Food for thought

I rushed in the rain to my appointment, worried that I might be late and keep the bank clerk waiting. The thought of moving into my new apartment in a few hours kept me excited and awake until the early hours. Not even the time to eat breakfast, though my stomach growled as I ran.

Luckily I made it on time, and did what I had to do in the bureaucratic process of obtaining a credit card. A few days before, for a class dealing with philosophical dicussions on law, I had just re-read Kafka's "Before the Law". Suddenly, and ironically, I felt as foolish, or perhaps as wise, as the man from the country struggling to affect the invisible yet overbearing goliath of regulations and rules. Sadly for me, I am defeated, and must obey and wait, and wait, and wait until my door opens, and until I am beckoned in.

I walked towards the metro station, and in the distance the neon-lights of Tim Hortons beckoned me in. The smell of fresh coffee and bagels baking in the oven was welcoming, and I ordered something to go. With my breakfast and cup of cocoa, I stepped into the rain again, and quickly dove towards the nearby metro station.

I ran down the escalaotor, but just in that moment, in the corner of my eye something caught my attention. On the stairs next to the escalator was a vagrant, lying there like a heap of discarded clothes, the steps as his bed. The escalator took me further downward, but my curiosity wanted to go up. I looked at my bagel, and felt the warmth of my hot cocao, and felt the sweet smell entice my nostrils. The image of the man's unkempt hair, soiled garments, and unshaven face lingered. A gust blew, as tires gradually screetched unbearably to a halt.

I lept off of the escalator and clambered up the stairs. I leaned in close to the man, and whispered, "Bonjour... Bonjour...", while tapping him lightly on his shoulder. There was no response, save for the light heaving of his chest with each soft breath. Without thinking, I put the cocao next to the man, and placed the still warm bagel on it. And I ran down the stairs, as quickly as I came, and never looked back.

I could go hungry for a meal, and not eat. But how many meals has the man not eaten, and how hungry must he be? A free gift, the kind that makes hairs on your neck stand straight because for a little moment in this often destitute world there is a gift that warms humanity.

The gift of charity.

Cycle

Students have a way with money. Every cent and dollar counts, and every bargain is an opportunity, every saving an investment. At least to some, and I happen to be one of these people.

So since I arrived in Canada last week, I have been scouting the web for bargains. First, it was for cheap accommodation in a desirable neighbourhood not too far from university. And now it is for cheap second hand furniture, items, goods, and whatever people want to pass on. There are tonnes of used items for sell… from the totally useless Yoga DVDs to full living room settees and kitchen cutlery. And there is a dedicated website for McGill students to exchange their goods (and services!) for great value. Since a lot of students are moving and leaving, often the furniture or daily items are relatively new, and all people want is to get rid of them at a low price.

So imagine my joy when I bought a fan-and-heater–in-one for just CAD$5! The girl is about to move back to the United States, and she even threw in the backpack that she carried the fan/heater for free! I skipped away with my latest acquisition, and with the knowledge that I was now somewhat be prepared for the notorious winter months to come. And I have been told, they will come.

Maybe to others it is strange, but one of the most essential thing that I wanted to buy here is… a bike. Before arriving, I have been told that—though not great—Montreal is a city that has cycle paths for green and health-conscious people like me who are quick on the pedal. The past dozen years in the Netherlands, I have almost daily never gone without hopping on a bike, so of course I have been scouting the section of the website selling bicycles.

And then I saw it. Almost brand-new, 18 gears, front suspensions, dark red, and well maintained. And only for CAD$50! So I called the person, and made an appointment to go pick it up. I may not have a bed yet, but at least I have a bike!

Little did I realise that he lived by the other campus of McGill, which is some 40 minutes out of downtown by bus. I found my way onto the shuttle service running between the city and the other campus, and for the first time, boarded an ‘American’ schoolbus—the only difference being that it was not yellow like those you see in movies. It was white.

Maybe it was the intense three hours of international air carrier liability earlier, or the cool breeze and lazy Autumn sun, but almost immediately I fell asleep…

“Time to get up!” the busdriver shouted, as the bus rode past trees, grassy lawns, and in the distance, the wide water glistening in the sunset. Everything was so green, so vast, so open, so natural. So very different from the noise and busy-ness of the city I had somehow been transported away from in the wink of an eye (literally). The bus turned, into a tree-lined street, on either side huge and beautifully built free-standing houses—almost villas by European standard— with neatly trimmed hedges and well mowed lawns. The only things missing were the white picket fence, dog, and happy smiling family of mum, dad, and two kids playing, otherwise it would have been the iconic semblance of Fairview (from Desperate Housewives). It then dawned on me, perhaps in one of those awing moments in life when you realise that this something you have seen so often but never experienced: this is the much talked about, and much envied and sought after new world of ‘American’ (actually, Canadian) suburbia .

I got off the bus, still dazed from what I have just seen, for it all seemed a dream. The campus was massive, like nothing I have ever encountered before, and dwarfed even the campus downtown, which I was already impressed with because of its spread and size. Later I learned that the second campus in the western edge of Ile de Montreal (Island of Montreal) houses the a number of faculties, including that of agriculture, and animal and plant sciences. Next to the campus, the mighty Fleure Saint-Laurent River flows into the grand Lac Saint-Louis.

A couple, in the setting sunlight, sat on a far away bench as water flowed silently past. A squirrel, an acorn clenched between its teeth, mischievously skips across the lawn and onto a tall tree. A maple leaf fell in the gentle breeze.

And I had a bike with me to explore this vast and beautiful land before me.

“Stop fondling me, or else the airline will be liable!”

Once in a while I encounter cases in my studies that are so bizarre that they must be mentioned. If not to educate, then at least it will entertain.

Imagine the following situation. You are onboard a long trans-Pacific flight, and the cabin lights are dimmed, as most passengers are lying asleep. You are next to the window, which on most long-haul economy class planes effectively means you are ‘hemmed in’ by two other strangers. You doze off. Then, suddenly, you feel something wriggling in your pants. You open your eyes, and see that the passenger next to you has extended his (or her) naughty hand down to fondle you. You turn your body away, causing the unwelcome hand to withdraw, and continue to sleep, only to wake up moments later to see that the naughty passenger simply has not lost interest in your underpants. You leap across the two passengers to freedom, and inform the flight attendant. The dirty perv is apprehended upon arrival. You sue the airline for personal injury.

And you win. Big time.

As twisted as this may be, there is no need to imagine, because this is exactly what happened in Wallace v Korean Air (US Appeals 2^nd Circuit, 2000). The poor Ms. Wallace woke to find that dirty Mr Park had “unbuckled her belt, unzipped and unbuttoned her jean shorts, and placed his hands into her underpants to fondle her”. The most bizarre fact was perhaps not the sexual predation—however undesirable it is and may have been—but that Ms. Wallace brought the case not against the sex offender, but against the airline.

She did so under the Warsaw Convention—that long-winded text printed on the back of airline tickets—which limits liability for personal injury or death to US$75,000 in the event of an “accident”. But Ms. Wallace actually managed to make the Appeal Court in the US find that the airline is liable for the unsavoury actions of dirty Mr. Park, because “the lights were turned down and the sexual predator was left unsupervised in the dark”. The court called what happened “an unexpected or unusual event”, and therefore the law which normally deals with a serious air crash or aerial accident on an international flight would apply.

It is of course not wrong that Ms. Wallace should get her right, and that she is indeed entitled to compensation for the emotional discomfort she may have endured. But do use the Warsaw Convention, which was drafted to deal with more ‘serious’ aviation accidents undermines the law and opens it up to abuse. Luckily, it seems like this peculiar case and peculiar facts are one off, and probably will not be repeated.

But the consequences of Ms. Wallace’s victory are mind boggling. Basically the case implied that airlines has a duty to know who is a sexual predator, and that the inflight steward(ess) should regularly patrol the aisles with a flashlight to see if there are any unwanted hands extended down unwanted pants.

Besides the regular security questions on whether anyone has tampered with your luggage, perhaps the next time you board the plane,the checkin people will ask you if you are a sexual predator, or whether you would mind sitting next to one.

I will be looking forward to my next flight…

In between

Despite the noise of the morning traffic, the racket of passing monster trucks, and the sirens of emergency services, it was a long and welcome chat on the phone. Thanks to my friend who called to check up on how I was doing, for an hour or so I felt less alone and more comfortable being here. We exchanged laughs, as I excitedly told her about my new apartment and how eager I was to move into my very first home of my own. She shared my happiness, and felt my anxieties about being here and having to start life all over again. It felt good to know that someone cares so much. Though she was far away, she was in fact so very close.

I guess in all the excitement about coming to Canada, I completely forgot how much I dislike the dirt and din of big cities. Or perhaps it just takes some getting used to, especially coming from a quiet little village like The Hague, where two pedals away I could always easily escape into the recluse of the forest. Like in my undergrad days in London, my new university is right in the heart of Montreal, situated in the shadow of skyscrapers and the city’s highest hill. In fact, there is even an metro station named after my university, which I guess is something to be proud of. Then again, it feels strange that once you step outside of the classroom, you are again in the bustle and hustle of city life.

I checked out of the hostel I have been staying in for the last five days. Originally I was supposed to move into the new apartment in the morning, but the old tenant was still there, so my landlord told me to wait till the evening. Since I could not do anything, I headed to the law library for the first time. A pretty building, right opposite my institute, five floors, and actually not all that big, especially considering it is the library that supports probably (one of ) the best law school in Canada. I was one of the very few people in the library, especially given that it was a Saturday, and that school had just begun. I sat down, and for the next hours till dusk fell, I worked on a paper that I am working on together with friends I met during the summer school in Barcelona.

Outside, for the first time since I arrived in Canada, it began to rain. The sky had been heavy and dense the whole day, and finally it started to pour. The city took on a whole new coat in the dampness, and even the skyscrapers in the background seemed to have their usual proud towering postures dampened.

I moved the remaining of my luggage to a temporary apartment that my landlord had given to me before I moved into my own one. I called him, just to ask what the situation is, and then came the bad news.

The apartment I had liked since I stepped into it is not going to be available. Apparently, the girl who is staying there changed her mind and does not want to move anymore. What is more, she is actually someone who special needs, which means it will take a lot of effort for her to move house, especially since special appliances that cater for her will have to be fitted, and this cannot just happen within a day or so. According to the landlord, she threw a fit, and was very difficult to deal with. And the landlord sounded really apologetic, and offered to give me another apartment that is in better condition.

What was I to say? To be honest, I was not sure what to believe, but then again, I did not have it in me to say that my needs for the apartment that I liked so much would come before a girl with special needs. I mean, I can only imagine how tough it must be for her to be living on her own, let alone have to be forced to move in a sudden notice. Of course, I was extremely disappointed, and have been feeling pretty upset since I heard the news.

But then again… it is just an apartment, right?