Exploring New Horizons

Bijou and I are spending some time at Boyfriend's apartment while he is away on business.

This wasn't planned, per se. What was planned was that I'd stay last weekend with him and drive him to the airport, then go back home. However, in staying said weekend, I'd brought some quilting with me, and since I'm a tad disorganized, by the time I'd driven him to the airport and made my way back, collecting my things was so daunting a task that I preferred to simply stay put.

Staying here is "pushing the envelope" for me in many ways. And the first way in which it is challenging me is, simply, getting here.

Boyfriend lives in a place called "Rivière-des-prairies." RDP, for short.

To say RDP is remote doesn't begin to cover it. RDP isn't visible on any map. Rather, it is situated on all maps right next to the large writing that says "Here there be Dragons!"

To get to RDP from the south shore, you begin by taking a deep breath, because you're going to need it. Inhale, and say "Pont-Tunnel-Louis-Hippolyte-Lafontaine." And…breathe!

Once you cross the PTLHL, you're on highway 25. Highway 25 is also called "Autoroute Henri-Bourassa." Remember that, because it's vital information for your next turn-off.

As you bounce along (at 100 kph, at night, in Montreal traffic, trying to avoid the worst of the potholes) you're looking for an exit called - I am not making this up -

"Boulevard Henri-Bourassa."

Hang on - isn't that what I'm already driving on?

No, my young Padawan. Look closely at the names. One is Autoroute Henri-Bourassa, the other is Boulevard Henri-Bourassa.

(Okay, I get it. I'm in hell. No wonder the French are traditionally so religious - the people who make their streets are nothing short of demonic!)

To the English mind, this is nothing short of certifiable! Here are two major roads - that intersect each other - in the same geographical region!

Hey - New Flash! There are plenty of good names to go around! Try using a few more!

Actually, they did.

Once you get yourself onto Boulevard Henri-Bourassa, it should be a simple matter of negotiating a few other streets. But what streets! You thought the name of the PTLHL was bad! Driving here is a literary experience! "Avenue Louis Lumiere." "Avenue Élie Beauregard." "Avenue Pierre-Remi Narbonne."

The list is interminable. Anna Paquin. André-Amoux. André Ampere. André Cipriani. Rosario Bayeur. Fernand-Gauthier. Eudore Dubeau. Samuel-Morse. Pierre Baillargeon.

Who the hell are all these people? Did they all go to the same church? What's the matter with "First," "Second," and good old "Third" streets?! Why do they all have to be so long and unpronounceable! What is WRONG with these people?????!!!!!

I'll bet there's a study somewhere that shows long street names cause accidents. I mean, by the time you've READ the name, you're past the intersection! You're spending so much time reading, you can't keep your eyes on the traffic!

And it's not like they're short little streets, either. Oh no. If you miss your intersection, you have to drive miles before you get to the next one, which of course won't permit U-turns.

Mais oui.

But somehow I do manage to find my way back. I must have been a cat or a dog in a past life and still have the "homing" instinct. And believe me, no-one is more surprised than me when I end up in the right place!

The second way being here is challenging me is that Boyfriend keeps a tidy, organized place. I have to be tidy while I'm here. I have to be organized.

I used to think my Stepfather was the most compulsively-organized man in the world. See, for a number of years, my Mom and Stepdad lived in the country, but he worked in the city. A three-hour drive away, to be specific.

Stepdad had to get up at four o'clock in the morning. Five days a week.

Needless to say, it was always dark when he got up. To spare my Mother the pain of being awakened at such an ungodly hour, Stepdad would dress in the dark, without turning any lights on.

So he organized his drawers very carefully. All his socks, for example, were sorted according to color, as was his wardrobe. He didn't have to be able to see what he was putting on, because he put browns with browns and blues with blues, etc.

When I first had the opportunity to poke around Boyfriend's place, I discovered to my amazement that he does the same thing. His clothes are sorted by color. His socks are sorted by color - lots of empty space in the drawer to keep them separate.

Only Boyfriend doesn't get dressed in darkness.

He's just a maniac!

I've had quite a bit of time now to poke around all the cubbyholes and closets and shelves here, and let me tell you, this guy makes my Stepdad look like Pigpen by comparison.

There are seven different sizes of drinking glasses. They are all in rows.

Straight rows.

There is nothing - I repeat - nothing - on the countertops. Everything is put away. The toaster is unplugged and stored. It has to be put in place and plugged in to make toast, then it is unplugged, wiped, and put away.

The movies are filed - by subject, and alphabetically.

There are no overflowing drawers or stuffed closets. Everything is stored neatly.

There is no visual clutter here. Everything is put away. Even toothpaste. Even hairbrushes. Even the glass in the bathroom is put away after use.

Some people might find this a bit odd, or a bit frustrating. But I'm here to learn.

I've been catastrophically disorganized all my life. I can use a bit of sanity, of serenity.

So I'm practising. Making the bed as soon as my feet hit the ground. Rinsing the dishes right away, wiping everything, leaving surfaces bare.

Occasionally, I leave something out deliberately, just to see how it feels. But then I think, what if I have a heart attack and die tonight, and Boyfriend comes back from his business trip and sees that? He'll kill me!

It's not a one-way street - there are things I can teach Boyfriend. For example, Boyfriend insists it's "convenient", living here in RDP.

For Boyfriend, "convenient" means the local dep is less than a 15-minute drive away. So he and I have some talking to do when he gets back, about learning to walk places, and exactly what the word "convenient" really means!

In the meantime, I'm practising my French street names, exploring boldly where I've never gone before, and following myself around with a broom and dustpan.

And pushing myself just the tiniest bit out of my comfort zone.