Invisible airwaves.

First off, I have to tell you I've been listening to a ridiculous amount of Styx, Rush and Van Halen. Thank you, Freaks and Geeks.

And now, have some photos of Ste-Croix.

My street:


The main street:


Tree:


Hidden fire hydrant. With a tall sign so you can find it if you need to.


French Canadian road sign.


Catholic church, part 1:


Catholic church, part 2:


Catholic church, part 3:

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.

I'm only here in body, visiting.

I heard the term “vagitarian” and “homocrat” on TV today. The CBC is a lot different, yes, yes.

Quebec City might be the most beautiful city that I’ve been to. It’s right up there with Boston. While New York City will always and forever be my favorite city, the jazz of St. Louis is unmistakable and I love the homegrown Midwest, Quebec just seems like the kind of place that’s universally beautiful. It’s the kind of place you can’t help but say, “Wow, what a pretty place.”

It really is the city I always thought it was. Cities are tragic victims of glamour photography. You see pictures of them online and they never, ever look like that. Quebec City looks exactly like photos of it. All of these old, beautiful historic stone (not mud) buildings with jagged roofs and huge windows. Whatever those people pay for rent is completely worth it.

But, you know, funny story. They’re aren’t many photos of it in the winter (I WONDER WHY, 2 and a half feet of snow, 4 more inches expected tonight) but the ones there are, it looks exactly the same. It’s so pure looking, so clean. So, from the tallest building downtown, here’s what Quebec looks like from the

North.

South.

East.

West.


I went to the The Musée de la civilization today, also known as the Museum of “the human adventure”. It really seemed like a catch all kind of place, for stuff that wasn’t quite science or exclusively art. But, I learned a lot about Quebec and even saw a typewriter that a member of my family used to write poetry in the 40’s (!!!). But, the best part was this exhibit: a history of Quebecois Cinema. Umm, so, did ya make that for me, or?


Today also was the first time I ate official Quebec poutine, cheese curds and all. How was it? I’d eat it a lot if I lived here, that’s for sure. I don't think I've ever eaten cheese curds before. They're a little like mozzarella, but more dense. And dare I say... spongy? Chez Ashton was offering some kind of holiday poutine, but I figured I should start with the basics.

Yesterday, I went to the Musée National des Beaux-Arts du Québec, the national art museum, and saw a great traveling exhibit of Picasso's work when he was in the Mediterranean. I was also introduced to Riopelle, probably the most famous modern French Canadian artist. He works on large scales with bold colors, so I was a pretty big fan. I love those kind of things in galleries.

I also want to pledge my allegiance to this bridge, Pont de Quebec. It definitely cracked my top 5 favorite bridges of all time. And I like bridges. Tattoo?

Tonight, I watched a hockey game and ate stove-popped popcorn. Slowly but surely, there's a fleur-de-lis working its way into this girl's zia heart. I'm sure they'll live in unity.

(All museum links were posted exclusively for Jennifah and her new cat.)

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.

God, please spare me more rejection.

I had a fascinating conversation with my family last night comparing poutine to green chile cheese fries. It made me miss Hooter Browns.

I spent Saturday night in the grand city of Quebec and did some moderate exploring through the older parts of the town. So, you might know this, but Quebec is the only walled city in Northern America. And I can tell you now that they didn't need the damn wall. It's so steep, no one would have wanted to conquer it. (History tells me otherwise, but ehn, shmistory!) I walked up an estimated 500 steps yesterday. And once that was over, I traversed a few hundred meters of park, covered in 2 feet deep snow, to get to a main road. Needless to say, this girl is OUT OF SHAPE. It didn't help things that my guide, my cousin Lucie, works as a personal trainer. Kinda embarrassing.

But, you know, it was worth it.


We took a ferry boat to get to Quebec City, since Lucie lives in an amazing apartment across the St. Lawrence River in Levie. That's floating chunks of ice.


And this is snow. This doesn't melt til March. Did I mention the high is 14 degrees today? And the sun's out? The building is Quebec's Parliament. Criminal law in Quebec is the same as the rest of Canada, but they make their own civil law.


The most famous building in the city, the one on all the postcards. Le Château Frontenac, it's actually a hotel operated by Fairmont. I don't even want to know how much rooms are.


And all the quint shops for tourists (once again, says the tourist). Quebec City gets about 2 million of them a year, mostly from France and mostly in the summer. I WONDER WHY. They have shirts that say J'<3 QUEBEC and I need one.


And this is the view from Lucie's apartment. Love.

I've been spending most of my time in Ste-Croix, struggling through French TV and eating some of the best food ever. Lucie's mother is the most amazing cook ever. Tomorrow, I'm going to Quebec's art museum and this weekend, I'm going to a projection of Romeo and Juliet from the MET at a movie theater. What a grand week.

And to top it off, I went ahead and made plans to be back in Michigan by January 25th. Why?


Mr. Ben Folds, that's why.

Between that, Hot Water Music, and the Slackers annual holiday show in NYC, let's see how many amazing shows I can get in in the next few months on the road.

Dee N Eh.

This is my great grandmother Zenaide Columbe. She had 6 children with Oregene Leclerc. She passed away before the time any of them had reached puberty.


My namesake, Oregene's sister Catherine Leclerc stepped in and helped raise them. This is Catherine and my grandfather.

One of the children she helped raise was my grandmother, Clothshide. She hated her name and demanded to be called Claudette until the day she died. Her and my mother never got along and they had their reasons, too. I never really resented her, I just didn't know her. In fact, I only met her once when I was 18 months old.


This is her when she was 18 in Quebec City. That photograph was the first time I've ever felt any personal connection to her. Maybe, just maybe, there's a little bit of her in me.

English Immigrants.

How to be French Canadian, or a Québécois.

Part One: If you are elderly and French Canadian, offer food to anyone. If you are young and French Canadian, always except food. If you don't, it seems you offend people. I have never been so full in my whole life.

Part Two: Never, ever wear outdoor shoes inside a building. 90% of the time, there is a basket full of slippers near the front door of the house. Those slippers are very important. And pretty adorable.

Part Three: You better be Catholic.

Part Four: Drink a lot of coffee. This is unfortunate because my stomach cannot handle coffee. I haven't had that much caffeine since the infamous No Doze incident in high school, which resulted in vomiting by rail road tracks. So today, after 6 years and no coffee, I figured I'd try it. Dang, it was good. But dang, did I feel like I had kidney stones for about an hour. I guess this means I'm not French Canadian. People here drink about 8 cups a day. This is also why I can never work on a film production.


Part Five: It's kind of mandatory that your ancestors had to sail down this river to get here. They DO NOT like immigrants, especially those who speak English. My family sailed down the fleuve Saint-Laurent 350 years ago.