I’m not a fan of the Grand Prix – the noise (pounding music, screaming tires, revving engines), the wasted resources (yes, I know, those tourist dollars coming into Montreal – but think of the taxpayers’ subsidies going out), the ‘vroom virus’ that infects even normally sedate drivers, making street crossing an extreme sport.
On the other hand, some of the doors are impressive.
A writer friend who had recently moved to Montreal asked me where home was for me. Was it Montreal?
I was surprised how complicated it was to answer that. Yes, my home is in Montreal. I’ve lived here for years. But Montreal is not totally “home.” There are ways in which I’ll never feel I completely belong. For one thing, I only have to open my mouth and people know I’m not from here. I certainly don’t sound like a francophone Canadian. I don’t sound like an anglophone Canadian either.
Where are you from? I’m asked that at least once a week.
But where I came from isn’t home either. That country has changed so much that when I’m there, I’m definitely a visitor. I even have trouble working out which coin is what value when I get on the bus or go shopping.
So is home being with my husband? With my family? Or is it…
I’m clearly not the only one to have trouble pinning down the idea of ‘home.’
The panel discussion “What is Home” at the recent Blue Metropolis Literary Festival, Continue reading →