Moms are asking for pictures, so here are some additional ones before they are forgotten about.
A blurry picture of beers--I'll take a better picture later but I wanted to give beer fans an idea of the scope of Canadian beers.
Drive pics:
Friday, February 4, 2011
Extras
Moms are asking for pictures, so here are some additional ones before they are forgotten about.
A blurry picture of beers--I'll take a better picture later but I wanted to give beer fans an idea of the scope of Canadian beers.
Drive pics:
Smoked Meat and Poutine: Check.
Montreal is surprisingly Jewish for a city that's historically been filled with super-devout French Catholics. We have a large Hasidic community in one section of town (smaller than, but comparable to NYC's), and a lot of the city's food bears more similarities to NYC than I expected. Two of the city's signature foods are smoked meat and bagels which are allegedly unique to the city--I haven't tasted a "real" Montreal bagel yet, but smoked meat is just...smoked meat. That's its name. Smoked meat is like, a thing. Let me 'splain:
The idea of "smoked meat" can be confusing because it sounds more like a category that would include things like smoked salmon and whatever lutefisk is, but instead it is its own unique thing, like pastrami or corned beef. As a matter of fact, smoked meat exists somewhere on the continuum between pastrami and corned beef, although it tastes like neither. Wikipedia informs me that the methods use to preserve the meat are unique, and you can go and read more about it there.
We figured we'd kill two birds with one stone, so we ordered some poutine. Fun fact: if you're French Canadian, you say it more like the guy who runs Russia than "poo-teen." Again, Wikipedia provides cool insight into possible etymology of the word. Most people know that poutine is cheese curds and gravy over fries, but what nobody seemed to be able to tell me was what in the world a cheese curd actually is. After consuming cheese curds, I can tell you that they are vaguely squishy and squeaky (leading to their nickname of "squeaky cheese") and not particularly melty. They are cheese, which is really all I needed to know in the first place.
We obtained these smoked meat sandwiches and poutine at Dunn's, which is one of the places to go to get smoked meat, the other being Schwartz's. What they don't mention when they recommend that you go to this restaurant is that their mascot, a pickle who this website informs me is named "Dillon Dunn," is TERRIFYING.
It seems like anything you'd order that would normally have pastrami or corned beef on it comes with smoked meat instead; I ordered a Reuben and it was delicious.
The idea of "smoked meat" can be confusing because it sounds more like a category that would include things like smoked salmon and whatever lutefisk is, but instead it is its own unique thing, like pastrami or corned beef. As a matter of fact, smoked meat exists somewhere on the continuum between pastrami and corned beef, although it tastes like neither. Wikipedia informs me that the methods use to preserve the meat are unique, and you can go and read more about it there.
We figured we'd kill two birds with one stone, so we ordered some poutine. Fun fact: if you're French Canadian, you say it more like the guy who runs Russia than "poo-teen." Again, Wikipedia provides cool insight into possible etymology of the word. Most people know that poutine is cheese curds and gravy over fries, but what nobody seemed to be able to tell me was what in the world a cheese curd actually is. After consuming cheese curds, I can tell you that they are vaguely squishy and squeaky (leading to their nickname of "squeaky cheese") and not particularly melty. They are cheese, which is really all I needed to know in the first place.
We obtained these smoked meat sandwiches and poutine at Dunn's, which is one of the places to go to get smoked meat, the other being Schwartz's. What they don't mention when they recommend that you go to this restaurant is that their mascot, a pickle who this website informs me is named "Dillon Dunn," is TERRIFYING.
It seems like anything you'd order that would normally have pastrami or corned beef on it comes with smoked meat instead; I ordered a Reuben and it was delicious.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
An Aside
I emailed a professor of mine who'd taught at McGill for tips about living in Montreal. After some useful advice, she concluded with this:
"They don't have pretzels in Montreal."
Thus, the name of this blog. Should I locate pretzels, I will take pictures and change the name of the blog to "Where the Pretzel Sat," making a web address change unnecessary.
"They don't have pretzels in Montreal."
Thus, the name of this blog. Should I locate pretzels, I will take pictures and change the name of the blog to "Where the Pretzel Sat," making a web address change unnecessary.
The trip north
This is the eventual route that we took to Montreal:
View Larger Map
It took us around major cities and promised slightly nicer scenery. The internet told us that it would take around 11-and-a-half hours, which was relatively equal to estimates of other routes.
The movers came on Tuesday and took away all our things. Normally I try to be a relatively confident person, but the idea of having a bunch of people come into my house and poke around in my stuff makes me incredibly anxious, so I spent most of the time sitting on my sheetless bed or, when the bed went away, in the corner.
Being unable to pack was also nerve-wracking. There's the weeding process you go through when you move--"Do we really want this?" "No." then you throw it away--which we didn't really get to do with anything other than the stuff that got left behind. I am not looking forward to going through this process when we unpack, especially because I'm not sure I'll have unlimited access to a dumpster in the city.
If we'd been leaving the day the movers came, we would have had a lot more space in the car, but we also had to keep the things we'd need for the few days we'd spend in an empty apartment; things like the comforter and pillows take up a lot of space in a car, even if they are squished.
A large portion of the car was packed up with our bar, honestly. We weren't allowed to ship any kind of alcohol into the country with the movers, so we had to take it across the border ourselves. It was completely legal--I provided a list of everything we brought to Customs--but an enormous pain in the butt. As we've gotten older, we drink significantly less amounts of significantly better booze, so there was probably several hundred dollars of liquor there, accumulated over five years or so. I gave some of it away but it still made up three large boxes.
We tried to leave as much space as possible for the dog in the car, but things were more cramped than I would have liked. It took her a while to actually figure out that there was space for her to lie down, and even then she ended up in some funny places, like sleeping on the arm rest.
The drive up to Montreal was relatively uneventful for the first day. We didn't end up leaving DC until almost 6pm on Friday. Ben's last day of work was that Wednesday, so we spent most of Thursday and more of Friday than I'd like throwing things away and cramming everything possible into the car.
We spent the night in Scranton. While the scenery in a lot of the places we went through was lovely, the area of Pennsylvania that we passed through had that special flavor of Appalachian despair that seems to encompass everything--the people, the houses they live in, the kinds of businesses that exist. It's the same kind of situation in major cities, but it just doesn't feel the same.
As we went into New York state, the scenery got nicer. There's a kind of haze in the pictures that I took which is a combination of poor photography on my part (no surprise there) but also the constant flurries of snow that were in the air.
After a few hours on route 87, we ran into two nasty white-outs. I actually called Will, Ben's dad, to see if this was an enormous storm that we should pull over to motel for. He didn't see anything at all on the radar; I think it was a small storm that we hit at just the right moment to be difficult for us. And so we turned our lights down and drove very slowly, navigating by the rumble strips on the side of the road, which were the most visible indicators left since the road was suddenly covered in snow. After a while, we came out of the storm and things were back to normal; the experience still feels surreal in retrospect.
We passed through customs with no issues and got our work permits. Traffic in Montreal was basically nonexistent (I can scoff about traffic the way people up here can snoot about snow). We were tired, but we were able to find our keys and apartment with only a small amount of fuss. We got the dog upstairs and the minimum amount of stuff we needed out of the car, and crawled into bed.
This is when the fire alarm went off.
View Larger Map
It took us around major cities and promised slightly nicer scenery. The internet told us that it would take around 11-and-a-half hours, which was relatively equal to estimates of other routes.
The movers came on Tuesday and took away all our things. Normally I try to be a relatively confident person, but the idea of having a bunch of people come into my house and poke around in my stuff makes me incredibly anxious, so I spent most of the time sitting on my sheetless bed or, when the bed went away, in the corner.
Being unable to pack was also nerve-wracking. There's the weeding process you go through when you move--"Do we really want this?" "No." then you throw it away--which we didn't really get to do with anything other than the stuff that got left behind. I am not looking forward to going through this process when we unpack, especially because I'm not sure I'll have unlimited access to a dumpster in the city.
If we'd been leaving the day the movers came, we would have had a lot more space in the car, but we also had to keep the things we'd need for the few days we'd spend in an empty apartment; things like the comforter and pillows take up a lot of space in a car, even if they are squished.
A large portion of the car was packed up with our bar, honestly. We weren't allowed to ship any kind of alcohol into the country with the movers, so we had to take it across the border ourselves. It was completely legal--I provided a list of everything we brought to Customs--but an enormous pain in the butt. As we've gotten older, we drink significantly less amounts of significantly better booze, so there was probably several hundred dollars of liquor there, accumulated over five years or so. I gave some of it away but it still made up three large boxes.
We tried to leave as much space as possible for the dog in the car, but things were more cramped than I would have liked. It took her a while to actually figure out that there was space for her to lie down, and even then she ended up in some funny places, like sleeping on the arm rest.The drive up to Montreal was relatively uneventful for the first day. We didn't end up leaving DC until almost 6pm on Friday. Ben's last day of work was that Wednesday, so we spent most of Thursday and more of Friday than I'd like throwing things away and cramming everything possible into the car.
We spent the night in Scranton. While the scenery in a lot of the places we went through was lovely, the area of Pennsylvania that we passed through had that special flavor of Appalachian despair that seems to encompass everything--the people, the houses they live in, the kinds of businesses that exist. It's the same kind of situation in major cities, but it just doesn't feel the same.As we went into New York state, the scenery got nicer. There's a kind of haze in the pictures that I took which is a combination of poor photography on my part (no surprise there) but also the constant flurries of snow that were in the air.
After a few hours on route 87, we ran into two nasty white-outs. I actually called Will, Ben's dad, to see if this was an enormous storm that we should pull over to motel for. He didn't see anything at all on the radar; I think it was a small storm that we hit at just the right moment to be difficult for us. And so we turned our lights down and drove very slowly, navigating by the rumble strips on the side of the road, which were the most visible indicators left since the road was suddenly covered in snow. After a while, we came out of the storm and things were back to normal; the experience still feels surreal in retrospect.We passed through customs with no issues and got our work permits. Traffic in Montreal was basically nonexistent (I can scoff about traffic the way people up here can snoot about snow). We were tired, but we were able to find our keys and apartment with only a small amount of fuss. We got the dog upstairs and the minimum amount of stuff we needed out of the car, and crawled into bed.
This is when the fire alarm went off.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Ben and I walked together to his first day of work. That morning, it was around -18C, or 0F (I’m trying to pick up Celsius and the metric system while I am here).
Our current apartment is at 454 de la Gauchetiere West, in a restored paper factory that bills itself as “New York-style lofts.” Lots of exposed brick and concrete, with pale hardwood floors and enormous windows—while I’ve never been in one of those New York-style lofts, it reminds me of a friend’s apartment in a former mattress factory in Atlanta.
Penelope has made herself as comfortable as possible, but I feel like I am the wrong size for the kitchen. The cabinets doors in this place are hinged at the top so they swing up, meaning that I am almost too short to access the top cabinet.
It took about 3 days for me to realize that we should take our shoes off in the long concrete hallway instead of in the living room. If your jeans are cuffed, small rocks and pieces of rock salt jump up into the cuffs and fall on the floor when you take your pants off.
We are lucky to have a small park across the street from the entrance to our apartment, where we appear to be the only dog owners who pick up their dog poop. The man we met outside during our freezing fire drill assured us that Montreal was “very European” but I think he meant in smoking cigarettes and not in not bothering to pick up poo.
When we first got Penelope, I’m pretty sure she hadn’t ridden much in a car, but by now she is an old pro. She likes to stick her nose out the window and sniff, but she sometimes also just looks out the window or moves to the middle of the back seat and looks through the windshield. I don’t think Penelope has ever seen windows this large—our apartment in Arlington probably provided a very boring view of the top of the building across the quad at dog-level. Now whenever she sees me opening the blinds, she comes and tries to peek out.
Ben’s work is maybe 4 or 5 blocks from the apartment his company is renting for us, although he has to go a little underground to get to it. Montreal’s underground city is just strange, really…in the downtown you can enter a seemingly random office building and try taking its down escalator—chances are if it’s got one, it’s attached to the underground city.
The closest grocery store is 3 blocks away. It’s an IGA, which is hilarious if you’ve ever seen an IGA in the states because they are inevitably trashy and constantly on the verge of closing. This IGA sells a lot of lamb, veal, and duck and is swanky and delivers. It’s mostly underground, too.
The beer selection at the IGA is pretty exciting, as there are plenty of beers there I’ve never seen before. I placed an order for some, including a six-pack of Unibroue’s Raftman beer, which I don’t think is distributed in the States. This is possibly because the picture of an enormous flannel-clad lumberjack doing something on a river with logs and a pole was deemed “too sexy” for American audiences.
We are looking for apartments in the Mile End, NDG, Plateau Mont-Royal, and Village sections of town, all of which tend to be a bit more urban and have lots of public transportation. We’re hoping that we might be able to get rid of our car once we get settled, although I’ll have to adjust to a completely different kind of lifestyle—today I looked up where the pet stores were that sell Penelope’s brand of food are, realizing that getting rid of a car means lugging large bags of dog food on the Metro.
Our current apartment is at 454 de la Gauchetiere West, in a restored paper factory that bills itself as “New York-style lofts.” Lots of exposed brick and concrete, with pale hardwood floors and enormous windows—while I’ve never been in one of those New York-style lofts, it reminds me of a friend’s apartment in a former mattress factory in Atlanta.
Penelope has made herself as comfortable as possible, but I feel like I am the wrong size for the kitchen. The cabinets doors in this place are hinged at the top so they swing up, meaning that I am almost too short to access the top cabinet. It took about 3 days for me to realize that we should take our shoes off in the long concrete hallway instead of in the living room. If your jeans are cuffed, small rocks and pieces of rock salt jump up into the cuffs and fall on the floor when you take your pants off.
We are lucky to have a small park across the street from the entrance to our apartment, where we appear to be the only dog owners who pick up their dog poop. The man we met outside during our freezing fire drill assured us that Montreal was “very European” but I think he meant in smoking cigarettes and not in not bothering to pick up poo.
When we first got Penelope, I’m pretty sure she hadn’t ridden much in a car, but by now she is an old pro. She likes to stick her nose out the window and sniff, but she sometimes also just looks out the window or moves to the middle of the back seat and looks through the windshield. I don’t think Penelope has ever seen windows this large—our apartment in Arlington probably provided a very boring view of the top of the building across the quad at dog-level. Now whenever she sees me opening the blinds, she comes and tries to peek out.Ben’s work is maybe 4 or 5 blocks from the apartment his company is renting for us, although he has to go a little underground to get to it. Montreal’s underground city is just strange, really…in the downtown you can enter a seemingly random office building and try taking its down escalator—chances are if it’s got one, it’s attached to the underground city.
The closest grocery store is 3 blocks away. It’s an IGA, which is hilarious if you’ve ever seen an IGA in the states because they are inevitably trashy and constantly on the verge of closing. This IGA sells a lot of lamb, veal, and duck and is swanky and delivers. It’s mostly underground, too.
The beer selection at the IGA is pretty exciting, as there are plenty of beers there I’ve never seen before. I placed an order for some, including a six-pack of Unibroue’s Raftman beer, which I don’t think is distributed in the States. This is possibly because the picture of an enormous flannel-clad lumberjack doing something on a river with logs and a pole was deemed “too sexy” for American audiences.
We are looking for apartments in the Mile End, NDG, Plateau Mont-Royal, and Village sections of town, all of which tend to be a bit more urban and have lots of public transportation. We’re hoping that we might be able to get rid of our car once we get settled, although I’ll have to adjust to a completely different kind of lifestyle—today I looked up where the pet stores were that sell Penelope’s brand of food are, realizing that getting rid of a car means lugging large bags of dog food on the Metro.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)