WEEK     JOB: ELDER CARE WORKER

LOCATION: TROIS-PISTOLES, QUEBEC

A COUPLE OF DAYS after Ian’s wedding in Vancouver, I hopped on a plane and made the trip out east to my next one-week job in the small town of Trois-Pistoles, Quebec.

In my last year of college, I heard about a government-sponsored program that encourages Canadians to learn the other official language, French. I figured if the government was going to pay for me to live somewhere else in the country for five weeks, thereby allowing me to further put off any major decision making after graduation, I was in.

I got accepted into the program in Trois-Pistoles and was placed with a host family along with eight of the three hundred anglophone students enrolled in the session. It only took a couple of days to realize that it would be a special experience.

The population of Trois-Pistoles is about four thousand. Very few speak English, which forces the students to learn the language quickly in order to communicate. The school organizes cultural activities—movies, field trips, concerts—every week, which allow the students to learn about French culture and interact with one another. When I first arrived in town with the other students on the train, only a few previously knew one another and everyone was very quiet and kept to themselves. Five weeks later, when it was time to go home, we were all in tears, sad to leave the friends we’d become so close to.

After my first five weeks in the spring of 2005, I returned for the summer session and again the following year. I loved it. I was hidden in my own world with no expectation to have a detailed map of my future. Life was simple. It was if we’d all gone back to elementary school. Class started and finished at the same time each day. The schedule of after-school activities was posted on the fridge with a magnet. Our only responsibility was to soak up the experience, learn the language, and show up at mealtime.

I stayed with the same host family each time, and as a result we’d become very close. They call me their adopted son, and I consider them my French family. Robin, Caroline, and their two daughters, Kim and Kristina, had been hosting students in their home for sixteen years, but I don’t think they’d ever hosted one like me—I refused to leave.

Robin, known as Tiggy to his friends (I call him Tigs), set me up with a one-week job at the local home for the elderly. Tigs owns a window-and-door-installation company in town and suggested that I work with him the following week. I never pass up an opportunity to visit Trois-Pistoles (especially when the language school is in session).

It felt good to be back there. There’s always an added energy that comes in situations restricted to a limited amount of time—everyone’s game for anything as they try to take away as much as possible from the experience. It was mid-May, and there were three weeks left in the spring session, so I decided that I’d stay and work three different jobs in town.

I’d always wanted to spend time at a home for the elderly. But it was in the same way that I’d always wanted to read Tolstoy’s War and Peace—I liked the idea but had never bothered to actually do it.

Now I had to.

Late Thursday afternoon I sat next to Gretchen in a room with about forty other elderly bingo enthusiasts. Several rounds of single lines, four corners, and postage stamps later, we were working on the full card. Things were looking good for me and Gretchen—just one more number to go: G48.

Bingo had been the highlight of the week. I was excited to hear the different perspectives from the elderly residents on what I was doing and tap into their wealth of life stories. But now that I was there, finally taking time out of my busy life, ready to listen, learn, and heed their profound wisdom, it seemed that no matter the topic of conversation, it always found a way back to my hair.

Elder folks were more overt in their curiosity about my dreadlocks than other people were. I’d be saying something about the weather, careers, politics, my excitement about bingo after lunch, anything really. Then someone would interrupt as though to add an opinion to the discussion, but instead it’d be something like, “So, is that your real hair?”

Others simply sat in silence and stared at me as if in a trance, their eyes following me around the room, perplexed expressions unwavering.

People have always had questions about my dreads, but they hold off asking until the right moment. I’ll be at a party, a few small groups engaged in separate conversations. Then the person I’m speaking to will ask, “How long have you had dreadlocks for?” All of a sudden there’s only one conversation in the room.

I’d had dreads for almost five years. Growing up, I always had a short clean cut. I’d wanted to have long hair at least once in my life. I figured that college would be the best time to grow it out before I’d be expected to clean myself up and get a real job. I also had the security that came from being in a long-term relationship. Dreadlocks were the last step. I planned to cut them for my final year of business school, but then I never did. And so the valedictorian of the business department had long blond dreadlocks. I found the juxtaposition funny, though I don’t think the dean was too happy with the image it portrayed.

Inevitably, the next question is “How do you get them like that?”

Traditionally dreadlocks are formed over time when hair is not washed or combed—not the most hygienic technique. In straight hair, a combination of back combing and palm rolling a section of hair makes a dread. As hair grows, it grows into the already formed dread.

Now that the near-strangers are feeling comfortable in the conversation and I appear to be cool with answering their probing questions, we get into what everyone really wants to know. Working at maintaining a fine neutral-reporter face, one of both intrigue and nonjudgmentalness (the elderly tend not to be so great with this subtle display), someone will finally ask, “And so, do you wash them?”

Yes. I’m able to wash my hair because it’s so knotted that it won’t come undone with shampoo, but I still have to avoid conditioner.

Since the start of the One-Week Job project, I’d had this exact same conversation at least once a week. This week it was about several times a day, as new people entered the room with a bewildered look on their face. Others would simply forget that they’d already asked me a half hour earlier.

“G forty-eight,” the young female caregiver at the front of the room called out.

“All right!” I said, then passed the final chip to Gretchen, who hadn’t yet realized this would complete her card. She took the chip and looked down. “Oh, would ya look at that,” she said, as she covered G48 with the chip and slowly stood up. “BINGO!” she cried out, waking up those who had drifted off to sleep.

With a proud smile on my face I watched her walk to the front and claim her, or rather, our winnings—as I knew that this win would not have been possible had I not pointed out earlier that N34 and I29 had already been called.

With a grin on her face and the crisp $10 bill in her hand, she looked toward me and waved it like a winning lottery ticket. I smiled back at her and gave a spirited thumbs-up. People clapped, then stood up and began to pack up their chips and cards and head for the exit. I gathered up the rest of our chips and cards and debated whether I’d give Gretchen a high five or a hug when she returned.

I decided on a high five transitioned into a hug.

But when I looked up, cards and chips in hand, she was walking out the door arm in arm with an elderly man. Our shopping spree at Dollarama would have to wait.

That weekend the language school had a trip planned to Quebec city. I decided to tag along, as I’d made some new friends over the week (excluding Greedy Gretchen of course). But there was one in particular who motivated me to hop on the yellow school bus and make the three-hour trip with the rest of the students. Her name was Danna (pronounced “Dan-nah”).

I saw her everywhere I went that week—at the concert at school, outside the post office, riding my bike through the park. In a town with only one traffic light, I probably passed most people a few times each day. But Danna was different.

When I saw her at the corner store (the third time that day) I debated employing the “Are you following me?” line—where of course we’d both laugh at the coincidence, then I’d continue to visibly mull over my chocolate-bar selection to convey that I was actually there with purpose, that I wasn’t a stalker, that in fact I was actually a funny guy—maybe even someone she should ask out for a cup of coffee. The groundwork would be in place for a more meaningful conversation the next time we saw each other, and she’d be left thinking, Hmm, he seemed nice.

Yeah, that would have been good—smooth even.

But instead I managed an awkward half smile that could only suggest a creepy fetish with choosing chocolate bars.

The next day I saw her again outside of the school. This time she was talking to Matt, one of the students who lived at my house. I quickly made my way over to get in on the conversation before they went their separate ways.

“Hey, Matt, how’s it going, buddy?” I said, perhaps a bit too eager.

“Good, man.” He turned to his right. “Sean, this is Danna. She’s in my class.”

I turned and faced her.

Wow, she is beautiful, I thought. Not a magazine, done-up, Photoshopped kind of beautiful, but a natural beautiful. I was positive she could wake up in the morning after only a few hours sleep, no makeup, hair everywhere, and she would only be more beautiful.

Oh, what a coincidence. Coincidences are fun, I thought, hoping that my facial expression would reflect the thought.

I debated explaining the whole awkward chocolate-bar-fetish thing or trying the following-me line, but before I could say anything, she beat me to it. With a wry smile, she said, “You’re the one that was following me around yesterday, right?” She laughed.

Oh, she’s good, I thought. Definitely someone I should ask out for a cup of coffee.

“Well, I should get going,” she said. “Matt, see you in class?”

“You bet,” Matt said.

She turned to me (one might say, “with purpose”). “Nice to meet you, Sean.”

“Nice to meet you too, Danna.”

She headed for the front doors. “And I’ll be sure to stop following you around,” I called out. Immediately, I wanted to take it back.

I hadn’t had a meaningful conversation with Danna yet, but I couldn’t help but be intrigued. With her green eyes, shoulder-length blond hair, genuine smile, slim build, and unassuming demeanor, she possessed a down-to-earth allure draped in coolness that immediately drew me in.

I turned to Matt. “Hmm, she seemed nice.”

“Yes, Sean.” He laughed, sensing that I’d taken to her. “Yes, she is.”

In Quebec, we stayed in the dorms at the university campus just outside of the city. After a night out on the town with a group of the students, several of us, including Danna, were back at the dormitory, sitting on the patio. We talked until early morning. The sun would be rising soon and the conversation dwindled.

I saw Danna slip back inside.

I searched for a way out of the conversation. I yawned and stretched, giving the “time for bed” routine, then went inside. Danna had just turned into a stairwell down the hall. In my desperate attempt not to lose her, I called up ahead, “Hey, Danna, where are you going?” I hurried to catch up.

She’d already started up the stairs. “I’m going to try and get onto the roof to watch the sunrise,” she called back.

She ran up the stairs, and I ran up after her. I only hoped that she wanted to be followed—that it was her plan for us to watch the sunrise together and she had very tactfully led me there. That’s the scene I’d created in my mind, anyway. And at the time it gave me enough courage to continue my pursuit.

But it turned out I wasn’t the innocent victim of a premeditated romantic setup. The truth is she wasn’t ready to go to bed and wanted to watch the sun come up over the city. The rooftop of the dormitory was the obvious choice.

We grabbed two chairs from the top floor, crawled out a window onto the gravel rooftop, and placed them beside each other. The sky was cobalt blue with pink brushstrokes that traced a silhouette of the city’s skyline. In such a setting, it was easy to fall into a conversation about life.

“We are so lucky,” Danna said, admiring our surreal view. “It really puts things in perspective and reminds me to appreciate the small things, and to just be grateful for this opportunity at life.” She paused, then continued, “I don’t know, I just find it incredibly humbling.”

If there was a book titled Sean’s Life Philosophies, incorporating all my beliefs and passionate views on life, Danna had studied it. During our conversation she naturally recited passages I’d subconsciously collected over the years. It was as if someone had prepped her beforehand and put her up to it, kind of like the time when Ian put a personal ad in the college newspaper. To mess with him, I created a fake email account and sent him admiring letters. Because I know Ian so well, it took only a couple of emails before he thought he’d found his perfect match. He was thrilled, until he found out it was me. I only hoped this wouldn’t end with the similar joke-taken-too-far, bitter result.

With Danna, I was speechless. I felt I couldn’t contribute anything meaningful to the conversation—especially since she shared so many of my opinions. All I could do was nod and say “Yeah.” And then change it up every once in a while with a “Yeah, I totally know what you mean,” in an attempt to communicate my sincerity and deflect any suspicion that I merely wanted to woo her (yes, woo her).

There’s something about staying awake until the sun comes up that feels epic. At least when you’ve decided to do so. When you end up walking home, still sobering up, wearing the clothes from the night before, while coping with the judging eyes of those on their way to work and the sun’s piercing rays that have never been so bright, that is somehow not so epic.

Tonight was the epic sort.

We finally said good night. We stood up and paused to take one last look at the peaceful city with the sunlight beginning to creep into its shadows. I turned toward Danna, summoned all the authenticity I could, and tried to pack my words with as much meaning as possible. “Danna, I really enjoyed talking to you tonight”—my weak attempt to create a moment.

I wanted to express how much I’d enjoyed our conversation. That I looked forward to seeing her again. That I felt something special between us. That quite simply, she amazed me. But I wanted her to feel it too, without it having to be said.

Still staring at the view, looking lost in appreciation, she smiled and casually replied, “Yeah, it was fun.” Then she headed toward the stairs.

I guessed she hadn’t had the same wow moment that I did. Ouch.