8:50 AM

8:50 AM. I step off the bus, onto the pavement in front of the Faculty of Letters. It's a moderately imposing construction, built in the new imperialist style of the 1960s (a favourite of many European dictators I'm told). The facade is low and wide, with steps leading to the faux columns. Around the doors are engravings of some of literature and mythology's greats -- a rotund priest from early Portuguese satires, Hamlet and his skull, some Greek dudes I would probably recognize if I had taken that Mythology course at McGill.

I walk through the main building to get to class. It's organized around courtyards -- the one to the right has a bar/cafe and a pond with little fish. The one of the right is a leafy garden with old concrete benches. We have classes in a separate building which is known as the 'The New Pavilion' (and has been, for several decades).

8:55 AM. I stroll into classroom #8, turn on the lights, drop my bag, and open the windows. I sit in my usual spot at the corner in the square u-shaped desk arrangement. I look at the courtyard and daydream. Behind the New Pavilion is the Letters library, an actually new-ish building filled with books on linguistics and literature. It is the opposite of everything McLennan is. The shelves are low enough that you can see over them and there are plenty of windows. Although the resulting lack of claustrophobia is nice, it did make realize just how many books McGill has. For example: I continue not to know what the maximum amount of books you can take out at McGill is -- and I've had twenty-some out at once before. I found out on my very first visit that the limit here is FOUR. I had to leave the others behind for another day. And I only get these ones for a week. I can't imagine trying to pump out a term paper!

9:03 AM. Hidemi strolls in. She's been in Portugal for a year but her punctuality hasn't been totally destroyed yet. Petra is next, at 9:05. By 9:12 most everyone has arrived, with one notable exception. At 9:15 on the dot, like every other day, the professor walks in. Today he sat down, looked at his watch and apologized for the tardiness with a jolly "Sometimes, you know, it just happens!" I had to fight back laughter; I think I audibly smirked.

9:30 AM. After Walter has asked his daily question, recorded meticulously on his little note pad, we start working. We review homework, discuss articles, learn grammar.

10:45 AM. Grammar is hard work. We take a break. Some people go to check their e-mail, most of us sit at the cafe outside with coffee and treats. We sit at a table that is half in the sun and half in the shade. Sun for me, Petra, Brais; Shade for Hidemi, Fatima and the Prof. The gallant galego who says he has a hard time peeling himself out of bed finally makes it to school and throws back a dark shot of expresso.

11:15 AM. No one is terribly concerned that we are still outside. The others wander back from the lab and pull up chairs. We talk about everything from Timor to bullfights. Time passes quickly -- with the rockets, as you might say in Portuguese.

11:30 AM. If it's Tuesday or Friday, it's culture time. So far we have learned about physical geography, human geography, listened to music and seen dozens of photographs.

1:00 PM. It's gotten very warm in little un-air-conditioned #8, so we leave on time. It's not polite to keep you late, our professor tells us. I involuntarily smirk, again.

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Next morning, 9 AM. I am, once again, alone with my punctuality.

Can't help thinking that someone else is getting the last smirk.