Santa Ana Days

Governor Schwarzenegger Proclaims State of Emergency in Southern California Counties Due to Wildfires

"Governor Schwarzenegger tonight proclaimed a State of Emergency in the counties of Los Angeles, Orange, Riverside, San Bernardino, San Diego, Santa Barbara, and Ventura due to more than eleven major wildfires. Throughout the region, more than 30,000 acres have already burned, and more areas are threatened. The wildfires have caused the loss of human life and serious injuries. They have burned a number of homes, businesses and other structures. Residents have been evacuated in dangerous areas...."


I know that as I am writing this from so far away, the fires burn out of control ("zero percent contained...") in my home town as the Santa Anas roar down mountain passes like dragon's breath. I read the local news there everyday, and I recognize the familiar shots of stunned homeowners and stoic firefighters. I remember how my heart hurt as I watched the Griffith Park Fire torch a lot of my personal memories last May.

Okay, no one needs my impressions from 3600 miles away. Only that my heart goes out to the families of those lost, and to those who have lost, and to the firefighters and their families.


Photo by LA Times

Hope Springs Eternal

A ray of blue light pierces a rainy sky, and sunshine dawns on Carre St. Louis. Montreal looks better now. A lot better. ;-)

Terror on the Metro (Sort Of)

I had been carefully planning my move to the new apartment by moving in bits and pieces. I could actually have packed everything up in one trip, which Im gonna have to do anyway when I leave, but this gave me an excuse to visit the apartment a few times before actually moving in.

OK, remember that 70-pound suitcase, the one with the boots? Well, this is my task: bundle up warm, put on the backpack and roll the suitcase two blocks down Rue Rivard to the Laurier station. Negotiate 100 steps down into Laurier and 200 steps back up at Sherbrooke, out of the station, across the street and down to my new house.

First I gotta get into the station. Easier than it sounds. To enter, you swipe your monthly pass (if you have one) through a machine which opens a set of two heavy, air-powered glass doors to enter the actual station. The open door space is about 2 1/2 feet wide.

So, my hands are full, Im bundled up, so I am wider than usual, and the space is JUST wide enough for the suitcase. I stop outside the station, readjust and take out my card. I walk in to the station lobby, position myself in a straight line facing the doors, swipe my card, and hurry forward.

The doors closed on my suitcase behind me like steel jaws. Pushed into an angle, the suitcase was wedged tight, and nothing was moving. Looking up and out of the station, i caught the eye of a woman leaning against a bike rack smoking a cigarette. She looked at me and nodded, as if to say, "Oh right, thats my cue. Be right there." Like BatGirl spotting the BatSignal. She ground her cigarette into the sidewalk with her boot.

Rushing into the lobby, she whipped out her own Secret Monthly BatPass©, and swiped it quickly. Nothing.

"Pull! You gotta pull!" she yelled at me. Um yeah, like I wasnt? Okay, so I pull, and pull......nothing. Now suddenly there are two women standing there, both with black dyed hair, heavy eye makeup, and cigarettes dangling, like rock stars on rescue patrol; as if Joan Jett and her girlfriend were pulling the night shift that Wednesday.

"OK, Let go!" said Joan as she swiped her card again. and just like that, the doors NEXT to mine, swung open. What the ...?

Joan looked at Baby BatGirl, and KaBoom! the doors were open, and my suitcase was through. Then the doors closed again. Joan Jett and Baby BatGirl were gone behind the heavy smoked glass doors, and I remember thinking, as the doors finally swung open, "This is gonna be a pretty good blog item."

And the 200 stairs? Um, there's an escalator.

Oh Man, Am I Late.....

I kinda forgot that people tune in every day when you have a blog. How sick were they of seeing Patti Smith's aging (not that there's anything wrong with that) mug day after day around the world?

I have been sequested in Le Ghetto Rue Boucher over the past week, realizing that it was affecting how I saw the city, or didnt see the city. I wasn't very motivated to move around the the neighborhood, even though that block was only the worst block in a neighborhood of great blocks.

Actually, over the past week, I did crawl out and discovered more great neighborhoods. The western end of Metro Laurier is a great street of shops and restaurants. You know how giddy everyone gets over three great stores in a row? A block of new shops in Northeast LA would be a National Event (Dont' get me started). Laurier is actually the street pictured in my "Day Un" entry here. That was from my last visit in July. I had been trying to figure out where that street was when I returned here, and "discovered" it again, while strolling up St. Laurent ("The Main") looking for a clothing store.

The point is that Montreal is an amazing collection of fascinating neighborhoods. Imagine Old Town Pasadena, Lake Avenue, Melrose, Sunset in Silver Lake, Montana Avenue, Uptown Whittier, Myrtle Avenue in Monrovia, throw in Old Town Claremont, and all around the corner from each other, separate and distinct, and a tiny part of one city. Then multiply that a few times. Thats Montreal.

Then there is Square St Louis, my new 'hood—Two Metro stops south and a world away from Le Ghetto Rue Boucher. 1870-era homes surround a square with a fountain in the center. (That's it in the pic up there on the left.) The fountain sits directly in front of my picture window--a perfect picture. As my landlords recommended, I've turned the couch around to face the park, and watch the daily parade.

I had been moving my things a little at a time throughout the week (more on that later) and was in the new apartment at dinner time on Tuesday, so I decided to go exploring. Just at the eastern end of the park, the square opens onto a three-block open courtyard/paseo filled with more of those quaint cafes, stores, AND a 24-hour Internet cafe. (Actually what there are none of here are donut shops, and that ain't right.)

It's Prince Arthur Avenue, another of Montreal's revitalized neighborhoods. Actually locals think of it as a tourist trap. Perfect for impressionable journalists like me moving through the Already Known World, thinking they're the first to see everything and tell the world about it.

I'll have more on that when MontrealMontreal returns.

Coming Up: "Our Correspondent Actually Moves" or "Terror on the Metro"

Pop Goes Montreal

Yesterday, for the first time, I got lost. Walking down Rue Sherbrook in the wrong direction for miles.

Imagine a compass on a piece of paper pointing in four directions, Right. OK, now lay a map of a city right on top of it. Now, tilt the map clockwise about 40 degrees. Thats' Montreal. North is still north, but only if you are going to the North Pole, which I am not planning at this time.

So it was not until I was at the Ukranian Federation Hall last night to see Patti Smith with the Silver Mount Zion Orchestra Thing that this drunk guy explained it to me, along with anything else that popped into his head, from daily life in Verdun to corruption in Quebec to the state of liberal politics. His t-shirt smelled like it was dipped in sweat and whiskey, then worn, then wrung out, then dipped in sweat and whiskey.

Anyway, he said, "If you're on Sherbrooke and you are walking east, the river is on your right; if you're walking west, the river is on your left." Where was this guy when I was lost?

We were both sitting in the balcony waiting for Mademoiselle Smith on the opening night of the Montreal Pop Festival. She was doing an "improv" jam with this respected chamber orchestra, and it was as scary as you might imagine.

Here is the thing about Patti Smith: Her poet laureate/rock and roll priestess credentials aside, she kinda has no talent, really. Her poetry is only OK, and she really does not sing well. She has achieved what she has achieved through the force of her personality and sheer will. And she would probably agree.

Le example: In the second tune, a roadie helps her on with her guitar, and she has to look down at the neck to carefully form the one D chord she will be performing. As the tune begins, she begins to lose the tempo, unable to hold it steady. I'm wondering. "is it just me or is she laming out right now?"

Just before she begins to sing, she stops the band. "Maybe its better without me playing," she offers. It was, really. Seriously.

So it was her poetry, some beautiful orchestral passages, more poetry, some dissonant passages, more beautiful orchestral passages, and then a cardinal sin: as the penultimate song builds to a climax in the chorus, she leads the audience in clapping along. On the wrong beat.

(OK, do this. Count 1-2-3-4 and sing your favorite song in your head. Keeping that count in mind, CLAP on 2 and 4. If you're at work, just do it a little louder. They already think you're nuts. Okay, now start over, and do the same thing, but clap on 1 and 3. That doesnt sound jarring to you? THAT's what YOU do everytime you go see a show! And you always sit near me, so knock it off! This little tip will make you infinitely more attractive to the opposite sex. On the 2 and the 4, is that so difficult?)

So Patti Smith gleefully leads the audience on the wrong beat, the orchestra doesnt seem to mind, the drunk guy near me has already left, and the Montreal Pop Festival is off on the left foot.

Let's review: The river on your left means you are headed WEST, and you clap on the 2 and the 4.

Thank you for choosing MontrealMontreal.blogspot.com, your one-stop source for wisdom, random automotive parts and culinary espionage.

Canadian Money, Ketchup-Flavored Potato Chips, and Other Things You Have Not Considered So Much Lately

In LA, I try not to leave the house without change in my pocket, in case someone asks me. So, in Montreal, the same thing happens. But they ask in French. It feels different, though not to Montrealers, Im sure. Anyway, this guy asked me for money the other day on Rue St. Denis ("Changement disponible, svp, Monsieur?"). So I gave him what I had.

I felt a little guilty, though. It was Canadian money.



LEADING with my best joke of the night! Damn, I should know better.


Okay, so here are some chance and unrelated Canadian observations occuring between September 29 and..........right ....now:

• Canadian money doesnt ring and jingle. It mostly clanks. Its made of about 90% steel, as opposed to silver, like US coins. Its also magnetic. US money is not.

• In Canada, there isn't really Canadian cuisine. There is regional cuisine, and there is Quebecois cuisine. It's called "Poutine." Think of it as Turbo Nachos. Take a basket of french fries, and pour gravy all over it. Top off that little HazMat action with cheese curds. Cheese curds are like the stuff they make string cheese out of, but its just big ragged chunks of cheese. You sprinkle those on top of the fries and gravy. It is as scrumptious and vile and as dangerous and beautiful as it sounds. Served in large and extra large in a location near you, I mean, me.

• Speaking of cuisine, Canadians LOVE hot dogs. Everywhere you go, "Hot Dog Special! $3,99!" (Oh, they use a comma instead of a period.) OK, so lets think of some American low points in terms of cuisine....In New Mexico, they slice the tops of Frito bags and pour chili in, and serve it to school children with a spork. It's called Frito Pie. In the South, well, there is nothing they wont deep fry, from cake to salads to Cheerios. But, I think I got them beat. In Canada they sell ketchup-flavored potato chips. Ketchup-flavored potato chips??!! Who thought of that? Give him a raise and make him Marketing Manager for Life. Ketchup?! Dang. Good thinkin' there, Pierre.
(Photographic documentation by yours truly with a cell phone.)

• Don't complain about gas prices. Its over 4 dollars a gallon here. They sell it in liters, so it seems less painful, but it aint, really...

• Don't ask for an ATM machine here. They will look at you wackadoodle. It's a "Guichet Automatique." ( GI-SHAY Auto-ma-TEEK, not GI-SHET, you nimrod.) Impress your date this weekend, and tell him or her, with a straight face, you need to find a "Guichet Automatique." They will look at you wackadoodle.

• My apartment still smells like microwave popcorn.

I Was Busy, I'll Have More Tonight

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