Really, though?  The vast majority of the Citadelle in Quebec:

… bears a striking resemblance to the MadMaze on Prodigy circa 1989:

One of the things I most enjoy about being an adult is the ability — nay, right — to rectify the perceived wrongs of childhood.  I can eat whatever candy I want, when I want!  I can stay up as late as I want, whenever I want!  I can go out and do things right now, instead of waiting for some parentally-determined time in the future!

I can choose to stop at the highway rest stop built to look like a Spanish castle, with a parking lot full of six monster trucks and a herd of dinosaurs in varying states of decay!

This weekend, we took a trip to Quebec City with our friends Xander and Alana. It was awesome.  On the way there, we passed a rest stop that seemed to feature, bizarrely, a combination of a half-dozen ten-foot-tall replica dinosaurs bookend with rusty monster trucks. You know how I feel about monster trucks. We swore, then and there, to return.

I spent much of the drive back keeping an anxious eye out the right side of the road, and after an hour and change out of Quebec City, we pulled triumphantly into the parking lot.

I’m pretty sure this is exactly what people think of when they imagine visiting Quebec City: so quaint! So European! Filled with history, not to mention virtually limitless photo opportunities!  Suffice it to say, I had a pretty fun half-hour strolling around the grounds.

Cultural opportunities abound.

Montreal, like much of the East Coast I exspect, has been experiencing a wave of abnormally warm temperatures, and we just don’t know what to do about it. Embracing the apparent approach of spring would just be setting ourselves up for heartbreak farther down the line.  Pete and I visited Montreal for the first time about two years ago (!!) to look for an apartment, and we managed to arrive in the brief window between two snowstorms.  I remember that my suitable-for-Wisconsin-in-late-March outerwear was decidedly less suitable for Quebec.  Normally, at this time of year, we’re getting a spiteful blast of winter that prevents us from getting our hopes up too much: I mean, we’re still a full two months away from the city opening (re: plowing and/or doing the necessary rearrangement of on-street parking) its bike paths and Bixi stands, and piles of crunchy, dingy snow stubbornly stick around in the shadows until June.  I can’t even put out tomatoes on my balcony for another three months!

But right now, daytime temperatures are consistently hovering above freezing, and I find myself irresistibly drawn to walking around the city for hours despite the fact that this is unquestionably the ugliest part of the year: glaring, unmerciful light, not a spot of greenery to be seen, tired, gray-and-yellow snow, and melting snowbanks that leave piles of litter, gravel, dog poo, broken glass, and other detritus liberally scattered over the sidewalks.  And yet I cannot temper my enthusiasm, and cannot stay indoors.

One of the deps near the Y has been putting out little $2 and $3 plastic pots of forced spring bulbs, and I finally caved to their charms.  It’s hard to pick favorites amongst spring bulbs, but I chose a little pot of soon-to-be-crocuses, because crocuses (along with snowdrops, not on offer) are some of the first bulbs up in the spring.  Leave the daffodils and miniature tulips for later, I say.

I proudly displayed my new acquisition in the middle of the dining table on an old tea saucer, and during the course of 24 hours it produced several impressive buds from nowhere.  The other night, though, Pete and I were watching a movie, and heard the tell-tale thump of Sebastian jumping down from a high surface, followed by him sauntering into the room, ostentatiously licking his chops.

“Oh, God,” I moaned, and Pete went over to check on the now-upended crocuses, one sprig of which had received a surprisingly precise feline trim. Our knowledge of the aftereffects of such events is much greater than Sebastian’s, see, so I fetched some paper towels and disinfectant while Pete herded Sebastian onto the hardwood.  As if on cue, his little kitty smirk disappeared as he went into a crouch and promptly coughed up, intact, the offending clump of crocus at Pete’s feet.

It’s hard to find a truly cat-proof place for plants in our apartment that’s still within a line of sight, but I think I’ve got a temporary solution going on for now.  If you’ll excuse the tedious analogy, these crocuses are a bit like an early spring: they require coddling, ample protection, and a solid — if cautious — dose of hope.

Seriously, though, cat: STAY AWAY.

Watching the Winter Olympics in Canada, while they’re taking place on Canadian turf, brings up two distinct feelings: 1) Wow, Canadian pride can be a genuinely beautiful and touching thing; and 2) Wow, it must be tough to compete with the entire weight of the nation resting on your shoulders.

The two, of course, are linked. Until this year, Canada had, rather outrageously, never won an gold medal during any of the previous Olympics on home turf (c.f. Montreal, Calgary), but the Own the Podium initiative — which I see I can still donate our credit card reward points towards — has drawn considerable critique from both outside and inside the country.  On NBC’s all-U.S. all-the-time coverage, U.S. athletes who are interviewed tend to speak of their performance in terms of personal goals, but Canadian athletes inevitably speak first of making Canada proud, or letting Canada down.  This weekend, we saw Mellisa Hollingsworth — who got fifth place in the women’s skeleton after a bounce off the wall–repeatedly apologizing in tears for her performance.  Then she held a press conference, where she apologized again for being a disappointment to her entire country.  The perceived pressure was jarring: it’s not like Canadian athletes are being ripped away from their families when they enter the double-digits and sent to remote government-sponsored athletic training camps, but still.

On the flip side, there was Manitoban Jon Montgomery’s gold in the men’s skeleton.  Montgomery, who gives off the vibe of being someone you might actually know in real life, as opposed to a Wheaties-box Super-Elite Athlete, was elated at his win: repeatedly giving a shout-out to his hometown in Manitoba, lustily participating in several spontaneous rounds of “O Canada!” begun by the equally exhilarated crowd at Whistler during his television interview, demonstrating his skills as a used-car auctioneer, and — perhaps most awesomely — picking up a pitcher of beer from the crowd during his victory walk and polishing off about half of it during his interview with CTV.  Dude just won a gold medal, and he’s going to sing the national anthem and drink beer, damn it!

You own that podium, Canada.  But I am glad to be an ordinary civilian, with no gold-, silver-, or bronze-winning powers.

The similitude is still uncanny!

The walk between my apartment and class takes 25 minutes each way, 30 through snow. It takes me through one of my favorite parts of the city: the upper Plateau. Because my walk consists of equal amounts of North/South and East/West, I try to exploit the huge variety of potential paths that I can create between here and there, working my way around the orderly blocks and occasional alleys.

One of my favorite routes involves walking past the Conservatory.  In the evening, the windows are all lit up, and so as you go down the sidewalk you pass by a series of practice rooms like vignettes: someone playing the organ.  Someone else practicing the piano.  Someone singing with their accompanist.  A violin / piano duo.  A piano lesson.

It’s immensely peaceful, and one of my favorite parts of the day.

I feel like every year, my Valentine’s Day post gets shorter and shorter.  But no less sincere, dear readers!  As always, I choose to make Valentine’s Day less about the schmoopy, less about the birds pairing up in Venus’ dark temple, and more about broader appreciation and affection.

See, Jejune.net loves you!  Friends near and far, acquaintances, those of you who have been reading this site for a very long time, those of you who have been casually reading this site for a short amount of time, family, and the errant misguided Googler.  You all make the world — and my world — a better place.  I’d like to share my candy stash with each and every one of you, and that’s not an offer made often.  Because, remember…
(more…)

I realize that, in general, Americans like to think of Canadians as a more polite and reserved North American variant of themselves, but know this: when it comes to the Winter Olympics, Canadians do not mess around.  And when Canadians are hosting said Winter Olympics, it is on. (I would, in fact, venture that Canadians feel even more proud and proprietary over the Winter Games than they do the American Space Shuttle and its Canadian-Built Arm, but that’s another post.)

The excitement is contagious even out here in Quebec, but I’ve been anticipating this Olympics for a while now.  Growing up, the Olympics were the only time that I watched sports, ever, and I remember being mesmerized by the alpine skiing at the tender age of seven.  Sure, you can scoff at the idea that sitting on the couch and watching TV for 17 days makes for a productive or worthwhile use of time, but the Jejune household is particularly fond of the communal television experience.  I still have the fondest memories of crowding our friends around the TV in Madison to watch Project Runway, for example, and there’s something that can be genuinely moving about sharing a team’s or an individual’s competitive journey: see the amount of time devoted to the Tour de France chez Jejune, or even So You Think You Can Dance, or, you know, the red-blooded Wisconsin male’s devotion to the Green Bay Packers.

Even though our own Olympic stadium is now a husk of its former self, Montreal’s stores are largely cleaned out of Olympic swag, and it seems like everybody knows somebody in Vancouver who’s volunteering at the games and/or renting their house out for an obscene sum of money.  Not only hockey, but curling, is Serious Business, and I’m looking forward to cheering for random athletes based on the most arbitrary of reasons, as well as the brief and selective flashes of patriotism that come and go depending upon who’s winning (or who has the most winning smile).  I would love nothing more than to see Stephen Colbert show up on NBC’s speed-skating commentary, I even think that the mascots are charming, and I have a serious amount of knitting carefully lined up and ready to go.

Bring it!