I don’t fit in the bathtub. Also, I don’t know how to have baths anymore. But I have the apartment to myself this evening, so I pour some wine from the dépanneur around the corner into a mason jar, and play some music that could probably only be described as “adult contemporary.” My roommate makes baths seem like a romantic, empowering sort of an activity. She lights candles. She sings during them. A woman who takes baths. That sounds great.
But, there are no matches in the drawers in the kitchen. Also, I don’t have candles.
It will have to be a lightbulb-lit bath. With a whirring fan. But back to the central problem–I don’t fit. Even if I sit at a ninety degree angle, water lapping around my hips, I can only barely stretch my legs out straight. I bend my knees. I put my feet up on the walls. I smush my limbs in and lay in my little pool. I can’t help but laugh.
This is my new life. My first Friday night in Montréal. Another chapter. I arrived with my suitcase, got on a bus and then on a metro, and lugged my 100 pounds of luggage up to the wrong porch, before finally arriving at my new home. It smells like incense and spices, and I immediately love it. All of the uncertainties and fears that come with moving to a new place are pushed away as I try to fit into this new life (and bathtub).
My first time moving away–far away–I spent hours walking around, listening to familiar Canadian bands in my ear phones and watching my shoes move over the cobblestone streets of an old European city. I asked myself ‘what does this step mean?’ and ‘where will I end up next?’ I didn’t know, and I could never have predicted it. Now, with my mason jar wine in my tiny tub, I find myself wondering the same thing. It loops. I came here on a whim.
There are a few stories I would like to share on this blog from the past year, and I will be uploading them from time to time, even though they happened months ago. This year has been a whirlwind of magazines, anarchists, artists, and roadtrips. And I moved to Montréal.
Thanks for reading!