Party Portraits

Here are a few of my favorite portraits from the party.

Shiloh and Kid

The party hostess, Shiloh, wore a complicated costume. She was dressed as a Post-Humanist, after several rounds of inter-species reproduction have occurred, that studies inter-species sexuality. Here are some pictures of her festooned.




The 11-year old I live with chose to go to the party as herself but as if she'd been raised by Shiloh. Remarkably, with that persona in mind, the 11-year old and Shiloh both chose to wear orange bob-shaped wigs without any consultation on the matter. They were both incredibly pleased by the lucky commonality.

Pics of the 11-year old.

Donning the Raven

My friend Shiloh had a "Who's your doppleganger in an alternate universe?" costume party this weekend. The now-11 year old and I drove North to Montreal to be there for it. I figured, though, that if we were going to drive 3+ hours for one overnight to attend a costume party, I'd better fully commit to a costume of extravagant fantasy. So, I went dressed as a Shape Shifting Raven in the guise of a woman.

My friend and hair dresser Andrea Harrison did an AMAZING job with my hair. First, here are pics of the hair she designed for me after I described the feel, and character I was going for. She's wonderful!




The hair with feather collar to accent Andrea's great work...



Here's some pics of the costume and makeup. My friend Pam Wilkinson made the incredible cape. Unfortunately, there aren't any full length photos of the cape from the back, but you can see it in the outside pic, where I'm sitting down, and draped off the arms in the standing indoor picture.

Hair by Andrea Harrison
Rubber Dress Atsuko Kudo, Cape Pam Wilkinson, Feather Collar Love Child Boudoir, Skull Hell Angel Ring Alexander McQueen, Shoulder Chain Harness LitterSF, Violet and Sterling Gray Colored Contacts

The Romance of Rain Not About Simple-Romance at All

One of the more romantic moments of my life consisted in a friend and I caught together in the rain a couple of years ago. The funny thing is that this was a time with someone dear to me that, even so, is simply a friend. So, in that sense, the moment I reference is not one typically romantic. That is, we were in no way entering into a romance. Still, it stands out as a moment special to me, and one in which I felt life, closeness to another, and the aesthetic of love as represented in classic movies all came together to express themselves in a moment.

I suppose I bring this up now partially because earlier tonight I was texting with this same friend, but also because here I am now, entirely across the continent we share, caught inside a house because outside there is a snowstorm. Because of the snow, I am thinking on the experience I am in the middle of now, but also thinking to experiences I have had before.

We were walking across town together in the late evening in Montreal one summer. It was dark outside, and the streets already were empty. We were dressed in clothes that were light, because outside it was warm. We'd just left the home of our friends. In our leaving together there was something important we shared --an understanding of our standing outside that situation, and so together in our new one (most simply, that of walking together outside).

We'd decided we were hungry, but mostly we were walking simply because it was what the evening demanded. In the midst of it we were speaking on things --what is important in the way we live our lives, how we make decisions, the way such decisions connect to our work in philosophy, the ways philosophy can make it hard, otherwise, to live a simply normal life, the way that we were both single and okay with it.

The sky had begun to cloud over but we'd payed little notice of it. Someone had even said they expected it would rain. Still, we hadn't planned. There we were outside, on largely empty roads, walking in the night, just the two of us. Then, without warning heard by either of us, the sky opened up and it was rushing rain. The water falling was thick and rich enough we'd be wet in mere moments. There we were hiding together under a store awning. We had a choice. We could crouch waiting for who knows how long. Or, we could run. We chose to run.

Together the two of us raced through the rain, not caring about our bodies, or our clothes, or the goods inside the bags strapped to our bodies, except that any of them were part of our movement. We ran until we reached, several blocks later, another awning. Then we stood there again laughing, laughing, wet through to skin, laughing together.

It was one of the more perfect moments I've lived. Just the two of us there in a world silent except for the un-ignorable sound of the falling rain, laughing as we looked at each other, both soaked through our clothes to skin. It occurred to me at the time that if we'd been romantically inclined to each other, that would be the moment to kiss. Instead, we laughed again waiting as we caught our breath, then dashed out into the rain running as hard and fast as we could to the next awning. We covered the city this way. We ran in three minute bursts again and again for a mile or two that night until we reached the awning before one of the main walking streets in town, and stood together waiting before we ran on one more time to a pizza venue. We waited partially because in the moment we entered the pizza venue the night would be changed from our private space together in the rain, to an experience of weather shared with others, also laughing.

I don't remember how I slept that night, though I must have made it home again somehow. I do recall that days later when I washed my clothes they'd been stained green by the leather bag I'd carried my books and papers in. It had been held across my body as we ran, its green strap coloring through my shirt, my bra, all the way to my skin. Mostly, the papers inside had stayed dry. It's leather was never the same. In that friendship I still share an unspoken, but palpable brilliance --an understanding of the feelings of life when accepted as wonderfully expressive bursts of joy run through inescapable rain. I can feel it each time we reconnect after months of living apart in the various cities our work demand of us to live. For such life I am grateful. It is a kind of joy I'd gladly reconnect to again and again, a reminder of how much fun we can have in unanticipated surprise.

Losing Your Car to the Snow, For Kate

Beginning of a Blizzard in Sedona, Arizona (half hour south of Flagstaff), December 2009

In Montreal, when it snows, the cars parallel parked on every street of the city have to magically find somewhere else to go so the snow can be plowed and hauled away. The city handles this difficult situation by hanging vibrant orange tow-truck signs with 12 hour time periods over the streets of the neighborhoods that will be plowed next. So, on the right side of the street the 12 hours overlaps day time hours, and on the left side of the street the hours are at night. The city figures this way only half the car owners are totally and completely screwed at any one time. Honestly, when there are enough cars in town that they take up every car length of street in the area, it's hard to imagine how all those cars will compress into half the car spots of the city. Somehow, it mostly works.

The reason for the tow truck sign is that at some point in that 12 hour time period a giant plow is going to come through that side of the street to get rid of the snow. If your car is on that side of the street when the plow comes down the road, a city tow truck is going to ticket, and then take your car away. The nice thing about life in a place like Montreal, is the tow company knows all too well that they don't have time to literally haul every such car to a distant tow lot, and no car owner wants to cross town to said lot. Instead, the tow truck just pulls your car around the corner to whatever open parking spot the driver is able to find. As a result, the day after a big storm there are tons of people driving around trying to find a parking spot, or there are tons of people walking around trying to find their moved car.

My last year in Montreal was the largest snow year on record. That means the biggest snow fall in 400 years (when the records started). Pretty impressive really, and quite lovely too. Towards the end of the season, right when the snow plowing budget ran out, we got the biggest snow fall within that record year--about 3 feet in one storm. Because the city had run out of money for plowing, they stopped clearing the city sidewalks, and focused only on clearing the streets, but even there the city plowed only one side of the streets in many places, figuring it would all melt eventually anyway. As a result, walking about town was like pushing along a mountain trail. People had made little step-by-step paths on top of the three foot mounds of snow on sidewalks. But in places their steps would sink in, then there would be the entrance to some apartment building where the manager had actually bothered to shovel out the front, then there would be the place where someone dug their car out and threw their snow on the sidewalk, so that suddenly the snow was five feet high. With this combination of features you'd be walking gingerly, but sweating as you climbed up, then back down, then sunk in, then perched up over the crazy mountain-like trail of sidewalk snow.

In the midst of this 3 foot snow storm I caught some kind of illness and was bed ridden. As a result, I missed first digging my car out of the frozen rubble to move it for the plowing, and then missed too when my car was actually plowed. By the time I woke up from my mysterious sleep, my car was no longer parked in front of my flat, the sidewalks were half way up the first story of the building I lived in, and the left side of my street was cleared, while the right side was still buried in snow. I have no idea where the neighborhood cars disappeared to. They'd all been moved. It was a day after the storm when I came to, and had to start wandering the streets to find my car. My car had been towed once each of the two years previous that I'd lived in Montreal, so I was familiar with the procedure. I figured it wouldn't be a big issue, I'd just walk around each of the corners within a two-block radius of my apartment, and around one of them there my car would be. This time though the around-each-corner investigation didn't work. My car wasn't to be found. I expanded the search area to five blocks, and still it didn't work. Then I realized it was time to rush off to some meeting across town so I ditched the car search and went on my way via bus. Not arriving home till later that night, I didn't bother looking for my car again till the next morning. Waking up the next day, I decided to take a systematic approach to searching for my car. I would walk north for ten blocks, looking side to side for my car at each cross street, then turn and walk ten blocks south one street over, and keep this up for the general neighborhood area. Walking like this I still didn't find my car and again other plans intervened so I ditched the hunt again. That night though after my meeting I met up with friends and one of them asked if they could catch a ride home with me. "No," I said. "I'm sorry." "Oh? What's up." They asked in response. "Oh. My car is gone. I haven't seen it in several days so I walked here." My friend started laughing at how nonchalant my response was. "You car is gone?" They thought I meant it was stolen. I clarified that oh, I had no idea what had happened to my car, since it had never wandered off this far on its own before. But I figured I'd find it eventually. And if I didn't, well, that would save me ever shoveling it out of this record snow fall again.

That night we stayed out late drinking cheap Canadian beer, and I woke up the next day with a sore back and a headache. Not enough water. I decided though that the weather was so bright and clear it was time to work even harder at finding the car. If I didn't succeed after day three of looking, I'd have to break into the French-speaking municipality system and call to report a runaway sedan. In the midst of walking a full-kilometer away from my house I received a phone call from Don and we chatted it up about Star Trek, philosophy, the snow, and our aching post-cheap-beer headaches. We were both feeling physically miserable, but I was out in the brisk air walking it off. Twenty minutes of this and I still had no idea where my car was. I was starting to say to Don that maybe it really had been stolen and here four days later I hadn't even bothered to report the theft to the police. Finally though, I walked by one of those bright-orange tow truck signs that had a phone number on it. I'd never seen one of these before. My neighborhood only ever had a friendly little picture of the truck.

I told Don I'd call him back and dialed the number. It turned out it linked directly into that French-speaking municipality system, falling right in the middle of the snow-plow, tow-truck division. If you had your license plate number memorized, you could type it into the system and a man with a heavy Quebecois accent would recite back the cross street location where your car had been towed. This was excellent. If my car had just been towed away for snow, I could just dial it in and look it up. I typed in my license plate and the man recited back a cross street I couldn't understand. It had just been towed. But to where I had no idea. In my extended neighborhood I couldn't remember any streets that even sounded remotely like what he was saying. I called Don back, who was at home snuggled up with his internet connection (the best way to deal with a hang over clearly is either sleeping or online), and gave him the dial-your-car information, asking him if he could sort out where my car was located by referencing the man's accent to a local street map. We got off the phone again and I waited. Don called back and had come up with four possible streets that could turn out to be where my car was located. One of them was more than a kilometer from my house. The rest I'd walked by in my previous searches. I start heading east towards the furthest possible street. Don and I talked more, laughing about the absurdity of the situation when you included my hang over in the story.

I walked in the sun, through the wide open snowy field of the park near my house. We chatted while I moved under the several-hundred year old trees covering the area. Finally, there on the other side of the park, I reached the street. There were cars thrown in at odd angles and underneath enormous mounds of now-frozen-to-ice mounds of snow. With the craziness of the snow storm it turned out the trucks had to take cars this far away to find a ditch-'em parking spot. In addition, though, the city hadn't recently plowed this street, and many of the cars had obviously been left there since before the last snow. The trick then wasn't going to be just walking the length of the street to spot my car, but instead to walk the length of the street to identify the mound that could fit the shape of my car. The thing about owning a sedan though, is that lots of mounds could look like the shape of your car. After walking half the street I recognized the tip of my radio antenna sticking out of a mound in just the right way. I kicked the snow off of the license plate. And there it was. My car. Buried under a mound of snow that surrounded the car by literally two feet on every side, and another foot and a half on top. I told Don the situation and then got off the phone ready to throw my aching back, and headache into the project. Hauling snow off the trunk with my hands I was able to get my shovel out of the trunk and started digging out the car. After three years in the city I'd learned how to take away only just enough snow to de-parallel park, leaving the shape of the mound mostly intact when I left with the car. This time it turned out the tow truck had hauled my vehicle onto an earlier-made mound of snow and so I had to shovel snow out from under the car too. Still, after three hours of work I was able to leave behind a rectangle brick of snow a foot and a half thick on three sides with the shape of a sedan missing from the middle of it. The tow truck ticket was $100.

Yesterday Flagstaff, Arizona experienced one of its biggest blizzards in years. That's really saying something considering Flagstaff is a mountain town situated at 7000 feet, or 2,140 meters in elevation. Last night our power went out for 10 hours as a result of over 2 feet of snow and 70 mile per hour winds. It's time to head outside and dig our way out the front door. Gratefully I brought the shovel into the mud room two days ago, knowing I'd need it soon. The car is in the driveway without threat of towing. Flagstaff too will tow your car away if its parked on the street overnight after a snow storm. But it is surrounded by two-feet high snow on every side, and on top. Not to mention a good twelve feet between the back of the car and the edge of the street that'll have to be shoveled. Gratefully, there's no hang over in sight.

Montreal Bike Culture in the American Southwest

Two of the things that impressed me about people in Montreal were (1) how cool they made being a parent look, and (2) how well they got their entire family around by bicycle. Moving around the city I saw the most impressive array of possible ways to use one bike to get around multiple people. People would attach posts to the center of the back wheel that one person would stand on while the other pedaled. Kids would sit side saddle on the top tube, while the grown up sat on the seat and pedaled. Smaller kids would balance on the handle bar, bigger kids would prop themselves on the back rack.

Flagstaff is a town full of bikers too. (Harley riders too, actually.) There are bike lanes to get around town, and there are extensive mountain biking areas, whether maintained by the city, or otherwise. I don't, however, see people getting their families around in atypical ways. There are all kinds of crazy bicycle concotions here--people that have built their own bikes in crazy shapes like the local guy who rides a bicycle that is a house story high, or the people that have constructed low riders with Harley style handlebars. But as far as moving kids around town, people take the traditional approach and put them on an extendo-bike, or in a kid seat at the back. The nine-year old and I decided today we'd get to and from school the Montreal way. She sat on my back rack as we bumped through town. At the end of it she said that she'd both never had so much fun, and didn't realize it would hurt her butt so bad.

Getting on to ride home from the climbing gym, pic taken by John, the owner. Thanks, John!

riding home, pic taken from bike-in-motion

The Rooftop Bar Personality Test: Installment 3

Here are the results of your personality test!

Narcisse, 97, de la Commune Est

"wasted potential." --Mae

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The Question:
Imagine It: You're stuck on a rooftop bar for the rest of your life with two friends, and one type of drink. Where's the bar, who are the friends, and what is the drink you choose?

The Bar You Selected:
You dream of a life of spontaneous joy in which you fall in love with a handsome stranger when you least expect it, and spend the rest of your life happily in love, but you reliably choose just the wrong place. That is, you live your life going to the places where your dreams could almost come true, but that don’t quite have enough of the verve and enthusiasm necessary to make your imaginary life a reality. It isn’t necessary that you sabotage your goals, but you’re not quite ready to accept responsibility for them. It’s important for you to realize that you’ve brought together all of the appropriate ingredients, you just need to learn how to mix them. To do that, it’s okay to ask others for help in developing the right recipe. When you accept that asking for help and advice is actually good for you, you’ll be well on your way to living the life you dream about.

The Drink You Selected:
Though the drinks you select promise to be good, and all the ingredients are there, the taste falls short, and the price is a touch too high.

The Rooftop Bar Review:
The Cosmopolitan
They only make the cosmo with grand marnier, but the taste doesn’t measure up to the promise, and the price is a couple dollars higher than other locales. Also, there was sugar on the cosmo rim, a subtle misunderstanding of the point of drinking a cosmo. It’s not that a lady wants a sweet drink, it’s that she wants a vibrant one.

The Worst Drink on the Menu--Gin Martini
When a place doesn’t have a bad drink menu, you’ve gotta order what comes to mind when the waiter appears. Luis ordered the gin martini for this reason, but was given a gin & tonic.

The Open Palate--Scotch & Soda
This bar doesn’t serve Chivas, and doesn’t tell you what kind of scotch you’re getting either. The soda on the side turned out to be tonic.

The Guest Reviewer: Mae--Beer on Tap
Turns out there’s only one beer on tap. So Mae ordered a Kronenberg blond.

Ratings

• No flags.
  
• Drunkenness danger factor--moderate drunken danger on accessibility since the approach is entirely inside, but at the top of a steep set of stairs; high drunk danger factor on the bathroom since it's at the top of steep stairs, and stinks (thus exposing you unnecessarily to higher potential hurl level).
• The Paper Grade: B-
• The Appropriate Guest: Luis's Father, with all his faults
• The Narrative: Patrick Swayze walks up at the end of Dirty Dancing and announces, “No one puts baby in the corner.” Then grabs Francis and spins her into a dramatic climactic dance scene that causes everyone to defrock from their conservative, closed-minded ways and join in the salsa rhythm. Now, imagine Patrick Swayze, in his younger dancing days walks up to your table, the music is playing, and there’s plenty of room for dancing. In other words, all the ingredients for a superb dance fiesta are there, and you're expecting to sore on the imagined wings of Swayze's strong upright arms as he holds you aloft above his head. Now, imagine, Swayze announces, “No body puts baby in the corner” but your family doesn’t actually let you get up to dance.
• The Guest Review: The Analogous Movie Type: The cheesy romantic comedy; would be the perfect place if you could return for breakfast.

How to Get There:
To get to the bar, enter on the water side of rue de la Commune, just passed rue St-Gabriel, directly across from the port. Take the elevator up to the sixth floor, then turn right, and right again in the halls till you find a door that says "Narcisse Terasse." After wandering the halls in such a manner, the door will lead you to a full and steep flight of stairs to the roof. Definitely use the bathroom before you get drunk, since it’s at the top of the stairs in a place that makes falling a drunken possibility, not to mention the smell could make your drunken tummy wretch. The view is low since it’s on the downhill side of the Old Port, but situated across from the water you get a privileged view of Habitat 67, the Casino, and the tug boats. The tables are close together in a way that means you feel as though you're there with people you don't know. In this way it's set up more like a restaurant than a bar, and in fact a full menu is trucked up the stairs from Narcisse Restaurant on the first floor. The location is popular enough with tourists you’re likely to wait a bit too long for service. There is no music, and the waiters seem to pride themselves on their fine-tuned ability to be brusque but not rude.

Pink Light

The sun setting slowly into pink over downtown Montreal, June 2009.

Unnecessary Self-Indulgence

I've been reflecting on the richness of human experience. How we can't help, too, but tell stories about our own lives, about each others lives. The way in which to make sense of what it is we see around us, what we see in each other, is to construct a narrative about the themes, the events, the congruence of moments. The story we construct provides an order to what we see, a way to understand what it is we are living out as a life. But in doing so, the richness of life is subsumed into the narrative. That is, the narrative simply cannot capture the complexity of these lives we live. And yet, we must tell ourselves a story so that we may make decisions, so that we may communicate with each other about what it is we have done, what we intend to do, where we think we are heading, what our days are like.

My friend Shiloh tells a story about how some relationships with others begin in a way that seems to already show how the relationship itself may end. We fall in love with someone already knowing that the love will not last beyond some point in the future. We see a story from the beginning of the interaction that reveals the arc, the limit of the commitment we can make to that person. Perhaps that other person's interests will move them to another city; they're training for a job that will demand they move, for example. Perhaps their daily habits will disagree with your own--maybe they're messy, and you're not. Other times, perhaps the love itself is simply temporary. Later, these relationships seem to stand as a story in the arc of our own life. We talk about them as if they were lessons for us, or, as if they represent a point in our lives when we acted a particular way. The relationship begins to represent something other than itself. It becomes its own story, or our story, rather--one of the ways we explain to ourselves how we got from that point in our lives to now.

Then, rarely, there are relationships in which such limit does not show itself so readily. The wealth of the interaction is too rich, too fertile to be subsumed by a narrative. Something about the complexity of what you two share means what it has to offer cannot be predicted, even if it can be relied upon. In such cases, there are surely many stories that could be told about the relationship shared with that person, and yet, the story is, from the beginning, smaller than the value of the love shared. Instead, we tell stories about what we share with the other person as a means to point to what we appreciate and yet understand as larger than than what we can say. The love is rich. The relationship is a complexity of experiences that cannot be adequately captured by a host of narratives. Life blooms.

Tonight I sat on the back deck of Enoch's house. The sun was setting slowly, as it does here in the summer in Canada. The light in the North was a rosy pink, and it reflected against the corrugated wall of the industrial building up the road. Electrical lines cut through the pale gray-blue sky not yet touched by pink. A single cloud bloomed out against the horizon as if diving strong into the approaching dark. I sat drinking in the liquid light of the moment. Three stories below me a man listening to his mp3 player and carrying a skateboard walked quickly along the sidewalk. He did not realize I was there able to see him. His face was stern, pointing to the destination he hurried off to and so he did not look up. The light descended again, the rosy pink spreading itself over the base of the diving cloud. It was a moment too simple to include in a narrative, and a moment too rich to step away from too.

Next week I leave Montreal again. I return to my life in the American Southwest; a life in a small town, set in the mountains, full of people unlike those that live here in French Canada. I will shift back to a daily experience quite different from the one I've celebrated here in Quebec all summer. There will be no bagels. It will be impossible to find a restaurant that serves Tokaji Aszu. There will not be a bar with mechanical bull riding, and a quonsit hut ceiling. I will not be there with these friends.

I've been reflecting on the richness of human experience as I consider the strangeness and sanctity of this movement I make between two very different places. When I moved from Montreal to the American Southwest a year ago I knew what to expect. I'd lived there before. There was a clear story I could tell myself about why I was making the move, and about aspects of what the year would be like. This summer when I returned to Montreal I realized I had no idea what the summer would be like. There were various activities I could look forward to returning to, people I knew I would spend time with, and yet it was also clear I wanted to open to something more than a pre-expected, pre-planned summer. Indeed, I changed my plane ticket three times to extend my stay. I've reached the limit of the ability to stay longer, and so I fly south again on Wednesday.

Montreal is a city with which I share a relationship too rich to tell a simple story. I left here a year ago afraid it would stand simply as a story-moment in my life, an account I could give about "that" stage, those several years in Quebec. I'd list what I learned, what kinds of things I did, it would be simply another city I'd lived in. But the life I've been lucky enough to have here is too full for that. I will carry with me a slew of vignettes about this place. But I will also take with me moments like the changing pink of the sky-- a moment too small, really, to bother with describing, and yet a moment full of the inexplicable beauty of a place I see through love.

A Walk in the City

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A Day of Walking in Montreal for a little bit of all the best things in the city:

A. Start walking post-rain from the place I'm staying next to Parc Mont-Royal.

B. Get coffee from La Vieille Europe at 3855, St-Laurent. It's a European-import grocery that also serves a nice selection of espresso drinks and tea.

C. Have a late breakfast at Bagel Etc. at 4320, St-Laurent. This has been my favorite place to eat in the city since before I moved here several years ago. My favorite meal from the Bagel: Europe d' L'est--Two eggs served 'over', Pepperette sausage, Homemade Dry Sauerkraut, Homefry Potatoes, a Bagel. Say "hi!" to Simon the cook for me.

D. Buy chocolat and chat happily at Chocolats Genevieve Grandbois at 162, rue St-Viateur Ouest. The Extra-vierge, the Chai, and the Le 9 are my favorites. The Safran is wonderful as well. The chocolats are all freshly made, and must be eaten with 10 days because they lack preservatives. They now also make emulsified chocolate bars that don't have to be refrigerated, and sell wonderful ice creams in the summer months.

E. Drop off Ann Demeulemeester strappy sandal heels that need repair at Tony Pappas--they're the best for shoe and leather repair. Located at 1822, avenue du Mont-Royal.

F. Stop by Shiloh's--she's not home. Stop by Luis's--he's not home.

G. Walk back to American Apparel at 967, avenue du Mont-Royal to buy two t-shirts--one gray dolmain sleeve t, and one black sleeveless v-neck.

H. Stop in at Cafe Expressions, 957, avenue du Mont-Royal for an unsweetened bitter-chocolat mocaccino, small. Wonderful, warm, not-at-all sweet chocolat chaud avec espresso. Tres bon!

I. Return to the place I'm staying next to Parc Mont-Royal. Phew.

Angels in the City

route 24 Ouest along Sherbrooke

I rode the bus in Montreal for the first time on this visit just a couple days ago. The local public transportation system includes over 1600 active buses, and the world's first rubber-tired subway system, together transporting over 361 million people uses per annum. It's an impressive collection of figures when you consider the current system only formed in 2002, the year the conglomeration of municipalities housed on the island of Montreal joined together to create one mega-city with the historic Montreal at its center.

The night before my bus ride, I'd fallen asleep at my friend Shiloh's house after a night out of karaoke, and outrageous outfits in the Village. The problem with the next morning, besides that I wanted to get back across town to the place I was housesitting in order to get some work done, was that I was wearing a shirt that barely covered my bum and a pair of Margiela's that reached mid-thigh. This was hardly attire to cross town in broad daylight. I borrowed a skirt from Shiloh, and a pair of jellie shoes, then rolled up the boots and put them into my bag. Standing outside, I waited for the bus along with a few town's people used to the wait, and a couple of impatient tourists. Finally the bus arrived.

It's at least a 45-minute trip heading West through downtown from the Eastern side of the Plateau, to the English speaking side of town, Westmount, where I was house sitting. A little less than half way into the ride I made it to back center seat and sat for the rest of the trip. The center of the city is known as Saint-Laurent, a street running North-South that divides the East-West street designations, and is known for dividing the Francophone and Anglophone sides of the city as well.

Just after passing into the Anglophone side of the city an older gentleman with some difficulty walking made his way onto the rather full bus. He walked his way back passing all of the disabled-friendly seats that anyone would have been required to open up for him, and persisted all the way to the lifted platform seating at the very back. There was a seat open next to me on back seat center, and another just at the entrance of the platform. He passed the first open seat and kept moving in my direction. Finally, he arrived beside me, leaned forward, and smiled. "Can I sit on your lap?" he said. "Of course." I responded, smiling back. He leaned forward and whispered to me, "You're an angel." he said, then sat down beside me smiling. Not familiar with crossing this part of town by bus I was unsure of where my stop would actually appear. Immediately after sitting down the man started quietly announcing to me each approaching cross-street, as if he could simply feel that I needed his guidance. "This one's Guy." he'd say. "Here comes St-Marc." Then finally, just before my stop, he raised his voice a little more and said, "Atwater. Here you are." I smiled at him, wished him a good day, and walked off the bus, an angel in Westmount met by an angel on the bus.

The Rooftop Bar Personality Test: Installment 2

Here are the results of your Personality Test!

Verses Sky Terrasse, 100 Saint-Paul Street West

"deceptive websites all around" --Enoch

Verse Sky Bar, Hotel Nelligan

The Question:
Imagine It: You're stuck on a rooftop bar for the rest of your life with two friends, and one type of drink. Where's the bar, who are the friends, and what is the drink you choose?

The Bar You Selected:
You want a quick answer to your interests, and when you decide what it is you're interested in, you want it to be exactly how you've asked for it. Admittedly, this demand for things to be just as you've asked for them, and quickly, is often at the sacrifice of quality. You've, unfortunately, eliminated the room for creative fulfillment of desires, by instead opting for exact, and speedy response to them. Your challenge will be in learning to invest in the benefit of the long term pursuit. By expecting your whims to be fulfilled as soon as you have them, it turns out you sacrifice what it is you likely want at a deeper level. In other words, your personal development is much like that of a sophisticated teenager. That is, you have lofty ideas, but don't yet know how to implement them. Keep working on it, stick to the long term goal of developing yourself too, and you'll turn your goals into a worthwhile expression of your desires. You've got the appropriate ingredients for fulfilling your dreams. You just need to put a little more work (and time) into making them happen.

The Drink You Selected:
You like lower-mid range drinks that sound snazzy whether the taste fulfills the expectation or not.

The Rooftop Bar Review:
The cosmopolitan
The cosmo tasted like either a bunch of sweettarts smashed up and mixed in juice, or like a melted freezie. I poured it on the floor (outdoor wood planks) to be more polite than leaving it there full seemed like.

The worst drink on the menu--mango mania
A mix of orange juice, vodka, rhum, and mango, the mango mania tasted like a bad mango smoothie. You couldn't taste or feel the alcohol in it. Luis commented that it was a drink for teenagers, and then left it unfinished.

The open palate--chivas regal with a side of soda
The chivas arrived watered down, and on ice, with a side of high-mineral content soda water. The soda was served in a pouring container, rather than a drinking glass. Chivas is the only scotch option on the menu.

Ratings:

• 2 flags
• Drunkenness Danger Factor: Perfectly safe drunk danger factor for accessibility; Inconveniently accessible drunk factor on the bathroom
• The Paper Grade: C+
• The Appropriate Guest: The irritating tourist that would pay your bill
  
• The Narrative: A friend of mine from the U.S. Southwest told me a story about how after he and his first wife divorced she was determined for them to remain friends anyway. He went along with it, but admittedly resented the way she pretended like nothing had gone uncomfortably wrong between them when she left him for another man. After she and the new man got married, her new husband was offered a job in any of three towns in Colorado--Colorado Springs, Greeley, or Gunnison. The woman called her first husband, my friend, to ask for his advice on which town she and her new husband should move to. The first husband, afterall, was from Colorado and so would know the state better than she did. "Greeley" he told her, then hung up the phone. Greeley was the one area he'd never spend time in the state. It's known for smelling like cattle poop since the town is full of high-density cattle farms, and the city itself has no sites of real interest (as far as my friend is concerned). The ex-wife took his advice and she and her new husband moved to the cattle poop center of the state for a job. If rooftop bars in the Old Port of Montreal were cities in Colorado, this place would be Greeley.

How to Get There:
At the top of Hotel Nelligan, located at 100 Saint-Paul West, just West of Saint-Urbain, Verses Sky demands an elevator ride to the fifth floor, then a walk through the hotel halls to a small staircase out onto the rooftop terrasse. The view allows for a look at other buildings in the old port, as well as a glimpse at the old flour refinery to the south. The hotel itself is charming, with a enough well-regarded restaurant on the first floor. Verses Sky though is hardly worth a visit. It's music is too loud, and poorly played out of tinny speakers. The glaring-white dock lights hurt the eyes, and are hardly complimentary to anyones complexion. The service is slow. On the upside, there is enough seating that if you end up too close to the speakers, or the lights, you'll likely be able to relocate. However, don't expect the drinks to make up for the other poor features. The taste is substandard, and the price too high. Martinis--$10. The kitchen closes at 10 p.m.

Outdoor Markets

Montreal has wonderful outdoor farmer's markets full of local produce. Marché Jean-Talon (located in the quadrant formed by Jean Talon, to the north, Mozart, to the south, Casgrain to the west, and Henri-Julien to the east) was opened in 1933 on the site of what, until the market opened, had been a lacrosse club. The introduction of the market, it turned out, transformed the surrounding area into a shopping section of town. In the winter the open air portion of the market closes, but the chatlet, and surrounding buildings continue to sell produce, pastries, cheese, meats, coffee and other local treats. In the summers, the open air produce stands are an incredible source of color and vibrancy.

all pics taken during Paul's visit to Montreal

Enoch on the Mechanical Bull

Enoch riding Taureau Serge

We returned to Chez Serge for mechanical bull riding. I managed a personal best, and the nights top time, of 78 seconds wearing an emerald green, Maria Severyna, dupioni silk, wrap dress, and Jimmy Choo Fall Preview gladiator sandal heels. You've gotta remove your shoes to ride.

The Roof-top Bar Personality Test: Installment 1

Here are the Results of Your Personality Test!

Terrasse 701, Hotel Place d' Armes, Montreal

"It was a cool adventure finding the place." --Luis

Hotel Place d'Armes, iHotelier

The Question:
Imagine It: You're stuck on a rooftop bar for the rest of your life with two friends, and one type of drink. Where's the bar, who are the friends, and what is the drink you choose?

The Bar You Selected:
You like reliable, comfortable, simple-chic. You expect the wait staff to know just what they're doing, and how to communicate with you, while also presenting themselves as comfortable in their interactions with you. Your taste in music is easy to listen to, but never easy listening. You prefer 40's vocal jazz. However, you demand the further constraint that every song played follow the theme "don't break my heart." You're not high-maintenance, you just know exactly what makes you comfortable, and such comfort is readily possible. Terrasse 701 fulfills your needs. You want a full panoramic view of the city stretching across the old port itself in the south, through the historic and domed government buildings, all the way to the mountain in the north. You want high-middle end bottle service options, and a variety of flavored martinis to choose from for drinks. Most of all, you want the space to talk with your friends without feeling pressured to leave, pressured to order, or required to get along with the other people in the bar.

The drink you selected:
You like your drinks top shelf, at a reasonable price.

The friends you chose:
Enoch, and Luis are the ideal companions for the rest of your life rooftop bar adventure. The three of you get along with a calm, steady humor allowing for the kind of self-entertainment without tedium demanded of your newly restrictive circumstances. The three of you range from quite different centers of the world--Nova Scotia, Brazil, and Alaska--allowing for ever changing surprise in conversation, while your interests--rooftop bar adventures, open-hearted affection, and jokes made of the moment--offer commonality that sustains your appreciation for each other.


The Rooftop Bar Review:
The cosmopolitan
The grand marnier cosmopolitan is the only cosmo they offer, and they make it well--smooth, strong, and easy to drink.

The worst drink on the menu--the bubble gum martini

Dependent on a housemade bubble gum liquor, it's easy to imagine the bubble gum martini going very wrong with too much fake bubble gum flavor, and made way too sweet. But, this drink turns out to be less bad than expected, offering a distinctive bubble gum taste balanced with lemon juice. It's not sweet at all. (Still, Luis wouldn't recommend it, unless you love the taste of bubble gum. I'll note: he did finish it.)

The open palate--Chivas Regal with a side of soda

Served on the rocks, with a side of high-mineral content sparkling water, Chivas is the only scotch they serve out of bottle.

Ratings:

• 9 flags
• Drunkenness Danger Factor:
  High Drunk Danger Factor for Accessibility; Perfectly Safe Drunk Danger Factor for Bathrooms
  
• The Paper Grade--Enoch: B+
• The Appropriate Guest--Luis: The Visiting Guest Speaker
• The Narrative--Elaine: In Alaska a couple of years ago, I went to a bar housed in a log cabin in the middle of the woods. A local band was playing that won't make world class news, but is fun when you're confined to the options of Alaska. Towards the end of the second set I wandered over to the polished, and oiled log-pine bar for a paper cup of water. A man sitting at the bar stopped me. "You own a Harley?" he asked me. "I think of it more as a long term goal," I responded. He looked me hard in the face as I poured my cup of water. "I've got a garage full of Harleys." Then he paused. I looked at him for a moment. Almost done with my cup of water he started again. "All I can offer you are all my Harleys, and my love. All I need to know is that I can trust you with my life." Impressed by the directness of his offer I answered him, "People could trust me with their life, I think. But you won't celebrate that opportunity." I finished my water and walked away. Being visited mostly by business types traveling through the area for financial negotiations, Terrasse 701 would never host the offer of a Harley. But, it'd be damn fun if it did.
  

How To Get There:
At the top of the Hotel Place d'Armes, located at 701 Cote de la Place d'Armes at the corner with Rue St Jacques Ouest, you'll find Terrasse 701. Hotel Place d'Armes is a boutique style hotel set at the crest of the hill that descends to the shore of Old Port Montreal. To find the rooftop bar, enter the 701 Bar found on the ground level of the hotel. At the back of the bar you'll find an elevator. Take it to the 8th floor, then walk up two flights of outside, open grate stairs to the roof of the building, and go around the corner. There you'll discover Terrasse 701. Once you're on top you'll be rewarded with a reliable, and interesting drink menu, the possibility of food until 9:30 p.m., and friendly service. The bathrooms are wonderfully accessible and boast a full length mirror you can't help but walk by, so no one will think you're vain when you HAVE TO look at it. There are two private room style stalls for women, and one for men. The bathrooms are clean, and well-tended. The service staff is multi-lingual, and friendly, without being pushy. Set on the crest of the hill, you'll enjoy a wonderful panoramic view of the area, but also a wind, so bring yourself something to wrap up in when need be.

Montreal by Bike

homemade skirt guard designed to keep your flutter
from ending up in the spokes, copenhagencyclechic.com.
it turns out skirt guards are manufactured and can be purchased readily in much of europe,
but with their general absence in n. america, this homemade
concoction was suggested as a possible alternative.

Copenhagen is known for bicycle dominance. It's a city that prides itself on oceans of bicycles both moving over the streets, and parked on the sidewalks. Copenhagencyclechic.com is a blog devoted to documenting and advocating for travel by bicycle in very good clothes. The subtitle of the blog afterall is "bike advocacy in high heels." Even local politicians can be spotted on the blog commuting to city hall in red suit on bike back.

Montreal too prides itself on well established bike paths and no-holds barred traffic dominance by bike. Traffic rules don't apply to pedalers in this town so tourists must steel themselves against the sudden appearance of bikers heading backwards down one-way streets, or whipping around corners when you don't expect them. In this way, Montreal boasts a high alertness demand.

This year the city announced Bienvenue to tourists or locals without their own wheels wanting to quicken their way about the city. This town relies on foot traffic and public transport, but walking between stops on the bus or metro line can be a long process. So, this year Montreal introduced the bixi, a program designed to provide bike rentals at over 300 stations placed about the center of the city, with over 3000 bikes in the system. The subscription service was added to the budget for the year as part of a city plan to encourage "active transportation." In other words, Montreal is trying to facilitate not only easier transport, but also public health through physical activity (not to mention reduced carbon emissions) by providing accessible bike rentals. I've long said that Montreal is a city designed for the sake of the people that live here, and bixi just serves as another example of such intention. The town, in other words, facilitates happier living.

bixi station at the Royal Victoria Hospital, corner of University et Pins, Montreal

The bixi has already won a number of impressive awards, including one of the top 50 inventions of 2008. The bike design is lauded for its entirely contained (and so protected) components, three-level gear system, highly adjustable seat system, motion mechanized lights, and included bell. Additionally, Montreal's bixi has been recognized for its eco-friendly attitude, and sustainability.

It's a timely project. The bicycle has suddenly become a high fashion commodity with a number of fashion houses releasing their own multi-thousand dollar bicycles, and various "couture" bicycle accessories, such as jeweled pant clips to keep your pants out of the chain (Chanel), or matching signature panniers (Fendi).

Chanel's $12,000 USD bicycle, S/S '08

Gratefully, the bixi has little threat of theft, or vandalism, and its hard for the jewels to rattle off on Montreal's lumpy streets (the one downside of biking here) when there are no jewels (except your own) to be rattled. I've been appreciating the bixi during this visit myself since it turns out the actual Montreal is much bigger than the quickly walkable Montreal of my imagination.

Also, as a fashion note: the low center bar of the bixi makes riding bicycle in dress quite easy, and I can attest that the pedal style is as heel friendly as is bikingly possible.

The Rooftop Bar Personality Test: The Rules

Imagine it: You're stuck on a rooftop bar for the rest of your life with two friends, and one type of drink. Which bar, what drink, and which friends do you choose?

Rooftop Bar, Bangkok, Thailand, randomly found flickr photo

Answering such questions is clearly a crucial insight as to how we are to live our lives more broadly. You do remember that childhood personality test where you answer four questions--what body of water are you? how do you respond to light in a dark room? and two others I no longer remember--to discover the deep inner secrets of your soul, right? (Hint: the body of water represents your attitude towards sex; the light in the dark room represents your views on death.) I spent a good couple decades mildly obsessed with such "personality tests" hoping to discover myself more clearly by taking them.

With such an obsession in mind, Enoch, Luis, and I decided to facilitate our ability to answer our own version of such a soul-searching exercise by first making up the Personality Test of our choice (you know, the one that opens this posting), and then, beginning a systematic exploration of the rooftop bars in Montreal, starting with those found in the Old Port. Then, by sharing our insights we'd all have a better sense of what needs to be taken into consideration when choosing the best "rest of your life" rooftop locale.

Rooftop Bar, Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan, randomly found flickr photo

But, considering the project, you still might ask: You're going to do a systematic exploration of roof top bars? Systematic how? Here's how:

The Rules
We constructed the following points to be addressed at each new locale.

1. Only rooftops count. Not a simple terrasse. A rooftop terrasse.
2. We would each choose a different category of drink to stick to through out the project.
3. The music at each location would be noted.
4. So would the general decor, the language capabilities of the staff, and the overall feel of the kind of customers the place attracted.
5. The accessibility of the terrasse itself, and of the bathrooms would be rated on a scale of safety during drunkenness.
6. The number of flags visible from each rooftop would be counted, and recorded.
7. We would develop a rating system to be used consistently for each place as a way of delivering the overall score.

Rooftop Bar, Mumbai, India, randomly found flickr photo

Drink Requirements
Luis insisted our process be scientific. As a first step towards that goal, we fulfilled point 2 above--selecting a drink category to stick to for each location. We were allowed to order, and stay long enough for, one well-appreciated beverage at each rooftop. By framing our drinking options in such a way we'd allow for direct comparison of drinks between different locales, and the chance to see multiple places more readily.

• I offered to serve as the control and so stick to only one drink throughout the entire project. Since the control would need to be as consistent as possible, the drink would have to be a classic everyone knows how to make. I went for the cosmopolitan. (duh.)

• Luis thought for a while and decided his job would be to order what looked like the worst drink on the menu. The Old Port, after all, is a fairly tourist heavy location, which means that any rooftop bar in the area is going to have to choose their balance between appealing to locals through well-proved standards, and drawing in those on flights of fancy. One sure fire way to fulfill that fantasy experience is through the offering of a variety of really awful, too sweet and fruity drink concoctions. Luis assigned himself to testing this range of the drinking world. Noble man.

• Enoch decided to go for the open palate. He'd drink whatever drew his attention at each locale, with the understanding that it would most likely be scotch.

Rooftop Bar, Beijing, China, randomly found flickr photo

The Flags
With the multi-national atmosphere of Montreal, and the two-nations reality of Quebec, this city is big on its flag flying. The variety seen here is actually quite lovely. Quebec has it's white cross, and fleur-de-lys on a deep blue field. Canada has its red maple leaf on a white and red tripartite backdrop. And Montreal celebrates a red cross, with four different flowers representing the original non-Aboriginal settlers of the city--the fleur de lys (for the French), the Lancastrian rose (for the English), a Shamrock (for the Irish), the thistle (for the Scottish)--all on a white canvas. From any elevated location in the city you're likely to see flags in all directions. The flag count, then, tells us how alert to clear horizon the rooftop stands.

Rating System
It turns out getting three philosophers together to rate rooftop bars doesn't always go as smoothly as you'd think. In trying to determine how we'd rate each place I offered the suggestion many food critics take--some variation on a five point scale. You know, "this is a four whisk restaurant" or, "I give it three out of five eggs for cleanliness." The suggestion immediately launched us into a philosophical discussion of rating and grading systems. Quickly spotting the intellectual trap that rating analysis poses, we decided to avoid getting caught in the conundrum and chose to each develop our own style of rating system, thereby giving a different score from each of us for each place.

• Enoch's suggestion was to rate a bar like one would grade a paper--on a scale from A to F.

• Luis decided he'd rate the bar based on who he would either take there, or who he'd suggest go there.

• I decided to stick with my overly narrative ways, and offer as my rating the story from personal experience that seems most apt to express the feel of the place.

Rooftop Bar, Charleston, South Carolina, USA, randomly found flickr photo

Having laid the ground rules, the reviews can begin. Throughout the summer, then, I'll continue with mini-groupings of these reviews representing a few rooftops a night.

Ruffle Rewards

I've got that Fernanda Pereira collar that I've not figured out how to wear yet. Unless it's raining again here in Montreal I'm going to try it out tomorrow taking the following image as styling inspiration.

Vogue Deutsch

Rain Storm Weather

playboyarchives

Montreal is ridden with rain. The St. Laurent sidewalk sale, known for the samples that pours out of M0851 leather goods, and the discounts that deepen at U&I boutique started today. Even with the kilometer of road open only to foot traffic, there was barely a shopper in sight. My purple ksubis are still wet around the ankle, after three hours inside my friend's living room.

randomly found flickr photo

When living in a predominately walking, and biking town, how do we dress in the rain?

Margiela and Serge in Montreal

Those that love Montreal know it as the sight of sophisticated multi-national chic. With its bi-lingual French & English atmosphere people have immigrated from all over the world. As a result, a unique society of Quebecois + International synthesis has developed. It's a city of cultural fusion, and such conglomeration is one of the things those that know the place hold dear. Montreal hosts more coffee shops per capita than any other city in North America, a chocolate shop every few blocks, restaurants of every national variety one can imagine, and music from all over the world as well. Two different international jazz festivals, an African music festival, and a slew of art, theatre, dance, and other cultural events fill the city all summer long. Many would argue that Montreal is one of the cultural pinnacles of North America.

So, considering the level of sophistication I am pointing to, it should serve as no surprise that Montreal also boasts Chez Serge, a Molson beer sponsored bar, and home to an astroturf quonset hut ceiling, a dancing moose head covered in foam shaped brassieres, and a mechanical bull surrounded by a blow up arena. When friends lure you into dressing up in your pale green S/S 08 Margiela open toe, ankle boot heels and a blue, slim-fitting, thin-jersey knit dress for a night out of cocktails in Mile End, one of the hipper parts of the city, don't be fooled. They're actually tricking you into kicking off those heels, and hiking up that dress to around upper thigh for a hop on the back of Taureau Serge (Bull Serge) and a stab at your own best time.

Mine tonight was 36 seconds. Margiela would be horrified.