Random Ramblings

When I arrived at the sleepy metro station of De La Savane today, which I take every day because it's right near my house, there were three cop cars parked outside. Since this isn't exactly one of the high-volume stations, I had absolutely no idea what was going on.

I went downstairs. As I got onto the tracks, the train going towards Cote Vertu was just pulling in. It looked like there were three cops on either side of the platform, and they kept that train stopped for at least two minutes while officers walked the whole length of the train, looking for... something. Obviously, they decided all was well and the train pulled out of the station.

I asked one of the cops what was going on, and he told me "nous cherchons..." ("we're looking for...") and, between the noise of the departing train and my somewhat rusty French, that's about all I understood. Maybe something about a jumper?

Anyway, as my train (towards Henri Bourassa / Montmorrency) pulled in, the three cops on my side were in a heated debate about which direction led to Verdun. I think they actually wound up stopping the wrong train, because the cop in charge was sure that "direction Cote Vertu" also led to Montmorrency (Cote Vertu is north, and Laval is north, therefore... insert flawed logic here). They were actually clustered around the metro map, gesticulating widely.

As the doors of my train closed, the cop in charge got this goofy "I messed up, didn't I?" look on his face, as he realized his mistake... just in time to realize he was too late to stop my train, the one he should have been checking all along.

It's good to know that these are the people who serve and protect us.

(The following is the first instalment in what I hope will become an irregularly-updated series of tongue-in-cheek vignettes about living in Montreal.)

Early morning, a coffee shop. I reach the head of the line, put on a pleasant smile, and start my order: "Bonjour! Je prendrai une tisane au citron."

The barista smiles back, but something is amiss. Something in my accent must have revealed me for what I am: an anglophone. Though her own accent clearly marks her as a francophone, she is quick to show off her verbal virtuoso, "of course. Just a moment."

She brings me my tea. I refuse to let her get the upper hand in our dance of languages, "ça fait combien?"

"One-sixty-six," she says, barely pausing despite the challenging numbers.

I hunt through my change purse, "un-et-vignt-cinq, un-et-cinquante, un-et-soixante-quinze, un-et-soixante-seize!" Triumphant, I hand over my change. She takes it.

Finally, the numbers have vanquished her, and she reverts to her native tongue: "un-et-soixante-seize," she says, ringing open the cash register. "Et dix," she finishes, handing me a dime.

I smile broadly, "merci!" I take my tea and beat a hasty retreat, proud in the knowledge that my mastery of French is ever-so-slightly better than her mastery of English.

Montreal is hardly unique as a city with two primary languages. Many cities in Europe boast two or even three official languages, and many cities in the southern United States have unofficially adopted Spanish at least as much as Quebec has accepted English. What marks Montreal as special is the subtle games we play whenever we face a speaker of the opposite language.

In France, a visiting tourist who tries to speak in French will likely find the shop clerk switching to English, just like my barista this morning. The difference is that in France, the clerk almost always speaks better English than the tourist does French. In Montreal, the odds are good that both speakers are equally comfortable in their second language.

Why the verbal gymnastics, then? Why not stick to the inital language, instead of stubbornly keeping to the other person's tongue? One thing that gives Montrealers intense glee is demonstrating that they are "better" than the other side. Anglos want to be better than francos; francos insist that pure laine is best. Any demonstration that one camp is better than the other gets touted in one language's papers and dismissed in the other's. One area of potential one-upmanship is our ability to speak our second language. This leads to the ironic situation of an anglophone trying to champion the anglo cause by speaking French, while a francophone demonstrates their superiority by answering in English.

Most people don't think about these things when they subconsciously shift to another language, of course. They may think they're being helpful. But we know the real reason for Montreal's verbal Olympics: beating the competition at their own game will win you the gold.