Good book times three

The bibles came into my possession by their own devices. Occasionally, small red testaments travelled home with me from school, delivered by nameless laymen spreading God's word to all the little children. Separation between church and state be damned.

My mother's advice, gospel at the time, rang in my ears. One must never destroy or defile a book of God, for fear of burning in Hell for all eternity. And so, I carried each little red albatross home, and cared for it.

The secretive black leather bible sealed shut, cover to cover. The zipper caught on the corners, and I cursed its design. I zipped and unzipped to alternately admire and protect the onion skin paper. I wondered what "begat" meant. That's as far as I'd gotten.

My God was a very large man with long grey hair, armed with a scowl and lightening bolts. My relationship with him was rooted in fear. I had somehow confused the Christian creator with Zeus. And, so it was.

I compensated for my lack of faith, trust and Jesus-love with rituals to help protect my family from God's wrath.

Perhaps for my mother it was merely an anecdote. Or, perhaps it wasn't her who told me at all. Maybe it was a movie or a book or my own terrified child mind, but for reasons that made sense at the time, I began hiding the bibles under the mattresses to protect the sleeping from evil and death and anything else God might have slated for them.

Under my parents' mattress, I slid the fancy leather bible. It seemed superior to the free versions and more suitable for the heads of the household. I imagined a force field surrounding the bed, and conducted tests to ensure the holy book wouldn't cause discomfort. The little red versions found resting places on my and my sister's box springs.

I felt sneaky, forcing religion on my father like that. He was never much of a theist. I rationalized that my actions were for the greater good, and I slept better, knowing that a force field protected my loved ones. That is, until my mother changed the sheets.

I hadn't thought that far ahead. Wide-eyed and embarrassed, I squeezed my arm between the mattress and the box spring of each bed, as far as it would go, all the way around. My mother had removed the bibles. Although she said nothing to me about the find, I suddenly felt powerless to protect my family from fires, robberies, murderers, ghosts or tidal waves---all things I worried about extensively.

If my mother didn't think it could work then perhaps it couldn't, I decided. There was only one way to find out. I held my breath knowing that I risked burning in Hell for all eternity and tore a page from the red book. To my surprise, I didn't burst into flames. The book was impotent. Felt that I was forced into it, I developed more effective means to protect all that was dear to me.

One. Two. Three. Four. I started counting, silently and compulsively. Four was safe if my eyes were closed. Multiples of three were always bad. Thank God I knew my multiplication tables, and that my family survived my childhood without being involved in the battles between good and evil that were so very commonplace in my little pink bedroom.

No, I don't want to coucher avec toi

University students flock to Quebec to benefit from the lowest rates in most of North America for quality post-secondary education. Quebec accommodates the seasonal migrants---from the US and adjacent Canadian provinces---with out-of-province and international student fees that are still lower than what awaited them at home. Backpacks, laptops, foreign license plates and economic benefits accompany the students, as do socio-cultural challenges.

The official language in all of Quebec is French, though that's easy to overlook in multicultural Montreal---especially during autumn, as a flood of new anglophone recruits flounder in their new surroundings.

Guilty myself, of not perfecting my French skills during university, I flush when I hear groups of English-speakers complain about people refusing to address them in their mother-tongue. I feel remorse for their ignorance and think of the language police.

Intercultural understanding, tolerance when understanding is not possible, and a willingness to learn is essential to happy living in Quebec, as anywhere.

I watch young students stumble over themselves and declare in defiance---knowing that upon graduation they'll be moving somewhere a little more uni-lingual---"I don't speak French!"

But, last night, at the grocery store...

Two young women in the bulk foods aisle, arms full of chips and snack foods, inquired about local brands of cola. In English, they addressed a man who was stocking shelves. He responded in French with a smile, his speech clearly affected by a severe hearing impairment, "I am deaf. Please move your mouth slowly so I can read your lips."

Annoyed, and not listening, the young woman retorted, "I don't speak French."

No less familiar with her kind, than she was with reacting defensively to anything said in French, he read her lips and responded politely in English instead.

Getting in my own way

"Don't you think she's one of the prettiest girls you've ever seen?" he prompted the bouncer, squeezing me to his side. I smiled like the child he treated me as, and inhaled for my sanity. This bouncer, well-versed in lust and drugs, avoided collusion. He recognized the undertone and was respectful enough to remain silent. I threw him a glance of appreciation.

The monologue preceding the declaration set a tone worth considering. The man, clearly on amphetamines had insisted on supplying my friend with cigarettes and both of us with drinks. He was a near stranger; familiar with other acquaintances. Her budget led her to accept, and I considered mine irrelevant after a stressful day at the office. I'd arrived at the bar in a suit and heels, readied for a cold beer by hours of mental struggle in my new workplace. He insisted on purchasing my beer as he'd done for my casually-dressed friend, but not wanting to feel obligated to him, I made my way to the bar and thanked him anyway. Diluted metaphysics meandered into the conversation, and I meandered out of it, occasionally drawn back in by conversational cycles and shifts in seating.

I stayed on at the bar as others came and went, feeling my stress beginning to return through a flush in my cheeks, a slight fever and heavy head. My companion cozied in with a new acquaintance, and I harnessed the opportunity to exit. I needed to adorn my feet with flat shoes, and my legs with softer fabric. I needed fresh air and hot tea; relief from social pressures. I gathered my things, said good-bye to a chosen few, and headed for the exit.

Thinking I was in the clear, I stepped form the smoky establishment, and found myself in the arms of the synthetically enthusiastic drug user.

"You aren't leaving already are you?" he asked, looking sincerely bothered.

"Yes, I have a bit of a cold and it's time to go home," I shrugged. "But, it was nice meeting you," I ventured, not wanting to cause this man any undue stress in his compromised state.

"Well, before you go..." he started, and then directed his attention the bouncer. "This girl has the prettiest," drawing out the word 'prettiest' as long as his breath could hold, and finished abruptly with, "friend."

The cringe I'd maintained since he first squeezed me to his size escaped my lips in a huff.

Stumbling through the fog of his high, he realized what he'd done. Directing his next comment to the bouncer once again and hoping for collaboration, he added, "Don't you think she's one of the prettiest girls you've ever seen?"

And, thinking I couldn't be more offended by his tactlessness, he grandly finished with, "She doesn't know it, but she's pretty, too."

Costumed cover up

I felt a little shafted when my new acquaintance "Sarah" didn't take time to chat me up at the raging party we crashed last weekend. Still, I took the context into account: loud music, costumes, and a motley crew of old and new hipsters employing a mixed treat bag of substances. I supposed it was just too chaotic.

The day I'd initially met Sarah, I found her delightfully abrasive. Laughing within the first few minutes and not stopping until she left, I plugged her in on my get-to-know roster.

Happy to see her at this pre-Halloween bash, which occupied all three levels of a triplex, I introduced to her to everyone I knew. I wanted her to have a good time. She'd shown up as "pregnant Britney Spears" and I - bloodied by a flock of birds -was Tippi Hedren from Hitchcock's The Birds. She looked so unlike herself, in terrible hoochie clothes, that I really hadn't recognized her at first, not until I saw our mutual friend arrive with her.

The last time we'd chatted, we expressed appreciation for people who stay in character while costumed for Halloween. She claimed to never falter.

This night, while dressed as Ms. Spears, she faked a flaky accent and adopted the pseudonym: Alison. Not understanding why, dressed as Ms. Spears, she'd call herself Alison, I rationalized the concept with her. I agreed that choosing a slightly trashy name to be a more believable character would confuse people more - and, that is the fun of Halloween.

Dedicated to her new persona, Sarah insisted her name was "Alison" each time I introduced her. Her outfit was convincing, too. A friend of mine, laughing at her bubble gum pink New York Yankees hat, asked her where she got it.

"In New York," she snarled, almost convincingly.

All night, I chuckled as she stayed in character, arguing with people about her name and insisting the clothes were her own, that she always dressed like that. Even her roommate got involved, as Britney's trashy-naive little sister. "Why do you keep calling her Sarah?" she joked. This dedication to humour, I thought, is why I think Sarah is so genuinely hilarious. Her roommate didn't look like someone I would normally befriend, but nor did my own costumed troupe of girls at this all-out, over-the-top party. I chatted with them here and there during the course of the chaotic mash.

The night went on and on. Taking the hint from the rising sun, we eventually left. Some with jackets, some without. Some staggering, some laughing, some better than others.

Overall, it was a delightfully debaucherous evening. Regardless of costume, we all resurrected our roles as irresponsible university students, though the official titles were retired 5-10 years ago.

But, one mystery remains. The next afternoon I reluctantly dragged my swollen brain from my pillow to the phone. During a laughter-filled recap of the evening, my friend asked me who the girl was that I'd been talking to all night. I said I was surprised she hadn't recognized Sarah. Then, I had my first moment of clarity since I cracked my first cold one: Sarah wasn't at the party.

Young pro(con)fessional

It was my first. In Quebec we call them "5 à 7", known to the rest of North America as "Happy Hour". The grand gathering of suits, a young professional association, had an air that was anything but professional.

The invitation I'd accepted from my supervisor was supposed to enable networking and introduce me to likeminded start-ups with similar goals. Hosted in a section of the city I prefer to mock than mingle with, the evening left me foreign in my own land. As the Anglophone minority, the rift was further complicated by my status as an "assistant", which my supervisor mistakenly replaced with the title "intern". My cringe was surely visible to the naked eye, but she, a young professional herself, was blinded by newly acquired status and several glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.

The bouchées were mildly appetizing and provided a welcome reprieve from actively averting my eyes from sex-starved twenty- and thirty-somethings. My co-worker and officemate, a charismatic woman in her very early forties, claimed to be starving and so sampled many a bouchée. On the advice of her homeopath, or perhaps it was her naturopath---the two are at odds---who diagnosed her with a gluten allergy, she gracefully selected small crackers from the server's tray, licked off the topping and stashed the wet crackers on an abandoned table. I giggled in delight at her fantastic lack of giving-a-shit.

The only man I engaged at the schmooze-fest was introduced to me as an "up-and-coming business journalist". I realized the pun when his girlfriend rang his cell phone to check on him, and he promptly reassured me that she is "very open-minded". The conversation droned with his business terminology and my feigned interest.

The dinner to follow featured a motley crew of personalities at the table, all belonging to women from my department. All beautiful, all blonde, none as I'd expected. The inexperienced waitress assigned to us opened our wine in a manner that made me fear for her safety. Slipping twice as she sliced the foil, I wondered if it was her first or third time opening for an audience. She strangled the neck of the bottle, twisting as she drilled in the corkscrew, then hauled the cork with a deafening "pop!" like someone's drunk cousin at a wedding.

As the Shiraz women distinguished themselves from the Sauvignon Blanc women, confessions began to roll from red carpet tongues. Gossip and opinions flitted about like the women at the Dior promo booth. Sex dominated, and professionalism never entered the room.

As bottles were drained, the evening came to a close. I kissed-kissed my companions and clicked away in my heels, still feeling like a foreigner in my own city. As it was early enough, I promptly exchanged my satin-sashed pants and strappy shoes for jeans and Converse, and headed to my friend's home for a beer, bearing perfumed gifts from Dior.