Quelle Life

This was my entry in a non-fiction literary contest. I thought you might like to read it.

“Quelle vie” is a French phrase that translates to “what a life” in English.

The setting of my non-fiction story is the 1980s in Montreal. French and English Languages are at the heart of this personal essay, and at the time, I was in a romantic relationship, upon which the French and English 80s themes are played out. This relationship explores a preoccupation with club music and fascinations that touch upon many common memories. Rather than recounting the challenges of the 1980s, we are transported to a celebration of that era and romantic relationship. I am an expert in Popular Culture and not only feel a responsibility to recount that era but also know that I am qualified to do so.

Posted on September 12, 2025.

Quelle Life

The first time I went to St. Laurent Street in Montreal – or “The Main”, as Montrealers call it – I felt very foreign. Even though this street blended the East and West sides of the city, I felt like a tourist. I was fourteen years old and was going to a casting call for a film, and the casting director’s office was at that location. There was a mixture of apprehension and excitement, like in most of my romantic relationships.

In my early twenties, in the 1980s, I would end up working at a trendy clothing store called Parachute on that street, and I would order lunch at a restaurant across the street called The Shed.

For dinner, I had fries and mayonnaise at Lux on Upper St. Laurent Street, where you could buy magazines, and I did.

After dancing the night away at various nightclubs, such as Boom or Standing, I would often go to the restaurant The Main for Matzo Ball soup.

I had pitchers of beer with friends and played pool at La Cabanne. That street became my ‘hood.

I had an apartment in Notre Dame de Grace on Grand Street, the West Side of the city, that I used to call my country house. There were flowers, trees and I had a balcony where I’d sip on a cold gin and tonic while enjoying the summer breeze. It was located in the West End, quite far from the bustle of the East End. Where I lived was predominantly English, but where I worked and played was French.

There was a real blend of French and English in my life. When I left Montreal for graduate school in Toronto, I continued to modify my English – I was used to it. Initially, I couldn’t understand the French language here. My schooling focused on classical French. I developed an “ear” for it. I learned “joual” and when I lived in Paris for a short time, I didn’t use it – talk about a stigma.

In an extremely tense political environment that centered on the French versus the English languages in Quebec, the dancing continued. Regardless, popular culture flourished. The first time that I heard a RAP song was in the eighties. Imagine!

The aesthetic of the 1980s was indeed kitschy in retrospect (shoulder pads!), but every decade has its own unique style. The hair was too big, the make-up too thick, the colours too bold, etc.

Frenglish

Faulkner said that the past is not dead. In fact, it's not even past. Maybe that’s why I remember Montreal in the 1980s so vividly.

I dated the bouncer, Vlad [not his real name – privacy, after all], at the hot nightclub Business on St. Laurent Street. Vlad was a butch female and now he is Trans. I am fluid, in case you are wondering. No biggie now, but in the eighties, alternate identities and sexualities were a no-no.

Vlad came into the store when it was quiet one evening after we started dating, and brought me into the club. The theme was “trees” and there were lots of real ones in there (ecological, eh?). Green lights in the club lit the trees. The Sinead O’Connor song "Nothing Compares 2 U" played.

It was magical and I’ll never forget it. I also thought it might be for someone else and that I might be “rehearsal.” I put up with a hell of a lot.

Vlad was stunning and looked like a better version of James Dean. I had curly dark-brown hair to just below my neck – he had short, straight dirty-blonde hair. He had numerous tattoos [I have none], and Vlad identified as male. He was French, but we only spoke English to one another. When I met him he lived over a funeral parlour on Rachel Street and painted his room black. My room was pink. We were opposites. I would have sworn he was a vampire, but I know better, and I saw the movies. We were a combination of steam and popsicles.

We saw the animated film Who Framed Roger Rabbit? (1988) together, and when I moved to Paris for a few months to study, he would send me letters with pictures of Who Framed Roger Rabbit? that he drew. We very rarely went to the movies, but at this one, he held my hand in the dark. I could barely concentrate on the film. I was so aware of his presence, his skin on mine, his intoxicating patchouli scent.

Le Wow

The very first time I saw him was at a nightclub [I don’t remember which – maybe Le Garage] for a special event. He was sitting on an industrial-looking box, talking to someone. I decided then and there that he was the one, and I pursued him.

I remember that I was wearing tight jean shorts and that he stared at my tanned legs. I walked over to him and asked him to dance. Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock was playing – It Takes Two. He was total hotness, and without saying a word, he came with me to the dance floor. We stared into each other’s eyes the whole time. We hadn’t said one word to each other.

We ended up going to the lookout point on Mont-Royal together in my small red car, but we did not even kiss. He said that he wanted to wait. OMG. We would meet for coffee or drinks, and I was really beginning to think we’d be just friends.

It was pretty serendipitous that I loved to dance and that he was a bouncer at a nightclub. He kissed me one night after we went clubbing at a new place. We were sharing a cigarette in a dark and dank alley that reeked of garbage behind a nightclub on Ontario Street. We went outside to avoid the crowds inside. It took me off guard, but I went with it. Man, he was sexy. Lady Gaga has a line in one of her songs that goes, “he looked at me with those Johnny Walker eyes.” She could have been describing Vlad. He put me up against a brick wall and leaned into me. It started to drizzle – it was June 1988.

He tasted like scotch and fluffy clouds. I was sweaty and disheveled from dancing. No glamour. My hair was probably frizzy, and I most likely looked horrendous. Given that kissing me was far from instantaneous, I didn’t propose that he come home with me, but I would have.

Vlad was mysterious and had a typical bad-boy aura, but he was a teddy bear, really. A sexy teddy bear. His whole thing with skulls, the colour black, living over a funeral home was a challenge to death culture, and being girly and full of life, I was like an answer. I think that his decision to be with me showed his desire to trample the darkness, you know?

He once watched me take a shower. He sat on my wooden floor and leaned back against the white wall. I left the door to the tiny bathroom open. I had painted the bathroom “Clinque green” – like sea-foam. There was a small laminated poster of “The Birth of Venus” by Botticelli. Vlad’s face was in awe – I never felt so beautiful, ever.

We went out for more than two years, yet he would never call me his girlfriend. He said he had a “thing” about that. I left it alone and never bugged him about it.

Très Cool

When I lived in a dorm-like place in Paris for a few months, they would serve hot chocolate in bowls and buttery croissants for breakfast. I had neither; worried I’d get fat. I never tried the famous desserts in Paris. I often wondered how the women there stayed so skinny. I was an academic girly-girl in the eighties.

Vlad and I travelled quite a bit together. We camped in stunning Prince Edward Island. We got supplies at Canadian Tire, and he would make me hot coffee early in the cool mornings in the camping coffee pot we bought. The sand was red, and the sunlight was eerie.

Vlad usually wore a stylish jean jacket and jeans, but at my 21st birthday dinner at a quaint bistro called Restaurant Laloux, he opted for a tie, eschewing the jean jacket and jeans. I don’t remember if he gave me a gift, but I remember the tie. Le wow. Ties are not my preference, but what an effort and change. I never expected him to plan anything with me, so the thought that manifested in what he wore was a bloody miracle.

We saw the film "The Mission" several years after it was released. It was a warm June evening, and we were outside in at Parc La Fontaine near a man-made lake. There was a special event which included an outdoor movie. A hot wind rustled the leaves on the trees around me. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass. Vlad sat close to me on the bleachers. It was terrific, a perfect way to see this film. In the midst of trees, under the stars, with a cool breeze blowing, nothing could have been more appropriate.

I used to stand next to Vlad at the club's entrance. A very particular smell wafted forward – sweat comingled with booze. The drumbeats forced themselves on my ears. I remember one night, wearing a striped mini-skirt and a matching tank top. Funny what you remember. The line-ups were quite long and consisted of people like models, actors, or designers, and the caché of being close to the bouncer was exhilarating. I know it sounds trite, but at the time, for me, it was incredibly exciting – no apologies.

Before Madonna made it fairly conventional, Voguing was a popular dance. I was in a Voguing show at Business where I had to cut suits off of drag queens who subsequently Vogued in sequined outfits. I was dressed like Charlie Chaplin: a black suit, a white shirt, and a bowler hat. Vlad watched. It was so much fun. I really enjoyed watching Voguing in the clubs. It was like a secret handshake or being in an exclusive circle. When Madonna’s song Vogue came out, I loved it, but it changed everything.

All of this was before home computers, cell phones, texting, and social media. Rap music was just becoming popular. American Idol didn’t exist and the trend known as Grunge hadn’t happened yet. Raves were a future event. We were on the brink of a cultural evolution, and all I wanted to do was dance.

Very Risqué

A few nights after I returned from Paris, Vlad and I met at the restaurant Le Funambule on Saint Denis St. It was lightly snowing outside. When I went inside he had just arrived and was wearing a long leather coat to the floor and a leather cap. To me, he looked like a God.

I took off my fake fur lime-green coat, revealing an outfit I had bought in France; a short, flared black skirt, tight olive-green sweater, knit tights and black Dr. Marten boots. My lips were swathed in a new red Chanel lipstick. He kissed me hard on them. I felt slim (for a change) and sexy. The lights were warm and low, and we chose a small round table and shared a bottle of Chilean red wine. It was toasty in there. He put his hand over mine and stared with his big blue eyes into me. What can I say? That I melted? Died? Was overwhelmed? Yes – to it all.

There was a magical and mysterious quality to Vlad. Everything he seemed to focus on took on a mystical quality. I was drawn to his energy as much as his physicality. In many ways, I think we belonged together, but he was an untamed, wild entity. I would not tamper with his essence. I would have married the one who would not call me his girlfriend. That is my nature.

Fin

I don’t remember how we broke up. There was no drama; it just fizzled out. There were lots of other relationships – of course. I moved to Toronto for Graduate school, and I had different relationships, but nobody could compare to the beauty that was Vlad. He is still in my soul.

© 2025 by Romy Shiller. All rights reserved.

Quelle Life

The aesthetic of the 1980s was indeed kitschy in retrospect (shoulder pads!), but every decade has its own unique style. The hair was too big, the make-up too thick, the colours too bold, etc.

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