In British Columbia the cheese is quiet ~ only the mice squeak HEATHER DAVIS
Life in Quebec began with a move into Ghis' Dad's basement where we could stay for up to two months. Our big motivation for not staying that long was that his Dad is a smoker. But he did put up with the dogs in the backyard and us -- rent-free.
We dug through Ghis' stuff that he left behind ten years ago: a huge record collection, odds and ends of furniture, and a couple of ugly sweaters. His Dad has quite a collection going. In the three sheds and basement, he is housing belongings from four children as well as seconds of all the furniture and appliances in his house. This is great news for us -- I can't wait till we find a place.
We visited with family lots the first week. We enjoyed poutine at a restaurant with his Mom -- the restaurant that invented it, so they say. Poutine. You know, french fries slathered with gravy and most crucially of all, topped off with squeaky-fresh cheese curds. You just can't get them in BC. There, the cheese is quiet: only the mice squeak.
Later that week, Ghis got upset when I put the squeaky cheese in the fridge, but I had no idea. Cheese goes in the fridge! I had to apologize for taking the 'ee' out of the cheese.
I needed a job. I was pretty set on teaching English. It seemed like the obvious thing to do. After all, I was a certified elementary teacher. It's just that I wanted to be a writer much more, but I wasn't going to say that in my interviews -- not yet.
It didn't take me much of my first week to realize that Drummondville really was in the heart of Quebec. There was no English population here. The only English schools I could find were private schools for French students.
It turned out that we were only twenty minutes away from Richmond which is the start of the "top" of the Eastern Townships -- a part of Quebec that is decidedly more anglophone. Maybe I could supply teach there.
As part of our job hunt, we visited the job shop. I spoke a bit of French to the lady and she said I did well. I thought I was just lucky to have put my "Oui's" and "Non's" in the right places.
For entertainment, we went to the movies -- in French, of course. I didn't understand anything I heard, but found the pictures engaging enough. Whenever my curiosity got the better of me, I leaned over to Ghis and whispered in his ear, "What are they talking about? " I felt very studious sitting through the whole movie, sure that it was somehow improving my comprehension.
We dined with Ghis' friends who live in the most fashionable brick house right by the river downtown. I listened and listened, but didn't really understand anything. Too bad I wasn't more of a drinker. How long would it take before all this gibberish meant something? It didn't feel like I was learning anything. How long would it take? Three months? Six? A year? I was set to find out.
To be continued...
Copyright © 2000 Heather Davis/Log Cabin Chronicles/02.2000 |
