#she's been here just shy of three years when thistle shows up

[thistletheshow]

May I request information about Firria?

Yes! Though the first bit of information is she’s had a name change since the start of all this, and also a species change – she’s not Firria the hedgehog anymore, she’s Elline the lioness! (She’s got a mane bc she’s trans.) 

And Elline gets visions.

Prophecy is the domain of the stars. Those holy acolytes who devote their whole lives to the sky might, if they are clever and clear-eyed and learn to bring stillness into their souls, learn to touch the gift of divination. But Elline is a child, who’s devoted herself to nothing. And yet she is sky-sighted. 

She’s had them as long as she can remember. They started as dreams, but for the past year or so they’ve been coming to her in waking moments too. It’s hard to say whether that’s happening because she’s been training for nearly three years now to induce visions on purpose, or if they would have started doing that anyway and the training is the only thing keeping her from slowly unraveling at the seams.

Visions aren’t an easy gift to carry. She sees the future, which means she sees possibilities, because nothing is set in stone until it has already come to pass. Sometimes she sees through the eyes of the one living that future, or through the eyes of many people facing the same future; sometimes she sees it all from above, like a ghost drifting over it all; sometimes she gets nothing but sounds, sensations, an emotion so deep and visceral it leaves her shaking. 

They often give her debilitating migraines. Sometimes they give her an odd strain of dysphoria, where she remembers being someone else so strongly that for a little while after, she feels unsettled in her own body. Usually this is only for the strongest visions, and only for a few minutes, but once or twice the sense of being someone else has stuck with her for days afterward. She has nightmares sometimes about losing track of who she is for good.

Elline met Thistle about three weeks after she first dreamed of him. He came to the abbey where Ell lived to help the nuns with something, Ell didn’t know the details and she didn’t really care. What she cares about is that he can take her away.

It’s a good abbey. A good place to live. The nuns are kind, the life isn’t too hard, the training in how to channel her visions is demanding but effective. There are very few other children, and none near her age, but Ell’s gotten used to the loneliness. There’s nothing wrong with this place. That’s not why she has to leave.

In two months, Sunfell will overrun the abbey, and the nuns will surrender at once rather than suffer the consequences of resistance. Sunfell will learn of Elline’s powers within the week and take her away to their capital, where she will be forced to aid in their conquests all the rest of her days.

She sneaks into Thistle’s room in the dead of night. He wakes at the scrape of the opening door. By the time she’s taken three soft steps inside, he has his hands around two weapons and is braced for any attack.

He is not braced at all for a child’s voice, only barely above a whisper, saying, “I’m Elline. I’ve been dreaming of you. I need you to steal me.”

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

The Nuptial Necessity - Chapter 31

A 12xRose Human AU

Despite an unglamorous job description, Rose loves the work she does with The Thistle Foundation, a charity founded by her best friend’s great-uncle.  It doesn’t hurt that her boss, her friend’s father, is easy on the eyes.  With a great job, wonderful friends and a loving family, life couldn’t be better – except for having someone to share it with.

All of that is threatened, though, when the great-uncle dies – and sets a strange condition for his nephew to inherit, jeopardizing the Foundation and Rose’s future, sparking a chain of events that might just get her everything she dreamed of and more.

Chapters will be posted on Saturdays and Tuesdays.  Many thanks to my beta, @stupidsatsuma

Rated: Explicit, for smut

@doctorroseprompts

AO3  |  Masterlist

—

Previously (for the smut-averse):

“I have something for you,” Malcolm murmured, kissing her ear.

“Huh?”

They were snuggled together under the blankets, her back to his front, their arms entangled and folded together beneath her breasts.  Thoroughly sated, warm, comfortable, and happy, she was almost asleep when he spoke.

He rolled away from her, and by the time he came back she had turned to face him, pillowing her head on her arm as she watched him.  His hands appeared, one clenched around something, and her breath caught.  “What-”

“Rose,” he cut her off, not unkindly, “you… you are a breath of fresh air.  You-”

Unable to help it she yawned, face scrunching with the size of it- it seemed to go on forever, and by the time it was over, he was biting his lip, watching her with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t want to bore you.”

“Mhmm, you’re not,” she promised, snuggling closer, “but I’m exhausted.  My husband had me up ridiculously early to watch the sunrise this morning, then he shagged my brains out.”

“Sounds like quite the catch.”

“He is.”  She grinned up at him.  “And I’m going to return the favor and blow his mind- well, something- as soon as I’ve gotten a kip.”

Malcolm hummed.  “Well, I’ll let you get to it, but first- I’ll save the drawn-out romantic speech for when you’re more awake, but…”  Holding out his clenched hand in front of him, he turned it over and opened it to reveal a ring, with a decent sapphire stone set in gold.  It was beautiful, and delicate, and she loved it.

“Oh, babe,” Rose gasped softly.  “That’s wonderful.”

“Do you really think so?”  Surprisingly shy, he held it out to her.  “If so, I want you to have it.  If not, there’s plenty more in the family vault, but- I wanted you to have this one.  I’ve wanted you to have it for… a while.”

“Are you sure?”  She took in carefully, holding it up to her eye to examine it better.  “It looks old.  Not in a bad way, just in a valuable way.”

Her husband slid his hand over her waist, pulling her closer.  “Yes.  I didn’t give you an engagement ring, because… but now that our feelings have been resolved, that it’s all out in the open, I want you to have a pretty ring to show off.”

Rose looked down at the simple gold band she’d been wearing for the last week, and felt her heart melt.  “I’m very happy with the ring I already have,” she told him softly, “because you gave it to me.  I think this will be a perfect addition.”  Then she handed it back.

“Wait, what?”

Rolling her eyes, she held out her left hand to him, grinning.  “Go ahead, put it on me.  ‘S only right.”

He did, carefully guiding it up her finger and over her knuckles, settling it at the base of her wedding band before bringing her hand to his lips and kissing both rings gently.  “Perfect.”

“I agree.”  Bringing her hand to her face, she admired how they looked together – like they belonged next to each other.  “That wasn’t necessary, but… thank you.”

“You deserve the world,” he shrugged one shoulder.  “A ring- a family heirloom at that- is nothing.”

Smiling, she leaned forward, kissing him sweetly.  “Let’s get some sleep,” she sighed against his lips.  “Then when we wake up, I’ll thank you properly.”

He kissed her back.  “No thanks necessary.”

“Oh, I think it’s very necessary.”

-

Friday evening

“Do you think I look okay?” Rose fussed, critically examining her reflection in the mirror.  Sarah Jane would shortly be arriving for dinner, and she wanted her first hosting event to go smoothly, looking and acting the part.  She’d chosen a cocktail dress, one of the nicer ones she owned – it was a dark navy, with silver threaded accents, paired with sapphire studs Malcolm had gifted her with the night before the wedding.  Those and her rings were the only jewelry she wore, and she fingered the neckline of the dress.  “Is it missing something?  Something that might make it better?”

Malcolm grunted, and she watched in the full-length mirror as he finished tying his laces and stood, coming up behind her.  “Well,” he considered, setting his hands on her hips and rucking up the fabric slightly, enough to show the tops of her thigh-high stockings, “I do have one thought…”

“Oh, do you?” she rolled her eyes, grinning.  “What’s that?”

“I think- and this is just my opinion, mind, what do I know about fashion- but, it seems to me it might look better on the floor.”

Rose burst into laughter, spinning out of his grip.  “Later,” she promised, smoothing the fabric back down her thighs.  “For now, behave.  Our guest will be here any minute.”  Even as she spoke, the sound of crunching gravel echoed up from below.

Her husband held his hands up in response, backing away with an incorrigible smirk.  “Fine, but I’m going to hold you to that,” he warned, returning to the bed to pull on his sport coat. “But in all seriousness, you look incredible.”

“Thank you.”  She offered him a smile in return, letting her eyes drag over him.  “And may I say, you clean up well.”

“Yes, well, one must look one’s best for company,” he affected a terribly posh accent, making her giggle.  “Now, would you do me the honor of allowing me to accompany you to dinner, my lady?”

-

Rose snorted, half-choking on her glass of wine.  “I’m sorry, you what?” she gasped, head spinning to stare at her husband.  “No.  No way.”

“He did!” Sarah Jane laughed, looking smug.  “And it was his idea!  All we said was-”

“Bullshit,” Malcolm snapped back, eyes pleading with Rose.  “Bull.  Shit.  I have no memory of this!”

“Because you were absolutely plastered!”

“And even if this ridiculous accusation were true- which it’s not- it would solely be because someone called me more boring than plain toast!”

“Sorry, what did we miss?” Jack asked, as he and Ianto slid back into their seats.  “We had some Estate business to attend to.”

Watching Ianto discreetly wipe at his mouth with his napkin, Rose arched an eyebrow at her cousin-in-law.  “Is that so?”

He merely gave her a bawdy wink in response, making his buttoned-up boyfriend’s ears go pink.  “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Malcolm stole a police horse at uni,” Rose blurted, even as her husband denied it.

“Rose!”

Jack gasped dramatically, clutching at his chest.  “Malcolm Tucker!  I don’t believe it.  D’you have any evidence?”

Rose laughed as Malcolm pouted, his lower lip protruding further when no one came to his defense.  Though the conversation continued around her she just watched him, reaching out for his hand.  He stared at it for a moment before his expression softened, and he took it, thumb rubbing over the bands of her rings, straightening the newer one as the stone had listed to the right.  Their eyes met, and she smiled, growing lost in his gaze.  It was so freeing, to be able to show her love with him, to not have to hide her adoring looks or make up excuses to see him or be with him.  They could just be, and she hoped it never changed.

“So, Rose, is this your first trip to Scotland?”

Sarah Jane’s voice broke the spell, and Rose had to blink several times to bring the rest of the room back into focus.  “Sorry?  Oh, uh, yes, it is.”

“What do you think?”

“Oh, it’s lovely,” she smiled, leaning forward.  “I mean, I’ve mostly been on the property other than the trip into town the other day when we met and the drive up from Inverness Airport, but…  I think we will be making frequent trips back here.  I’d love to see more.”

Malcolm cleared his throat, and she glanced over to find him wiping his mouth.  “Actually…”

“What?”

His thumb moved over the back of her hand, the only giveaway that he was nervous about what he was going to say.

“Well, I was thinking about our conversation the other day, and… what would you say to leaving here early?  I think Jack and I have pretty much wrapped up our business, and while it would be nice to just hang out here, what if instead we went on a driving tour?”

“A driving tour?” she repeated, heart leaping in her chest.

He nodded.  “You, me, your twenty-three suitcases and Bessie on the open road.  We’ll stay at B&Bs, and see everything you want to.”

Rose stared at him, nearly overwhelmed with joy at his suggestion.  “That sounds wonderful,” she breathed, “but no- not everything.  Let’s leave some for our next trip.”

“You like the idea?”  He looked so earnest, eager to please and hopeful, her heart nearly gave out with love.

Throwing down her napkin, she stood and walked to him, settling across his lap and wrapping her arms around him.  “I love the idea,” she whispered, kissing him.  “Absolutely.  Let’s do it.”

-

Like a switch had been flipped, the energy and conversation in the room changed as they started planning – Jack went running for his laptop while Sarah pulled a tablet out of her purse, and within minutes they were planning routes and must-sees, calling out suggestions of things Rose might be interested in.

Sitting back in his seat Malcolm watched Rose bounce between Sarah and Jack to hear their ideas, Ianto plugging everything into Google Maps and finding the optimal itinerary.  She looked happy, her face flushed and eyes sparkling, like a general commanding her troops just as she did every year during the Gala.  He’d always found that sexy, how she could be so confident and in charge when the moment called for it, despite her always fretting if she was the best person for the job.

Perhaps he was biased, but he felt she was the best person for any job, wholly capable of doing anything she set her mind to.

“Hey, Malc,” Jack called, breaking him from his reverie.  “How far south do you want to go?”

Malcolm waited a beat to be sure Jack wasn’t being fresh, but when his cousin didn’t break into a smirk, he shrugged.  “I was thinking of a large loop, staying just above Edinburgh and Glasgow.  Going along the eastern coast, then as far down as Stirling, maybe, if she wanted to see the castle?  Through the Trossachs then up to Glencoe, then out to Skye.  Return to Inverness, meet someone there to take the car, and we fly home.”

Rose made a soft noise, and he grinned.  “Yes, dear, we can stop by Loch Ness – even go to the museum, if you like.  We’ll drive up along it from Skye.”

“Yes!” she gave a little fist pump, before blushing.  “I mean, sure, that sounds fine I suppose.”

“Don’t worry, it’s a rite of passage,” Sarah said soothingly, patting her hand.  “I know I had to go when I first got here – of course, I was only coming for uni, fully intending to return to London at the time.  Still, I was quite excited – and I swear I saw something.”

Malcolm scoffed, rolling his eyes despite his grin.  “It was probably the sleep deprivation,” he retorted.  “You were the one insisting we bring the baby.  Poor wee Clara cried the whole night through.”

“The whole trip through,” his friend shuddered.  “Six twenty-year-olds and an infant.  Two hundred kilometers each way.”  Then she smiled.  “It was terrible fun.  God, I miss being that age.”

“Clara and I did stuff like that,” Rose grinned, sinking into the nearest chair.  “Friday afternoon after our last class- or sometimes before- we’d just hop on a train and go somewhere.  Rent a room for a night or two, do some exploring, then head back for Monday classes.  Sometimes it was just into London – funny how you can live there your whole life and have no interest in it, then move away for uni and just to want to go explore there.”

“We only travelled as a group a few times – no money – but it was always fun,” Malcolm said.  “Especially when Missy would get her nose out of joint and insist on staying home with Clara, awful as that sounds.”

Sarah, Rose, and Jack snorted as one.  “We’ve all met Missy,” Jack said reassuringly.  “We understand.”

Ianto looked around, uncertain.  “Er, I haven’t.”

“Count your blessings,” Rose said dryly, before looking down at her list.  “Right, now be honest- is there time to see all of this in the remaining week we’re off?”

Malcolm just laughed.  “You know, I bet if you ask really nicely, your boss will let you take more time.”

“Is that so?” she asked, giving him that grin that always made his pants tighten – the one where her tongue gets caught between her teeth, sparking eyes laughing at him, and he would give her the world if she asked.

He just smiled back, holding her gaze, until Sarah felt the need to groan.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, get a room you two!”

-

“So, honestly,” Malcolm asked when they were once again alone, curled up together in their bed, bodies sated for the moment.  “Is this how you’d like to spend the rest of our honeymoon?”

“What, in bed?”  Rose chuckled, rolling over to face him.  “No, seriously.  I think this… driving tour is a brilliant idea.  Just you and me, playing tourist…  I mean, I wouldn’t have said no to bikinis and fruity cocktails and white sand, but yeah, this is good too.”  Snuggling closer, she rested her head on his chest.  “I love the idea.  I’m so excited.  I’m sorry to be leaving here, but… we can always come back, right?”

“As often as you like.”

She sighed in contentment, leaning forward to press her lips over his heart.  “Then, often enough – at least every year or two.  It’s so beautiful, and peaceful.  And you might make an equestrian of me yet.”

Malcolm bit his lip, chewing over his words before tentatively offering, “You know, we can travel wherever you want.  Whenever you want.  I mean, much of our work at the Foundation can be done from anywhere with an internet connection.  Whether that’s the Scottish Highlands or the Maldives.”

“I will take that under advisement,” Rose nodded, walking her fingers along his sternum.  “How about I make a list, and you make a list, and then we’ll compare them and go from there?”

He breathed out.  “Sounds like a good idea.”

“Do I hear a ‘but’?”

He stayed silent, unsure if it was worth bringing up, before deciding to broach the subject from a non-direct angle.  “Maybe we should expand that list not to just travel, but to… other things we may or may not want to experience together?”

“D’you mean like sex stuff?”

“No- I mean, sure, that’s fine, but that wasn’t what I had in mind.”  Just say it, you coward.

She looked up at him, eyes searching his, and after a moment, she said, “If you mean babies, that is definitely happening.  Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“I haven’t!  But, I don’t want to pressure you,” he hurried to say, grateful that she had been able to read him, hadn’t made him say it.  “But, yes, that is something I would like.  With you.  If you want.”

Shifting under the blankets, Rose clambered on top of him, straddling his waist and leaning down, kissing him slowly, decadently, the kind of kiss that lingers long after the lips part.  “Like I said, definitely happening.  Though, like, in a year or two, if that’s okay.  I want some time to just be an us first, you know?  Deal?”

“Deal.”

They sealed it with a kiss.

[outsidespaceblog]

Montréal’s Pot Luck Startup | Canada

by Charles Daly

All the Marrow

It’s Saturday night in late August, typically Montréal’s last month of t-shirt weather. I’m sitting at a picnic bench with group of young Montréalers eating Haitian food off paper plates. My portion is the envy of the table because I got a large bone in it, full of marrow, which my dinner companions are teaching me how to extract. This is my first time having goat. I probe the hollow end timidly with my plastic fork. Finally I’m told have to suck out the marrow—and don’t be shy about making noises.

Tonight is Haiti Night at the Village au Pied-du-Currant, a public space on the banks of the St. Laurence River that has been transformed over the past four summers into an ongoing multicultural festival.

The Village

Built on the gritty sand of an urban beach, the Village is a cluster of land/sea containers converted into galleries, kitchens and bars, purpose built sheds and cabanas, a scaffolding rooftop bar with a view down the river, and open spaces for eating, dancing and playing.

So far this summer the Village has hosted food festivals showcasing West African, East Asian, Mexican, and Brazilian cuisine, South American folklore for kids, movie nights, a night market, community yoga—in collaboration with Lululemon, and a “1990s Brooklyn” themed night that one local described as “the best thing I did all summer.” They finished off the season with a “punky reggae party.”

The Village is built–and rebuilt every summer–on a previously vacant and overgrown lot, separated from the banks of the river by railroad tracks that serve the port and carry functioning land/sea containers to and from cargo ships.

This is “the river” from Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne.”

The bridge, slightly upstream is named for Jacques Cartier, the founder of Montréal, and is lit up every night this summer in celebration the 375th anniversary of his accomplishment.

Across the water, at La Ronde, an amusement hosts a summer-long international fireworks competition. The Village started as a place to catch the show for free.

The Potluck Startup

The Village and its festivals are the brainchild of La Pépinière, the nursery, a startup that works to connect communities with the city around them in under-utilized public spaces. Their approach is to provide the space and the logistics and empower the community to do the rest. Co-Founder Maxim Bragoli explains, “Most government and civic event planning starts with the funds and the logistics, put something together and hope the people respond. We start with the people.” 

When I spoke with Maxim and Raphaëlle Bilodeau, Pépinière’s executive director, they both objected to the word “event.” To them, an event is a spectacle or a commercial enterprise, something that’s sold to the public from outside for a profit. Raphaëlle describes what they do as “place making.”

One place they made was a public woodworking shop at the Village. Some people used it to make toboggans. Yves Plante, a professional sailor, used the space to teach the art of boat making. He soon launched his own non-profit, Juenes Marins Urbains (young urban sailors.) Their motto: “Changing the world, one boat at a time.”

Pépenière has projects in 8 of Montréal’s 19 boroughs and they are constantly branching out. Their goal is to design a template for action that could work anywhere.

In keeping with their startup ethos, they make improvements to the village, based on feedback, with each seasonal rebuild. The brightly painted land/sea containers double as storage for the Village’s many parts in the winter.

When sourcing food, Pépinière looks for authenticity. They use their community connections to find the best food according to the community it comes from, not just what’s trendy. You know, that one Korean restaurant where they speak Hangul and serve homemade kimchi, not the other one with “dumplings” on the menu and a scorpion bowl happy-hour Thursday nights.

According to Raphaëlle, “our metric for authenticity is inclusion. It’s a public space, so we should see the public there. All types and ages.  Our great fear is that this will just be a hipster thing or just attract whoever.”

Haiti night is a success, if the dance floor is anything to go by. You see a mix of people who clearly knew the songs and the moves, some who wore Haitian flag bandanas, and people of Montréal’s many other backgrounds and colors all having a blast. At midnight, a drum line leads a thousand or so party-goers through the village.

I asked my dinner friends about this. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but the vibe was different from something you’d see south of the border, even in a place like Brooklyn or L.A.

“Diversity just isn’t cliquey here,” says Andolina, my new Chinese-Dominican-Quebecoise friend. Her friend Adam, a native Montréaler can’t find the word in English, but settles on “joyous togetherness” to describe the city’s prevailing attitude.

Maxim calls Montréal “a patch work of inclusion.” He points to the four flowers on the city’s flag for the four nations that founded the city: the fleur de lis for the French, a shamrock for the Irish, the English rose, and Scottish thistle. This year, the city added a white pine at the center of the flag for the first peoples of Montreal, a symbol chosen by that group.

Before there was a restaurant scene or young startups bringing food to the community, Montréalers shared their family recipes and the cuisine of their home countries. Pépinière joins the food-trucks and pop-up restaurants in brining this “pot luck culture” into the 21st century. 

Cultural Entrepreneurship

The culture of inclusion is inseparable from the city’s business ethos. Montréal sees itself as a brand. Their main industry is the city itself and the myriad sights and tastes it offers visitors. This isn’t sanctimony or an effort to stick it to their less tolerant southern neighbors. It’s business. Pépinière joins a tradition of cultural entrepreneurship. Montréal manufactures experiences and connections. Maxim calls it a “city of festivals.” Montréal’s best known export is Cirque du Soleil, the circus reimagined, which spawned a lighting and stagecraft industry that also works with Celine Dion–or simply Celine as she’s known up here–and Quebec’s film industry.

Haiti’s Brain-Drain, Montréal’s gain

Everyone I spoke with at the Village seemed to have some knowledge of Haitian food, this makes sense given the Haitian community’s prominence and long history in Montréal. Haitians fleeing poverty and political turmoil have come to Quebec since the 1960s. The province is popular for its linguistic and cultural commonalities that make assimilation easier. In Canada, immigrants from the poorest country in the western hemisphere found not only a better life but a place in the middle class. As one frequently quoted statistic has it, there have been more Haitian doctors in Canada than in Haiti since the 1970s. According to historian and Haitian-American Maxo Marc, Montréal and Quebec are Haitian cities in the same way Chicago and Boston are Irish. (He points out that Chicago, by the way, was founded by a Haitian, Jean-Baptist-Point Du Sable.)

Unfortunately, new arrivals haven’t been so lucky. The latest wave of Haitian immigrants are coming not from Haiti, but from the United States. Fearing the new administrations immigration policies, and chasing rumors of an open-door policy, thousands are heading north, often crossing illegally. Once in Canada, they face an asylum seeking process that sees about half of applicants deported back to Haiti. They await their fate in “Welcome Centers” (read: shelters.) In Montréal, the Olympic Stadium is a temporary home for hundreds of Haitian asylum seekers.

Pépinière found themselves in a unique position to help the Stadium’s residents. Their space in the public garden is right next to the stadium. They organized a day of activities, food and music in collaboration with Maison d’Haiti. This wasn’t a political act, it was a matter of brining fun and recreation to people who haven’t had much of either in a while. There are plenty of NGOs and government bureaus interested in giving these people handouts and necessities, but Pépinière addresses their need to relax and get their minds off their tenuous situation, if only for a day.

The field day at the stadium was a welcome to Montréal, of sorts. The day included Haitian food, but also showcased the city’s global cuisine.

We’re not in Canada

We wait in line for goat for about an hour. There’s an even longer line for griot. People hold their places in the queue while friends go to bring back fresco—shaved ice—and ti’ punch—a rum cocktail. We talk about food as we wait to eat. Catherine, a child psychologist who works with refugees and immigrants, tells me she waited two hours for jerk chicken on Caribbean night and they ran out by the time it was her turn. We’re told they’re prepared for the demand tonight and there’ll still be plenty when we make it to the grill.

I meet Cordia, Andolina, and Adam in line. Three friends who go on “food crawls” every weekend. They make fast friends with Catherine, debating where the best gnocchi is to be found. They recommend places I must try while I’m here, from a Hungarian butcher, to a new Palestinian spot. “We try not to go to the same place twice,” Cordia tells me, “and we’re not even close to trying every place.” And they probably never will, considering Montréal has the most restaurants per capita of any Canadian city, and is second only to New York in North America. When I ask them to pick a favorite, they can’t.

Catherine teases that my favorites so far have been poutine–Quebec’s answer to chilli cheese fries–and Tim Horton’s coffee. They crack up.

Adam is representing his borough with a t-shirt featuring the neighborhood’s name and the image of a typical Montréal street of balconied triplex apartments.  He says he’s from his borough first, then he’s a Montréaler, then Québécois, and finally Canadian.

In the summer he commutes to work by kayak and I tell him that’s pretty Canadian if you ask me. As a local, he tells me it’s easy to forget all that’s available right in his backyard. He credits his friends from elsewhere with giving him a new take on his hometown. “I discovered Montréal through friends who moved here.”

Cordia moved here from Hong Kong eight years ago. When it came to learning French she says she started with the food words, and that was enough to make friends.    

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[comfsy]

Montréal’s Pot Luck Startup | Canada

by Charles Daly

All the Marrow

It’s Saturday night in late August, typically Montréal’s last month of t-shirt weather. I’m sitting at a picnic bench with group of young Montréalers eating Haitian food off paper plates. My portion is the envy of the table because I got a large bone in it, full of marrow, which my dinner companions are teaching me how to extract. This is my first time having goat. I probe the hollow end timidly with my plastic fork. Finally I’m told have to suck out the marrow—and don’t be shy about making noises.

Tonight is Haiti Night at the Village au Pied-du-Currant, a public space on the banks of the St. Laurence River that has been transformed over the past four summers into an ongoing multicultural festival.

The Village

Built on the gritty sand of an urban beach, the Village is a cluster of land/sea containers converted into galleries, kitchens and bars, purpose built sheds and cabanas, a scaffolding rooftop bar with a view down the river, and open spaces for eating, dancing and playing.

So far this summer the Village has hosted food festivals showcasing West African, East Asian, Mexican, and Brazilian cuisine, South American folklore for kids, movie nights, a night market, community yoga—in collaboration with Lululemon, and a “1990s Brooklyn” themed night that one local described as “the best thing I did all summer.” They finished off the season with a “punky reggae party.”

The Village is built–and rebuilt every summer–on a previously vacant and overgrown lot, separated from the banks of the river by railroad tracks that serve the port and carry functioning land/sea containers to and from cargo ships.

This is “the river” from Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne.”

The bridge, slightly upstream is named for Jacques Cartier, the founder of Montréal, and is lit up every night this summer in celebration the 375th anniversary of his accomplishment.

Across the water, at La Ronde, an amusement hosts a summer-long international fireworks competition. The Village started as a place to catch the show for free.

The Potluck Startup

The Village and its festivals are the brainchild of La Pépinière, the nursery, a startup that works to connect communities with the city around them in under-utilized public spaces. Their approach is to provide the space and the logistics and empower the community to do the rest. Co-Founder Maxim Bragoli explains, “Most government and civic event planning starts with the funds and the logistics, put something together and hope the people respond. We start with the people.” 

When I spoke with Maxim and Raphaëlle Bilodeau, Pépinière’s executive director, they both objected to the word “event.” To them, an event is a spectacle or a commercial enterprise, something that’s sold to the public from outside for a profit. Raphaëlle describes what they do as “place making.”

One place they made was a public woodworking shop at the Village. Some people used it to make toboggans. Yves Plante, a professional sailor, used the space to teach the art of boat making. He soon launched his own non-profit, Juenes Marins Urbains (young urban sailors.) Their motto: “Changing the world, one boat at a time.”

Pépenière has projects in 8 of Montréal’s 19 boroughs and they are constantly branching out. Their goal is to design a template for action that could work anywhere.

In keeping with their startup ethos, they make improvements to the village, based on feedback, with each seasonal rebuild. The brightly painted land/sea containers double as storage for the Village’s many parts in the winter.

When sourcing food, Pépinière looks for authenticity. They use their community connections to find the best food according to the community it comes from, not just what’s trendy. You know, that one Korean restaurant where they speak Hangul and serve homemade kimchi, not the other one with “dumplings” on the menu and a scorpion bowl happy-hour Thursday nights.

According to Raphaëlle, “our metric for authenticity is inclusion. It’s a public space, so we should see the public there. All types and ages.  Our great fear is that this will just be a hipster thing or just attract whoever.”

Haiti night is a success, if the dance floor is anything to go by. You see a mix of people who clearly knew the songs and the moves, some who wore Haitian flag bandanas, and people of Montréal’s many other backgrounds and colors all having a blast. At midnight, a drum line leads a thousand or so party-goers through the village.

I asked my dinner friends about this. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but the vibe was different from something you’d see south of the border, even in a place like Brooklyn or L.A.

“Diversity just isn’t cliquey here,” says Andolina, my new Chinese-Dominican-Quebecoise friend. Her friend Adam, a native Montréaler can’t find the word in English, but settles on “joyous togetherness” to describe the city’s prevailing attitude.

Maxim calls Montréal “a patch work of inclusion.” He points to the four flowers on the city’s flag for the four nations that founded the city: the fleur de lis for the French, a shamrock for the Irish, the English rose, and Scottish thistle. This year, the city added a white pine at the center of the flag for the first peoples of Montreal, a symbol chosen by that group.

Before there was a restaurant scene or young startups bringing food to the community, Montréalers shared their family recipes and the cuisine of their home countries. Pépinière joins the food-trucks and pop-up restaurants in brining this “pot luck culture” into the 21st century. 

Cultural Entrepreneurship

The culture of inclusion is inseparable from the city’s business ethos. Montréal sees itself as a brand. Their main industry is the city itself and the myriad sights and tastes it offers visitors. This isn’t sanctimony or an effort to stick it to their less tolerant southern neighbors. It’s business. Pépinière joins a tradition of cultural entrepreneurship. Montréal manufactures experiences and connections. Maxim calls it a “city of festivals.” Montréal’s best known export is Cirque du Soleil, the circus reimagined, which spawned a lighting and stagecraft industry that also works with Celine Dion–or simply Celine as she’s known up here–and Quebec’s film industry.

Haiti’s Brain-Drain, Montréal’s gain

Everyone I spoke with at the Village seemed to have some knowledge of Haitian food, this makes sense given the Haitian community’s prominence and long history in Montréal. Haitians fleeing poverty and political turmoil have come to Quebec since the 1960s. The province is popular for its linguistic and cultural commonalities that make assimilation easier. In Canada, immigrants from the poorest country in the western hemisphere found not only a better life but a place in the middle class. As one frequently quoted statistic has it, there have been more Haitian doctors in Canada than in Haiti since the 1970s. According to historian and Haitian-American Maxo Marc, Montréal and Quebec are Haitian cities in the same way Chicago and Boston are Irish. (He points out that Chicago, by the way, was founded by a Haitian, Jean-Baptist-Point Du Sable.)

Unfortunately, new arrivals haven’t been so lucky. The latest wave of Haitian immigrants are coming not from Haiti, but from the United States. Fearing the new administrations immigration policies, and chasing rumors of an open-door policy, thousands are heading north, often crossing illegally. Once in Canada, they face an asylum seeking process that sees about half of applicants deported back to Haiti. They await their fate in “Welcome Centers” (read: shelters.) In Montréal, the Olympic Stadium is a temporary home for hundreds of Haitian asylum seekers.

Pépinière found themselves in a unique position to help the Stadium’s residents. Their space in the public garden is right next to the stadium. They organized a day of activities, food and music in collaboration with Maison d’Haiti. This wasn’t a political act, it was a matter of brining fun and recreation to people who haven’t had much of either in a while. There are plenty of NGOs and government bureaus interested in giving these people handouts and necessities, but Pépinière addresses their need to relax and get their minds off their tenuous situation, if only for a day.

The field day at the stadium was a welcome to Montréal, of sorts. The day included Haitian food, but also showcased the city’s global cuisine.

We’re not in Canada

We wait in line for goat for about an hour. There’s an even longer line for griot. People hold their places in the queue while friends go to bring back fresco—shaved ice—and ti’ punch—a rum cocktail. We talk about food as we wait to eat. Catherine, a child psychologist who works with refugees and immigrants, tells me she waited two hours for jerk chicken on Caribbean night and they ran out by the time it was her turn. We’re told they’re prepared for the demand tonight and there’ll still be plenty when we make it to the grill.

I meet Cordia, Andolina, and Adam in line. Three friends who go on “food crawls” every weekend. They make fast friends with Catherine, debating where the best gnocchi is to be found. They recommend places I must try while I’m here, from a Hungarian butcher, to a new Palestinian spot. “We try not to go to the same place twice,” Cordia tells me, “and we’re not even close to trying every place.” And they probably never will, considering Montréal has the most restaurants per capita of any Canadian city, and is second only to New York in North America. When I ask them to pick a favorite, they can’t.

Catherine teases that my favorites so far have been poutine–Quebec’s answer to chilli cheese fries–and Tim Horton’s coffee. They crack up.

Adam is representing his borough with a t-shirt featuring the neighborhood’s name and the image of a typical Montréal street of balconied triplex apartments.  He says he’s from his borough first, then he’s a Montréaler, then Québécois, and finally Canadian.

In the summer he commutes to work by kayak and I tell him that’s pretty Canadian if you ask me. As a local, he tells me it’s easy to forget all that’s available right in his backyard. He credits his friends from elsewhere with giving him a new take on his hometown. “I discovered Montréal through friends who moved here.”

Cordia moved here from Hong Kong eight years ago. When it came to learning French she says she started with the food words, and that was enough to make friends.    

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THE PLANTING OF THE TREE

"WELL done," said Aslan in a voice that made the earth shake. Then Digory knew that all the Narnians had heard those words and that the story of them would be handed down from father to son in that new world for hundreds of years and perhaps forever. But he was in no danger of feeling conceited for he didn't think about it at all now that he was face to face with Aslan. This time he found he could look straight into the Lion's eyes. He had forgotten his troubles and felt absolutely content. "Well done, son of Adam," said the Lion again. "For this fruit you have hungered and thirsted and wept. No hand but yours shall sow the seed of the Tree that is to be the protection of Narnia. Throw the apple towards the river bank where the ground is soft." Digory did as he was told. Everyone had grown so quiet that you could hear the soft thump where it fell into the mud. "It is well thrown," said Aslan. "Let us now proceed to the Coronation of King Frank of Narnia and Helen his Queen." The children now noticed these two for the first time. They were dressed in strange and beautiful clothes, and from their shoulders rich robes flowed out behind them to where four dwarfs held up the King's train and four rivernymphs the Queen's. Their heads were bare; but Helen had let her hair down and it made a great improvement in her appearance. But it was neither hair nor clothes that made them look so different from their old selves. Their faces had a new expression, especially the King's. All the sharpness and cunning and quarrelsomeness which he had picked up as a London cabby seemed to have been washed away, and the courage and kindness which he had always had were easier to see. Perhaps it was the air of the young world that had done it, or talking with Aslan, or both. "Upon my word," whispered Fledge to Polly. "My old master's been changed nearly as much as I have! Why, he's a real master now." "Yes, but don't buzz in my ear like that," said Polly. "It tickles so." "Now," said Aslan, "some of you undo that tangle you have made with those trees and let us see what we shall find there." Digory now saw that where four trees grew close together their branches had all been laced together or tied together with switches so as to make a sort of cage. The two Elephants with their trunks and a few dwarfs with their little axes soon got it all undone. There were three things inside. One was a young tree that seemed to be made of gold; the second was a young tree that seemed to be made of silver; but the third was a miserable object in muddy clothes, sitting hunched up between them. "Gosh!" whispered Digory. "Uncle Andrew!" To explain all this we must go back a bit. The Beasts, you remember, had tried planting and watering him. When the watering brought him to his senses, he found himself soaking wet, buried up to his thighs in earth (which was quickly turning into mud) and surrounded by more wild animals than he had ever dreamed of in his life before. It is perhaps not surprising that he began to scream and howl. This was in a way a good thing, for it at last persuaded everyone (even the Warthog) that he was alive. So they dug him up again (his trousers were in a really shocking state by now). As soon as his legs were free he tried to bolt, but one swift curl of the Elephant's trunk round his waist soon put an end to that. Everyone now thought he must be safely kept somewhere till Aslan had time to come and see him and say what should be done about him. So they made a sort of cage or coop all round him. They then offered him everything they could; think of to eat. The Donkey collected great piles of thistles and threw them in, but Uncle Andrew didn't seem to care about them. The Squirrels bombarded him with volleys of nuts but he only covered his head with his hands and tried to keep out of the way. Several birds flew to and fro deligently dropping worms on him. The Bear was especially kind. During the afternoon he found a wild bees' nest and instead of eating it himself (which he would very much like to have done) this worthy creature brought it back to Uncle Andrew. But this was in fact the worst failure of all. The Bear lobbed the whole sticky mass over the top of the enclosure and unfortunately it hit Uncle Andrew slap in the face (not all the bees were dead). The Bear, who would not at all have minded being hit in the face by a honeycomb himself, could not understand why Uncle Andrew staggered back, slipped, and sat down. And it was sheer bad luck that he sat down on the pile of thistles. "And anyway," as the Warthog said, "quite a lot of honey has got into the creature's mouth and that's bound to have done it some good." They were really getting quite fond of their strange pet and hoped that Aslan would allow them to keep it. The cleverer ones were quite sure by now that at least some of the noises which came out of his mouth had a meaning. They christened him Brandy because he made that noise so often. In the end, however, they had to leave him there for the night. Aslan was busy all that day instructing the new King and Queen and doing other important things, and could not attend to "poor old Brandy". What with the nuts, pears, apples, and bananas that had been thrown in to him, he did fairly well for supper; but it wouldn't be true to say that he passed an agreeable night. "Bring out that creature," said Aslan. One of the Elephants lifted Uncle Andrew in its trunk and laid him at the Lion's feet. He was too frightened to move. "Please, Aslan," said Polly, "could you say something to - to unfrighten him? And then could you say something to prevent him from ever coming back here again?" "Do you think he wants to?" said Aslan. "Well, Aslan," said Polly, "he might send someone else. He's so excited about the bar off the lamp-post growing into a lamp-post tree and he thinks - " "He thinks great folly, child," said Aslan. "This world is bursting with life for these few days because the song with which I called it into life still hangs in the air and rumbles in the ground. It will not be so for long. But I cannot tell that to this old sinner, and I cannot comfort him either; he has made himself unable to hear my voice. If I spoke to him, he would hear only growlings and roarings. Oh Adam's sons, how cleverly you defend yourselves against all that might do you good! But I will give him the only gift he is still able to receive." He bowed his great head rather sadly, and breathed into the Magician's terrified face. "Sleep," he said. "Sleep and be separated for some few hours from all the torments you have devised for yourself." Uncle Andrew immediately rolled over with closed eyes and began breathing peacefully. "Carry him aside and lay him down," said Aslan. "Now, dwarfs! Show your smith-craft. Let me see you make two crowns for your King and Queen." More Dwarfs than you could dream of rushed forward to the Golden Tree. They had all its leaves stripped off, and some of its branches torn off too, before you could say Jack Robinson. And now the children could see that it did not merely look golden but was of real, soft gold. It had of course sprung up from the half-sovereigns which had fallen out of Uncle Andrew's pocket when he was turned upside down; just as the silver had grown up from the half-crowns. From nowhere, as it seemed, piles of dry brushwood for fuel, a little anvil, hammers, tongs, and bellows were produced. Next moment (how those dwarfs loved their work!) the fire was blazing, the bellows were roaring, the gold was melting, the hammers were clinking. Two Moles, whom Aslan had set to dig (which was what they liked best) earlier in the day, poured out a pile of precious stones at the dwarfs' feet. Under the clever fingers of the little smiths two crowns took shape - not ugly, heavy things like modern European crowns, but light, delicate, beautifully shaped circles that you could really wear and look nicer by wearing. The King's was set with rubies and the Queen's with emeralds. When the crowns had been cooled in the river Aslan made Frank and Helen kneel before him and he placed the crowns on their heads. Then he said, "Rise up King and Queen of Narnia, father and mother of many kings that shall be in Narnia and the Isles and Archenland. Be just and merciful and brave. The blessing is upon you." Then everyone cheered or bayed or neighed or trumpeted or clapped its wings and the royal pair stood looking solemn and a little shy, but all the nobler for their shyness. And while Digory was still cheering he heard the deep voice of Aslan beside him, saying: "Look!" Everyone in that crowd turned its head, and then everyone drew a long breath of wonder and delight. A little way off, towering over their heads, they saw a tree which had certainly not been there before. It must have grown up silently, yet swiftly as a flag rises when you pull it up on a flagstaff, while they were all busied about the coronation. Its spreading branches seemed to cast a light rather than a shade, and silver apples peeped out like stars from under every leaf. But it was the smell which came from it, even more than the sight, that had made everyone draw in their breath. For a moment one could hardly think about anything else. "Son of Adam," said Aslan, "you have sown well. And you, Narnians, let it be your first care to guard this Tree, for it is your Shield. The Witch of whom I told you has fled far away into the North of the world; she will live on there, growing stronger in dark Magic. But while that Tree flourishes she will never come down into Narnia. She dare not come within a hundred miles of the Tree, for its smell, which is joy and life and health to you, is death and horror and despair to her." Everyone was staring solemnly at the Tree when Aslan suddenly swung round his head (scattering golden gleams of light from his mane as he did so) and fixed his large eyes on the children. "What is it, children?" he said, for he caught them in the very act of whispering and nudging one another. "Oh - Aslan, sir," said Digory, turning red, "I forgot to tell you. The Witch has already eaten one of those apples, one of the same kind that Tree grew from." He hadn't really said all he was thinking, but Polly at once said it for him (Digory was always much more afraid than she of looking a fool.) "So we thought, Aslan," she said, "that there must be some mistake, and she can't really mind the smell of those apples." "Why do you think that, Daughter of Eve?" asked the Lion. "Well, she ate one." "Child," he replied, "that is why all the rest are now a horror to her. That is what happens to those who pluck and eat fruits at the wrong time and in the wrong way. The fruit is good, but they loathe it ever after." "Oh I see," said Polly. "And I suppose because she took it in the wrong way it won't work for her. I mean it won't make her always young and all that?" "Alas," said Aslan, shaking his head. "It will. Things always work according to their nature. She has won her heart's desire; she has unwearying strength and endless days like a goddess. But length of days with an evil heart is only length of misery and already she begins to know it. All get what they want; they do not always like it." "I - I nearly ate one myself, Aslan," said Digory. "Would I - " "You would, child," said Aslan. "For the fruit always works - it must work - but it does not work happily for any who pluck it at their own will. If any Narnian, unbidden, had stolen an apple and planted it here to protect Narnia, it would have protected Narnia. But it would have done so by making Narnia into another strong and cruel empire like Charn, not the kindly land I mean it to be. And the Witch tempted you to do another thing, my son, did she not?" "Yes, Aslan. She wanted me to take an apple home to Mother." "Understand, then, that it would have healed her; but not to your joy or hers. The day would have come when both you and she would have looked back and said it would have been better to die in that illness." And Digory could say nothing, for tears choked him and he gave up all hopes of saving his Mother's life; but at the same time he knew that the Lion knew what would have happened, and that there might be things more terrible even than losing someone you love by death. But now Aslan was speaking again, almost in a whisper: "That is what would have happened, child, with a stolen apple. It is not what will happen now. What I give you now will bring joy. It will not, in your world, give endless life, but it will heal. Go. Pluck her an apple from the Tree." For a second Digory could hardly understand. It was as if the whole world had turned inside out and upside down. And then, like someone in a dream, he was walking across to the Tree, and the King and Queen were cheering him and all the creatures were cheering too. He plucked the apple and put it in his pocket. Then he came back to Aslan. "Please," he said, "may we go home now?" He had forgotten to say "Thank you", but he meant it, and Aslan understood.