Bonjour, Hi
Semi-fictionalized account of my last trip to Montreal - avec tous les questionnements que ça implique.
I woke up groggy and disoriented. It was just a 2 hour flight in from NYC but my brain will dramatically contort any time spent on a plane. My final week of college, I was wrapping up last semester assignments, moving out of the apartment I’d lived in for two years and taking the plane to Mauritius. I was operating on little sleep, abuzz with frantic energy. I remember little to nothing about the day leading up to my departure, except plopping my tired body down in an aisle seat next to a kind looking gentleman as air hostesses waved indiscernible plane paraphernalia around. I’d missed both takeoff and meal time by the time I awoke hours later, having unknowingly nestled my head into the kind gentleman’s shoulder. Since then, I almost immediately fall asleep after stowing my carry-on away, kicking my boots off and buckling my seatbelt, no matter the flight duration. I used to fear takeoff and now I never get to see it.
My legs convulse with anticipation. The plane taxied to a halt a good while ago but the seatbelt sign is still on. It’s March 15 and -19 degrees out. I’m eager to fall into my old habits again, to prove to myself and to any onlooker that even though I left, I am still very much from here and know my way around.
I’m in Montreal for 3 weeks but already filled with preemptive nostalgia and heartbreak. I left because I wanted to and it was time. I’d never been here on my terms, and never left on my terms. My decision to move was polarizing. Applause or disbelief - rarely anything in between. Canadian friends envisioned a postcard life for me. Palm trees, coconut water, balmy afternoon swims. Conversely, family and friends in Mauritius couldn’t understand why I’d want to leave a cushy job in a first world country to return to a nation of sparse opportunities. How could I intentionally leave a place so many spend years of red tape trying to move to?
Truth is, there’s nuance missing. No one prepares you for the downsides of living in North America. They tell you about the cold, but no one talks about how it penetrates even 3 layers of fabric, how your frosted fingers become increasingly sensitive over time, how your lips numb and tear. They tell you about the grade A education you’ll receive but no one tells you how hard it’ll be to adjust to being allowed a mind of your own. They talk about the jobs you’ll find but no one tells about the parts of you you’ll have to forgo to do them. No one teaches you the racial pecking order. No one talks about how lonely you’ll be without your cousins to nag you, your mom to scold you, your best friend to watch Family Guy over the phone with. No one tells you neighbors don’t talk to each other here. Nobody teaches you how to order coffee at Starbucks. No one tells you’re expected to like Radiohead.
On the other hand, foreigners are generally oblivious to the reality of life in underdeveloped island nations like Mauritius. Behind the sandy beaches, there’s corruption out the wazoo and democratic backsliding. On the other side of the pristine waters, there’s neocolonial residue. There are international corporations setting up shop to make the most of cheap labor. There are entire social classes who act like you don’t exist. There are industries built to pander exclusively to foreign investors. The working class is sure as hell not lazing in the sun all day. There is no such thing as bus schedules. Customer service is a bit of an afterthought. If you’re a woman, don’t even think about going out for a stroll after sundown. I guess it’s easier to be Brown in Mauritius but holy hell is it a drag to be a woman. And that’s the trade-off really. Is there anywhere I can be all of me safely?
Once out of the plane, I stand in line at customs for what feels like days. My right leg works itself up into a cramp. I distract myself by appraising the people around me. I make out a number of Nordic accents, Spanish, German maybe. A lot of French French and multiple shades of joual that melt my insides. I spot an attractive straight couple standing two rows ahead of me. They sport bleached blond locks and crisp Patagonia jackets. I’ve always been somewhat jealous of people who could withstand the Québécois cold with thinner layers. Like that was somehow a testament to how much they belonged, how very acclimated they were. If you require thick knits and a tuque, especially if your skin is Brown, you’re less likely to be from here. The good-looking immigration officer greets me with a curt Bonjour, Hi. I feel my heart twitch. Home is in the small things. She flips through my passport absentmindedly, searches my gaze for something unpatriotic, glances over my declaration card and asks me the purpose of my stay.
“Holidays”.
It feels weird to be here on holiday. It’s the first time in 15 years I’m here on holiday and not back here from a holiday. She opens a random page, stamps my passport with the smallest hint of a smirk etched across her face.
“Welcome home.”
My throat tightens.
I walk to the ticketing booth and take my Opus card out from the front pocket of my backpack. I kept it there the whole time I was away. I’ve done the math and getting the weekly pass three times is the most cost-effective transit option for my stay. I know better than to buy the $10 fare that’ll only get me to the city centre once. After refilling my Opus card, I head to the nearest ATM to withdraw money from my CAD account. I haven’t used this account in months now. I’m calculating my every move. I tell myself I look like a local, because I am. I want to feel that I belong. Like the place that I call home recognizes me as one of its own. Yet, I know something in my gait betrays me. I’ve been living under the tropical sun for half a year and the warmth in my skin gives it away. I hope that to the external eye, I still pass as a local. I am a local. I could still give any passerby the low-down on the hip and happening in the city. I’m in my Aritzia coat, my Little Burgundy scarf with my camo Herschel backpack slung over one shoulder. My underwear is from The Bay. I ooze Canadian.
I head to the airport dep to buy myself a pack of Belmonts. I quit years ago but these are hard to pass up. Smoking in the dead of winter just makes sense to me. It gives you something to focus on while the rest of your body loses feeling. I get carded by the cashier and fumble with my change. Rupees and dollars commingle in my wallet. I also grab a pack of Dentyne gum. The teal one, spearmint. A bottle of Fiji water. Anything to acclimate faster. At the bus stop, I wait for the 747 and light my first Belmont. An icy film of gel rapidly forms around my face. There’s heat exuding from my fingertips and toes. Someone at the stop tells me the bus left five minutes ago and so I call an Uber. I haven’t used apps like these in months and almost forgot they existed. Ahmed is 3 minutes away. That’s just enough time to finish my cigarette and for the spring air to chill me to the bone. I ran away from this weather and now it carries the warmth of familiarity. It snuggles me.
Ahmed steps out of his car and lifts my suitcase with an overly brisk move which tells me he expected something heavier. He’s pleasant and starts making small talk. I don’t mind it. I’m back home and I’ll take all the fixings. He asked me about where I’m from, says I have some French in my accent. I tell him I’m from here. He doesn’t ask me where I’m really from. He asks me why I left and I look out the window and vaguely motion to the piles of ploughed snow furnishing the sides of the highway.
“This, this is why I left.”
He laughs a big belly laugh and mid-chortle, tells me about moving here from Lebanon thirty years ago. That Canada has been extra good to him and his. Uber is just something he does on the side for a little extra coin. Yesterday I bathed in the Indian Ocean with a boy I like who likes me back. The sun scalded my shoulders and the saltwater frizzed my hair into knots. This afternoon on the opposite end of the world, the sky, the earth and the air, all of it is grey. I don’t mind it. I stocked up on warmth. Being here is the warmth.