Mon beau pere?

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.