The Ship Has Run Aground

Happy Tuesday.

It’s been a while since my last post, 37 days in fact. 

I would like to first apologize to the shareholders; I know how much you’ve invested both financially and spiritually.

To you the reader, I promise this update will leave you filled with tears, joy, and perhaps too much information, much like an Irish wake; around when the 4^th bottle of Jameson’s has been cracked open and your uncle is getting far too close-not physically, more emotionally.

It has been a trying month. It began with the usual meeting of my fellow Spanish-speaking French class colleagues. However, the second week began with my seat being usurped.  I am not a territorial person, far from it! I am a believer in mass transit and public education and therefore consider sharing an important pillar for our society. I am, however, also a man of habit, so when I came into class for my second week and saw a new woman in my seat-well, I was perturbed to say the least. Now you may say, “Evan, just come to class a little earlier.” While I wish that was possible, waking up at 7:00 a.m. already came at the cost of my soul, and I couldn’t budget for any earlier. Other than losing my seat to a woman who offers me a snack every day as reparations–dehydrated wasabi beans I feel obligated to accept, despite their taste akin to hot sneezes–school has been about the same. 

My birthday was this month and I will be honest, it was all over the map emotionally. I am not a birthday-week person. I am not a weirdo that needs to take the attention of the world, or at the very least da club, and shine an obnoxious spotlight on myself. I do enjoy dinner with my family and a subsequent trip to a party with friends where decisions are questionable and after which no one should operate a motor vehicle. This would mark the first year neither of those would happen. It would be the first year since birth that I wouldn’t be with my family, on whom I rely emotionally and, more so, financially. My sweet mother sent a parcel filled with 26 small, individually-wrapped gifts for me to open the day of. This would be the first time I cried that day. I went on to have three or four phone calls with dear friends also initiating the water world that is my sinuses. When I finished school, I met Max who had very sweetly organized dinner plans. We walked the snowy evening through Parc la Fontaine and along avenue Duluth. For a brief moment I thought he was taking me to au Pied de Cochon. A quick inquiry and a ridiculous look brought my body down to earth. Cochon, a legend of Montréal restaurant royalty, is on my list; bars and restaurants in Montréal that I would very much like to patron. Instead Max brought me to a lovely establishment called Vertige. To be honest, at first glance it would not have caught my attention, which was probably part of why it was so lovely. The kitchen was offering a generous prix fixe menu and, after being encouraged by my date, a wine pairing for each course. I was glad when the enthusiastic server offered tastes of the paired wines as mine was from Niagara. I informed her that I’d tried enough Ontario wine for several lifetimes and would gladly try anything, literally anything else. 

The meal was perfect. I honestly really missed the act of dining out. Living in Toronto and working in the service industry you forget that going out for dinner every week is not actually normal. It loses its special feeling. The day was capped by coming home to one of my best friends’ casually traveling 500 km to celebrate. I got that dinner and memory-removing night after all! 

My biggest change this month happened when I lost my job. I was working at a bar that, from the beginning wasn’t busy. It’s normal for bars to be slow this time of year during the week, but every Friday and Saturday is alarming. I was down to one 3-hour shift a week, which at that point isn’t worth the trip. We parted ways and about a week later the bar closed its doors for good.

I was ashamed of what I did next. I was confident I would never become one of “those” people. Those people though, have to do whatever they need to in order to keep their family safe, so I started making short trips across the United States border…

…I of course am joking. I do not possess the garbanzo beans it requires to be a mule. 

No, I sucked up my pride and headed to the unemployment office. It’s a very humbling moment going in and taking your number. You go through all of the wonderful financial decisions in your life. Did you need to get a coffee out everyday? Couldn’t you have just snuck a flask into the bar once. Did you really need to visit 5 western European countries at the same time?

I was greeted by a less than welcoming G.I., and she began to rhyme off the conditions of “welfare.” I froze. I hadn’t really ever heard the word directed at me. It’s amazing how powerful a simple governmental support structure can shake you. It brings back memories of grade school, calling other kids names. The worst insult was welfare. It’s humbling, recognizing your privilege, when you hear “welfare” and the initial reaction is a bad one. How did we get to a point where accepting your government’s financial support is socially ostracizing? I continued to listen until my senses returned enough for me to squeak out that I was here for E.I.

“Oh, well, that’s not my department. Last door on the right.” She blurted as she pushed her Government-issued chair away from the desk. 

 I followed her directions to the office of my current caseworker. She was an honestly a treat; which I’ve learned is few and far between in a government office. It was through her that I have come to learn about a wonderful support program through Emploi Quebec. To make it nice and simple, it is a division of the provincial government that wants to get people back to work A.S.A.P. They provide financial assistance and programs to help you get there. Luckily for me, the recommend program is French classes, the ones I am already in.

It took a few weeks of flyer flipping, menu planning and costing a bag of coffee to see how far I could really go to scrimp. I like to think that I truly am channeling the Habitants of New France when I bake something for the week, or trudge through the Montreal Transit system to the other side of the mountain for a good deal on chicken. Honestly the bus system could be mistaken for a bilged, rat-laden ship fresh from the Atlantic. The only difference is Jacques Cartier’s boat got there on time.

I want to quickly thank my friends’ and family’s support during this time. I honestly thought there was a limit to how much one could scream-cry over the phone. I have proven otherwise.

“When you’re going through hell, keep going. When you’re going through financial struggles, stop spending.”

-Winston Churchill/The woman on the phone from MasterCard.

Yours in Survival 

Evan