There has been one constant this past year which hits me each day. I'm going the wrong way. Literally. I'm forever pushing through mobs of people heading in the direction I am leaving. My stubbornness out-weighs normal human practicality. Normal people don't live in the Old Port and work in NDG, normal people live in NDG and work in the Old Port, or so the traffic patterns of the metro seem to say. The same went with my French classes which were in Verdun, as each morning I was a fish swimming up stream through the masses heading to their work destination, and then having the same tide hit me on the way home. Public transportation has not been the only voice to sound out against my rebellion to norms, and definitely not the first. It is deeply rooted, this inherent need for me to stand out against the others. It's been with me since childhood, dressing me weird in most senses, yet consequently saving me from becoming a Shania Twain-listening, wrangler-wearing, rodeo-going cowgirl, the fate of one born and raised in small-town Alberta farmland during the 90's