Montreal, Montreal

On an early November night of this year,  I ended up in a graffiti-concealed Japanese scotch bar on boulevard St. Laurent. It was with a great-looking crew of five perfectly comprised of youth and experience. We drank the night away that Thursday, and two nights later ended up again at the same secretive establishment.

Sinatra played frequently throughout both nights at the small, dimly-lit Montreal establishment where likely many an important dialogue had been delivered. As he made another appearance and another round of Canadian Club was poured, the Six Degrees of Separation theory was revealed; for within our group, one character had actually dined with Frank in Chicago some decades prior.

Frank had a few hits--I Love Paris and New York, New York to name a couple--and provided the backdrop to a night I couldn't have possibly imagined taking place when I first moved to the city at age 20.

That the night had taken place on boulevard St. Laurent, the central Montreal artery that serves as the unofficial divide between English and French parts of the city, made it all the more fitting.

I've gone to that Japanese scotch bar a few times over the years. It serves as my go-to for a visiting friend or family member. It's well-known but well-hidden, set amongst shops and night clubs. Its distinguishing feature is a door with a lone graffiti marking. Open the door, climb a set of stairs, walk through a narrow hallway, and you're in a place whose ambiance is that of a 1920's establishment…dimly lit, scotch hanging from the ceiling, narrow tables, and bowtie-clad bartenders.

A trip to this bar is my way of telling people that Montreal is my city.

Salim's city.

I love it here. Much of the time with school and working lots, I forget how at home I feel here. For most of December, I have been unemployed and school-less. And thanks to that good fortune, I've rediscovered a city that became my first home-away-from-home and is now my real home. 

My days have consisted of smoked meat sandwiches at Charcuterie, poutine, visits to the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, and strolling the old Montreal Forum. My nights have been filled with Chambly, Heineken, karaoke, and friends.

It's been an awful lot of fun living here. When people back home ask me what I like most about living in this city (which, for me, is the best in the world to be a young person), I always reply that the best thing is not knowing how my day will turn out. 

Until today, I was riding a streak of nine straight days where I'd walk out of my apartment and randomly run into a friend. 


The city's culture is hard to describe. The only time I visited here as a tourist was when I was 13 and had only seen Quebec from textbooks and newspaper columns. The French and English is what people immediately connect to. But it's a lot more than that.

It's Expos Nation and Habs Nation and Trudeau Mania and mansions on rue Sherbrooke.

It's a city where walking into a bar and saying, "Tim Raines deserves to be in the Hall of Fame," will earn you a free beer. It's a city whose dormant baseball team rouses more emotion than most cities' existing franchises (ask us JMSM 15 folk for more on that).

It's a city that has produced prime ministers and executives and artists. It's a city where CEGEPs exist whose names include Champlain and Marionopolis. Where Trudeaus walked the halls of Breboef, and Anthopouloses learned the trade of sports management by sorting fan mail at the Big O.

It's a city where Youppi is the only guy in town with more facial hair than I have.

It's where centuries-old buildings sit untouched as modern office buildings tower over.

It's Just For Laughs and Jazz Fest and Francopholies.

It's rue St. Catherines having strip clubs situated right next to 19th century churches. 

It's where house parties always include hour-long, Kronenburg-fueled chats in French. 

It's New York a seven-hour bus ride, Toronto a five-hour ride share, and Paris a $600 roundtrip flight away.

It's been over two years now, and I have more friends here than I do in Edmonton. I appreciate the life here. Friends here have remarked at how 'quickly' I live here. I think that is because I don't take this city for granted. It's probably similar to my friends in Alberta who came to Edmonton from smaller towns. When you move somewhere different, your motivation to take advantage of opportunities is huge.

At a certain point, your personality forms around your environment. I think that's happened with me and this city. I wasn't the most confident or outgoing lad before I moved here. Nor did I like museums or find cultural events appealing. A couple years later, and I don't think there's a situation I'm uncomfortable in, just because I experience so much on a daily basis. I like my life to be fast-paced, energetic, and unpredictable. That fits in pretty perfectly with a city of 170 000 students, great nightlife, a metro system, and thousands of different ways of thinking.

It's been a rollercoaster and there certainly have been plenty of trying times. I'm completely isolated from family here, which can get hard at times. Sometimes you crave friends you've known for 20+ years.

Is life here perfect? Absolutely not. Everything, absolutely everything, is different, in Quebec. The healthcare, social systems, lack of infrastructure, earning potential, taxes.

Is life in Alberta great? In many ways, it really is. It's easy and simple and, in conventional terms, a 'safer bet.' We have an NDP government and are multicultural and are overall an optimistic and outgoing people.

Right now, I'm all-in with Montreal. I want to be a part of this city for a long time and be a part of what makes it great.

That initial November scotch-fueled night was born out of an offhand comment I'd made in the lobby of the Chateau Champlain Marriott hotel. A friend had come from Los Angeles a day earlier than anticipated, and we'd just spent the past hour chatting in a conference room. Catching up on life. The last time I'd seen him was in Ottawa eleven months prior. One hour rolled into two, before hotel staff asked us to leave.

In the lobby, I jokingly suggested we head to the Japanese scotch bar.

"Let's go," he said. "First round's on me."

Montreal.

A Paris homecoming well earned

There was an Edmonton lad named Salim who once embarked on a journey; the first one-way plane ticket he'd ever purchased. It was $417.25, a relative bargain for a 7 300 kilometer trek. Anxiously awaiting the date of September 22, 2013, he surveyed everyone he knew and asked them the same question:

Should I do this?

The penultimate morning in Calgary--in the midst of another vomiting session at the airport--his father told him once more, "You don't have to do this if you don't want to."

The story had to be written, and it was.

Two years later, the script was a bit different. I was headed back, well, home.  Paris wasn't this
abstract idea of fear and anxiety, it was a place where I was perhaps the most comfortable in the world in.

Home. To Paris. A city I lived in. For 225 days.

The anticipation was of a kid on Christmas Eve…to walk those streets again, see those buildings and breathe that smoggy, smoke-filled air. To take the Transilien from St Lazare back to Conflans Sainte Honorine, the town in the northwest banlieus that I actually lived in. To see the gates of Lycée Jules Ferry, where I once was an English Language Assistant.

Going back home had always been on my mind, in a fairy-tale sort of way. I'd post a Facebook status about it every now and then, but it was more of a pipe dream than a reality. As I passed a summer in Edmonton and hopped off back to Montreal, I began checking flight prices weekly…then almost daily. I'd mention the idea to my parents and a friend or two.

And then the summer unfolded, another summer in Edmonton, and for a variety of career-related reasons, it just made sense (mainly me not wanting to spend more than 10 per cent of my savings on a trip).

The flight was booked. For 10 days, I would be back in Paris. Nearly two years after I left. Not a long time in the grand scheme of things, but it had been on my mind so much that it may as well have been two decades.

I've said it to a lot of people, but one of the reasons I loved Paris so much was the friend group I had…I've never been more close with friends then I was with that family.

So what better way to honour those guys then to go to the Great Canadian Pub on my first night back?

I arrived at de Gaulle on the morning of September 4 and hopped on the RER bound for central Paris. My Air BnB was in the city's 19th arrondisement. At Gare du Nord I boarded the metro 5, and got off at Ourcq. A 30-second walk later, I was at home.

173 avenue Jean Jaurès. 

That night I made plans with my previous WAN-IFRA manager to meet at the Royal Beaubourg, a café across the street from my old office in le Maurais. We had a few drinks with some colleagues before my manager's god-daughter and I went to the Great Canadian for a pint. Jet-lagged and drunk, I got home around 1 am.

The next handful of days consisted of much the same adventures I had as a 21-year old. Strolls along the Seine, café crêmes every morning, cigarettes, small talk with strangers that turned into something more…

Did I mention how great it felt to be back home?

One of the highlights was seeing Camille, a part of that original gang of Parisiens circa 2013. Being from Manchester, she actually stuck around after we had all departed. Seeing her brought back a flood of great stories. We met twice; once we walked the streets and made our way through the metros to Trocadèro. The second time we met was on a Saturday night, the last night I was in the city. Naturally, we went to the Great Canadian and took the familiar walk from Quai des Grands Augustins to Chatalet.

Another great story was the rush of traveling. One night, I decided to head towards Jardins des Luxembourg when I happened on a bar--opened in 1791 no less--called Au Petit Suisse. After making small talk with the gentleman next to me--a man named Lauri in his early 30's from Estonia--we took a 25-minute walk to Le Select, a bar near Montparnasse that was frequented by Hemmingway in its heyday (or should I say, Hemmingwayday).

One afternoon I ventured to République to see a demonstration planned to support migrants and pressure Hollande's socialist government to allow more refugees. There, again, was lots of great conversation and living in the moment. 

Towards the latter stages of our Parisien adventure, the family and I found a hole-in-the-wall bar called Convival. It was on rue Budapest beside St. Lazare. The bar, which no longer exists now, was owned by a great guy named Christian. We all got to know him, and loved hanging with him. I got in touch with him and we met up at a phenomenal jazz club in the Latin Quarter. We drank, danced, smoked, drank, and danced some more. The club was called Caveau de la Huchette and opened in 1946. Thanks to Christian, we got in without line and cover. We danced till well into the morning, before Christian and I bid à bientôt. He sped off in his motorbike, and I took the last train home (a familiar narrative from two years earlier).

All of that didn't compare to Conflans Sainte Honorine and Lycée Jules Ferry though.

I had remained in touch with a couple of teachers and some students and had plans to meet up with them. And it all came flooding back…teaching in salle 242, the nerves of lecturing to a group of 12 high schoolers, the relationships with students, seeing them in the small town. I hopped off the transilien and was actually home. Seeing the bartender at Le Bouqet who called me his petit cousin canadien, avenue Marechal Foche, and of course Lycée Jules Ferry.

7 rue Buoysell. To this day I love telling people I taught at a high school in suburban Paris, and lived in the school.

I went back to Conflans Sainte Honorine three times…it was well worth the 45-minute train ride. I saw most of the teachers I taught with, the courtyard, and the town's beautiful docks.



Conflans felt natural. Myself and another teacher had dinner at the house of another teacher one night, trading stories and catching up. The two teachers had really helped me get adjusted when I arrived in France back on September 23, 2013. One had picked me up from the airport, while the other welcomed me to his home with a great traditional French meal. It was the perfect first day for a petrified 21-year old Salim. To have dinner with them again--to have returned to Conflans on my own volition--felt so, so right.

I even got to teach two English courses, which I really appreciated. It can't be said enough how enjoyable it was. 

One of the teachers and I met for drinks at Le Bouqet the following day. I then went to the apartment of my friend JP, who lived beside the lycée. I had to see him, for he'd been extremely generous and helpful during my year in France. He invited me up, and we had a few beers before I headed back to Paris.

The final time I went back to Conflans was yet another surreal experience; to see some former students. As a teacher, I had some students who I just had a great rapport with. Not everyone was enthusiastic about speaking English, but most at least faked like they cared. There were a handful that made extra efforts though, and our relationship morphed into a friendship. I'd see them around town, they'd introduce me to their parents, we'd address each other as tu.

The second-last day I was in France, I ventured back to Conflans and actually had dinner at the house of one of those students. And guess what……HIS PARENTS HAD ACTUALLY BEEN TO EDMONTON!

My heart tripled in size after that revelation. That evening reminded me of how fortunate I am to have undertaken the great adventure.

Teaching English at Lycée Jules Ferry was the most intrinsically rewarding thing I've ever done. And I miss it. 

I loved chatting with students when I was their English Language Assistant, and that we were having dinner together two years later. Wow. Just plain crazy.

When I got to Paris initially, I had no friends in the city. Two years later, I had 12 million amis.

Home felt great. Two years later, I've still spent more days in Paris than I have in Edmonton. It was and will forever be a place I'm in a completely different level of comfort in.

I was reminded of lots while I was there…the nervousness, the disgusting smell of some metro stations, the frustration of navigating chatalet, the feeling of quickly gulping a beer to make the last train…the magic of the city too.

The second time I ever took the RATP (Paris metro), I got lost in a town called Bréval, a good two hours from Conflans. It was approaching 11pm and I was fully prepared to sleep outside (I was less than 10 days removed from Edmonton at this point) before two extremely nice men named Michel and Jean helped me navigate the trains home.

A similar situation occurred this time around. In Conflans one night, the STM had stopped running at around 10pm, meaning I had a similar decision to make…take an expensive cab to Paris and grab a metro, or potentially wander around Conflans until the first train at 5:30am (an idea I wasn't overly opposed to. The town wasn't nearly as unsafe as Paris, and it was still relatively warm outside). I was talking to a stranger who was also in the same predicament (though going the other direction, towards Poissy). He needed a train as badly as I did. It was almost midnight and we were both frustrated.

The man, probably around 50 years of age and someone I'd never met before, offered me his couch. I couldn't believe it and thanked him profusely. He apologized, saying it may not be enough, but at least it was something.

Wow.

The bus came, and I said au revoir to him. Kindness. A universal language apparently, in a region often classified as being the opposite.

I got back to Paris at around 1am, following a LONG bus ride and trek on the RER. I then took a 10 Euro cab ride back home to avenue Jean Jaurés. Safe and sound.

Some things really don't change.

Others do. Walking around Conflans and seeing the old Creamhouse that I used to frequent (and often run into students). New management meant it was completely different on the inside. The owner was an extremely nice man who had actually just moved to Canada.

In Paris, there were similar observations…bars that had long decayed, streets that looked unoccupied compared to their bygone bustle. Some things remained…throngs of tourists, the magic of Eiffy, the solitude of the Canal St. Martin, République and her quiet gaze.
In that sense, I'm real pleased with the trip. I made it a point of going to old spots…the Great Canadian, Le Bouqet, the patisserie at Place Bernard Lazare (the best palmières in Paris). There were also a ton of new places…dinner with my students in Conflans, another great meal with two teaching colleagues, and venturing to Au Petit Suisse and Le Select with my Estonian mate.

And of course, Caveau de la Huchette with Christian.

The sense being back was that I was exactly where I needed to be. The trip felt like a dream I was content being in. When I got back home, my mom and I talked, where she boldly predicted that I'd end up in Paris on a more permanent basis. 

 It wasn't the first such thought ante'd up by someone close to me.

That Saturday night, 12 hours before I was to hop on a flight back to Trudeau and the Montréal life, I was smoking a cigarette with Camille at the Great Canadian. I had a beer in my hand and was slowly looking around, surveying the buildings and breathing in the nostalgia and the moment.

Just don't get on the plane, she said.

À la prochaine.

  

First TV contract…being paid to go to school

In my life, I've had 33 jobs (though that could swell to 40 by the time you finish reading this article).

I have dressed as a mascot, sold credit cards, taught English to high schoolers, and made calamari. Did you get married in Edmonton in the summer of 2012? Chances are, I bartended your wedding.

The 33rd was the charm. It was at CITY TV Edmonton. It was at home. In downtown. Reporting. Editing. Interviewing. Writing.

It was my first real TV contract, and it could not have possibly gone better. This summer felt like a scholarship…I was being paid to go to school.

How things came together was bizarre, which is a theme I don't really mind for my life right now. I was in Montréal in April, finishing up the semester and preparing for my only two final exams (biology and microeconomics; yes, in fact I do study journalism!).

I had no idea where I was going to be in the summer. Eight months away from home had left me pretty homesick. And my sister was getting married too. My heart was set on returning to Edmonton, in any capacity. I had worked a government job the previous summer and figured that if all else failed, I could go back to Canada Place.

Even though I was set on returning home, I'd applied to several positions all over the place. In the end, I had a few interviews. The two that went to the second interview, we're-serious-about-having-you stage were the New York Rangers and Sportsnet. 

Meanwhile, I received an email that a producer was looking for three reporters; two in Calgary and one in Edmonton. The series was called Alberta Roots, and would air nationally on the OMNI TV network. The episodes would be about cultural diversity and contributions of immigrants to Alberta. It sounded interesting, and far enough away from sports that I wanted to give it a shot.

I figured that instead of waiting on Sportsnet and the Rangers, I'd go all in on the Edmonton opportunity, all the while knowing I had to memorize supply and demand and the function of aortic pumps. My first step was to get together a demo reel; something that the producer could see of me and say, "That guy's aortic pumps belong in my series."

I went to Concordia's Loyola campus and, using Apple Final Cut Pro, cobbled together a demo reel of my work in the Journalism 221 class I'd just completed. Everything in that three minute reel was from school assignments. Some of them, I'd gotten A's in. Others were C's. I didn't want to invest hours putting a demo reel together (knowing it would account for 1/5 of my application package), so everything went in. I added a few transitions, and it was done.

I then sent my cover letter, resume, demo reel, and a couple of video features I'd submitted to the Sportsnet Recruited competition. Life continued, as I was studying economics and biology. I also began packing my things, knowing that summer would likely not be spent in Montréal.

A few days later (around April 23), I got an email from the producer. She wanted to chat! I quickly called her, and we talked for about an hour. I figured that, if she had me on the phone for that long, an offer was bound to come (either by the end of the call or the next morning). Sure enough, at the end of the conversation, an offer was made. She sent me the contract, and said I had two days to decide.

I sat, thinking for a few minutes. My cousins called from home, and we talked. I told my aunt and uncle about the big conversation that had literally just taken place. I then called my best friend back home.

While I was excited, I was also extremely overwhelmed. The producer talked about scripts…I'd never learned what a script was. She used code words and spoke about jump cuts and establishing shots. It seemed like I was in high school chemistry class at JP all over again. I called my mom, but she didn't pick up. I then posted a Facebook status and went out with some friends to Montréal's Latin Quarter.

The next morning, I was at Loyola and my mom called. I told her I was going to turn it down. My stomach was grumbling, I was extremely stressed, and didn't feel like being in over my head. She gently tried to persuade me (to no avail), and got her brother to call me. His tone was a bit more harsh. I explained what the job was, the salary, and how nervous I was. The only question he asked was if I would have to delay my degree by accepting it. The contract expired at the end of July, so no. He said to take it and book a one-way flight back to Edmonton as soon as I could. 

The flight was booked for April 28.

I then had two final exams to write, an apartment to sublease, a life to pack up, and friends to bid à la prochaine to, all in the span of four days. Somehow, it all worked out. I found someone to pick up my lease, passed both exams, and had a couple of great nights with awesome people.

On to Alberta…

I got to Edmonton at midnight, and took the next day off. The following day, I went to the CITY TV studio on 103 st and Jasper Ave, and got a tour of what would be my summer home. The station had just undergone a massive re-branding, with its flagship Breakfast TV being replaced with Dinner TV. I saw the edit suites, design studios, the celebrity kitchen, master control, the green room, and the studio itself.


My first shoots weren't for another two weeks, so I spent that time getting familiar with the studio and people. On that first day, one of the producers and I were talking. He said something that amounted to, "This isn't amateur hour. Have a high standard for yourself. Don't be late, show up ready, and act like you belong here."

Clad in a dress shirt and sweater, I took his words to heart. From then on out, it would be blazers and ties. Say who you are without saying a word, right? I also made sure to make small talk with every single person I met. A "good morning" or "want to grab a coffee" was the standard. If I was invited to do anything, I'd always say yes.

As badly as I wanted not to get fired (I was technically employed by the producer, not Rogers), I also wanted to make new friends. In that sense, I loved being at CITY TV. I met so many awesome people. We went for lunches, saw bands, and had crazy nights on Jasper Ave. I would have lived at the studio if I were allowed.

The shoots came and they went; 14 in all. We filmed at Street Performers, we filmed at mosques. We filmed at K Days, we filmed at soccer games. We filmed in Tofield, Devon, St. Albert, and Spruce Grove.

The contract ended on July 25. At one point, it became clear that there would be a need for another editor to package the series. I had casually mentioned interest to both my producer and CITY Edmonton's content manager; that I'd worked extensively with Apple Final Cut (as anyone at Concordia could attest) and was extremely eager to remain involved. From a business standpoint, it made sense that the show packager was someone intimately involved with the project and knew the producer very well. So hiring me was the logical course of action.

When the contract ended on the 25th, the manager approached me with an offer. I'd be working for Rogers as a freelancer. He threw out a dollar figure that equated to a nice raise from what I was making as a reporter. No need to negotiate; it was a quick and easy "I'll take it!" Truthfully, I was more excited about going to the studio for two more weeks than the actual editing.

What was initially a three month reporting contract grew into editing and show packaging, along with a new boss, title, and office. As an editor, the biggest change was that I was seeing my own reporting from the lenses of someone who had to cut the video. I saw where I was screwing up as a reporter, and what I was good at. I also saw the errors in my scripts, and how I had mis-timed and been too vague when writing them.

With Alberta Roots finally shot, written, edited, and fed, here's what professor Dr. Salim Valji--elbow patches, tweed jacket, beret, beard, and all--will be teaching his journalism students one day about what he learned on his first TV contract…

--Sometimes you have to ditch "please" and "thank you." In a shoot that's happening real-time, "may you please get a shot of ___," doesn't cut it. "I need __," and, "Get that ___," are better. People won't think you're a jerk for not using please and thank you.

--Bible rule. Follow it in any nightlife setting. 

--Invest in relationships. Hang out with coworkers. If you don't drink, have a pint of H20. You learn a lot through casual conversation. People gain an insight into who you are and the type of person you are. Plus, making new friends is fun.

--Shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot, and shoot. This was my biggest weakness as a reporter. You can never have enough B Roll. 300 seconds of a woman dancing is COMPLETELY different than 60 five-second shots of different groups dancing. Both time out the same, but one is FAR more useful than the other.

--Ask, ask ask! Two weeks into the contract, the Edmonton Oilers were holding a press conference to announce Todd McLellan as their new head coach. That morning, I asked the content manager if I could accompany the Dinner Television crew to the conference, which was being held at the Hotel MacDonald a few blocks away. I emphasized that I'd be completely professional. Even though I was wearing a dress shirt and jacket, I had brought a suit, just in case he thought I was dressed too casual. 

After a few suspenseful minutes (mostly him calling the crew and asking what time they'd be headed to the hotel), I got the green light. I awkwardly but proudly carried that tripod four blocks to the hotel, and attended my first National Hockey League press conference. It was surreal.

--Dress well. People notice.

--Plan out the shoot with the cameraman. It's like in football; the quarterback and coach have to be on the same page. The cameraman should know as much about the story as you do. Everything from its length, to the general storyline, to potential interviews, etc. The drive to the shoot is an excellent time to hash out ideas and implement a gameplan.  I loved those rides to shoots.

--Force yourself to write scripts as soon as you see footage. Don't delay.

--Verbal = visual. Always. Don't write a voiceover for visuals that aren't there.

--Repeat 100 times, "Streeters are fun, exciting, and informative. I love them like Daryl Katz loves number one picks." If you repeat this often enough, you may eventually believe it.

--NEVER edit off the server; always edit off the hard drive!

--Understand the business side of the industry. Know numbers. 

--On that note, know the CRTC and how it affects your job and the industry as a whole. Where does funding come from?

Any questions, class?

Belting Oh Canada at an Irish pub in Barcelona

You cannot make this stuff up

Exactly a year ago today, I had the most Canadian moment of my life.

Think of a Tim Hortons beavertail, in the shape of a maple leaf, with the icing engraving a hockey stick. Then take a bite out of the treat, and belt out an "Oh yea eh." That was this moment.

And, funny enough, it took place in a Catalunyan city known more for Gaudi than going top shelf and where hockey is a foreign word.

I was living in Paris, was robbed a few weeks prior, and had two weeks of vacation. Naturally, I needed an adventure. I flew from Paris to Rome airport for four nights, then from Rome to Barcelona for three nights.



My time in Barcelona will be some of the craziest three nights of my life. This story is the first chapter in a series of events where I saw amazing architecture, went on a pub crawl/tapas tour, spent the night wandering the streets of Barcelona with--wait for it--a girl from Alberta, had an allergic reaction to nuts, overdosed on medication for said reaction, had extremely vivid hallucinations in the streets due to said overdose, and sleep-talked while freaking out my hostel mates.

I arrived at El-Prat in the afternoon, ready to explore the city. I was also conscious that it was, in fact, the gold medal ice hockey game at the Winter Olympics. Canada was playing Sweden.

That entire tournament was real memorable for a guy from an anonymous city like Edmonton. I saw the quarterfinal game between Canada and Finland at the Great Canadian Pub in Paris, watched Canada beat the United States at Scholars Irish Pub in Rome (while getting acquainted with a jaw-droppingly beautiful Montrealaise), and was in Barcelona for the gold medal game.

The weather was amazing, almost no need to wear a jacket. I got to my hostel, which was on ronda Universidad and very close to Plaza Catalunya. Then, off to find somewhere to watch the game.

I stumbled upon George Payne Irish pub, a good 15 minute walk from my hostel. Their sign on the outside was a signal; I had to go in.

Walking into bars/cafes, not knowing anyone, and making friends is something I've gotten adept at. The first table I saw was full of hosers rocking the Team Canada jerseys. I immediately asked them if I could join their group and watch the game. Being delightful True Northers, they immediately brought over another chair.

Again, how Canadian was this moment? These random people who I'd just sat with at this Irish pub in Barcelona were--wait for it--radio producers at the CBC! Sometimes you cannot make it up. Here I was, a journalist, drinking in Barcelona with producers for Canada's national broadcaster.

The game was surreal. Every intermission, we'd go out for cigarettes, while basking in the Barcelonan sunshine.

Canada-Sweden, gold medal game of Olympic ice hockey.


A moment that stands out was after the second goal. We had some lovely Swedish gals with us, playfully chirping and drinking along. Canada had scored (some lad named Crosby, I believe). Of course, the bar--chalk full of Canadians at this point--went nuts.

One of my new friends had his hand up. I thought it was for a high five, so I put down my beer and struck his hand. In fact, he had a beer in his hand, and wanted to toast. The beer spilled--wait for it--all over the Swedish gals. A champagne shower of sorts.

Canada won, and the bar went insane. It was as if someone had belted out, "Free maple syrup."


We all celebrated, there was a massive Canadian flag someone had brought. Then, as our co-patriots in Russia began singing our song, so did we. We linked arms, all 100+ of us, using what little voices we had left.

The anthem ended, and we all just savoured the glory of it all. A lot of people filtered out. I stuck around, talking to other Canadians about what brought them to Barcelona. Some were there on work, others lived here. Prior to arriving and while at El-Prat, I actually met a man from Edmonton who owned enterprises in Barcelona. The world can be a small, tight-knit place sometimes.

That afternoon will always be special to me. I've been to an awful lot of hockey games and curling rinks and towns with barns and outdoor rinks. And yet, thousands of miles from my home country, I'd never felt like more of a Canadian.


Canada is nowhere close to a perfect country, but that afternoon symbolized why we are still pretty darn good, eh!

A group of a hundred puck-talking, beer-gulping, fun-loving hosers singing Oh Canada in an Irish pub in Barcelona after we won gold in ice hockey.

As the cliché goes, sometimes you really cannot make this stuff up.

The Great Drunken Parisien Robbery

This weekend is an interesting anniversary of sorts; exactly 365 days ago, in the midst of a crazy Parisien adventure, I was robbed.

The crib notes version of the crazy tale is that I was out at La Défense, headed back into the city to the Great Canadian Pub around 11pm, made some new friends, ended up at a Scottish Pub just off Quai des Grands Augustins at about 4am (Paris doesn't have a true last call of sorts). Lots of beers and cigarettes were consumed in the various bars our group of eight had visited prior to the Scottish pub.

I went to the bathroom, and returned to find my jacket rifled through. Cell phone and wallet were both gone. Interestingly enough, my inhaler and Navigo (transport pass) were spared. 

To this day, I think it was the staff of the pub that pulled off the great heist. They weren't helpful after the incident, and seemed rushed to get our party out of the pub. 

That night ended with me waiting for the first train back to Conflans Sainte Honorine. After I realized what had happened, I was disheveled and not really 'there' mentally. One of my friends from that night was with me as the clock struck 5 am. We tried to get into a cafe (Pub St Michel if memory serves me correctly), but the bouncer deemed me too drunk and didn't allow us in.

I finally caught the train from Chatalet les Halles to Gare St Lazare, then to Argentueil where I waited for an hour before finally boarding the train. Last stop: Conflans Sainte Honorine.

In terms of feeling down and out, nothing compares to waking up from what seemed like a drunken stupor. I crashed the moment I got home (around 6:30 am), and slept for three hours before it began to hit me. I still couldn't believe what happened.

My night had literally started with the sentence, "Excusez-moi Monsieur, vous venez de Toronto?"

It ended with me out of a $400 smartphone, all my credit and debit cards, and in need of a major shower due to the lingering odor of cigarettes, beer, and sadness.

Sometimes life evens our experiences out and keeps us humble and our heads at just the right size.


Consider what had happened six nights before I was robbed…

My pal in Paris, Meech, is a big Seattle Seahawks fan, so the gang headed to the Great Canadian Pub to watch the NFC Championship game, which naturally was starting at an odd Parisien hour (midnight I believe). We watched it all, sharing great laughs, a few pitchers, and reveling in the fact that we were actually living in this fairy-tale of a city.

The game ended around 3 am. My friends all lived around the same banlieus of the city, while I was in the opposite end. They boarded their night bus together, leaving the Edmontonian to fend for himself.



I stumbled around the Notre Dame area, which I knew quite well. That quarter was where my office at WAN IFRA was. Us amis usually ended up at a cafe or bar in the Notre Dame-Chatalet-Maurais area.

At that moment, around 3 am, I had two choices…either walk to Gare St Lazare, which was in the 8th arrondisement, where I could catch the night bus back to Conflans. Or I could bumble around the city until the first train, at 5:30 am. After making small talk with some nice locals, I decided on stumbling around.

I remember walking on the platform in front of the Centre Pompidou. I was a bit inebriated, and was startled to feel rats crawling underneath my feet. I headed to my office on rue Beaubourg (a five minute walk from Pompy) and relax there for three hours. 

The night ended without a whimper; I slept in my office, then in my cozy Parisien suburb and called my parents later that day, recounting the legendary Parisien evening (except where the Seahawks won; I'm a Packers fan!)

Six days later, a night unfolded in a similar manner, but the phone call was drastically different.

"Hey, so you saw the Facebook status. I was out last night in the city and ended up getting robbed. I'm OK physically, but they grabbed my phone and wallet. I'll try and figure out what to do. Call me back. Love, Salim."

They called back, and I bawled like an Oilers fan. I said I was coming home, that I was finished with this experience, and that it was a real shitty situation.


Despite everything that happened that fateful night exactly a year ago, I'm not regretful of the situation. I look at it as a cost of doing business of my personality. I'm outgoing, will almost always say yes to a night out, and sometimes smoke and drink things from strangers without giving it a second thought.

I hate my life being predictable, and those traits tend to make certain that life will have some surprises. 

The biggest thing I wish hadn't happened were all the pictures on my phone that I'll never have. My dad had visited me over the Christmas holidays; we stayed in Paris for a few days before taking the ferry to London to visit family. I certainly miss those pictures of us strolling the European rues We have only one picture left to commemorate the visit.


Following the robbery, I had to wait a full 10 days before seeing my friends again (I had no phone, making it hard to meet up given we all lived in suburbs around the city).



Of course when we did finally meet up (on February 5, my dad's birthday), it was at our favourite pub, The Great Canadian. It was a pretty great Thursday night. We met at Chatalet, right by the Starbucks in front of the Pompidou, then crossed the bridge to our favourite pub. That narrative took place many a European night.

An normal night but a great night. Not seeing those guys for 10 straight days was harder than actually getting robbed. 

Three weeks later, I ventured to Roma and Barcelone, where I had perhaps the craziest three nights of my life. The robbery didn't dampen my personality or bottle me up in any way; it only made me a bit wiser about my surroundings.

Reflecting on it all a year later is neat. I thought about it quite a bit this weekend…the seven word sentence that started it all, the moment I realized I'd been robbed, being denied from entering a cafe, and the sheer despair that morning.

In an odd way, I think it's a privilege to have gotten robbed. I was an Edmontonian who was living in Paris for a year when he was frisked following a crazy night that began with new friends.



How many people get to write that sentence in their story?

While living in Paris, I had a semi-romantic thought of coming to Montreal to live again. That thought stuck with me and, through an awful lot of hard work, came to fruition.

Now that I'm here, I have that same thought to go back to Paris. 

It's cute to think about…returning wiser and matured, a café crême in one hand, a cigarette in the other, a Leffe to my left, a good friend to my right, and a beret on my head. Maybe take the transilien train from Gare St Lazare to Conflans Sainte Honorine and give another English class. Grab a croissant from the Creamhouse, take a stroll along the Seine.

Ça marche, mes étudiants?

Maybe I'll get robbed again when I return in Paris. It'd suck, sure, but it'd also be pretty great. 

The total value of my goods stolen was probably around $450. That would the the world's greatest bargain if it meant another crazy Parisien story.