Vous voulez un breuvage avec ca?

This is my second day in Montreal, and man the jet lag is making this seem even more surreal than it is. A couple of months ago, I'm Mr. Kelly in a well-to-do private international school in Germany, and now I find myself squinting at the price lists in takeaways, trying to figure out what a "Chien chaud" is (hence the blog address), and trying to sift my way through the rows of enormous cereal boxes to find some plain old muesli, goddamn it.

I flew into Montreal Trudeau airport at about 5pm local time on Tuesday, after more than 12 hours of flights. Air Canada obviously see time as being a luxury their privileged customers can afford, and didn't tell me that the initial 15 mintues delay on my flight meant a 2 hour delay in the connecting flight. But I got there in the end, starved out of my mind because I hadn't told my travel agent that I have a 'special' diet - meaning I don't eat dead rubber chicken - so I had had precious little food the whole day.

I arrived at the counter in the airport coffee shop, and the depressed students trying to work the tills call me over to place my order. I ask for the bagel-and-soup option, and the girl replies "Vous voulez un breuvage avec ca?" (which translates loosely as "would you like a medieval broth with that?"). I know I'm the foreigner here, and I really don't want to emulate the snobby Parisians who turn up here and mock the Quebequois for their 'weird' language. But with my head spinning from starvation and jet lag, and the excitement of FINALLY being in Montreal after all this time, it's hilarious beyond belief. I mask my splutter of laughter as a cough.

So I'm here. After six months of wrangling my work permit off the Irish and Canadian authorities, relying on the immense patience of my friends in Germany, my sister and my aunt who housed me, fed me, put up with my daily frenzy of forgetfulness and chaotic plans, and creased their brows in concentration while trying to understand what the hell I'm doing and why. I'm here. I got through customs scatheless.

Unlike the guy in the queue next to me, who was being interrogated via a Spanish translator, as to why he had a US felony registered on his passport, and informed that he would be held in jail till the report came from the FBI. The man looked bemused, and this all could have been a mix-up. Despite wanting to mind my own business and concentrate on the questions coming from my own immigrations officer, I couldn't help but think that my Spanish-speaking neighbour might suddenly flip and do something desperate to avoid being thrown into Guantanamo or shipped off to a non-existant Syrian prison.

Looks like the chaos in my life isn't so bad after all. I've got a flat, this computer to write on, a job interview lined up for this afternoon, and am meeting a friend for coffee in the evening, hoping yesterday's storm doesn't hit again. I went for a jog this morning, and had my first experience of being mesmerised by a supermarket here, leaving with twice the stuff I wanted, crammed into a paper bag, and no idea which way was home.

Sure beats the hell out of being stuck in a prison cell waiting for the FBI to determine whether I get let out of prison, for having the wrong name.