Dancing Barefoot: Culture Shock

So we're on weekly updates at the moment. Little and often may be more motivating, I'll try to keep that in mind.

Denis is on his way to Montreal to fetch the pimp car. We've been tooling about in a pickup for the past couple of weeks - made me feel like a local.

Writing is a bit slow tonight as I'm watching the Hunter S. Thompson documentary and typing during the commercial breaks. However, the Baby Bullet advert, which features in every break, is very distracting, not only due to the name but for some reason it seems to be twice the volume of the other adverts and three times the volume of the programme I actually want to watch.

Finally the chest of drawers has been repaired and this afternoon, after living out of suitcases for almost two weeks, I finished unpacking and maybe now I'll feel like I'm not just visiting. Step 2 in feeling like I belong: find a job.

I've been working on my CV and have a couple of leads but have also had a couple of set backs. More news when there is some.

Last Saturday night we were invited to Marc-Andre and Steph's for an exceedingly enjoyable evening of fabulous food and fine wines, finished off with a lesson in poker. Clearly I had good teachers as I won my first game but you know what they say: quit while you're ahead.

Earlier that day I'd got my lumberjack (jane?) on and helped stack a whole lotta wood. We ended up with three stacks, ten foot high, six foot wide and as deep as the logs were long. All I was missing was the checked shirt.

Then on Sunday, continuing with the body building theme, we helped a friend of Denis' move into her first solo apartment. If ice hockey is the religion of the locals, helping people move house is their hobby.

Wednesday was the next eventful day in that we went to see Alexandre Desilets. I'd not heard of him and, due to a problem with the internet, I'd not been able to check him out beforehand. The worry set in when one of our group described the music as being like Coldplay. The worry turned to horror when the support act appeared and proceeded to present forty-five minutes of keyboard noises; think Ross' sound but not a joke. At least, I assume it wasn't some sort of performance art testing the audience's feelings of obligation to applaud any sort of performance. Those boys need to go back to their parents' basement and, preferably, not leave. Ever. Or possibly they were there to lower our musical standards.

The main act were fine. The musicians were tight but I wasn't fond of the vocals and it wasn't particularly to my taste. My main barrier to enjoying the show was the set up - an audience of under 100 people sat at small tables when we should have been standing up and jumping about.

I guess having lived here before I thought I knew how it would be this time but I'm definitely feeling the culture shock. What place has hard floors in every room of the house and then carpet on the open porch?