cut off from community.

This is me feeling sorry for myself. I am in the middle of a culture that refuses to speak English and does not understand my anglicized French. And I can`t check my email because this place has cut that avenue of communicating with people off too. And my phone won`t kick in for another 9 days! After living in Toronto where 48% of the people are immigrants who don`t speak English as their first language, I can finally say I relate to them, now that I`m in Quebec. Even simple things like figuring out where I can recycle is a task and a half.

OK. So it`s not that bad. Well, actually, it IS that bad, but I can handle my lack of communication with a smile on my face anyway. I have not been reduced to tears and utter despair.

Despite my sorrows (which, seriously, could be much worse), I have a huge hallelujah-- my neighbours are immigrants from Iran who prefer speaking in English. Two nights ago, we sipped Iranian tea and ate Dutch boederkoek, talking in ``Franglais`` (French and English mixed together) for hours. If if the community I love to is cut off from me, at least I have the opportunity to thrive in a new community!

ah, l`amour.

The very first person I met in Quebec was my drunk custodian. I thought to myself, «Yup, I really am in Quebec-- the land where beer is cheaper than water (for real).» Even though my first conversation with a Quebecois was sort of sketchy, my new apartment is not sketchy at all...I can happily call it home. The only downside is that I can`t officially say that I live in Quebec City, because the border between my suburb and the city is 100 metres from my apartment.

au revoir.

Up until 2 weeks ago, everything I owned fit into one suitcase. Since then, I've somehow accumulated enough stuff to fill half of my family's garage. I've been ransacking my basement, garage sales and goodwill stores trying to furnish an entire apartment (which I'll move into tomorrow). A huge thanks to my parents for driving all over creation to search out good deals. My mom even spent an entire night dedicated to finding curtains.

I've mixed feelings about heading up to Quebec City. On the one hand, I'm fulfilling my Bohemian dream to grow herbs, read Kierkegaard, make wine and just live life. On the other hand, I'm really, really sick of packing, unpacking, packing, unpacking and packing up again. Hopefully I'll be settled in my little apartment in Quebec for a little longer than four months (which has been my usual average time in one place for the last while). Mostly, I'm stoked; but I get those moments where I think to myself, "What the heck are you doing???..."

home.

I, the small-town girl, have finally left my dear city of Toronto to come back home. I smell chicken manure instead of smog now. I see stars instead of lights. I see corn instead of people. And...I can have a glass of wine whenever I want (I've been on a no-drinking contract all summer)!

I have nothing to say, except to say that I am doing nothing. After working pretty much 24/7 for the last 3 months, doing nothing is amazing.

joan.

The plastic bag lady has a name. Joan. The fact that she has a name is absolutely weird. Even more weird is that she actually talked to me yesterday. It was not a coherent conversation by any means-- something about a sailor, a social system and a fruit market (simultaneously)-- but regardless, she even said, "Take care" at the end of the conversation.

I also learned about her situation: she is married to a crack addict (and is likely addicted to crack herself, hence the bags that she chews, since crack rots your teeth out). Her husband does not treat her well and all, so she is hungry, so she steals of food from our church. Her brain is too fried to remember anything, and so she wanders around in a muddled daze. I tried to direct her to the nearest shelter (which is really close by) and she could comprehend anything I said.