Tales of an Urban Newbie: February 7 - 14, 2011

After a full week of apartment sabotage, job interviews, and getting lost multiple times, I’m surprised I had any energy left in me to make it another week (okay, I’m a little melodramatic).  Somehow, I made it through, and secured three jobs in the process. 

I began my first week in training for a position as a call centre agent.  I greedily accepted this position with the intention of quitting after my training week so that I could move onto a more respectable position as an HR interviewer for a background checking company.  After spending a week in training, making a few friends, and realizing that the job wasn’t as evil as I’d anticipated, my opinion started to sway. 

During the week I got closer with my training group, met some of the other call centre agents and staff members, and tried to catch my next concert, the Weakerthans that Thursday at Le Cabaret du Mile End.  My roommate, her sister and I left for the Cabaret at around 6:30 pm – which should have been plenty of time, even considering that we were going for smoked meat at the world famous Schwartz’s Montreal Hebrew Delicatessen and I had to meet up with Ms. Charles to sign our contract for CollectivelyBeautiful. 

But when we were outside the Laurier Metro station after filling our bellies and signing the contract we were asked by a kind, young stranger if we knew where the Brasserie Artisanale Dieu Du Ciel was.  I could hardly pronounce it, let alone locate it on a map.  After collaboratively inspecting the giant city map outside the Metro we realized we were going in the same direction, so we all decided to walk together. 

When we got to the Brasserie, our new friend invited us in to have a beer.  In the spirit of making new friends, we thought “what the hell, why not?” and decided to join him and his friend (for anonymity’s sake, I’ll call them Shawn and Rick.  Rick had recently moved to Montreal, and Shawn was planning to once he found work, so we all bonded through our common lack of friends in the area.  After about 45 minutes, we decided to head to the concert and bid our new friends farewell.

Arriving at the Cabaret was like déjà vu.  I could hear the music, I sprinted up the stairs, but when I got to the top no one asked me to pay admission and the people in the crowd gave us really strange looks.  About thirty seconds later the band announced that it would be their last song of the night.  (If you’re counting, the current score for concert attendance is Montreal - 2, Allie - zero.)  So, I figured at least at this rate the next concert I’d go to that I would see three songs, minimum.  You have to celebrate the small victories.

Now, by the end of the week there were a few things about the call centre that slowly won me over.  One of my biggest complaints about my last job in government was that it was really difficult to make friends there who had similar interests as me, since the vast majority of my co-workers were married with children.  So the fact that the call centre is made up of a predominantly young staff was really appealing to me.  I was already making friends in a new city in my first week – more than I’d made in Edmonton in two and a half years. 

Also, probably for the same reason that it was easy to make friends, it was a really laid back environment – I could wear leggings and a hoodie to work, which I can’t say the same for any of my jobs since I stopped babysitting.  My co-workers all shared a similar cynical sarcasm for life in general and I felt like I fit in almost immediately.

Finally, my schedule at the call centre had the ability to be extremely flexible.  The company used an online scheduling system that lets employees check their schedule, drop shifts, pick up shifts or trade shifts, request time off, and check when other employees are working.  Being an internet junkie and techo-geek, the idea of having my schedule at my fingertips really revved my engine.  Another small win-over was the potential for commission – it wouldn’t be much, but probably enough to make a small dent in the month bills.

My final decision was made when I called the other job to find out if I could get time off before I started – I needed the following Friday and Monday off: that was it.  When the woman called me back, she left a message saying that if I couldn’t make training they would have to offer the job to someone else.  Now, it wasn’t necessarily what she said, but how she said it that I was offended by.  Her tone came across “holier than thou,” like my very survival was in her hands alone, and the attitude turned me off more than the fact that they wouldn’t give me the time off.  My roommate’s twin sister was in town that week and I ended up forgetting to call the other job I’d been offered until Sunday.  When I called I mentioned not only would I be declining the position due to my scheduling conflict, but also that I’d been offered another position. 

This seemingly harmless voicemail would eventually give me the age-old “foot in mouth” syndrome, but I’ll save those details for week six.

Tales of an Urban Newbie: The Trials and Tribulations of Acclimating to a New City

(This series of articles about my getting to know Montreal is also featured on the website www.CollectivelyBeautiful.com, along with many other useful, interesting, and thought-provoking pieces - take a look!)

So, although I’ve visited Montreal several times before, and have visited countless other cities, I’m still incredibly directionally challenged.  And that’s just the icing on the cake.  Add in the fact that I’m most familiar with running on New York time (where just about everything begins at least 45 minutes after it’s supposed to) and it’s a recipe for disaster.

Firstly, I’m not sure if it’s just my apartment, or apartments all over Montreal, but I’m fairly certain that everything in my apartment, from the front door locks to the knobs on the stove, work backward.  I arrived to my apartment after a 20-hour train ride from Nova Scotia, I had 9 pieces of luggage with me, and was stranded in the hallway because I couldn’t unlock my door.  

After 45 minutes of turning one lock, then the other, then turning them back again, I finally managed to make my way inside.  I’m used to locks that unlock when you turn the key counter clockwise, and lock when you turn them clockwise; however, my new door does just the opposite.  I don’t know any other person who has broken a sweat unlocking their front door, but I somehow managed it. 

One can’t live in an apartment without food in it, so I decided it was grocery time.  I headed down the street to the local Metro to pick up the usual basics and everyday items.  What I didn’t realize upon exiting the store was that there are, in fact, two entrances/exits in two different sides of the building.  I, of course, exited out a different door than I had come in, without realizing it, which resulted in me walking four blocks in the wrong direction with five heavy bags of groceries.  When I realized how lost I was, I gave up and called a cab.  I had walked in the precise opposite direction of my apartment.  Five dollars, and less than three blocks, later my less was learned.

Now, I was starving.  I hadn’t eaten since the night before on the train when I had a miniscule egg sandwich with couscous, which was grossly overpriced.  I put a pot of water on the stove and waited for it to boil.  This attempt gave me a whole new appreciation for the saying, “a watched pot never boils.”  I waited, and waited… then waited some more.  Nearly an hour passed and the water was still just barely warmer than room temperature. 

What I didn’t realize, that my front door lock and stove knobs had conspired against me.  For every stovetop appliance that I’ve used in recent memory, you turn the knob counterclockwise, to turn it on, and as you continue to turn, the temperature will get hotter and hotter.  This was not the case in my apartment, but the complete opposite.  And, to make matters work, only half of the burners on the stove are functional.  I’m surprised I didn’t pass out from exhaustion by the time I finally managed to make my meal.  Needless to say, I expected the worst when I went to take a shower later that night.  Thankfully, showers are pretty fool-proof.

That weekend I had planned to see a band called the Radio Dept. that I’ve been waiting to check out for about a year now.  They were playing at a little venue that is inside a bigger venue, on Rue Prince-Arthur.  Tickets were only $15, and even though there was a blizzard outside, my roommate and I decided to brave the weather for some good live music.  We left our apartment at 10:45 pm, expecting the headlining band to go on around 11:30 pm or so. 

My assumption was based on the usual schedules of shows that take place in the greatest metropolis in North American – New York City – and this assumption couldn’t have been farther from actuality.  After trudging though the snow with the wind howling past us, we arrived at the venue.  It was around midnight and as I ran up the stairs the anticipation continued to build, but when I got to the top of the stairs and sprung through the door, the venue was empty, the stage was torn down, and the music was no where to be heard.  I asked the bartender what time the bands usually come on.  She helpfully responded, “Anytime”.  “Yeah, thanks,” I thought, “That was really helpful.”

I sulked my way to the other, larger venue there, since we’d already paid cover.  It wasn’t exactly the live rock I’d expected, but we made the most of it anyway.  After evading a creepy Swedish man who was clearly on mood-enhancing drugs, watching a young guy spontaneously projectile vomit next to us, and dancing and laughing more than I previously considered humanly possible, we headed home. 

It was a successfully unsuccessful first outing in Montreal and a solid way to end my first full week in my new home city.  Though, I was hoping that my skills and timing would get better as time went by.

This is me being concise... Enjoy it while you can

So, now that I'm a solid 3 months behind on my blog I've decided I'm going to give the quick and dirty of the last 3 months of my life.  Not that anyone particularly cares at this point, but a promise is a promise.

While in New Jersey I was permitted to watch the slow deterioration of the extremely upper class in a FYEO exhibition of holiday drunkenness and anorexic food avoidance.  I, the lowly server, had the pleasure of pouring wine for people whose clothing was probably worth more than my student debt, while they talked business, then pleasure, and finally ended the night by just yelling "NOOOVVAAA SCCOOOOTTTIIAAAA!!" at me repeatedly.  Yes, Miss - I'm from Nova Scotia, for the twenty-seventh time.  And no, it's not on the West Coast, and it's also not "like the north pole up there".

The rest of my time in Jers' was spent visiting as many restaurants as possible, hitting up the Museum of Natural History, seeing a few bands (Dark Star Orchestra jammed so hard that I almost lost consciousness - literally), visiting my great aunt and uncle, learning to snowboard (and subsequently crying almost the entire way down a one-mile trail), and of course, I was present for the infamous "Snowmageddon".  We went to three NHL games, got 35 blocks away from Times Square on New Years Eve, and even hit up Carlos' Bakery in Hoboken!  I spent a full 25 days at the Duker residence (much love goes out to Linda and Joe for being so hospitable) and by the end of my time there, between hanging out at the house, meeting lots of new people, seeing lots of older acquaintances, and even working the odd job here and there, I practically felt at home.  But, I wasn't and so I had to leave and come back to Canada and get a real job.

So at the beginning of January I hopped on my 9th airplane of the past six months and headed back to NOOOOVVVAAAA SCCOOOOTTTIIIAAAAA. (ha) Oh and of course, just for me, Halifax got hit with a blizzard the day I arrived.  Luckily for me, my poor-weather rescuer was at hand again to pick me up at the airport, followed by our usual 45 minute bitch session and then parking lot donuts.

Originally, I'd intended to stay in Nova Scotia until May or June - in the hopes that I'd be able to find work and save up some money before going to Concordia for their graduate program in Journalism (which I had yet to be accepted to).  But, as is to be expected with me, my plans quickly changed.

Firstly, being at home after being away for almost 7 years is a dramatic lifestyle change.  I felt like I couldn't accept or relate to the vast majority of the attitudes and personalities that resided in my county.  "No girl at the bar, just because I looked in the general direction of your boyfriend for a split second doesn't mean that I'm going to try to steal him. Feel free to loosen your death-grip on him now." In all seriousness, though, it had been so long that some people didn't even recognize me anymore.  I wasn't home - I was away - and eventually this started to eat away at me.  Within two weeks I was starting to feel anxious and depressed.

Like I may have mentioned before, I'm lucky, or blessed, to have the people in my life that I do.  One of these people came to the rescue late one Friday night when I was feeling particularly gloomy and alone, and she offered for me to move to Montreal.  "Honestly, Allie," she said, "don't worry about anything, just come here. You can worry about a job when you get here - just get out of Pictou County.  Don't let that place kill you."

So, in the next few days I applied on seven jobs, and set up interviews for four of them the coming Monday.  I had five days to figure out a plan and get my ass to Montreal.  My brother and I decided we should rent a car and take a road trip up together with all my stuff, so we made the reservation and specifically told the agency the class of car we needed because we'd be moving some things. "Shouldn't be a problem."

But it was.  That morning, all we could get was a minivan, and because we were leaving the Maritimes, it would cost us $0.18 for every kilometer past the New Brunswick border.  The fees started adding up and eventually it just wasn't reasonable anymore.  So, at 10:30 am I was forced to re-pack all my things, find a ride to Truro and take the train.

Lucky for me again, Janelle stepped up to the plate, and even though we had to pack her car in 30 minutes, and we had to drive the entire way with a snowboard in between our heads, she was a total trooper about it.  I arrived, unloaded my stuff onto three trolleys, headed into the station and started sorting everything out.  I had nine bags total, 2 carry-on, 4 checked, and 3 additional checked bags, one of which shouldn't have been accepted because it was a trunk. Thank goodness for ViaRail's amazing staff that day.

The train ride was 20 hours long and when I arrived in Montreal I was a cold, lonely Anglo in my new city of residence.  The porter for ViaRail on the Montreal end managed to somehow stack all my bags on one trolley, which garnered more than a few stares from customers and staff members alike.  He made sure to point out that generally, porters are tipped $3 per bag.  I gave him all I had left in cash after wasting my money on a too-small, disgusting train egg salad sandwich and couscous, which was only $15, but it would have to do.

My taxi driver stopped at a CIBC for me on the way to the apartment and even helped me with my French, clarifying for me why sometimes one uses the noun "vous" instead of "tu" when speaking to an individual ("vous" is more respectful, by the way).  Since he helped me learn French, and helped me carry everything into my apartment building I tipped him $35.

I'd thought I couldn't be so happy to arrive somewhere.  That is, until I couldn't get inside the apartment... But I'll save the rest for another post.