Ah, Montreal. You are like the sexy leather-clad mistress whom I take home for a night of unspeakable indulgences, only to wake and find you setting my couch on fire to rid it of evil spirits.
I spent some time there with my family this weekend, which is always an interesting and unnerving experience. Most of the family there are the immigrants: aunts, uncles, and their children, and are your typical Arab stereotypes. Pitbulls, Versace, Ferraris. However, my little brother has also recently moved to Montreal from LA in an attempt to go straight, and is not your typical Arab stereotype:
We couldn’t have been out for more than an hour or two when he got into a fight with three huge french-speaking Mexicans. Bottles broken over heads, knives pulled, teeth lost, and so on. To his credit, he didn’t start it, nor did he stab anyone this time.
Things calmed down a little after that, but really only a little. Aside from an hour spent watching a mindblowing surprise fireworks show downtown (who knew they could make explosions shaped like cubes?), the weekend was mostly dominated by chaos, confusion, and excess. One of my cousins called me this morning to let me know that my brother ended up in jail a few hours after I left. Aside from a kicked-in police car window, details are pretty sketchy, and no one knows exactly what happened, or where he went after he was released.
Family aside, I got to see Yann and Guilliame perform as Memmaker, which was excellent; we’ll be bringing them to town to play soon. I also got to spin an impromptu tag-team set with Yann at Saphir which was a lot of fun, and also resulted in a booking for a rave sometime next month. There are a lot of Montreal DJs who’re interested in playing Ottawa at some point, maybe we’ll see about having a Cultural Exchange night.
The house is coming along well, although the pace of the move is much slower than I’d like. I should be borrowing Charles’ father’s truck sometime soon to get the rest of the big pieces from the old house, and it should be all downhill after that.
It is, even in it’s unfinished and cluttered state, beautiful. I would buy it tomorrow if it were for sale. And if it were sold at about a third of it’s actual value so that I could afford it.
Instead of banknotes, today’s pictures are of the castle on Kaya street in Turkey where my father’s side of the family grew up. (It has since been taken over by the Turkish government, and turned into a museum and movie set.)
In the summer, the entire family would sleep outside on this roof.
This was my grandmother’s room and bedset. She left it when they moved, and they have maintained it for the last 40 years.
One of the guest rooms.