Ottawa’s 12th homicide of the year occurred on September 20 at 3:20 p.m. on Caldwell Avenue, 800 metres from where we live.
It’s like being 16 again and expecting a text or a phone call from a crush—except I’m 34 and I’m waiting for work assignments.
We were anxiously waiting for the “fridge guys,” aka the repairmen who were about to assess the dead freezer compartment.
Maybe Canada is your dream too. Just make sure you know what you really want.
The sun was shining, the sky was blue and the squirrels were squirrelling around. The birds may have been singing too but I wouldn’t have heard them because Mark was watching TV.
So, what did I buy in France this year?
Tropical storm Harvey made a landing in Ottawa yesterday, right before Labour Day.
“If my bag is searched, expect delays. I took the LEGO boat and car and the diabolo.”
Mood? Confused, as it usually is before a transition. It’s time for us to go back to Canada.
France is sobering up after two months where the country was unofficially on pause.
When you walk around the city a lot, you overhear conversations… including these puzzling, awkward and cringe-worthy moments!
French may hold a cigarette or an umbrella when strolling the streets but they seat down to eat or drink.
Even when I had both free time and freedom—basically between 12 and 18 years old—I rarely ventured outside the city centre.
I kind of like the French philosophy, a mix of hedonism and fatalism. People are aware of terrorist threats but they carry on.
On a sunny evening like this, the touristic, hipster atmosphere didn’t annoy me. I didn’t care. I wanted to have fun as well.
We got off at Penhoët, a destination so unusual that the train barely stopped and we had to ask the driver to keep the doors open a bit longer.
We had promised Mark a medieval castle, but the first sight of interest we noticed was a statue of a butt-naked woman.
Did you know you can buy half a baguette? That kissing is a minefield? That “bourge” is an offensive term?
Communicating with French people can be tricky. I should know that—after all, I used to be one of them.
I swear that when I was a kid, there weren’t twenty kinds of galettes bretonnes in supermarkets and that blood sausage wasn’t an exciting thing to share around the BBQ.
Feng and I were taking a late-night walk and the group of friends in front of us had just noticed something apparently “gross” in the side street they had just passed.
Last week, it was just my parents, my brother and the three of us in the family house by the seaside. This long weekend, there are 11 of us.
The one- or two-hour walk feels like an accelerated history lesson or a sociological snapshot of Nantes.