Bonjour Et Adieu

Montreal in the winter. Snow. Lights. French. Food. Coffee. Tres romantique! I left on Saturday for Montreal with those images and a clear vision of what I wanted; to be alone and get the hell out of New York City. That's right, I've grown to hate this dutch oven. Jay-Z and Alicia Keys can suck it, I've rewritten Empire State of Mind. It goes a little something like this:

In New York, concrete jungles where dreams are made of (and destroyed)

There's nothing you can't do (when you have lots of money), now you're in New York

These streets will make you feel brand new (and disgust you)

Big lights will inspire you (and blind you), let's hear it for New York!

Every time that song comes on a violently push the NEXT button. Anyways, before you go calling me a traitor, I won't expand. Hating New York will be another entry full of expletives and why I don't love New York (and why New York doesn't love me).

NEXT.

The country of Penn Station to the country of Canada. Penn Station is an enclave filled with fast food and too many people. The angry Vatican of New York City. Penn Stationians can be identified by their permanent frowns and disdain for questions by patrons. The good news is that foreigners and locals alike can buy alcoholic beverages and walk around unharrassed.

I didn't crack a beer at 8:15 AM but you can bet your sweet tallahassees that I wanted to; I inconveniently pulled my back two nights before and it ached for Newcastle-relief (Seriously, it hurts to fart). I took four Ibuprofen instead and lathered up on Ben-Gay. The Ben-Gay was a good accessory to the look I was going for-an old friend called “Don't talk to me”.* Glasses. Dirty hair. Bad breath. Smelly socks.

I booked a bed at a hostel in Downtown Montreal and opted for the 6 bed female dorm. I don't do the Co-ed rooms anymore. Men can't be trusted and I've had too many encounters with pervs wanting to see me goodies (yes, me, I'm sooooo desirable! See ending of previous paragraph) I'm greeted by an unenthused but helpful hostel owner and ushered to my dorm room. I said hi to the only girl present. She was on the bottom bunk typing on her Mac. She did not respond. Mute roommate...bonus!

The hostel was right off St. Catherine. The shopping district. Damn! I hate shopping! I left my mute, internet addicted roomie for a little nighttime exploring. H&M, Old Navy, GAP, Octopussy-wait what? There's a neon sign with a woman sans knickers and showing some major cleve. Haha. I'm sure a guidebook somewhere reads, “In case anyone needs a break from shopping, there are several nudie bars to stop in for a quick dick lift.”

Sunday's activities were contingent on ski mask weather. I had no choice but to rely on another old friend, coffee shuffle** Cafe Au Lait, Americano and Cappuccino in Old Montreal with cobblestone streets and french boulangeries. Even better—everything smelled like pig! Ham, pork, bacon, sausage. I mentally thanked my doc for telling me to eat more meat last checkup.

And French everywhere! The only language I love is French (sorry ugly Spanish, though I do want to name my first child Basura) French was my best subject in high school but now I can only remember the essentials-Bonjour (Hello), Merci (Thanks),  Merde (Shit), etc. I fooled a couple of waiters with my bonjour and I had to shake my head like an idiot to signify that I'm not fluent in French.

I avoided all other human contact until my last night. Once the hostel owner and his friend found out I was from “Ze big apple” they invited me to have a couple of beers. I obliged but soon regretted it.

“Oh man, it was so crazzzzy last night. We almost got arrested!”

“Yeah, crazzzy times. We went out and put our music out the window of my apartment and just blasted it. Total dance party.”

“The music was like bump bump bump bump zzzzzzzzzzzzzz”

“Yeah man. Nuts!"


"And we are going to do it again tonight! We are soooo crazy!”

My eyes glazed over. And that was before they started laughing at their own shitty, misogynistic jokes. The hostel owner pressured me to go out with them later:

“OK time to leave.”

“Alright, you guys have a good time.” I was already standing and backing up to my room.

“You should go with us.”

“No, my train leaves early.”

“Please? Come for 10 minutes and then you can leave." 

“No. I appreciate your invitation but I'm going to bed."

“Why not?”

“I have an early train.”

“Just for 10 minutes?” Pesky! Do they have telemarketing experience?

“No, I'm not going.”

They finally left and rid me of their atrocious laughs. I'd forgotten how much I despise Canadian men...Montreal I found your weakness! 


But as with all things, you must take the good with the bad, right?  


My journey back to the country of Penn Station was no doubt everything I hoped it would be; snow covered, long and weaving through quaint New England towns. 


An idyllic train ride...back to...New York.

*I perfected this look many times abroad. Especially in the Middle East.

**A method of travel created in Cork, Ireland when it pissed down rain for three straight days.