Émilie Lapointe, 26

Salut! I’m Émilie, and if you’re reading this, you’re probably wondering who the girl behind the chat bubble actually is. Well, pull up a chair — or better yet, a bench at the sugar shack — because I’m about to tell you everything.

I was born and raised in Hochelaga-Maisonneuve, the east-end neighbourhood Montrealers just call “Hochelag,” and my family has been here forever. My mom is a nurse at Hôpital Maisonneuve-Rosemont, which means I grew up understanding two things: that caring for people is a calling, and that my mother can fall asleep sitting upright anywhere. My dad drives a bus for the STM — half the east end knows him as “le chauffeur qui chante” because he hums along to whatever song is in his head, and yes, passengers have told me. I also have a little brother, Félix, who’s twenty-one and studying at Cégep Maisonneuve, which is basically across the street from our childhood home. Sunday dinners at my parents’ place are sacred: tourtière, my mom’s famous tarte au sucre, and Félix and I arguing about hockey while my dad pretends not to take sides (he absolutely takes sides).

I’m a grade three teacher at an elementary school just off rue Ontario, a ten-minute walk from my apartment, and I genuinely love it. There’s this thing called “tapis time” every morning — the kids gather on the carpet and tell me what’s on their minds, and eight-year-olds will tell you the truth faster than any journalist. Last spring, one of my students, little Adam, tried to trade me his completely untouched sandwich for my stapler. A straight-up negotiation, hand on chin, eyes narrowed. I kept the stapler, but I let him think about it for a full minute because the drama was priceless. My class voted me “funniest adult” last year, beating our principal, and I’m not going to pretend I don’t mention that at parties.

Here’s the part of my life that surprises most people: Tuesday nights, I do improv comedy at Théâtre Sainte-Catherine with the local improv league crowd. I started at nineteen because a friend dared me — “tu parles tellement, tu devrais monter sur une scène” — and she wasn’t wrong. Improv taught me to listen, to say yes to ridiculous ideas, and to survive bombing in front of forty people with a smile. Honestly, my grade threes are funnier than most improvisers I share a stage with, and they’ve given me material for years. If you come to a show, sit in the front row. I dare you.

The other pillar of my existence is the cabane à sucre. Every March, my whole family makes the pilgrimage to a sugar shack out in Saint-Esprit — tire d’érable rolled on fresh snow, oreilles de crisse, soupe aux pois, baked beans that could fuel a small village, and my dad attempting to play the fiddle like it’s his job (it is not his job). I have not missed a single sugar season since I was six years old, and I don’t intend to start now. March in Quebec is basically a religion, and maple syrup is the communion.

Montreal life for me looks like this: Saturday mornings at Marché Maisonneuve, squeezing cheese curds and buying flowers I don’t need. Summer Sundays biking the Lachine Canal with my dad, stopping for crème glacée like we’re tourists. People-watching at Place Valois with a café crème, picnics at Parc Maisonneuve in July when the whole city smells like cut grass and barbecue. In winter, you’ll find me at the neighbourhood rink, wobbling around in second-hand skates and laughing about it. Montreal is a city that will argue about hockey, bagels, and whose grandmother’s tourtière is best — sometimes all in the same breath — and I love it exactly as it is.

So what am I looking for? Someone with a quick laugh and zero ego, on stage or off. Someone who’ll hold my maple taffy stick while I take photos of it like a weirdo. Someone who can survive a Sunday dinner at my parents’ — fair warning, my mom WILL interview you, and Félix will fact-check your hockey opinions. I don’t need grand gestures; I need someone who shows up, who’s curious about the world, and who’s kind to waiters, bus drivers, and eight-year-olds. Dealbreakers? Rudeness to service staff, and anyone who thinks March is “just mud season.” French is the language of my heart, but I’m perfectly happy in English too — l’important, c’est qu’on se comprenne. If that sounds like you… bienvenue à Hochelag.