This past weekend, I finally got the chance to visit one of these mythical "cottages" everyone in Canada seems to have. No, seriously: maybe its the socioeconomic makeup of the Canadians I encounter at McGill, but there's a bizarrely high proportion of people in this country who seem to have a vacation home somewhere in the vast tracts of forested and lake-ed land that you encounter about ten minutes outside any major city. That vastness probably has something to do with it--when you have so much land, it's not that surprising that there's a lot of it available for relatively cheap.
My girlfriend's roommate (from here forward referred to as GFR) has one up in the Laurentians, a mountain range an hour or two north of Montreal. Since GFR is also the current president of the McGill Triathalon club and my girlfriend is a member, it was basically a triathalon-oriented trip with a few relatively slobbish people like myself tagging along. I like to think of myself as fairly in shape, but these are people who are excited by the prospect of 90 kilometer bike rides and come back from said rides saying things like "wow, amazing ride...who feels like a run?" instead of "OH GOD MY LEGS BURN."
Now it wasn't all intense training with me sitting on the sidelines feeling out of shape--there were some more casual activities as well. It was while trying my hand (feet?) at waterskiing on the first evening that things started to get...injurious. While futilely attempting to stand up on the damn things--it's hard, if you've never tried--one of my skis came off and beaned me quite hard in the side of the head. By the time we got back into the cottage, my left temple was swollen up and I was being fussed over and given ice and Advil by GFR's mother, who was up with us and happened to be a doctor. So okay, one of ten or so people up on a trip has a minor accident and ends up with a big bruise on the side of his head (and a very impressive black eye). Big deal.
...except that the next morning my girlfriend quite literally broke her face and split her lip falling out of bed and into a bedside table (it was a small chip fracture of the upper lip, but "broke her face" sounds awfully good, and is technically correct), necessitating a trip to the emergency room. Another girl almost passed out on the bike trip and later cut up her shin jumping off of the dock and onto a submerged rock. Another guy cut himself with a kitchen knife while making dinner. Another girl, while trying to throw another person out of a canoe, managed to fall into a canoe and bruise/scrape up her legs badly. Everyone was fine, but it became a running joke that the injured were starting to outnumber the healthy ones.
Then I get into work today: my co-worker's grandfather has died, another's house burned down a couple weeks ago, and my supervisor's mother fell very ill and her son broke his arm.
What the hell is going on?
Anyways, besides the apparent curse on this August (starting off with a shooting, no less), the weekend was pretty amazing. By the morning after my accident the swelling had gone down enough that I was able to enjoy myself. I never got back on the water skis, but I did try tubing (very fun), and although my poor girlfriend had to refrain from all intense physical activity--which was supposed to the point of the weekend--she still got to have a nice couple of days relaxing in the beautiful woods of Canada. As did I. And man, it's beautiful.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Apartments
I apparently fail at keeping this blog going with any regularity--or at least I've failed in the past couple weeks.
It's really not my fault. I've been fiendishly busy. I think I can safely say that apartment searching (with a rather strict deadline after which homelessness ensues) is my least favorite activity on this planet. I've never had to administer an enema to an elephant, but I think I might choose that over this. It's also amazing how much absolute sleazebag-ness there is present around anything related to student housing. There are entire blocks (*cough* most of St. Dominque *cough*) of absolutely terrible apartments rented out to students at prices that aren't even low enough to justify the slum-ness.
When its at its worst, it's like my future roommate, who actually had his bathroom roof collapse and his landlord still wouldn't come fix the place. They know students are desperate, gullible, and in most cases pretty damn naive about what you can get for the money. Not all landlords are total douchebags, of course. My current landlords are great, my past one took some hassling to fix things but was a decent fellow in general, and my (probable) future one seems like a good bet.
Yes, that's right, I found a place. It's not totally finalized yet, so I'll avoid posting pictures in order not to jinx it. But when that lease is signed, you can bet your ass you'll be seeing them.
It's really not my fault. I've been fiendishly busy. I think I can safely say that apartment searching (with a rather strict deadline after which homelessness ensues) is my least favorite activity on this planet. I've never had to administer an enema to an elephant, but I think I might choose that over this. It's also amazing how much absolute sleazebag-ness there is present around anything related to student housing. There are entire blocks (*cough* most of St. Dominque *cough*) of absolutely terrible apartments rented out to students at prices that aren't even low enough to justify the slum-ness.
When its at its worst, it's like my future roommate, who actually had his bathroom roof collapse and his landlord still wouldn't come fix the place. They know students are desperate, gullible, and in most cases pretty damn naive about what you can get for the money. Not all landlords are total douchebags, of course. My current landlords are great, my past one took some hassling to fix things but was a decent fellow in general, and my (probable) future one seems like a good bet.
Yes, that's right, I found a place. It's not totally finalized yet, so I'll avoid posting pictures in order not to jinx it. But when that lease is signed, you can bet your ass you'll be seeing them.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Amazing--it's not raining.
This city is so so beautiful when it's sunny out. Take a day like today: about 75 degrees, blue skies with fluffy white clouds, light breeze. I had to skip out from work at lunch just so I can enjoy it.
It's a pity it's been sunny all of seven days in the past two or three months. Canada, I know you're supposed to be the great white north and all that, but can't you at least pretend that it's summer?
It's a pity it's been sunny all of seven days in the past two or three months. Canada, I know you're supposed to be the great white north and all that, but can't you at least pretend that it's summer?
Monday, August 3, 2009
Happy fucking birthday.
Well, I'm officially 21. My year definitely got off to a bang.
That's right, I made a joke about it. That's because I can laugh about it now, and I'm still not fucked up by thinking about the fact that I watched a man get shot to death about 20 feet from me while I was standing on the street after my birthday party and saw my friend lying on the street with people holding her side to hold the bleeding. Because she had been fucking shot.
Most of the time, I've been fine. In a way, the more I talk about it, the more unreal it becomes and the more it becomes just another story I can tell people. I don't want to dwell on it too much--as a friend said to me, it's easy to use this kind of thing as an excuse to sink into dark places. I certainly don't want to do that, but pretending everything's all sunshine and rainbows isn't the best idea either. I need to feel something--it's just hard to know what.
I was saying to some friends that maybe this is a karmic thing. Maybe the universe decided to get all the shitty-ness that will happen to me in the 21st year of my life out of the way three and a half hours into it. Lets hope. I'm just glad my friend is all right.
That's right, I made a joke about it. That's because I can laugh about it now, and I'm still not fucked up by thinking about the fact that I watched a man get shot to death about 20 feet from me while I was standing on the street after my birthday party and saw my friend lying on the street with people holding her side to hold the bleeding. Because she had been fucking shot.
Most of the time, I've been fine. In a way, the more I talk about it, the more unreal it becomes and the more it becomes just another story I can tell people. I don't want to dwell on it too much--as a friend said to me, it's easy to use this kind of thing as an excuse to sink into dark places. I certainly don't want to do that, but pretending everything's all sunshine and rainbows isn't the best idea either. I need to feel something--it's just hard to know what.
I was saying to some friends that maybe this is a karmic thing. Maybe the universe decided to get all the shitty-ness that will happen to me in the 21st year of my life out of the way three and a half hours into it. Lets hope. I'm just glad my friend is all right.
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