Cher Paris…Dear Paris

Dear Paris,

This is Salim. Remember me? Think back to one year ago, September 22, 2013. You see that petrified, pale guy in the Calgary International Airport about to soil his Hockey Night in Canada boxers? Believe it or not, my skin actually used to be brown, but turned white due to the stress of moving to an entirely different continent. You caused me an awful lot of stress and worry in the weeks leading up to that fateful Sunday.

We had a pretty amazing time together, you and I. It started off rough, as things of that nature tend to do…no phone or internet meant that I couldn't talk to my family for a whole nine days. New language and city, no friends…it all was very confusing at the beginning.



The next day I arrived and was shepherded from l'aêroport Charles de Gaulle to Conflans Sainte Honorine, the small Parisien town I would call home. I made my way up the five flights of stairs to my apartment at Lycée Jules Ferry, dropped off my valises, and headed back downstairs to the house of a colleague, whose wife had graciously cooked me a traditional French meal, complete with fromage, baguettes, vin, and--of course--great conversation.

Nine days later, I was an English assistant at a high school in France…it still did not seem real. A day later, I got lost on the train tracks, only to have a stranger drive me a half hour to the next station. I had a lot of those moments, seeing the unexpected greatness of humanity in a city known to be cold and unwelcoming of others.

Not long after that, I met mes amis…the amazing friends I'd have for the next few months, passing countless hours having pints, taking strolls, and soaking in your beautiful scent.

We met on Nuit Blanche, and the first time we ever encountered each other, we hung out from 4pm to 6am, non-stop. We strolled through those famous Parisien landmarks in the middle of the night, unaware and uncaring of any dangers posed to us. We hopscotched vomit-laden metro stations, exhausted but fulfilled as we boarded the first trains to take us back to our Parisien outskirt towns.

The months went by and things changed, as they often do. I found an excellent journalism internship, made some more great friends, and got to see a different side of you: the side of a beret-clad journalist navigating la métro four times a week, sipping on café au laits and reading Le Parisien in the morning, and downing Kronenburgs and camels during evening Happy Hours at Leonards.

You taught me a thousand and one lessons, one of them being the strength of human relationships. Never have I had as strong relationships as I did during my time in Paris, be they with friends, coworkers, or students.  

I recall with great fondness the alcohol-induced sprints from The Great Canadian Pub to Chatalet metro station, running as fast as I could to catch that last 12:40am train from Gare St Lazare and not having to take the night bus.

The memories that preceded those enjoyable runs were pretty amazing too.

It's funny thinking about it all. I lived in Edmonton for 19 years, and not once did I get a free beer or shot from a bartender. In Paris, that happened all the time.

I got to call you my own. You were mine, Paris, and I was yours. It really was a great marriage.

For 225 days, my life was governed by one question: do I feel like licking the Eiffel Tower today? 

Conflans Sainte Honorine was an absolute joy to live in. Within my apartment (conveniently located at the high school where I taught), I could find the banks of the River Seine and an array of brasseries, markets, and bakeries to buy a quick treat, and take a romantic stroll. I miss running into my students in the town. 

Getting a chance to see my dad for a few days and showing him around chez moi was another amazing chapter in the book.

Because you were so close to so many other places, I got to visit your neighbours. That three night escapade in Barcelone will forever go down as the craziest trip of my life. I have never consumed as much Vodka as I did one night in Rome. London with my dad was real special, as was a quick trip to Amsterdam three weeks after I arrived in France. There was also horseback riding through the Icelandic mountains.

Those nights in Versailles, crashing on a friend's couch after overdosing on four Euro wine and magnificent fromage.



Sometimes, you weren't so kind to me. Remember when you robbed me at 4 a.m., or the time I was rushed to the hospital? What about those bouts of home-longingness that usually came on Sunday afternoons?

One of my favourite memories was the first time I saw my friends, 10 days after I had gotten robbed of my wallet and cellphone.

You had a way of imparting those harsh lessons, right when they were least expected and most needed. 

Like Sinatra once sang, "But now, as tears subside, I cannot help but find it all so amusing."

As I stood in that line in Roissy, I had no idea what to think. All I was driven by was the regret that

would encompass the rest of my life should I deny Paris the chance to have me. Fear and uncertainty were really the only emotions I knew that day.

I think that, if I could go back, I'd tell that version of Sali
m not to believe the hype. Don't buy into the school of thought that this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Go out there, have fun, take the city for granted, and leave it all out there.

Take a moment every now and then, step back, breathe deeply, exhale, and thank the powers that be that you are a Parisien.

That version of Salim was of the belief that he'd finish his time in Paris, and return to the same, culture-devoid city of Edmonton, and continue his studies at the same university as if no time had passed. He really didn't think that, on the one year anniversary of the biggest leap of faith of his life, he'd be back in his home of Montréal, attending a great university and staring at his first opportunity working directly with an NHL organisation.


I won't take a stab at predicting what will happen in the future, but I do know that I was desperate to return to Montreal, and was able to make that happen. I'm reaching that same level of intent with returning to Paris. I really want to lick the Eiffel Tower again.

Le Maurais, Montmartre, Champs Ellyés, Chatalet, Notre Dame, Le Petit Point, The Great Canadian Pub, Louvre, Convival, Le Bouqet, Creamhouse, Gare St Lazare, La Défense, rue Beaubourg, Versailles.

Living abroad comes with enormous challenges, the biggest of which is returning home. Paris and Montreal are now as much my home as Edmonton is.

It's amazing looking back on that time. I think I'm a completely different person, and have you to thank for it. I have you to thank for giving me the chance to return to Montreal. I have you to thank for helping orchestrate the greatest chapter in my life. I have you to thank for the countless amazing interactions with métro passengers, bartenders, baristas, musicians, and other Parisiens. And I have you to thank for an amazing cast of close friends, fellow teachers, students, journalist coworkers, and townspeople in Conflans Sainte Honorine.



My favourite view in Paris was in Montmartre. From a certain point, there is a perfect view of the
Eiffel Tower and Montparnasse. The contrast is incredible, looking at it from the hill. One considered the world's foremost architectural structure, the other widely viewed as Paris' ugliest building and a sore thumb in an otherwise perfectly sculpted city.

Je reviens chez moi bientôt. Toujours un Parisien,

Salim's roommate horror story

It's not even October yet, and already there are horror stories being bantered about. This one's from Salim, the guy who moves around a lot.

Heading back to Montreal for Phase Deux, I was certain that living with someone was something I wanted to experience. Both Montreal Phase Une and Paris Phase Une had been spent by myself, in decent apartments, but without the company of colocs (roommates).

It was great, being the Ruler of the Kingdom and not answering to anyone, but it did get lonesome at times. That and the romantic in me thinking that my new coloc(s) would be Joey, Ross, Chandler, Monica, Rachel, and Phoebe, and we'd all live happily ever after while drinking coffee.

I asked my Facebook friends about having roommates, and their responses were fairly similar…it is real fun to be around people your own age at home. 

It did not work out that way.

Living on the other side of the country during the summer meant that I had no choice but to use Craigslist and Kijiji to find a place. I was armed with my criteria (max $700/month rent, near a metro station, in Le Plateau neighborhood, coloc around my age), and found a place that, as the cliché goes, was too good to be true. An apartment in Le Plateau, a five minute walk from Mont-Royal metro, with a 23 year old Concordia student, for $450/month. 

Sign me up, eh!

I arrived to the apartment on August 27th. My roommate was still in Toronto, where he lives. Great, for the first couple of days, I get to see the place for myself and form my own opinion.

My first instinct was that it just wasn't a nice place at all. For starters, the design of the apartment was very odd…it was long and thin, with very little open space. The bedroom was terribly painted had loose floor panels (both were common throughout the apartment). The living room was tiny and right in front of the bathroom. The bathroom itself was very small, didn't have a mirror, and the pipes were leaking in the shower. I remember thinking that it was only a matter of times before Bed Bugs invaded us.

The kitchen was fairly open, but full of fruit flies, empty liquor bottles, and chairs that were assembled wrong. 

Still I wasn't fully convinced I had to move.

And then I saw the bong (for those unaware, a bong is an apparatus used to effectively and efficiently inhale marijuana).

That was enough for me to send some Facebook messages to friends back home. No one wants to live with a druggie and, while most of us have smoked pot at one point or another, having a bong in the living room implies that it's a very habitual activity.

I began looking for places, thinking that I may just be able to leave the apartment before even meeting the guy.

Meanwhile, I was sleeping on the couch, as my Ikea furniture had not arrived. In total, it was a full week that I went without sleeping on a mattress. Adventuring through Europe was a Taylor-Swift type lifestyle compared to this.

He came three days later, and I thought we were going to get to know each other and establish some house rules/guidelines, etc. Unfortunately for me, he came with four friends back home who were going to crash with us for the Labour Day weekend. Not the greatest first impression.

They were all alright guys, including him. We talked, went out one night on Boulevard Saint Laurent, and got along well enough. But him and his friends smoked (both pot and cigarettes) CONSTANTLY during that weekend. I mean, several times per hour they would do it. The house wreaked. But because his friends were there that weekend, I wasn't comfortable talking about it. It seemed like the relationship started off on a horrible foundation.

His friends eventually left after a couple of days, but not before they dirtied up the apartment with cigarette butts and smoke, and just bringing junk in.

The roommate and I talked about the smoking and he said he'd limit it to the outdoors (which, to his credit, he did). 

At that point, I had cancelled my Ikea delivery, thinking it was only a matter of time before I moved. But I still hadn't found a place I wanted to live in, so instead I found a company that rented furniture.

I was still sleeping on wood floors, and the roommate and I got to know each other over a few days. While he was a nice enough guy, I knew I probably wouldn't be friends with him if I met him in the streets. His body was fairly tattooed up (not that it's a problem with me), he smoked weed CONSTANTLY (several times an hour), and he swore every other word ("I have to shop for some f#$% groceries"). We hung out a few times and watched some movies, but those habits, combined with his awful first impression, meant that the relationship wasn't starting off on the right foot.  

Still, I wasn't very vigorous in my search for a new place. My parents were constantly phoning me, begging me to move out.

The kicker for me was two-fold…firstly, when his drug dealer entered the house to deliver the weed, and secondly, when my coloc told me stories of him doing cocaine, ecstasy, and MDMA (all sold to him by the same bulky, tattooed Lebanese fellow who had entered our house).

At that point, I knew I had to get out, and fast. Still, I was stalling. Moving all your stuff from one place to another is a pain in the ass. No other way of putting it. And a part of me figured that I could make it work in a fruit-fly laden, smoke-filled, horribly painted apartment. We all have that Garbage Apartment during university, I figured that the place could be my Garbage Apartment that I looked back on with fond memories.


Then I got a phone call from my parents, with them basically threatening to fly across the country unless I moved out within a couple of days (they called on Sunday, so I had until Tuesday to move). Yikes.

I aggressively looked, and found a couple of studios and a furnished three bedroom apartment in a student-exclusive building. I decided on living with other students. It was the right call. I had paid rent at the other place, which meant I could gradually move my stuff out.

I then told the coloc that I was leaving. He was baked when I mentioned it, which was lucky for me.

I learned a lot from that whole episode, and have my parents to thank for much of it, even though they were a few thousand miles away. Parents can do many things: teach us how to shoot a hockey puck, buy us school supplies, and kick us in the butt. I needed a swift kick in the rear, and am now in a much nicer, cleaner, more comfortable living situation. Thank you, mom and dad!

I also learned that money is just money when it comes to comfort, safety, and living properly. If the police went into that apartment, they could easily come away with hundreds of dollars worth of illegal drugs. My roommate was an alright guy, but nothing would have stopped him from throwing it all into my room and blaming me, should that situation have arisen.

Money's hard not to think about, but it's just that: paper and plastic.

My new place was a bit more in rent, but very much in the heart of downtown, and just a 10 minute metro ride from Le Plateau, my favourite part of Montréal. I'm right beside McGill University, have a gym and games room in my building, and am in a very nice apartment.

I came out here to go to a university I am proud of, and now have an home I am proud of. And yes, there is a couch waiting if any friends want to come by!

À bientôt (et avec plus des histoires),

Homesick to Hopeful…a Sunday column!

In my hometown of Edmonton, Canada lies a stretch of road, probably no more than four km long.

It takes about an hour to bike on this path, which stretches from my house (92nd ave, 146a street) to 87 ave, in the university area. I call this stretch Family Way, since during that hour-long journey, there are five houses that I can pop into unannounced to see family, put my feet up, and be coaxed into having a nice, home-cooked meal.

In those five houses are two aunts, two uncles, two grandparents, seven cousins, my best friend (who I've known since I was born, so basically a brother), and my dad.

How lucky am I to have that many people within such a short distance?

I can't say how awesome it was to just be able to stroll in and see family whenever I felt like it.

Family Way is probably the biggest thing I miss about Edmonton.

Maybe one day my house will be the focal point of a Family Way.

Maybe in Edmonton, that address will be 342 Ormsby Road East. Maybe in Montreal, it will be 4467 ave Laval. Maybe in Paris, it will be 7 rue Buoysell.


On Montreal…

It's definitely the same city I remember it to be, both in positive and not-so-positive ways. There certainly is much more money to be had out west. But the people and quality of culture here is second to none. Last summer, I lived in the McGill Ghetto, around the prestigious university. It was a great area, but didn't have much of the French culture. This time around, I'm in The Plateau, a neighborhood with downtown Paris on one side, and a quaint French town on the other. It's probably my favourite part of the city. I'm excited to get reacquainted with the city. In Paris, I had some of the strongest relationships with people I've ever experienced (which made returning to Edmonton a truly challenging ordeal); I hope to find that again in Montreal.

That being said, the first two weeks of any move are challenging. Last summer, my friends here were all from Alberta. I didn't have a ton of Quebecois pals. Right now, I'm finding out that social interaction can be at a premium when you don't know too many people in a city (a similar lesson I learned in Paris).


On Concordia…

My professors follow me on Twitter, so I'll start with the positive! I'm relieved I came here. The

school is completely different than my previous university. Much higher standards for everything (admissions, deadlines, attendance policy), lots of infrastructure (own journalism building, TV and radio studios, media labs), and professors with diverse backgrounds (covering Parliament for the Canadian Press, hosting a radio show on TSN). The entire campus has a different feeling…there's a football stadium, hockey arena, lots of green space, a quad. It's a big league school in every single way. I have classmates from Portugal, New Orleans, Strasbourg, Montreal, Vancouver…really fun to be in that environment.

Compared to the other university, Concordia just does different things…the department head addressing all first year students on the first day of classes, every journalism student being issued a press pass to cover events around Montreal…things that established programs do. For the first time since high school, I'm proud of the school that I go to, and can't wait to tell people about it. It's gonna be a great three years here.


Quelques Autres Trucs…

Living here again has reaffirmed to me that having a family in Alberta is probably the way to go. I've learned a few things from moving around so much…you can never really rush "getting settled in", since that process has its own timeline. Spending money to make a place feel more homey is never a bad investment. There really is no price for true comfort. I don't think I've ever worked as hard for something as I did for getting into Concordia…getting rushed to the hospital the night before my English exam in Lyon, mailing documents from another continent, dealing with administration…it was a real challenge.

I've had a lot of firsts in Montreal and, as of this morning, can add another to that list: first time being stood up by a lady.

On that note, in lieu of a Rolling Stones song that normally follows my beautiful prose, I recommend watching the alternate ending to How I Met Your Mother. It really does Ted Moseby and his epic story some justice, and invokes "the feels."

À bientôt!