logloglog

On our way for the American Thanksgiving celebrations with Alison’s family. Even though the weather predictions only mentioned “some flurries” we ended up in a snow storm near Mexico. No, not that Mexico, but the town of Mexico, in up-state New York. After some googling (an iPhone is really handy in the car to look up points of interest and to settle disputes) we found out that the region gets the most snow in all of the Eastern US. This is caused by the lake-effect from nearby Lake Ontario where moist air is blown ashore.

We managed to pass the storm without any damage although I saw some cars in the ditch and even saw a car, coming from the opposite direction, spin out and go straight into the median ditch right in front of me. A spectacular sight with a huge fountain of snow. The passengers seemed to be unharmed. In retrospect I should have called 911, but I’m not that used to having a cell phone on me.

When I cycled to my doctor yesterday on the Maissoneuve bike path I noticed this sign when I entered the borough of Westmount. Apparently cyclists need to wear a helmet there, I’ve no idea since when.
Now I do think wearing helmets in Montreal’s traffic is generally a good idea. I always wear mine especially since my accident, but I do think it is a good idea to introduce this requirement in all the boroughs on the island of Montreal at once.

In the current situation Westmount is an island, and legally inaccesible by the majority of cyclists that don’t wear a helmet.

Of course I saw a lot of people breaking this by-law and I’ve no idea if it is enforced. But having laws that are just laws is worse than having no laws at all.

Exactly seven years ago the iPod was introduced. It was also the morning after the first night Alison and I spend together. We didn’t realize then that both events would have so much impact and longevity.

Happy anniversary iPod and Alison! May the seven-year-itch be gentle on all of us.

I missed the 5 year anniversary of loglog on the first of September. My first post on loglog —which I wrote in Dutch back then— was about the preparations for my move to Canada. I moved 11 days later, on September 11, 2003 and that date was not chosen by coincidence.

Without the events of September 11, 2001 I probably wouldn’t have been in Montréal today. I was in Toronto that day, investigating if I could relocate to Canada. My plan was to spend a 3 month period to see how living in Toronto would be and to find out if there would be any work for me.

I had just attended the wedding of Dolph and Mansa, a Dutch friend-of-a-friend of mine and his Canadian wife, and the first couple of weeks I could stay in their apartment while they were away on their honeymoon. The apartment was on the 14th floor in the flight-path of Pearson airport and I could actually see the pilots when they started their landing.

The morning of the attacks on the WTC, I was checking my email when I received an email that a plane had hit a building in New York. I ran to the TV and ten seconds after I turned it on I saw the plane hit the tower. I thought it was a replay but from the commentary I soon understood it was a second plane. I didn’t stop watching TV that day. New York City felt so close, even though I had never been there.

The week after that Toronto, with some sort of delusion of grandeur, was afraid to be the next target. No planes were landing anymore, the CN-tower was closed and I was all alone in a foreign city with nobody to talk to. My meetings with prospective employers were cancelled and I decided this was just not the right time for a try-out. I already hated it for its americanism and urban sprawl, and now everybody was very tense and it was even worse. I wanted to go home.

Dolph, coming back from his honeymoon, convinced me to pay Montréal a visit before I would fly back to the Netherlands. He said it was good to just experience Montréal so I could decide if it was worthwhile to come back later.

And so I travelled on the train to Montréal with all my luggage. Way too much luggage.

When I arrived in Gare Centrale and schlepped my luggage from the railway station to the Metro ówho designed all those narrow passages and stairs?ó I noticed the atmosphere was so different than in Toronto. It was more European, the people friendlier and less stressed and I felt like in a warm bath. I spent two nearly sleepless nights in a youth hostel and met a guy there who knew a place were you could rent a room per month. I decided to stay a little longer than originally planned. I got myself a small room, installed telephone and ordered an internet connection. All for only one month, but I wanted to see how it would be to live in this city, and not just being a tourist.

Via my Internet connection I kept in contact with friends in the Netherlands, with some clients and even did some programming work for a client in Montréal. But I didn’t know anybody and felt rather lonely, so I put up an ad on an Internet dating site.

Alison was the only person that replied. We met for lunch and she fell in love with me over a bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon. My first bagel ever.

Partly because the encounter with Alison I ended up staying for almost two months in Montréal. While waiting almost two years for my visa I visited many times. In the end of August 2003 I finally got the green light and it was not a hard decision to pick September 11, 2003 as the date of my official arrival in Canada as a landed immigrant. Just to make that date a bit less evil; to give it also a positive side.

Since then lots of things have happened. I wrote about some of them on loglog, but many things I kept to myself. Sometimes because I was too lazy, sometimes because I didn’t feel like it and sometimes for such trivial reasons as lacking a suitable photo.

Five years in Montréal is a good occasion to make up the balance. What is my current life compared to what it was 5 years ago? What has changed? What is still the same? Which of my expectations have come true? Which haven’t?

I’ll write about that in the next post.

That post may contain Too Much Information, in which case you should just skip it. It also might just vanish from this site someday, in which case I got either second thoughts, cold feet or was abducted by aliens.

We got up very early today to start Alison’s driving education. Early in the morning the parking lots of the malls are still deserted and provide safe grounds for teaching inexperienced drivers the basic working of a manual car.

We practise using the clutch, braking and changing gears. And, by necessity, making turns, because the parking lot is not that big. Alison really liked that particular part of the curriculum, especially when she drove a bit too fast and the tires started to squeal.

It wasn’t as stressful to be taught by me as she thought beforehand, so that was good. I wasn’t totally at ease but nevertheless managed to keep my underpants clean.

Warning: if you go on the road during the next year please be aware that you might share the road with Alison.

She is going to try to get a driver’s license, and has just passed her theoretical test and now she is the proud owner of a learner’s permit.

(For readers outside Québec/Canada: in order to get your driver’s license you first have to drive with a learner’s permit. That allows you to drive a car but under certain conditions: amongst others you’re not allowed to drive during the night and you always have to be accompanied by an experienced driver. This period lasts at least a year after which you can do a Practical Driving Test to get your ‘real’ driver’s license. In European countries you have to do all your driving lessons in an adapted car with a qualified driving instructor and can only drive your own car (with or without passengers) after you passed a very difficult practical driving test. I had to take it three times before I passed after taking more than 50 hour-long lessons costing 30 dollars each. Ouch!)

So now I have to teach her to drive. My plan is to start with a few test runs on a big empty parking lot early in the morning where I can teach her to the basics of steering, braking and shifting. After she has mastered that I’d suggest her to take a couple of lessons with a real instructor, in a car that is equipped with double brake- and gas pedals. When she is more or less comfortable in normal traffic we can continue her driver’s education in our car.
I’m not looking forward to that day since I’m sure I will be terrified. But I’ll try to be brave and behave like a man. And not shout at her. And be relaxed. And breathe through my stomach. And give her concise instructions. And be patient. And.. watch out!

Anybody has other suggestions to make this as painless as possible? And are there readers that drive manual cars and want to take Alison for a ride in our car after said lessons? I’m sure she will be much more comfortable with someone other than me sitting next to her. And I will probably too.

We went to the US for the second time this week, this time to visit the annual Fourth of July barbecue at Alison’s uncle’s house in Cortland, upstate New York.

We booked late but nevertheless got the most spacious suite to sleep in: the gorgeous attic. Despite it being very hot during the day, at night it was remarkable cool and we slept very well.

Alison has a huge family (her grandparents had 11 children) and a lot of them (more than 50) travel from all over the country, from Hawaii to Cleveland, to attend. After 5 years I got to know them a bit so the whole reunion is not as much an ordeal as it was the first few times.

The owner of this attic is reading loglog so leave a comment and tell him what you think about his attic. Please keep it positive otherwise we aren’t allowed to book it for next year. Note the upside down hanging lamps he made for over the huge conference table at the right. Very original and nice.

This photo was taken on Highway 89 near Montpelier in the middle of Vermont. Is this a message to tell the world Vermont really wants to join Canada? By becoming metric?

5 years later.

We walked a lot, doing a couple of walking tours.

Today we spent exploring Harlem. It was a very strange experience for me to be surrounded by non-white people. I didn’t see any Caucasians for over two hours.
I wasn’t afraid or felt threatened or something like that. I just felt slightly uneasy. Being the odd one out. It made me understand a bit better how black people must feel when they are surrounded by whites. And I wasn’t even oppressed or treated badly.

Alison didn’t have any of these feelings. She lived in Africa for 4 years, and simply doesn’t notice race.