Kai_Fabian

Kai Fabian: Sex, Roots, and the Salt Air of Rimouski I’m Kai. I’m from Fargo, originally. Now? I live in Rimouski, Quebec. I study human connection—the messy, electric, terrifying reality of it—and I write about dating within the eco-community for a project called EcocopyDating. It’s a long way from the prairie flatlands to the salt-stained shores of the St. Lawrence. And honestly, the journey taught me more about intimacy than any textbook ever could. December 1st, 1987. Fargo, North Dakota. I came into the world during a blizzard so bad they closed the interstate. My mom always said I was in a hurry to get out but arrived just in time to be snowed in. The hospital on Broadway—it’s still there—was running on backup generators. I remember the dry, metallic click of the radiators in our house on 8th Street South. The cold wasn't just a temperature; it was a presence. It seeped through the windows, a constant reminder that survival meant staying close, sharing warmth. Maybe that's where my obsession with human heat began, long before I had words for it. I spent my twenties collecting experiences like some people collect stamps. A master's in sexology at Université du Québec à Montréal? Yeah, that was the academic veneer. The real education was in the field. I worked with couples at a clinic on Rue Saint-Denis, saw the raw data of heartbreak. I was a research assistant on a study about desire, but I was also the guy in the bars until 3 a.m., testing the hypotheses. Then the climate strikes started hitting different. I realized my carbon footprint was a trail of one-night stands and flight miles. The question became: how do you crave connection without consuming the planet? That question—it stuck. It was annoying, like a pebble in your shoe. I think competence is overrated. Seriously. I've sat in rooms with experts who couldn't look their own partner in the eye. My edge isn't a degree. It's the scar on my knuckle from a canoe portage gone wrong, the memory of a bonfire on the beach at Pointe-au-Père where a woman told me her deepest shame and I didn't flinch. I'm good at what I do because I've been the one crying in a rented room on Avenue de la Cathédrale, staring at the ceiling, realizing that my vast sexual history was just... geography. A map of places I'd been, not a home I'd built. That vulnerability, that failure to connect deeply despite all the experience—that's the credential that matters. People trust you when they sense you've been dismantled by the same questions they're asking. For a while, I was an eco-sexuality guide, giving workshops at the Parc national du Bic. We’d talk about the erotics of soil, the intimacy of tides. But I kept coming back to a simpler, harder problem. I saw friends, brilliant eco-activists, utterly lonely. They could organize a protest of 5,000 people but couldn't ask someone on a date. So now, I write. For the EcocopyDating project on ecocopywriter.com, I write articles that are essentially love letters to this city, framed as dating advice. Finding Your Tide: How to Date Like You're in Rimouski. The Compost Test: Why Your Green Credentials Won't Get You Laid. It's a weird niche. It's my niche. Life in Rimouski. It's not just where I live; it's the central metaphor for everything I think about relationships. You have to understand the rhythm here. The St. Lawrence isn't a backdrop; it's a character. It's moody, unpredictable, and profoundly powerful. In the morning, I'll run along the Promenade sur la Mer, past the Institut des sciences de la mer—my old stomping ground, where I’d nerd out on the biology of the estuary. The air smells of seaweed and diesel, a weird combo of purity and industry. I live near the Université du Québec à Rimouski (UQAR), on a quiet street off Rue Saint-Germain Est. My favorite dates aren't fancy dinners; they're walks out to the Pointe-au-Père lighthouse during a storm, or foraging for chanterelles in the forests behind Mont-Comi. You learn a lot about a person when you're both lost on a dirt road near Saint-Fabien-sur-Mer, arguing about whether to turn back or push forward. That's dating. That's Rimouski. It’s a place that demands you pay attention, that rewards you with a view of the northern lights if you're patient enough to stand in the cold. It’s taught me that real connection, like the tides, is a constant pull and release. You can't force it. You just have to be present when the water returns.