Looking for a house in the working class neighbourhoods of Montreal was a great deal of fun. Sophie and I were both teachers in Nunavik (Northern Quebec) at the time. I had been forced to make a decision between taking a three-and-a-half month unpaid leave, on one hand, and potentially missing the birth of my second child on the other. Although I was somewhat uncomfortable with the idea that my employer could force me to do that, I had little difficulty taking the leave.
So, this left us with some free time to shop for a house in Montreal. We realized that we would have to find something and finalize it before going back up North, or wait until moving back to Montreal to try to find something to rent, and then start looking again. We didn't waste a lot of time. We saw a duplex the day after I arrived from the North, and didn't really take a break until we found the brown house. We enjoyed it so much that we continued to look at houses after we took possession, and indeed continue to receive all of the listings that fit into our criteria on the Matrix.
On one hand, the actual house hunting was a pretty depressing affair. With a couple of notable exceptions, everything in our budget seemed to be a dump. They all had huge issues. One was located adjacent to a huge electrical transfer station in the neighbourhood South of the Olympic stadium. At another home in Ville Emard, we climbed the stairs and rang the doorbell on the second floor only to be greeted by two rottweilers who jumped on the window, barking, snarling, and foaming at the mouth. Ummmm, no thank you.
On the other hand, Sophie, Leo (our real estate agent), and I were able to catch a glimpse into the daily lives of tenants in working class neighbourhoods. It was, in a word, fascinating. At a house on Laurendeau, the tenant didn't bother to stop smoking weed during our visit. We were treated to a hoarders/parc safari tour in a house on Desjardins, complete with 15 aquariums, a room for birds, and a basement bathroom (the only one in the house) in which the tenant seemed to be farming mold. From the back windows at a duplex on Drake, we would have been able to see where our kids could have played in the shadow of the de la Verendrye off ramp of the 10 South if it hadn't been for the thick blue haze created by the dozen or so random people (all of whom were dressed in black leather) smoking simultaneously. Screw House Hunters International, I want to create a show called House Hunters on a Shoestring.
Of all of the houses we saw, one is more memorable than the others. We pulled up to a nondescript duplex on de Biencourt in Ville Emard, which sits in the shadow of what once certainly used to be the cultural centre of the neighbourhood, the Notre Dame de Perpetuel Bonsecours church. The visit got off to a bizarre start. Leo called the seller's agent and asked if he was going to meet us, as they had planned. The agent apparently asked him for the address, and upon hearing which house it was, laughed, said no, and hung up. It just got weirder from there.
We rang downstairs. The door opened as a haze of blue cigarette smoke poured out of the house. A large lady greeted us, asked us our business, and then motioned for us to come in. She introduced her mother who was hooked up to an oxygen tank to help with her emphysema. All the while, mother and daughter continued to smoke. The younger recounted how the house had been for sale for nine years, and that the landlord was a real deadbeat. She showed us around, making sure that we took note of all of the Montreal Canadiens paraphernalia, the poor windows, and the hole where the rats come in while they are sleeping. We thanked her for her time and walked outside. Then, it got really interesting.
We walked outside and rang upstairs. A man opened the door and explained immediately and almost apologetically, that the apartment was vacant, but he had been staying there while cleaning it up, and would be gone no later than the 17th. We followed him up. We wandered from room to room in the vacant apartment remarking at how much the floors sloped toward the middle of the house, from all four corners. The bathroom had a sink the size of a bowl and a bath no larger than a Rubbermaid container. The kitchen was bare, and the bedroom in the back had nothing but a piece of cardboard on the floor with a child-sized Muppets sleeping bag and pillow laid out neatly on top. Our hearts grew heavy with sympathy for the man who was living in such dire circumstances.
"I've just been living here cleaning up for the past couple of weeks," the man said sadly, eyes on the floor.
"You've done a great job cleaning it up," replied Leo kindly.
"I used to live downstairs with my wife, but I left her after she slept with my father-in-law." This conversation took place in French, so naturally I assumed that I was mixed up. As I squeezed into the back of Leo's two door BMW, I asked for clarification.
"Sophie, did he just say that she was sleeping with HER OWN DAD?"
"Yes." We sat in silence for a few seconds as we pulled away from the house, mouths open, staring at the sad man and his old house. Then, simultaneously, we all started laughing.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
Why "The Brown House?"
This blog is supposed to be about home renovations, as well as the last 100 years of Montreal's history told through a biography of the house itself. There's plenty of material out there for me to comb through, sure. I could throw a rock and hit several relevant archives. I've also got all of the sales transactions for the house since it was first built in 1915, and neighbours who have lived in Ville Emard since 1970 and 1952 respectively.
However, I have yet to do any serious renovations, nor have I had time to do much interviewing, let alone do any archival research. I'm not really sure how to navigate the historical and narrative matrix that I have envisioned, and this has stopped me, so far, from even undertaking any writing. So, although part-time work and almost full-time parenting might keep me out of the archives and my tool belt on a nail I pounded into a joist downstairs, I have decided that it's not going to prevent me from writing at least a little bit.
So, Noah, my son, calls our house the brown house. Until he turned four, his principal house was one half of a bright red duplex in a fly-in community in Nunavik (Northern Quebec). The houses in the village are brightly coloured, and Noah became obsessed by the color of everyone's house. Paulie lives in the blue house, Jacob in the brown house, and Tertiluk in the green. So, when we decided to leave Kangiqsujuaq for Montreal, we explained by saying that we were moving from the red house to the brown one.
The name stuck. We still call our little duplex by its colour, and indeed, Noah's little sister Evie has begun to call it "The Brown House" too. So, when I decided to start a new writing project, it was obvious what I wanted to call it. As you can tell by the url, www.thebrownhouse.blogspot.com was already taken. Like so many other projects, cranky old Ingrid's blog about her crazy dog, pies, and pet possum never got off the ground. A trip over to www.thebrownhouse.wordpress.com revealed that the domain name I sought was at least being used. The author gives her musings and meanderings on life, Amish Love, and Shaq's mom.
Anyway, I tried out a couple of other domain names, but I eventually settled on lamaisonbrune.blogspot.com, for two reasons. First, Noah is bilingual, so he actually calls the house "la maison brune" just as much as he does "The Brown House". Second, I like being a pretentious anglophone who appropriates a French domain name even though I write in English. Sure, I'll toss in a phrase from time to time, and probably put it in italics just to be cool. Before committing, I googled "la maison brune" to make sure that "maison" didn't somehow become masculine (stupid anglo) and found out that I'd be dealing with some historical baggage. Apparently, the Braunes Haus was the Nazi headquarters in 1930s Germany. Wonderful.
Anyway, if you happened upon this blog looking for the virtual headquarters of Quebecois neo-Nazism, you'll be disappointed. And, you can go fuck yourself... or should I say vas te faire foutre.
However, I have yet to do any serious renovations, nor have I had time to do much interviewing, let alone do any archival research. I'm not really sure how to navigate the historical and narrative matrix that I have envisioned, and this has stopped me, so far, from even undertaking any writing. So, although part-time work and almost full-time parenting might keep me out of the archives and my tool belt on a nail I pounded into a joist downstairs, I have decided that it's not going to prevent me from writing at least a little bit.
So, Noah, my son, calls our house the brown house. Until he turned four, his principal house was one half of a bright red duplex in a fly-in community in Nunavik (Northern Quebec). The houses in the village are brightly coloured, and Noah became obsessed by the color of everyone's house. Paulie lives in the blue house, Jacob in the brown house, and Tertiluk in the green. So, when we decided to leave Kangiqsujuaq for Montreal, we explained by saying that we were moving from the red house to the brown one.
The name stuck. We still call our little duplex by its colour, and indeed, Noah's little sister Evie has begun to call it "The Brown House" too. So, when I decided to start a new writing project, it was obvious what I wanted to call it. As you can tell by the url, www.thebrownhouse.blogspot.com was already taken. Like so many other projects, cranky old Ingrid's blog about her crazy dog, pies, and pet possum never got off the ground. A trip over to www.thebrownhouse.wordpress.com revealed that the domain name I sought was at least being used. The author gives her musings and meanderings on life, Amish Love, and Shaq's mom.
Anyway, I tried out a couple of other domain names, but I eventually settled on lamaisonbrune.blogspot.com, for two reasons. First, Noah is bilingual, so he actually calls the house "la maison brune" just as much as he does "The Brown House". Second, I like being a pretentious anglophone who appropriates a French domain name even though I write in English. Sure, I'll toss in a phrase from time to time, and probably put it in italics just to be cool. Before committing, I googled "la maison brune" to make sure that "maison" didn't somehow become masculine (stupid anglo) and found out that I'd be dealing with some historical baggage. Apparently, the Braunes Haus was the Nazi headquarters in 1930s Germany. Wonderful.
Anyway, if you happened upon this blog looking for the virtual headquarters of Quebecois neo-Nazism, you'll be disappointed. And, you can go fuck yourself... or should I say vas te faire foutre.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Welcome to the Brown House
Last year, Sophie and I bought an old duplex in Ville Emard. After years of living and teaching in Quebec's far north, we figured it was time to make end our northern sojourn and return to what we used to know as normal Canadian living.
When we began looking for a house, Sophie was nine months pregnant with Evie, our second child. I had dreams of moving into a three-bedroom (6 1/2) duplex in The Jean-Talon Market area in Montreal. A short visit to MLS showed me that that was not going to happen.
The first place we looked at was in Point Saint Charles, a traditionally poor but ever-gentrifying Irish neighbourhood just Southwest of downtown. We were actually living in our friends' house in the Point when we began looking. The duplex we saw on Reading street had some of the elements we were looking for: 3 bedrooms (sort of), a yard (or something that resembled one), and close to public transit. It was listed at 280,000. However, it faced a bottled-water factory, and it needed tons of work. It was like a wake-up call for me. I couldn't shake the feeling of dread that I was experiencing. "Is that all we're going to get?" I kept thinking over and over. Successive visits to 20 or so similar properties in Montreal's "worst" (affordable) neighbourhoods kept confirming my suspicions.
Then, one day while we were visiting properties with our real-estate agent Leo, we decided to take a look at a duplex featuring two 800 sq. ft. 2 bedroom apartments in Ville Emard. "It's too small," I remember saying before the visit, "but let's go take a look at it anyway."
We walked up to the house and rang the doorbell. A young couple and a yappy dog greeted us when we arrived. As we walked in, we could feel it. We didn't say anything to each other, or even make eye contact, but we both knew that this one had potential. We went to visit the upstairs tenant's apartment. We found a fifty-something year-old woman who was extremely surprised, even upset, to find out that the property was for sale. Marie-anne asked us immediately, "Which apartment are you going to take?"
"The downstairs," I replied as I walked into her apartment. I almost immediately regretted what I had said when I saw how cute her apartment was. "But we have two kids," I continued, "so if we buy it and decide to stay, we will take the upstairs in five-to-ten years."
"By then, I'll have found a man and be gone," she laughed.
We left her apartment, walked down the stairs, and without even asking Sophie, as I was awkwardly straddling Leo's hockey stick, which blocked the entrance to his silver BMW, I declared,"We want to buy that duplex. How do we do that?"
"Slow down," he replied. "You have to consider..."
"You don't know us," Sophie cut him off, "we know what we want when we see it. We decided to have children together six weeks after meeting each other."
When we began looking for a house, Sophie was nine months pregnant with Evie, our second child. I had dreams of moving into a three-bedroom (6 1/2) duplex in The Jean-Talon Market area in Montreal. A short visit to MLS showed me that that was not going to happen.
The first place we looked at was in Point Saint Charles, a traditionally poor but ever-gentrifying Irish neighbourhood just Southwest of downtown. We were actually living in our friends' house in the Point when we began looking. The duplex we saw on Reading street had some of the elements we were looking for: 3 bedrooms (sort of), a yard (or something that resembled one), and close to public transit. It was listed at 280,000. However, it faced a bottled-water factory, and it needed tons of work. It was like a wake-up call for me. I couldn't shake the feeling of dread that I was experiencing. "Is that all we're going to get?" I kept thinking over and over. Successive visits to 20 or so similar properties in Montreal's "worst" (affordable) neighbourhoods kept confirming my suspicions.
Then, one day while we were visiting properties with our real-estate agent Leo, we decided to take a look at a duplex featuring two 800 sq. ft. 2 bedroom apartments in Ville Emard. "It's too small," I remember saying before the visit, "but let's go take a look at it anyway."
We walked up to the house and rang the doorbell. A young couple and a yappy dog greeted us when we arrived. As we walked in, we could feel it. We didn't say anything to each other, or even make eye contact, but we both knew that this one had potential. We went to visit the upstairs tenant's apartment. We found a fifty-something year-old woman who was extremely surprised, even upset, to find out that the property was for sale. Marie-anne asked us immediately, "Which apartment are you going to take?"
"The downstairs," I replied as I walked into her apartment. I almost immediately regretted what I had said when I saw how cute her apartment was. "But we have two kids," I continued, "so if we buy it and decide to stay, we will take the upstairs in five-to-ten years."
"By then, I'll have found a man and be gone," she laughed.
We left her apartment, walked down the stairs, and without even asking Sophie, as I was awkwardly straddling Leo's hockey stick, which blocked the entrance to his silver BMW, I declared,"We want to buy that duplex. How do we do that?"
"Slow down," he replied. "You have to consider..."
"You don't know us," Sophie cut him off, "we know what we want when we see it. We decided to have children together six weeks after meeting each other."
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