Tag Archives: montreal

Slumber party

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I had an unexpected visitor spend the night last night in my bed:

On my way home from work last night, I received a phone call from Derek (Sonya’s dad), letting me know that my friend Mitali (Sonya’s mom), who is 8.5 months pregnant with baby #2, was at the hospital, and was most likely going into labor.  He asked if I could help them out by picking up Sonya from daycare, which I was happy to do.

Sonya and I are buddies.  She is at the most delightful age (1.5 years), my favorite age for babies, when they are beginning to express themselves, and are so much fun to play with.  She is also good buddies with Rusby, who has spent many days over at Sonya’s house while I am at work.  You can see some adorable pictures of them together here, here and here.  Or, here is a great video Mitali put together:

I was a little nervous about being alone with Sonya overnight, but she is such a great girl (good girl, as she says it), and we had alot of fun.  She was eager and willing to eat anything I put in front of her, and had creative ways of playing with the limited toys we have in the house.  Although it was hard for her that her parents weren’t there, or that she wasn’t at home (like when she woke up at 6am and screamed cause she didn’t know where she was, or who I was), she always calmed down and gave me a big smile.  When her dad came to pick her up, she practically bolted out the door, but I think overall the experience wasn’t too traumatizing for either of us. I guess I’ll really know next time I see Sonya, whether she’ll give me a hug or run the other way.

By the way, Mitali, who is a super-mom allstar in everyway, delivered a beautiful little girl, Leena, last night.  Sonya and I practiced the word “sister” all day long in preparation.

 

The mid-March madness

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I have been dreaming of spring since December, so you can imagine my surprise that we are now into March, and winter is giving us spring yearners a reason to cry – continuous below average temperatures and never ending snow-fall.  Snopocalypse repeated on a weekly basis, followed by downpours of rain and slushy puddles, which then freeze into deathly ice rinks.  It is a daily test of my patience and love for this city.

I was in London and Brighton this past weekend, visiting Pedram and getting a better grasp of our new home country.  We both decided that it would be a good idea to immerse me slowly into British culture, so I don’t get overwhelmed by ideas of being proper, afternoon tea, or so that I don’t get run over by a car driving on the wrong left side of the road.  It takes me a bit to incorporate into a new country and city, although you would think I would be experienced at it by now.

On the other hand, Pedram has completely changed, drinking more tea than coffee, driving effortlessly, and sitting up straight.  He has also has reunited with his true love in life, the Championships League*.  Just like how he had adopted Canadianisms quickly after moving to Montreal, he now has a few Britishisms that surprise me in conversations like calling cookies “biscuits”.  However, he still drops the occasion “dude”, which makes me feel like (no matter how hard he tries), he can’t get rid of the deeply rooted Americanisms I have weaved in his brain.  “Dude” and “fo sho”  USA for the win!

But this trip was great because the English weather lightened up enough for me to see some sunshine and feel some warmth, which was quite lovely awesome.  And I think we will be okay there.  Mostly because they don’t have two feet of fresh snow in March.  Sometimes I can’t focus on anything else.  At this point I would move anywhere that can boast positive temperatures and a forecast lacking words like “ice pellets”.

And yet, I am already nostalgic for little things here, mostly friends and my community.  Or like the morning radio CBC news, which is a mix of hard news stories, hockey scores, minute-to-minute weather updates, and cute little community stories, like how a local man made his own Zamboni .**  And for the Canadian Food Network, which has a daily show hosted by Ricardo, the local celebrity chef in Quebec.  He is super cheerful, makes heavy recipes that enables this population to make it through the winter, and does it with such quebequois flare.  I love him and his show, Ricardo and Friends.  My favorite episode is the one where he introduces poutine to the viewers, and visits three different restaurants in Montreal to sample their poutine, before returning home and making his own version, a dessert poutine.  There were enough calories in that episode to feed a small village.  Please watch this video to get a taste of his glory. ***

* I know it is the Champions League, I just like to call it different names to drive him crazy.  Also, the song for the Champions League is so silly sounding.  They need the NFL to give them a lesson in catchy intro music.

** No joke.  He called it a Home-boni.  And after listeners called in and asked for instructions on how to make their own, he gave the step-by-step details.

*** Ricardo has the most perfect quebequois English accent I have ever heard.

Good morning

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Pedram was here this weekend, reuniting with me and Rusby for the first time in 23 days.  Those 23 days felt like eternity, and you would think I would be writing a long post of how exciting it was to have someone else home to wash the dishes and walk the dog.  But I am not going to write about that.  I am also not going to write about:

  • The intense flu Pedram acquire on his way home
  • The fact that he spent most of the day in bed for the 4 days he was in Montreal
  • That instead of going out and exploring the city, I made soup and took his temperature
  • That instead of going to fun restaurants and movies like a couple, I spent the evenings on the couch, eating boring food and rubbing Rusby’s belly
  • Instead of staying inside and delegating the dog-walking responsibility to the other human in the house, I put on my boots and took Rusby out
  • That I still had to shovel in front of the house
  • That by the third day in a row of him having a fever, I began to freak out.  Luckily, just at that moment, his fever broke.
  • That I am certain I will probably get the same virus soon, and there will be no one to make me soup.  Or to take out the dog.
  • That he won’t be back in Montreal until the end of March, which will feel like eternity plus more.
  • I will also not write about how the temperature in Montreal warmed up during those 4 days, and then returned to -30 again today.
  • Nor about the amazing Belgian waffles I had yesterday morning.  Or again this morning.  Definite highlight.

Instead I will write about what happened this morning, when Pedram left to catch his 5:30am flight.  He took his temperature, which had finally lowered to normal, packed his bag and called a cab at 4am.  He had hyped the dog up by playing ball and letting him outside, but once he was gone I demanded that Rusby calm down and go back to his bed for another 2 hours.  And I did the same.

But about 40 minutes later, Rusby started growling.  And then barking.  I got up, frustrated and ready to yell at him, when I saw the outline of someone AT MY DOOR.

Instead of getting the clarity and awareness of someone who was facing an intruder, my mind remained in the fuzzy-still asleep state, but with a sense of panic.  I tried to think of what to do — flee out the back door?  Call the police?  Command Rusby to attack?  Hide?  Protect myself?  Rusby was frantic, running in circles, looking to me for a gameplan.  At the same time, a timid voice called out “hello?”

Rusby’s barking heightened, and suddenly I was racing out the backdoor, grabbing the shovel, racing back inside, only to see someone petting my dog.  Inside my house.

It was an older woman.  I didn’t recognize her.

“Good morning!  I am sorry to startle you, but I just wanted to let you know that your front door is open.  It has been a very cold night, and I just wanted to make sure you knew it was open.  I hope I didn’t wake you.  I was just on my way to work and saw that the door was open.”

She continued for a bit about how nice my dog was, that she lives down the street, what she does for a living, and then probably noticing that I looked like a deranged psycho with shovel in my hand, told me she had to leave.  But not without wishing me a wonderful day.

I tried to pull my act together, but still ended up blubbering about how my husband left an hour ago, and it was a rough weekend, and that is why we probably forgot the door, but normally I do remember to lock it.  But then I shamefully admitted that this is not the first time someone has kindly reminded me that the door was open or that I had left my keys in the lock.  I wanted to hug her and ask her to move in.  But instead we exchanged names, she gave Rusby one more pat on the head, and headed off on her way.

I love love love friendly neighborly Canadians.  They make my Mondays so much more enjoyable, especially a tough one like today.

The benefits of freezing

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You can pretty much go ice skating on my face after my dog walks these past few days.  It has been as cold as -38 with the wind chill, and there is no reason for me to put a Celsius or Fahrenheit next to that, since they converge on each other when it gets so cold that your breath fogs up your sunglasses, and by the time you go to wipe them off, it has frosted and you have to chip at it like ice on a windshield.

Here is my train of thought:

There is a 100 degree difference (in Fahrenheit) between where my sister lives and where I live.

Montreal is stupid.

WHY would anyone choose to settle in this area after knowing what the winters are like?  Who would build a city here?  Or a University?

People are stupid.

Why do we have to leave the house when it is this cold?  Everyone should be inside, under the covers.  People look ridiculous wearing all this clothing.  IT ISN’T NATURAL!  We should stay home on days like this.

Work is stupid.

I wonder if I know that person in the red jacket and green scarf…this is so ridiculous.  You can’t see a single spot of human flesh.  The only way I could identify them is through their voice, but no one is talking since our mouths are covered.

MY PEOPLE ARE FROM THE DESERT!  I was not born to live this way!  My material make up is not to survive these temperatures.  I am going to die.

Poop dog.  Poop already.  Rusby, if you do your business by the time we reach this corner, I will give you 20 tennis balls, 10 pig ears and I will adopt a squirrel so you can chase it around the house.

I think my cheeks and chin are frozen.  They feel numb when I poke them.  Maybe that is because I am poking them with my mittens, and my fingers under the mittens are frozen.

I wonder if my eyes will freeze, like my dad said they would.  Is this what Michael Jackson is experiencing when he decided to be cryogenically frozen?

Wait, does this mean my cells are frozen, and my skin is currently not aging?  Perhaps there is an upside to bearing this horrible weather.

HA!  I have, in this short walk, reversed all the years of sun damage.

I feel bad for all those people in Los Angeles, who are like bananas, turning brown and rusting from the heat, their cells melting and decaying like over ripened fruit.

Hmm…let me undo my scarf a little, try to get the benefits down to my neck.  Ack!  So cold.  It hurts.

Stupid me.

The Weekends

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A member of my immediate family usually checks in with me once a day (Pedram – twice a day).  And usually when they do, and I am there to answer the phone, they will catch me on a dog walk.  During the week, I walk Rusby before going to work, and immediately after coming home from work.  And occasionally an additional stroll before going to bed.  It is exhausting, especially in the winter time, when we have to put on a million layers and put some goopy wax on Rusby’s paws (for the salt on the sidewalk).

I don’t mind the walk because it is therapeutic (and probably healthy) to take time to be outdoors.  The problem is that my sweet little dog is waiting for me, holding his pee, until I let him outside.  That our walks are rushed because I have an early meeting, or that I am stuck in a late meeting and he is just waiting for me, by himself for 10 hours of the day.  I feel the burden of his dependence on me, and I feel guilty leaving him by himself so often.

Except on the weekends.  On Saturday and Sundays, Rusby and I go “up the mountain”, the little Mont-Royal hill that is near us.  We take our time, and spend about 2 hours outside, hiking around the mountain, often getting lost, playing in the snow, and many times trying to hike up areas that are abandoned, and slipping and falling.

When they call during these hikes, it is shocking to my family (or anyone I am talking to from the West Coast) that I venture to go hiking when it is so cold outside.  Or when there is snow on the ground.  They all think I should be indoors, by the fire place, drinking hot chocolate.  My mom warns that I will lost a limb, my dad implores me to keep my eyes closed to the cold, and everyone warns that I could fall and break something.  Today, my dad told me that when it gets this cold (ie – minus 30 degrees) that people will actually freeze while walking.

But it isn’t like that.  I am bundled up, but I always get so warm on the hike that I’ll remove my hat, even unzip my coat.  My shoes are waterproof and have little cleats that make climbing in the snow easy.  Rusby and I venture off the regular trails, tracking our own through trees, avoiding other hikers, cross-country skiers, finding ourselves completely alone on the mountainside.

When we are alone, it is really really quiet.  You hear the trees cracking with the weight of the snow, the branches rustling in the wind, and the tranquility from the white snow, the stillness from the cold air, it is pretty beautiful.

Not being one who likes to be alone with my thoughts for too long, I will often take a few meditative breaths, turn on some music, and then try to find a way back home.  And often times, coming down the mountain is much much harder.  I’ll ask Rusby to go first before braving the route myself, sometimes falling on my butt and sliding, sometimes purposely sitting and gliding down to flatter plains.

I only panic when the sun is setting and I still have no idea where we are, or if I am halfway down a steep trail and I have no idea how to continue down, but going back up is not an option.  Or when I am breathing so hard that I fog up my sunglasses (necessary from the sun on the blinding snow) and can’t see and suddenly walk into a branch, or worse, a tree.

When we finally get home, we are both tired and wet.  The heat from the house paints my cheeks rosy, and Rusby will immediately start licking his paws to get the icicles off.  (No joke — he has actual icicles on his fur, small balls of ice and snow that has stuck to his matted skin, and will only come off once melted).  We are both tired, and I am definitely worthy of the hot chocolate I will consume.

cough cough

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I can’t stop coughing.  I had a small cold in while on vacation in Mexico, which quickly subsided but left a horrible residue of a cough, cough, cough, cough…ahem cough.  This is not the first time I have been plagued by the persistent cough, but in the paranoid world we live in today, my innocent occasional forced exhalation/muscle spasm freaks people out.  People on the bus press themselves away from me.  Co-workers look at me differently.  Funny enough, I don’t even notice it myself, until some stranger asks me (with their hand over their mouth) if I am contagious.

What to do, what to do?  There is a current gastro epidemic in Montreal, and clinics have been filled by people who infect other people, and as a result, clinics are no longer open.  Or if they are, they are filled to the brim with people carrying things much more infectious that what I have.  And there is always the lovely multi-hour waiting time to ensure that I will catch the latest bug while waiting for medical attention.  With the gastro bug, hospitals are off-limits, they are even re-directing ambulances because the outbreak is so severe.  Not that I would go to the hospital for my mild, but irritating cough.  But I would like some help getting rid of it.

Luckily, in my granola/hipster/trendy neighborhood, there are plenty of alternative treatments to consider.  Today, I went to a local organic food shop, where I once asked where the soymilk was and somehow ended up with a $50 bottle of Bifidus tablets to clean out my intestines.  Side note — in Montreal, especially in my lovely mile-end neighborhood, the more natural you can be, the cooler it is.  Unless then it become popular, and then to be even cooler you need to add something else to it.  For example, eating local was cool until everyone thought it was cool, so now you must raise chickens in your backyard.  Giving birth with a midwife was cool until it became popular, so now the really cool cats deliver at home by themselves, etc, etc.  It is the brilliant part of living in this neighborhood, which always provides me with plenty to roll my eyes over.

Today I asked about any naturopathic remedies for a chronic cough.  I was hoping for something in terms of lozenges, but instead was asked to examine the cause of the cough.  Perhaps I was overdue for a lung cleansing?  Apparently there are treatments for each organ, and we need to routinely clean them all out.  Scared that she might stick a hose down my throat, I was relieved that the cleanse only requires some liquid “cleanser”, mixed with water and taken on an empty stomach to remove the mucous and toxins from my lungs.  She told me that an ex-smoker once took the cleanse and her voice changed — that is how powerful it is.  Eventhough I don’t see the association between lungs and vocal chords, I was so desperate that I was willing to “detoxify my lungs”.  Until I saw that the treatment was over $100, and suddenly, I snapped back to reality and asked her to find another, cheaper, detoxifer.

She suggested I try some tea, also detoxifying but also a suppressant.  It contained fennel seed and aniseed, and smelled fine, but my helpful friend also suggested that raw onion juice added to the tea will help solve all my coughing needs.  And lots of honey to help that raw onion go down.

So that is where I am.  Desperate enough to try it, but also cynical that this will do anything more than make me gag.

Foliage Rant

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Why do I dread this season?  Is it because I love love love summer so much?  Because no matter how hard I try to pretend that we are just experiencing a small bout of chill before another round of record setting heat, I know deep down that summer is officially over?  Is it because it is so obvious here, with the leaves changing color before shedding off the trees?

With every drop of the temperature, I feel my anxiety heighten.  After fall is…winter.  Blech.  We were able to avoid winter’s cold sting (by Quebec standards) last year due to the wonderful El Nino and all of the mild weather it brought those of us living up in the Great White North.  El Nino’s angry sister however, La Nina, promises a cold, wet, miserable winter this year.  I am very very nervous.  The trees are losing their leaves and it is freaking me out.  I even emailed Pedram last week to describe poetically how the wind and rain outside my office was torturing a poor leaf that flapped around desperately with no sign of relief, repeatedly slamming to my window.  So many leaves suffered in last week’s storm.

However, in the aftermath, this week the sidewalks were a rich golden blend, with leaves of every yello/red color littering the ground, with warm (again, a relative term) sun shining down on them.  There is plenty of color all around us.

I know I shouldn’t be so worried.  In fact, I should just exhale and enjoy the current wonderful state of post summer bliss.  The fall time is great for fashion — boots, scarves, turtlenecks, cashmere sweaters and cozy hats.  It is great for food — soups and pomegranates and apple tarts and butternut toffee lattes.  In fact, this is the perfect time for Pedram and I both to relax a bit, enjoy the calm of our current lives.  Decisions have been made (for the most part) and we are eagerly planning our Christmas getaway down South. We are finally taking care of ourselves, taking care of the house, and watching movies in the comfort of our home while poor innocent leaves are being waterboarded outside.  It is actually really nice.  And I’ve picked up some great movie quotes!

“If only everything in the world could be covered in butter” — Paperman (I liked this movie)

“Oh, I’m fine, I’m English, we like to be cold and wet. — A Serious Man (a glimpse into Tom Ford’s head, methinks.)

Love is, is too weak a word for what I feel – I lurve you, you know, I loave you, I luff you, two F’s, yes I have to invent, of course I – I do, don’t you think I do? — Annie Hall (I love Woody Allen)

I would turn to Pedram and repeat that last quote to him right now, but he is in Arizona, and therefore not able to hear my take on Woody’s interpretation of love.  I would tell it to Rusby, but he doesn’t seem to care how many movie lines I quote to him.

The reality is, fall is absolutely wonderful in Montreal.  During a road trip last weekend, I watched tree after tree of radiant colors of beauty and I thought to myself, I don’t know if I could ever get bored of this.  The autumn is too fleeting to spend it worrying.  I guess I should enjoy it now while I still can.

How I became a bikerider

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This past weekend, I almost died of shock seeing people in Los Angeles on bikes.  I am always telling my friends that they should ride their bikes, no matter what city they are in, and now witnessing people in the most car-centric city in the world using bikes for transport, I really feel like people have no excuse.  On a side note — California keeps getting more and more ridiculous.  I saw nail polish on a dog in Orange County.  This is why I love it down there, it is like a whole different bizarre world where everyone seems to be auditioning for reality TV.

How did I become a dedicated bike rider?  Someone who rides consistently everyday to work and back, to yoga and the store, to movies and to get pedicures?  It was a long process.  Seattle is a hilly city, more of a car town and maybe Vespa, but not really meant for bikes.  I have always been interested in riding a bike, but in a silly way, like to ride around a park and then sit for a picnic.  But slowly, with the emergence of the bike-sharing all over Europe, I started riding bikes as a form of transport.  Suddenly I became an unexpected eco-tourist, riding a bike in Luxembourg, London, Paris, and even in Brussels.

Riding in Paris -- a little scary, but lots of fun

When we were in London, Pedram’s friend took us on a bike tour, and told us about their plans to bike from London to Shanghai.  I told them I thought they were crazy, but I’d fly to Shanghai and greet them there with dim sum.  But Pedram had a different reaction, he was bit by the biking bug, and promptly went and bought himself a new bike.  I bought him a neon vest and a helmet, and told him not to get killed.  But when my friend Mina was moving to Chad and was willing to give someone her banged up flat wheeled bike*, I told her I’d take it, figuring I’d probably never fix it and would just keep an eye on it as it collected dust until she returned.  But one day I came home, and voila!, Pedram had taken it to the nearby bike shop, fixed it all up, and even got me my own lock.  We started taking little bike rides, mostly out to the nearby parks in Brussels.  I was terrified biking in the city — there were no bike lanes, and cars could care less about respecting space.  I once got stuck in the tram tracks, which is the worst thing EVER.  Drivers (and bikers and pedestrians) were aggressive and fast, and I never rode my bike anywhere without Pedram nearby.

My commute to work at that point took about 20 minutes by car, but over an hour by public transport.  Realizing I could cut the commute time in half if I rode my bike to Gare Luxembourg, I started this route in the morning with Pedram.  But depending on the weather, or our schedules, or my willingness to endure the Brussels mayhem, this was not happening everyday.  My biking skills were still sub-par, and I relied heavily on Pedram for assistance to navigate the routes and shake his fists at angry drivers (mine were glued to steering).

When we decided to move to Montreal, we didn’t know what to do with the bike.  Mina was still in Chad, and I couldn’t find another bike-sitter.  Since we were already shipping Pedram’s bike to Montreal, I figured I’d ship mine as well, in hopes that I would be biking in Montreal as well.  Montreal is an incredibly bike-friendly city, with many many miles (kilometers) dedicated to bike paths.  Our first summer here, Pedram was riding to work everyday by bike, and I was slowly beginning to ride as well to go to the market and visit friends.  Due to our terrific winter this past year, Pedram was riding his bike all the way until December, and started back up in March.  This time, I joined him.

I was determined not to be dependent on him any longer to ride my bike, and started finding my own routes and ways to get around.  We started taking different routes to work and back.  We no longer bike together.  And I actually started enjoying it.  My commute is flat, downhill, flat, and then a ridiculous uphill for the last 3 minutes (I get to work panting, definitely awake!) and reverse coming home.  I feel good about spending the additional time outdoors, especially when the weather is great.  I am much more mobile and less dependent on buses and metros.  I don’t have to wait in traffic, which makes me less irritable and more pleasant.  The paths are reliable and good, and there is a strong biking community, making me feel safe even amongst cars.  I feel more confident on the bike, starting and stopping, turning and weaving, and even ringing my bell.

And I swear my quads are stronger than ever before.

I found myself needing a bag of some sort to carry all of my stuff, and started looking for bags and baskets around Montreal to latch onto the bike.  Randomly, while in Syracuse for a cousin’s wedding, I spotted a dismissed used milk cart in an alley and brought it back with me, and stuck it to the back of my bike.  Now I can even carry watermelons home with me.

the basket that carries my handbag

I was encouraged by all of the Bixi (Montreal bike-sharing) riders out there, especially professional women like me who used the bikes as a method of transport.  As the summer progressed, I even started wearing skirt, dresses and heels on the bike, learning how to sit on my skirt so it won’t fly, positioning my heels just right so they won’t slip all over the place, and standing on the bike during a windy period.

Pedram does occasionally ride with me, although he refuses to ride next to me, but rather at least 10 feet ahead.  And sometimes when my skirt gets caught in the chain, and I am freaking out and yelling his name to stop and help me, he will be kind enough to return and help me dislodge and get me on my way.  Most of the time though, I am by myself, a proud daily biker, my choice as my method of commuting.

Look at me! In a dress!

*Mina got this bike because her dad had collected enough points from the local supermarket in Luxembourg to purchase a brand new bike. I get compliments on it all the time, with even an Italian guy stopping me and telling me that his brother has an identical one in Milan.

The Heat

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Thank you Montreal, for your many days of 30+ Celsius (90+ Fahrenheit) weather.

It has magically made the blustering winter disappear, giving me sudden amnesia about how many layers I was wearing this time three months ago.  Three months!  In February, it was NEGATIVE 20 here, and my arms and legs were deprived of daylight, covered in seemingly endless layers of long underwear and wool.

But now my limbs are FREE – exposed to everyone!  I am riding my bike everywhere, wearing skirts and sleeveless dresses, and enjoying ice cream on late night walks.  It is really hard to walk by the ice cream place wearing bare minimum of clothing and not indulge.  Especially since you rode your bike and you deserve a treat.

We barbecued outside all weekend long, and even all week long.  We are lugging huge watermelons home from the local store, eating too much and peeing non-stop.  We are also eating asparagus all the time, which makes our pee smell funny.  Enough pee talk.  Summer has started.

Of course, it is worth mentioning that Rusby is pretty thrilled with the hot weather too.  Instead of playing ball inside, he now roams free outside, chasing the ball through the grassy fields.  And when he needs a little break, he cools off by rolling himself down the hill.

I am very tempted to imitate him.

Say Quoi?

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I went to the local gardening store near our house and asked the clerk outside if she could help me with our sad mint.  She asked me what it looked like, I told her that there were yellow spots on it, and although we have healthy oregano and sage in the garden, our mint suffers from this aliment every year.  I specifically used the word malady, since before I left I asked Pedram how to explain the mint’s issue in French, and he said our menthe has a maladie.

The nice gardening store person responded that it is probably grilled street, which happens often when the feet are damaged and buildings are blue.

At least that is what I understood from her response.  Determined, I continued in french, asking her what we could do to eliminate this problem, and she told me we have to flame our jeans.

In Belgium, I found that I understood 75% of French conversations, TV or movies, but spoke with hesitation, embarrassed of my accent.  Now, I understand less than 40%.  I am much more confident in speaking French in Montreal, but it really makes no sense to do so when I understand so little of what is being said back to me.  It is the Québécois accent, for sure, but all a mix of the words used that I am not familiar with, and it leads to alot of blank stares from me.

Ca dechire sa race.

I actually do not know how to properly use this phrase, but it is one I have learned from my new frenchie friend Mattieu, who speaks a younger, hipper version of french that I am constantly trying to emulate.  This leads me to saying certain phrases, and then having Pedram tell me that I used it incorrectly, or that I am not cool enough to pull it off.  For example, I told my hairdresser that “je kiffe un bon steak frites”, and she seemed surprised.  He then informed me that I shouldn’t try to be as cool at Mattieu.

And for our mint, it is suffering from a rust problem, which in french is rouille, which was pronounced as two separate words by gardening girl  — something like — rue brule – which sounds to me like “burned street”.

Point being, my french has gone nowhere.