My Humble Abode

It’s been a little more than a month since my giant leap westbound… Well, westbound from Montreal to Toronto, that is. Now that I’ve digested the bulk of what’s happened in my life during those four weeks, I feel ready to share the tales of my new chapter in T.O. Of course, no adventure of mine is ever without a hint of kooky craziness…

Let me start off by saluting the tenant who used to live in my basement apartment, wherever he/she may be. I want to thank him/her for never cleaning the refrigerator and for leaving me a complimentary gift of spoiled mushrooms in the bottom drawer: it was much appreciated. Moreover, I can’t thank them enough for that filthy carpet and rug they, presumably, never bothered to vacuum as well: my new Bissell Easy Vac was up to the challenge. Words certainly cannot express my gratitude as I gasped at the state of the shower: O, sweet mildew, how I ached for thee. Posters of hot rods and peaceful meadows have strategically concealed your outbursts of drunkenness on the walls, and the stench that permeated the apartment has created a warm and pleasant atmosphere. To the battalion of centipedes that greeted me regularly in the wee hours of the morn as I rushed to the bathroom: I may have been shaken by your sudden attacks, but my dehumidifier and my bottle of bleach besieged you all. You have been vanquished; resistance is futile.

Needless to say, my first week in my new place was challenging. I was disgusted, horrified, homesick, and annoyed, and after experiencing brief panic attacks I woman’d up and got to cleanin’. Now my apartment is squeaky clean and smells absolutely delightful. I knew I was a bit of a germophobe but ever since I settled in my new abode my condition has taken a turn for the worse, for obvious reasons.

As September 1^st rolled in, I got a metropass (yeah, a really expensive, 3 times the price of a reduced fare bus pass in Montreal metropass) and explored the city. I took in my surroundings, made the streets my own and marvelled at how clean they were: I mean, they are REALLY clean. It’s kinda weird, I mean, the streets in Montreal are dirty and jacked up, but that’s whole ‘nother topic, but the streets in T.O. are ridiculously clean… I’m amazed…

Anyways, on that fateful day, as I rode the bus home from an exciting excursion at Scarborough Town Centre, I saw something shocking. A lady got on the bus and there was something written on her t-shirt. I had a hard time reading what it said without appearing like a complete weirdo staring at a stranger’s chest. After a few attempts, I was able to fully glance at her t-shirt: “This is your brain (insert Toronto Maple Leafs logo), This is your brain on drugs (insert Montreal Canadiens logo).”

I was appalled. My blood pressure shot up. I was living among the enemy. Sure, I’m not much of a Habs fan. Actually, I’m more of a fair-weather fan: don’t talk to me about the Habs unless they’re in the playoffs. But still, I felt unsafe. I imagine the kind of tawdry display of arrogance I would have to endure at the hands of obnoxious Leafs fans. No longer would I see a parade of Habs t-shirts, caps, and what-have-you riding on the bus and the subway.

One of my friends, reacting to my first display of Habs bashing, simply said “Tell them: Losers since 1967”. Right, like I’m gonna tell some chick from the hood that her beloved hockey team sucks and that the Habs are a freakin’ dynasty and are a bigger part of hockey history than those Maple Leafs. Yeah, ok. I’m trying to survive up in this place so for once I’ll steer clear from ni**er moments, alright??

That really put things in perspective for me: Montreal was so far away, yet everything in me was all about Montreal. I may be living here now to do my certificate and I’ll most probably find a job at a magazine once I graduate. But I can’t spend the rest of my life in T.O. No, Montreal is in my blood. I know, I know, I’m always complaining about my hometown and yes, there are Habs haters in MTL as well. But it’s not just about that. All I’ve ever known is over there. The way I speak, the way I think… I can’t shake it off. It’s crazy, but I miss hearing Quebecers cussing… I mean, I REALLY miss it; I usually can’t stand it and it aggravates the crap out of me, but right now, hearing some blue collar dude from Hochelaga-Maisonneuve telling off some government employee would be music to my ears.

Toronto’s not all that bad. I may be a little homesick, but I’m glad to be here. Come on, it beats being unemployed and bitter, watching The Price is Right on my mama’s couch every weekday. Oh how I miss watching The Price is Right. Oh how I miss watching cable… but I digress. I know I’m here for a reason and I now see how my career is shaping up to be. Finally.

I have to admit, I think the men in Toronto are much more tactful than in Montreal. Now, now, before I get hate mail from my dudes back home, let me explain. There are many men in Montreal who will approach women like brutes by hollering at them (“Hey you! Yeah you, I’m talking to you over there! I know you can see me! What’s your name?”). However I’ve witnessed that some men in Toronto try a gentler approach. Indeed, a courteous “Hello” or “Good morning” followed by a “How are you?” suffice. No need for “I’m a rapper and I need some pretty girls like you to dance in my new music video” or a brash “Why you gotta be like that? How we supposed to get to know each other if you don’t give me your phone number, uh?”

Of course, there are exceptions. This afternoon, on my way back home, I sat on the bus and the guy next to me asked in a Sling Blade kind of tone, “You just came from the gym?”

“Hmm-hmm”, I replied.

“’Cause I see that big bag you got and I’m sure there are some clothes in there, right?”

“Hmm-hmm”, I acquiesced.

Minutes later, the curious passenger attempted to engage in further conversation:

“You got any kids?”

Perplexed, I simply answered, “No.”

“So when do you think you’ll want to have kids?” he asked.

“That’s a personal question”, I gently responded.

“That’s a good question, right?” he replied, feeling good about his conversational skills.

“No, I said that’s a personal question.”

“Oh ok. You see, I was thinking I wanna have kids in the next couple of years, you know.”

“Ok.”

“You seeing anybody?”

“That’s a personal question too.”

“So is that a yes or a no? I’m tryin’ to see if you got a man or not so I can ask you for your number. I mean, you look like a grown lady, you know, and a grown lady like you has got to have a man.” (Long pause) “I’ve been single since 2003 and got my heartbroken twice”.

(Blank stare)

Moments later, he persisted:

“So can I please have your phone number?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Oh come on. Can you tell me your name?”

“You don’t need to know my name.”

“Well I need to know your name so I can ask you a question.”

“You don’t need to know my name for that. What’s your question?”

Yelling at the bus driver, he exclaimed, “HEY! I NEED TO GET OFF HERE! See, that’s why I needed to know your name to ask you to move so I could get off.”

I don’t even have to make that stuff up.

If a similar situation had occurred in MTL, the dude NEVER would’ve admitted to being single and heartbroken for 7 years, desperately seeking a grown lady to appease his woes. I’m not saying that the men in T.O. are soft, but that dude was a violin away from crumbling to pieces and yelping inconsolably.

I wonder what else this city has to offer me…