Inspired by the recent flurry of 'remixed' transit maps that have been submitted to Boing Boing, I assembled this anagram Montreal metro map (with suggestions from a few local Livejournallers). Click the map for a larger, more legible version. Also, here's the official map, for comparison.

The remixed maps meme started with London, then someone did Toronto, and it snowballed from there... as of today, Boing Boing has posted anagrammed maps from about 35 cities worldwide. Both the London and Toronto maps have since been censored by Transport for London and the TTC (hence the disclaimer on this one).

I had a lot of fun putting this together... would've liked to include more French, but despite recently taking classes I could only come up with Joli Tête, which isn't even grammatically correct (it should be Jolie Tête, I think). A couple of people suggested d'Un Ver and Ai Vu. It would have been great to get more, especially since some of the smaller station names didn't anagram very gracefully in English. Ah, well.

Added March 2, 2006: This map was published in the Letters section of The Mirror today. There are at least three other anagrammed Montreal metro maps (by Julien, Jay, and Dave). Also, some folks have come up with some french anagrams, though I've yet to see a full map.

thankyou to a girl in a green coat
out where my alleyway meets the street
who as i jimmied my frigid window
raised a camera to her eye,
winked quickly, walked away

causing me to pause,
notice how inviting the light was
and resolve to go outdoors,
fill up my hat with it

shadows already
falling like snow, filling cracks
in brick walls, swallowing firstly
culs-de-sac, sidestreets

as an afternoon's long angles
untangle themselves from fire escapes
and spiral staircases,
slowly winding into sun
like a ball of red yarn.

a long walk, letting fresh air
wash the barsmoke out of my coat

brought a notebook,
sat at la joute,
wrote this in it

slightly later, noticed the moon
like a dime on the sidewalk,
plucked it up, plunked it
in a proffered coffee cup,
winked quickly, walked away

...each memory is lit
by its own small moon - a snowberry,
a mothball, a dime - which regulates its tides
and longings.
· Don McKay, Finger Pointing at the Moon

oolong, green sencha, wild orange,
rooibos, bakeapple, vanilla caramel.
a small cupboard filled with the smells
of teas mailed to me by my mother,
who takes tetley orange pekoe
sweetened with condensed milk.
she always leaves a mouthful
unfinished in her cup; growing up
my first curious sips of tea
were cold and bittersweet
from a mug beside the kitchen sink.

my kettle whippoorwills me awake
and i realize, drowsily, that in the
five minutes since i plugged it in
i have slipped asleep,
steeped in dreams:

two summers ago, touring museums
with a pocketful of satsumas, we saw
The Artful Teapot. in the parking lot
my peel fell off in one long pirouette;
i photographed it on the asphalt.

too many of my memories
are fastened flimsily to photographs. flipping through
makes me lonely, forgetful - i never remember as much
when i visit a museum by myself

surely some tangible sentiment or sediment is preserved
from a summer brimming with souvenirs

but in a jigsaw-puzzle box
filled with badly-folded maps,
a broken pocketwatch from camden lock,
teacup potsherds and clay pipe fragments
salvaged from the south bank of the thames
and miniature postcards of pulteney bridge,
i find only bits and pieces of us
and dust.

clementines uneaten too long
mildew the colour of the moon,
cocoon into ghosts
as shapeless as teabags,
fit only for the breakfasts
of butterflies.

she called a cab. i could not
remember my address. i asked her
to keep her teacup: round, blue,
secondhand. she dropped it in her purse
unrinsed, a little bitterness
still in the bottom. on its underside,
"made in people's republic of china."

(come all the way from china
doesn't mean as much
as it did once)

she closed the door behind her
and i put the kettle on,
called in sick,
sipped oolong,
listened to music,
took pictures of tissues.

after which our separating selves become museums
filled with skilfully stuffed memories
· E. E. Cummings

i'd rather sink - than call brad for help!
laments the lichtenstein poster girl
as she drowns under jumbled vinyl,
tangled wires, a jungle of flowerpots.
branton loves his plants, i comment
as we squeeze in one last philodendron
and gingerly close the tailgate.
his dad runs a flower shop, grins dave,
as branton and lise come downstairs
with a base guitar and a begonia,
ford bounding eagerly behind.

are we ready yet, yawns branton's dad
from behind the wheel. it's just down st-joseph
and around the corner, but one-way streets
wrangle us in the wrong direction. several red lights later
branton says, the floor's not level in that corner
but ford's gonna love the backyard.

two truckloads excavated, the old room
is bare but for blankets, mattress, bedframe,
box spring. that thing, declares branton,
doesn't fit down the stairs. we all agree
there's no way, then try it anyway

...the balcony is how we moved it in, says b.,
but we'd need some rope. there's a hardware store
not far from here -
                          i hope this is enough. ford
sniffs suspiciously at the coiled yellow cord
as we slit the box spring's thin underbelly,
leash its wooden bones. though dave and i
were both chief scouts, neither of us
remembers any knots. is that a clove hitch?
a fisherman's bend? no it's homemade,
and gordian.

you two at the top, i'll catch it at the bottom.
branton's dad guards flowerpots, lise aims a camera,
and we unceremoniously lower our box spring over st-joseph
like a white flag, an empty speechballoon,
an allegiance to the kind of silence
that surrenders itself faithfully:
fresh snow, new sheets of paper,
or four white walls and a hardwood floor
waiting to be filled with paint, plants, pawprints,
a doormat that says bienvenue,
and a mattress to sink into.

newly snow-laden, a birch branch
bends lower still when a squirrel lands,
a briefly-lowered drawbridge
to an adjacent maple.

only because i close my eyes
i hear the following: the elfin squeak
of a branch hinging back into place,
the flump of newly-loosened snow
plummeting into unbroken snowbank,
a patter of scurrying paws.

i reopen my eyes to winter's white noise,
the blinding sound of sun on snow
pooling in footprints, pealing between trees,
every evergreen needle
an unaligned antenna.

the squirrel spirals the maple's trunk,
hops across snow like a skipped stone,
shyly shadowing me as i walk
backwards along the path, watching.
a patch of gray ruffles its ears,
tail a muffled question mark,
eyes like unfilled birdfeeders.

similarly, i hear soft footsteps
before noticing her there,
gray coat, white mittens, white hat,
a fringe of orange hair. she pauses
when she sees me, seems to
mentally make a small adjustment,
as if tapping a compass
to spur a sleepy needle.

on the opposite side of the glade
i close my eyes, slowly orbit
towards the chalet, listening
for the silence of satellites.

she eclipses me by the belvedere,
slips a small silver camera from her purse, says,
excuse me could you please take my picture

later, at a table in the chalet
between sips of tea from a paper cup:
this is my first time here. i followed you
because you knew where we were going.