We sit two by two on the train, face to face. Rebecca and Maryse. Michael and I the other. After brief introductions, the first issue were the books that each brought to the "residence". Happy to be in the company of my kindle. The train started moving. Montreal was getting far out the window. Up here, everything just seemed a little surreal. Fiction, theatre texts, dramatúrgicos advisors, resilience … And there I was, on my way to a residence of translation with writers of Quebec. Funny how we create images of ourselves that not always "fit" where we wish or imagine. Hard for me to see how they, even though, deep down, we were so alike. Writers. After all, what's the real difference between us?