montreal that doesn’t seem to care. English or French, it makes no difference. But in Quebec City, people care a whole lot. So much in fact, Quebec has tried to break away from Canada and become its own separate nation a few times. It never quite makes it. And with the number of English speakers growing and growing, it never will.

The other issue is the public schools. There are public schools for English speakers, as per Canadian law. BUT, Quebec law states that your children must attend a French speaking primary school. (This is another important thing: Criminal law in Quebec is exactly the same as the rest of Canada. Civil law, on the other hand, is completely different. While they weren’t able to ratify a complete separation from Canada, they were able to ratify an independent civil government.) You can send your kids to an English school if you send one of them to an English private school, from whatever age. Then, the rest of your kids can go to English schools. Lots and lots of people are starting to do this, as immigrants are having children. So, a lot of people in Quebec are watching their language die.

I know a lot of people don’t see the big deal. But it is a huge deal here. Quebec is a very proud nation. The QUEBECOIS are extremely proud of their heritage, since, like I said, most of them got here on a boat 300 years ago. It’s like 505 pride times ten. Possibly losing their language is losing a huge part of their culture.

So, it’s kind of sad for me to watch. But maybe even sadder that this is my heritage and I can’t speak the language either.

So, on top of all of this, I’ve never been close with my family. I’ve been so far away from them, yes, but, just like any other family, there were a lot of disagreements, and a history of mental illness I would argue, that kept (and keeps a lot of us) apart. So, here I am, confronting years of fighting that I never understood. I get here, and they’re all so loving and accepting that it almost hurts me that this part of my life was missing for so long. And now, that it’s here, I almost don’t know what to do with it.

I’ve always made my own family, because they’ve been so far away. I have some of the most amazing friends turned family that a girl could ask for. You know who you are and you’ve seen me through so much over the years. Those relationships are the best I’ve ever had, because, of course, they’re by choice and not by blood. But, just to walk into an environment and be handed that instantly; it’s shocking. And a part of me doubts it, just because it hasn’t been time tested. Maybe they’ll be done with me after I leave. But an even bigger part of me doesn’t want this to ever leave. So, all in all, I’ve had a really emotional week.

I guess what this really is, is step one. Etape Une! I have to come back. I will be back. I can’t think of this as the one time, the one chance I’m going to get. I’d really like to find an intensive French program through one of the colleges that I can afford. There are lots and lots of them, but they’re fairly expensive. So, probably not this summer, but maybe the one after. I’d love to bring my mom up here for Christmas next year.

And THAT’S what I think about that.

And now why was my truck at the car hospital? I've had an issue with my windshield wiper fluid for I don't even know how long. Years. It just doesn't come out. In New Mexico, it's not a big deal. My windshield is just normally a graveyard for bugs. But here, it's pretty important. With all the snow and muck and the semis spraying it everywhere. Turns out, the tube that feeds the fluid was pinched shut from a collision I had years ago. HUH.

From the zia to the fleur-de-lis.

This is what it looks like when you're waiting for customs to inspect your vehicle.

WHO GOT RED FLAGGED AT THE BORDER?
I know! That girl with all kinds of metal in her face, about 16 bags in the cab of her truck with NM tags.

Really, I wasn't shocked.

And it wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. The first lady I talked to, the one who flagged me, asked me about 70 billion questions that didn't matter. "Do you have a phone number for the person you're visiting?" "Why are you unemployed?" "What did you study in school?" "Do you speak french?" Huh?

The kicker was when she asked if I had brought any gifts with me for my family. I said yes, I went to Buffet's Candies and bought two small containers of salted, roasted pinon nuts. That blew her brain. "How many?" "What are they?" "Are you planning on planting them?" I guess that was the "reason" I got flagged.

It's kinda weird to watch two complete strangers (one of them looked A LOT like Paul, kinda freaked me out) rifle through your stuff. I have a lot of stuff with me; all the things I need to live for 3 months. And they went through every, single pocket of every single bag. It took a while. Once they found the nuts and saw how small they were, they just laughed. I did too.

After the car search, I had to go to the immigration office where they ran my passport and my driver's license, to see if I really was a drug dealer. Thankfully, it only took a few minutes, and I was terrified I was going to be there for a while. Every single person in the waiting room, with the exception of an Arabic man, was sleeping.

Ontario looks a whole lot like an Ohio or a Indiana; rolling plains, lots of farm, small pockets of industrialized cities. Interestingly enough, all motel rooms in Canada are about $80. Except for those in Niagara Falls. So, I went there.


There's something... hidden... in the mist!


It's a waterfall!

I didn't stay too, too long by the falls. It was cold. Not like, you know, "Oh golly, I need a warm coat" kind of cold. No, no, no. Like, I'm sure if I would have opened my mouth for more than 30 seconds, my tongue would have frozen off. They're wasn't much open, either. Most of the attractions around the falls cost money (which I have even less off after my power adapter for my computer tried to kill my motherboard. $95 for a REFURBISHED one, since they don't make my adapter anymore. WRATH.) and a lot of them were closed for the season.


I did feed this very gull some bread from my sandwich that I got from the Tim Hortons.
Check out that coating of ice. That's from... the mist.



I didn't take any pictures, but all around Niagara Falls are these touristy things, since, obviously, it's a touristy place (says the tourist). Ripley's has a museum, there's a couple wax figure places, even a Hard Rock Cafe. All that sort of stuff kinda turned me off. I wished the falls could have been preserved like the Grand Canyon. Not to mention, parking's a mother. But, if you're in the area, I'd give a viewing.


Good morning, eh.

I woke up an hour late yesterday morning, because my body just would NOT move. It knew I had a 9 hour drive today and it wasn't excited about it. At all.


Most of my drive looked a whole lot like this, but more overcast. Toronto's a monster of a city. I didn't get to see downtown, but I sure was a fan of their 7 lane highways and lane restrictions for semis. A lot of industrial Ontario has huge car plants, some about the same size as the Ford plant in Detroit.


I'm proclaiming this my official Welcome to Canada, Eh" photo. Customs was fun, but not that fun.

And this...


My official Welcome to Quebec photo!

Sadly, most of my Quebec drive was dark, because I spent 2 FREAKING HOURS stuck in traffic in Montreal. I was really excited about seeing that city, I've heard amazing things about the architecture and punk scene. But, none of that was evident on the route google maps gave me. I did spend a good 15 minutes right next to a Kraft plant.

But, the biggest thing I noticed: the language shift. Sup, french. I knew this is a French speaking country. I know most of my relatives don't speak a word of english, but I thought there would at least be some bilingual stuff closer to the bigger cities. Nope. Not even a little bit. Don't know French? Good luck.

I guess that over 20% of the population here doesn't speak French. This is a HUGE deal, when you think about "dying cultures", all the linguistics stuff my boyfriend is currently giggling about. I think it's an even bigger deal when every road sign is in French. But more than that, there seems to be this mounting animosity against English speakers. I got the stink eye when I bought gas 50 km outside of Montreal. Why no, I don't know how to say "pump" in French. Merci.

But, I am trying. It'll be interesting to see how much I pick up. I've never been fully immersed in such a different culture. Well, at least when the language is different. I'm staying with my mom's cousin Rene and his wife Suzanne. They're about my mom's age and they've been so, so welcoming, trying their best to make conversation in broken english. They've got three kids who are about my age.

I'm hoping for good weather on the 9th, so I can venture the additional 50 km to Quebec City to see Big D and the Kids Table. Did I mention there's 2 feet of snow on the ground right now? Thankfully, they've got road clean up down to a science. Other than that, I don't have a lot of set plans while I'm in the great, white north. I'll be meeting lots of family who speak absolutely no english and eating lots of home cooking. There's a menu for the week posted on the fridge. Almost as adorable as the McHughes cereal bowl.

I'm happy to be here. But, exhausted from driving. Mileage logged on the truck for this trip is approaching 3,000. I think I'll appreciate this all so much more when I get some good rest.


I leave you with a French Canadian bird house.