| November 18, 2008 |
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An American in Montreal: The Rest of the Story
by Amy Gribb
Artwork by Joe Bauernhuber
When I told people I was going to Montreal for six months, they asked, “Why Montreal?” That was an easy question to answer. First, I’ve always wanted to learn a foreign language, and I could do that here through the immersion program. Second, it was easy to bring the cats (although if they could talk, they might have something different to say about spending two days in the car). Third, I love skiing. Montreal is infamous for its snowy winters.
Only a few people asked the more difficult question: “Why are you doing this in the first place?” My pat answer was, “I’m having my mid-life crisis and can’t afford a Maserati.”
I was only half-kidding. I never did want a Maserati. But as for what I want for my life, well, that’s the mid-life crisis part and what I’m trying to figure out. I’ve worked at jobs as diverse as trail crew in the backwoods of Montana, chemist for what is now Covance, and seamstress for the Minnesota Opera. Still, in my wanderings I haven’t found “it,” the career, or more generally, the life path that’s compelling enough to stop me from looking for something better.
My Meyers-Briggs report would tell you that I’m searching for the Holy Grail of the ENTJ personality type. Stability, apparently, drives people like me nuts. I haven’t read it in awhile, but there’s probably something in my report about not listening to the results of personality tests. ENTJ or not, I crave settling down and not having to start over again, in my career or in another location.
Is the Meaning of Life in Montreal?
And so my underlying objective for this trip was to determine, once and for all, which life path will lead me to everlasting bliss (That’s doable, right?). I believed that if I gave myself six months away from friends, family, and preconceived notions of who I was and what I could do (both my own perceptions and that of others) that the Universe would reward me with a lightening bolt of insight to the Golden Path that I had yet to identify.
So how goes the quest? Well, not so great. I started out stronger than I’m finishing, that’s for sure.
The Search Starts
And I started my search in fashion. It made sense to look there first, because my favorite leisure activity is sewing. Specifically, sewing gowns, the fancier and more outrageous, the better. When I’m working on my wearable art, I lose all track of time, and things like eating and sleeping become annoying distractions.
My first “sign” that I was on the right track with fashion was an Yves St. Laurent exhibit that opened at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts shortly after I arrived. For a person with a penchant for truly over-the-top couture, it was nothing short of spectacular. The energy and excitement that I felt inches away from bold and brilliant YSL signature gowns made my heart sing. “Yes!” I thought, “This is it!”
Fashion Faux Pas
Unfortunately, as it turns out, that was it. My follow-up forays into the fashion world—and to my credit, I didn’t give up after the first setback—all fell flat. It started with the mini-course in fashion design that was offered through my French language school. The fact that there was a school in Montreal, offering both French and fashion design, was one of one of those auspicious “coincidences.” So with high hopes, I showed up for the first lecture of the fashion design course (and my date with destiny).
But destiny apparently made other plans. The course was boring and disappointing. And my classmates must’ve agreed, since I was the only person to show up for the final class. Looking to make the best of the situation (and desperately not wanting to sit solo through another interminable four-hour lecture), I suggested to the professor, a designer, that we skip out and talk about what it’s like to be in fashion. We went to the nearest coffee shop to chat, and he invited me to sit in on classes at his design school.
Okay, I thought, maybe destiny was at the design school. I scheduled a visit, set out again with high hopes when the day arrived. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but what I found was a sewing class with students half my age, learning how to sew a straight seam, something I had learned to do when I was half their ages. Strike two.
Amy looks for her destiny at Montreal’s Fashion Week.
While waiting a sufficiently-polite amount of time before escaping this second non-starter, I noticed an announcement on the bulletin board in the classroom for volunteer opportunities at Montreal’s upcoming Fashion Week. Maybe this was it, destiny wanted me to skip school and go straight to the runway. I ripped one of the tabs off of the announcement, thanked the sewing instructor, and headed home to try again.
As soon as I got to my apartment, I emailed Annie, the volunteer coordinator for Fashion Week. I warned her that I was a beginner in French, but said that I would be happy to help out in whatever capacity I could. Annie called a couple of days later and offered me a position at the reception area. She assured me that language wouldn’t be an issue. Ever the optimist, I let my hopes rise again for some kind of lucky break.
The showroom at Montreal’s Fashion week, where designers displayed collections for buyers and
Amy practiced “trial-by-fire” French.
It turns out Annie is a bit of an optimist, too. Fifteen minutes into my Fashion Week gig, it became painfully obvious that my (lack of) French language skills were an issue—and a big one. I couldn’t understand questions patrons asked me in their rapid-fire French, much less answer them. After a psychologically grueling 12-hour first day, I traded in my “Welcome Team” black dress for a Fashion Week t-shirt and a less-stressful assignment in the showroom, where I mostly directed people to the restrooms.
In spite of getting my French wings clipped, I don’t regret my Fashion Week experience. I got to see firsthand the glitz and glamour of the fashion world, including Amazon-stature models, designers every bit as eccentric as you’d expect them to be, and a runway show of the caliber I had only seen before in magazines. It was very cool.
Amy volunteered at Montreal’s Fashion Week, and all she got was this t-shirt and a bruised ego.
The Search Continues . . .
What I was looking for, though, at Fashion Week—and in all of my experiences here in Montreal—was the Universe flinging open doors of opportunity and trumpeting my arrival home to the one true calling of my life. If there have been any trumpets, then I haven’t heard them.
With only a couple of weeks left in Montreal, I’m predicting that the only direction I’ll be headed at the end of my stay is west, back home to Wisconsin. I’m okay with that. Afterall, if anybody can create a stunning gown out of a pair of velvet curtains, it’s me, and tomorrow is another day!
À bientôt! (See you soon!)
~Amy
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