Alanna is crossing her fingers these girls pick her to live with them! Awesome plateau apartment!! Swooooon.

comeback kids

I have one lingering "Calgary" regret.  I missed out on the first year that Calgarians took to the streets to celebrate playoff victory on the infamous Red Mile. I am sad to admit that though I longed to head down to 17th Ave and get trampled by the masses after a win, I never did quite make it. There was always some other commitment that kept me away. And it was never the same after that first year - or so I'm told.

So living a block away from what could be known as Montréal's version of the Red Mile, I could hear the shouting & singing & honking of cars after tonight's unlikely comeback.  I thought back to my missed experience in Calgary. I thought about picking up my phone & texting the people I knew would be out celebrating. I thought about the pain of waking up at 5:30am, hung over. But I could still hear the not-so-distant parade of partygoers. I compromised on a short walk down St Catherine's street and wow, was I ever floored. I've never seen anything like this. If I hadn't already opened this morning, I would perhaps be capable of providing a better description. However, I did & my brain can't, so picture this (or hold out for the photos I snapped while attempting to hide my slightly flashy camera): headlights & brake lights as far as you can see, helicopters circling overhead, habs flags everywhere, gridlock, habs jerseys, people running, dancing, high fiving their way down the street, surfing on moving vehicles, chanting, singing, honking, tires squealing, ole ole ole ole, more honking, more people running, dancing around cars, hanging out of cars, standing on top of cars... I got as far as Crescent Street before I came upon the riot police and turned around. I've had enough encounters with them to know it's best to just leave.

And this is only round 1....

allons donc

Alright, the backstory. So. It was an unseasonably warm March day. There we were, tarrying in a little casse-croute in the Plateau, belly up to sliders, poutine and Quebecois half-pints. ... And we had a great-minds-think-alike moment. Perhaps a blog?

Our interests, though eclectic, run parallel. Travel, photography, indie music, la langue francaise, journalling, keeping-in-touch ... we thought, Hell. Do we have to zero in on just one theme? Why not a blog that reflects rather than focuses our randomness? We’ll defend - no, vaunt - our caprice.

We are both Cowtown transplants negotiating our new eastern addresses (and identities?), and staying connected in millennial fashion: texts, tweets and status updates, Youtube and Failblog links shared via Skype, postcards, emails (or, as per Alanna’s penchant, e-novellas), personal blogs and Flickr uploads. We are, quite literally, épistolières, sharing ourselves and our stories as a serial collection of artifacts. And this collection, for better or worse, will be less like a curated museum exhibit and much more akin to a hoarder’s junk drawer. Ergo, farrago. (And, as a special bonus, we can rhyme!)