Independence Day in Canada is an interesting way of celebrating our national day ... because nothing happens. No one seems to care, particularly in Quebec, where the francophone population predominates. I remember when growing up in Romania, July 4th used to be a moment of celebration, it was a time when all things American were highly prized and the activities of the Embassy in Bucharest were making the national news. Montreal was strangely quiet on this aspect though. In fact, I didn't even remember it was Independence Day until sometime in the afternoon, when I was making my way through the middle of the city back to Andi's apartment.
After indulging in sleep through mid-morning, Andi found my suggestion to check email adequate and we headed to the one of the medical buildings on campus. It was one of the places where the unlucky student gets to spend many of his waking hours, so Andi wasn't particularly enthralled at showing me around. I did get to peek into some labs, admired the door to a famous library and used the facilities in the computer lab where my companion was to finish typing up a paper due later that day. Since keeping him company was the last thing I wanted to do, I quickly found the idea of going up on Mont Royal to take in the vistas an excellent one. It is after all one of the most famous attractions of the city and a pilgrimage place for anyone coming to the island. I bid Andi goodbye and proceeded to make my way up the trail that began right behind the campus.
The map in my guide wasn't exactly helpful, so after veering off the main path I trudged up some pretty long flights of stairs to reach a stunning panorama point awash in waves of perspiration. The view was so inspiring that I decided to keep exploring "the mountain", actually just a tall hill that offers a great lookout point down on the city (Montreal gets its name from Mont-Royal, whose views so impressed Cartier when exploring the St. Lawrence that he deemed the island around a great place for settlement). After making my way around the huge park surrounding Mont-Royal, I decided to come up on its eastern side and from there make my way to Vieux-Montreal or Old Montreal, which is halfway across the city. Easier said than done: my fragile timetable was seriously challenged when I took some unmarked trails and ended up going back to where I started the entire adventure from. Once I was on one of the main trails again, the descent was rapid and I was cruising a broad boulevard through the center of the city heading southeast.
I was quickly impressed by the unique mix of European and North American cultures this city represents. Its layout and size are comfortably indicative of the abundance of space on this continent, while its sights, sounds, smells and attitudes all keep an Old World charm. There are cozy restaurants everywhere, noisy bars, chic taverns, homely boutiques; at the same, ubiquitous symbols of globalization appear around every corner, be it Starbucks, McDonald's or American Express. Once in Vieux-Montreal the atmosphere changed though, the streets became narrower, the buildings older and the crowd effect grew noticeably stronger. After fighting through throngs of tourists, I finally ended up on the riverside, where Vieux-Port (Old Port) welcomes its visitors at the four quays or docks. I immediately eyed the tallest structure on the waterfront, the Clock Tower, and proceeded to climb its 192 steps to the top. Needless to say, once I reached the 50-meter mark the spiraling of the staircase tightened, prompting the dreaded acrophobia to start working its way up my spine. I was determined to make it all the way however, so after swallowing hard and focusing on only the steps, I barged into the quebecois family occupying the limited space of the platform. With the wind now an important factor (both in terms of temperature and stability) aiding the constant reminder of the height, I rushed to take a few photos in all directions, my hand shaking as I extended the camera beyond the safety of the grates. That operation complete, I was bracing myself for the descent, but was surprised to see the spiraling staircase was not intimidating me anymore. I exited the tower boxed by the adolescent girls of the aforementioned quebecois family.
Back on the waterfront, I hung around for a little longer, enjoying the mild sun, then headed back to Vieux-Montreal to explore its streets. In between terraces and souvenir shops I was having a ball, especially when stumbling upon a shop that had great T-shirt wisdom and flair. At the obligatory stop at Basilique Notre-Dame-de-Montreal I realized I was suddenly very tired; heading home was pretty much the only choice given the fact I was also starving. Before leaving in the morning Andi said our dinner was going to be his handmade pizza, a local specialty apparently, so the thought of free appetizing food gave me strength to make the long uphill walk back to his apartment. I could not stop myself however from stopping at a bakery and buying a croissant which I happily wolfed down without stopping my walk.
Changing money was a problem I had resolved earlier during my descent into Viuex-Montreal, but not being able to get into the apartment remained. Andi had made an extra set of keys before my arrival; the job turned out to be crappy as the keys didn't work, and as Andi didn't have time to try duplication again, I was stuck with waiting until he came back from his errands. This was particularly annoying as it turned out he had been summoned to the hospital to assist in an operation where a man who had been disfigured by a malfunctioning hydraulic machine had his face reconstituted. Andi cheerfully shared the details with me as he prepared the pizzas, which we savored over the now standard half-liters of beer along with Andi's friend and classmate Joe, who arrived from Laval (the island to the west) to join us for the evening. Joe was particularly enthralled at having participated in the French-language version of some famous American game show, which resulted in our departure being delayed by having to watch the taped episode. Once that was over, we hit up the Jazz Festival again.
We checked out a few acts, but since Andi didn't display a particular interest in spending the rest of evening constantly fighting our way through the crowds (and having to stand the entire time, as all of the seats filled up on a rapid basis), we decided drinking would be a more rewarding activity. Consequently, we made our way to this enormous terrace in downtown, where something like 500 people were occupying tens of tables. It was beyond anything I had ever seen: an entire huge backyard was full of people lounging, drinking, talking, laughing, partying, a constant buzz covering the gathering like a blanket of sound. Finding a table here should not have been a problem, but to my amazement we had to walk around for more than 10 minutes before grabbing a wobbling table under a dimly lit tree. Well, it was Friday night, but still... the popularity of this place was enormous. We cleared two pitchers between three people; I was ready for more, but since Joe had to drive back to Laval, we called it a night and headed back. My poutine craving still manifesting itself, a midnight stop at a local fast-food joint seemed like a brilliant idea. We were also slightly buzzed. The late night poutine run satisfied everyone, so when getting home the now routine pump work to reinflate the mattress provided the exact amount of exhaustion to pass out and sleep like a log again.
Saturday the 5th was a full day for Andi: he had to make some final shopping, pack his bags, make me working copies of his keys and finally catch his plane to Romania in the afternoon. He was kind enough to let me stay at his apartment for a few more days, a decision which I was enormously grateful for especially since I still had no idea at this point where I was going to stay when returning to Washington. Andi went off on his errands early on, while I took my time showering and getting ready to hit town because I was stuck in the apartment until he returned. Luckily, the set of keys he came back with worked this time; I was debating going out now (it was already 13:00 and he was leaving at 16:00) knowing that it wouldn't have been worth leaving just to come back in a few hours - I really wanted to see him off. Eventually, I decided to do a quick swing by downtown, stop by the visitor information center to get locations of supermarkets and cybercafes, then identify some of the restaurants mentioned in my guide.
My plan worked well until I left the visitor center and took one of the major boulevards north. I ran right into the middle of a loud, multi-colored procession of floats blasting reggae, afro-beat, electronica, dancers in elaborate costumes, and hoards of people dancing in the streets. Apparently, this was the day the Afro-Caribbean culture festival was happening. I was swept by the crowd and followed along, checking out the tunes, taking photos of the incredible colors all around and enjoying (some of) the female presence at this place at that point in time - once again, I cannot emphasize enough what amazing representatives of the gender I saw in Montreal...
Time slipped by and I found myself rushing back as Andi's departure time was almost there. I made it with plenty of time to spare, in fact his ride was late so when I was ready to bid him goodbye and return to the festival, he sequestered me under the pretext of helping carry his bags to the car. The ride showed up eventually, we loaded his things, I said adios and saw him off, then made for the festival. As my luck goes, the show was over by this point, so I prepared myself for the next item on the schedule: the Jazz Festival. With Andi gone, I could now take my time to slow down and take in the performances. But before that, I deemed it adequate to grab a bite at one of the recommended restaurants ... which happened to be located right by the main festival area. The result: a long line of visitors spilling out the door into the festival grounds. "Fuck that!" I said and headed off somewhere else. I ended up having a burger at the same place where I savored the inaugural poutine in my first day in Montreal, a place called Frit Alors.
With my stomach set for the rest of the night, I returned to the festival, where I spent the next many hours walking around from stage to stage, listening to more mediocre artists than good. This was actually somewhat of a disappointment. Montreal is reputed to have a vibrant jazz scene, but most of the free shows I attended were not jazz; world music, blues, folk, soul were all represented, with jazz recitals held separately in more remote locations and ending up costing an arm and a leg if one desired to get a complete experience. So I just attended whatever free shows I found intriguing enough according to the descriptions of the program I always carried around. My intuition was not always right, though I did listen to some pretty cool shit.
The girl at the visitor's center had mentioned something about a fireworks display above the St. Lawrence the same evening, but by the time I thought about heading over to the Cartier Bridge to catch it, I was informed it was already over. Great. I milled around the festival grounds for a while, then looked at the time and discovered it was already midnight. On the metro back to the apartment I realized I was atrociously tired AND hot. After doing the dreaded uphill walk again, I dropped by the neighborhood food mart (more like snack mart) praying it was still open at that hour. It was: salvation! I bought two ice creams, a Lipton ice tea and a bag of chips. With these instruments of survival I skipped down to the apartment, heaved myself up the stairs and opened the door to paradise. I was never happier of entering a hot, stuffy second-story apartment. The collapse on a kitchen chair was followed by the quick disappearance of the two bars of ice cream. An inexplicable discovery was that of seeing the ice tea half gone, though I did somehow remember opening the bottle upon walking out of the store and then screwing the cap back on when reaching for the keys. It was not an hour to be looking for answers, so I gulped the remaining liquid to dispel any doubts, then cracked the chip bag open. I washed down the chips with beer while blasting Live at Wembley. Freddie was magnificent, as always. Despite the old man fatigue I felt, I somehow managed to read a chapter of two of Cartarescu before passing out. I remember looking at my watch it said something like 01:39. Bon nuit.
17 July 2008
15 July 2008
East Coast Travels (Part 2)
July 3rd. The Greyhound bus was rolling through the night, while I took advantage of finally having settled down a bit to update my mom on my travel situation. Earlier, as I had boarded the bus, I strategically eyed the French-looking chick engaged in a dispute with her credit card company. As it usually happens, I planted myself and inquired about the availability of the seat aisle next to her just as she was trying to write down a very important piece of information the representative at the other end was shouting into the phone. A flurry of activity ensued, during which she scrambled to fit what looked like three small bags, a pillow and who knows what else in all the free space she could find around her, under her and on her. I followed this with a polite request if I could help her put anything in the overhead compartment. She handed me one of her bags in between apologies for keeping the rep on the line; I shoved it in the bin above. However, this seemed to have no effect on decreasing the amount of clutter. I simply shrugged and sat down putting the backpack at my feet (it was too bulky to store in the bin) -- in the space of ten minutes or so I was already feeling cramped, so thinking of how the girl next to me was coping was actually invigorating.
After dispatching my mom, I sat in the dark and watched the changing landscape outside the window. I didn't feel like reading and the sick light overhead would have hurt my eyes more than it'd have helped me see. The DC urban space soon gave way to a uniform wall of greenery on either side of the road, which turned to urban panorama again within the space of an hour. We were entering Baltimore and the intensity of ambient light increased. In the meantime, my neighbor had finished arranging her financial matters, so that apparently gave her a good reason to produce a German exercise book and proceed filling it out. The idea of a French-looking chick who spoke perfect American English studying German intrigued me, but I didn't attempt a conversation. Fifteen to twenty minutes later, the language of Goethe proved too much and she promptly worked herself into a sleeping position. Over the course of the remaining hours, I found myself utterly amazed at how she managed to twist and turn her body among all her things and still be able to sleep. The lack of space at her feet turned her into a veritable contortionist; touching me was inevitable, but somehow she always seemed aware of when she had crossed over and quickly retired.
Despite the late hour and no caffeine, I didn't feel tired. Two hours into the ride however I started dozing off, falling into a slight slumber from which I was awoken when the silence of the bus was shattered by the phone of the negro three rows down. This character, wearing a shaggy LeBron James 23 Cavs jersey, appeared to have quite a few problems to deal with, as the entire bus unwillingly learned from his conversation. His bag had been put on another bus going to New York, and on top of that he had no money and was actually owing his mom $300. Wonderful. The guy finally shut up, not a moment too soon: I was ready to strangle his ghetto ass, more for the grammatically incorrect way he was talking in than for being inconsiderate to the rest of the passengers.
The driver made good time, arriving at the Port Authority terminal in Manhattan in a little over three and a half hours. This was where everything went chaotic. The sleep-deprived passengers were unloaded in the scorching underground, made to claim their bags and told to go inside. The air-conditioned interior provided some relief, but that was all; those who were making connections were looking around disoriented, having no idea where to head or what to do. The attendant at the door, a snotty black teenager, was sleeping on a chair with his hood on. The others didn't seem to care, once the unloading of luggage finished, they were just walking around, spitting, scratching their balls, yawning...
After circling around in confusion for a while, I finally found the ticket counter upstairs and
asked how I was supposed to get to Montreal. I was directed to a gate where a long line of passengers all going in approximately the same direction soon formed. None of the attendants bothered to direct the passengers to their appropriate gates until the head honcho showed up and started asking for passports. The line dwindled considerably and after the Indians at the front were cleared, I watched with concern as the guy in front of me was declined passage on the account that he needed a return ticket. He went upstairs to work something out. When my turn came, I was told that I needed a return ticket as well or else the Canadian border officers will deny me entry. "Thanks for telling us now, you fucking asshole!" I almost said that, but instead rushed upstairs to the ticket counter. I looked at my watch, it was 4:45 a.m. and the bus was leaving in 10 minutes. Luckily, there was no line at the counter, which meant that in five minutes I was back at the gate, flinging the ticket in the asshole's face and finally getting on the bus.
The driver was an insolent-looking blackie whom I knew from the first words he said that he was going to give us trouble the entire ride. Finally getting the big suitcase off my hands was of more immediate consideration, nonetheless, and as we crossed the Lincoln Tunnel into New Jersey, I was finally able to calm down. After what seemed an interminable tunnel, we came out on the other side of the Hudson River just as dawn was breaking over the New York skyline. For a few fleeting moments I had the chance to catch a nice photo, but I didn't feel like getting up and digging for the camera. With the aid of two sandwiches, my stomach stopped its grumbling and I settled into a light slumber, with occasional reality checks punctuated by seeing gas stations offering unleaded for as low as $3.95 a gallon (!). I'm not sure where I was when I saw those prices, but it must have been Jersey. The driver didn't seem too eager to make good time, as he took a prolonged "rest" stop during which I later learned he was grappling with the dilemma of what cigarette pack to choose...
Around 7 or 8 a.m. we reached Albany, which was another layover, this time for only half an hour. For the lack of anything better to do, I engaged the guy who had been ahead of me in boarding in New York and who also had managed to buy his return ticket in the nick of time. He told me he was coming from West Palm Beach in Florida and had been on Greyhound for two days already. I was speechless. The guy had decided to finally visit the relatives who kept inviting him to Montreal and chose to travel via the bus as he couldn't afford the plane. Bad decision. His was truly a horror story. Everything was going fine until the driver got lost in Orlando, causing the passengers to miss their scheduled bus. After waiting for something like 8 hours, him and others had to fight to get on the next bus. Somehow he had managed to reach New York and was now finally heading for Canada. One of the Indians from the front of the bus joined our conversation, which was cut short by the call for boarding.
The number of passengers had halved in Albany, so the eight or so remaining people had the entire bus to themselves. I plopped down somewhere in the middle, watching as the Indian fellow conversationalist sat right in front. This was an act of grace from somewhere in heavens, because the ride proved to be a never-ending nightmare. The driver, the same chubby harem keeper-type who had started from New York, cheerfully informed us we were going to make 9 stops before the border. Uhm, excuse me? In addition, there were also going to be a couple of "rest" stops and of course the border wait. The Indian kept me busy talking about Montreal (he worked as an engineer there) while I was counting down the stops: Saratoga Springs, Lake George, Elizabethtown, Plattsburgh... Of course, no one was getting on in these little towns, and maybe one or two people got off. Nevertheless, our "friend" Travis at the wheel kept cruising the roads of upper New York state, making meticulous stops at every designated point and taking his time. Eventually, what was supposed to be an 8-hr trip turned into a 10-hr debacle.
And we were not yet done. At the border, after the Canadian officers finally decided to tear themselves away from their coffee and donuts and process us, my Indian friend proved right once again: there always was someone who ran into trouble and kept all the others waiting. Needless to say, fate picks on the unlucky ones, so who else than the Floridian to get it this time? When failing to provide an exact address for his stay, the guy was detained and thoroughly questioned for the motive of entering Canada. It didn't help when the officers found a stack of utility bills the poor chap had grabbed from the mailbox on his out of the house. They really thought he was trying to defect to Canada. Only a phone call to his relatives bailed him out. Eventually he was allowed back on the bus and upon picking up three black guys loitering around the checkpoint (I still have no idea how or why were these ragtags allowed to get on), we headed down Aut-15 to Montreal.
Quebec roads are not that different from the U.S. except that all signs are in French... and the quality of pavement is worse. Montreal is located on an island on St. Lawrence River, which we crossed on Pont Cartier (Cartier Bridge) I think. Thanks to my trustworthy Fodor guide, I had learned that the Central Bus Station and our arrival point was located right above a metro station. All I had to do was take the train in the right direction and I would be getting off right at McGill University, where I was to meet Andi. When the bus pulled into its terminal and Travis finally released us, I had prepared to bark something not quite pleasant in his ear, but the Indian guy offered to guide me when he learned of my destination (in the same direction as his), so I gave up on stirring trouble and just followed him to the metro.
Once on board, I was immediately struck by the stark difference in people. The girls in Montreal are simply superb. They all dress casually, but elegantly, and skirts are put to their use here. I had forgotten how long it'd been since I saw most of the women on the street wearing skirts. Also, there are far fewer overweight or obese people in Montreal. It was like landing on a completely different planet. The Indian and I finally parted ways, having thanked him heartily for all the help. He will remain one of the most memorable characters I have met during the course of my travels.
I was supposed to meet Andi on the McGill campus, but we hadn't agreed on a particular building. Andi was still taking his medical exam when I arrived, therefore calling him was not an option. I started getting cold as I entered the campus; the weather in Montreal was noticeably cooler and a chilling wind was scattering clouds above the city. Luckily, my trustworthy vest was easily accessible. I took refuge in the closest library I could find and waited for about an hour before Andi called. We met up and headed over his apartment, where there was no elevator of course. Hauling the big suitcase up two narrow flights of stairs was the last push, and when I finally flung it in a corner I felt like a terrible weight had been taken off my shoulders (which was true, the backpack felt like it was weighing tons by now...).
I gave Andi the books, the handle of Ballantine's and the shaker -- gifts I had come bearing from the other side of the continent. He put the shaker to use immediately by preparing two delicious margaritas. Refueled by the alcohol, we went out to grab a bite; I was adamant my first meal in Montreal be "poutine", the local fries drenched in gravy and covered in cheese curds. After gorging out at the local Frite Alors, we headed out to the Jazz Festival, the yearly event hosted by Montreal and reputed to be the biggest in the world. We checked out an African act for a while, but since both Andi and I were exhausted from our day, we went back to the apartment. Since no reunion is complete without beer, Andi produced two half-liter cans from his fridge, which we proceeded to empty quickly as the apartment was still hot from earlier on. I then got my evening workout by inflating the mattress with a hand pump. Oblivious to the fact I would be roasting in my sleeping bag overnight, I hopped on the mattress and promptly passed out.
This was just day 3.
After dispatching my mom, I sat in the dark and watched the changing landscape outside the window. I didn't feel like reading and the sick light overhead would have hurt my eyes more than it'd have helped me see. The DC urban space soon gave way to a uniform wall of greenery on either side of the road, which turned to urban panorama again within the space of an hour. We were entering Baltimore and the intensity of ambient light increased. In the meantime, my neighbor had finished arranging her financial matters, so that apparently gave her a good reason to produce a German exercise book and proceed filling it out. The idea of a French-looking chick who spoke perfect American English studying German intrigued me, but I didn't attempt a conversation. Fifteen to twenty minutes later, the language of Goethe proved too much and she promptly worked herself into a sleeping position. Over the course of the remaining hours, I found myself utterly amazed at how she managed to twist and turn her body among all her things and still be able to sleep. The lack of space at her feet turned her into a veritable contortionist; touching me was inevitable, but somehow she always seemed aware of when she had crossed over and quickly retired.
Despite the late hour and no caffeine, I didn't feel tired. Two hours into the ride however I started dozing off, falling into a slight slumber from which I was awoken when the silence of the bus was shattered by the phone of the negro three rows down. This character, wearing a shaggy LeBron James 23 Cavs jersey, appeared to have quite a few problems to deal with, as the entire bus unwillingly learned from his conversation. His bag had been put on another bus going to New York, and on top of that he had no money and was actually owing his mom $300. Wonderful. The guy finally shut up, not a moment too soon: I was ready to strangle his ghetto ass, more for the grammatically incorrect way he was talking in than for being inconsiderate to the rest of the passengers.
The driver made good time, arriving at the Port Authority terminal in Manhattan in a little over three and a half hours. This was where everything went chaotic. The sleep-deprived passengers were unloaded in the scorching underground, made to claim their bags and told to go inside. The air-conditioned interior provided some relief, but that was all; those who were making connections were looking around disoriented, having no idea where to head or what to do. The attendant at the door, a snotty black teenager, was sleeping on a chair with his hood on. The others didn't seem to care, once the unloading of luggage finished, they were just walking around, spitting, scratching their balls, yawning...
After circling around in confusion for a while, I finally found the ticket counter upstairs and
asked how I was supposed to get to Montreal. I was directed to a gate where a long line of passengers all going in approximately the same direction soon formed. None of the attendants bothered to direct the passengers to their appropriate gates until the head honcho showed up and started asking for passports. The line dwindled considerably and after the Indians at the front were cleared, I watched with concern as the guy in front of me was declined passage on the account that he needed a return ticket. He went upstairs to work something out. When my turn came, I was told that I needed a return ticket as well or else the Canadian border officers will deny me entry. "Thanks for telling us now, you fucking asshole!" I almost said that, but instead rushed upstairs to the ticket counter. I looked at my watch, it was 4:45 a.m. and the bus was leaving in 10 minutes. Luckily, there was no line at the counter, which meant that in five minutes I was back at the gate, flinging the ticket in the asshole's face and finally getting on the bus.
The driver was an insolent-looking blackie whom I knew from the first words he said that he was going to give us trouble the entire ride. Finally getting the big suitcase off my hands was of more immediate consideration, nonetheless, and as we crossed the Lincoln Tunnel into New Jersey, I was finally able to calm down. After what seemed an interminable tunnel, we came out on the other side of the Hudson River just as dawn was breaking over the New York skyline. For a few fleeting moments I had the chance to catch a nice photo, but I didn't feel like getting up and digging for the camera. With the aid of two sandwiches, my stomach stopped its grumbling and I settled into a light slumber, with occasional reality checks punctuated by seeing gas stations offering unleaded for as low as $3.95 a gallon (!). I'm not sure where I was when I saw those prices, but it must have been Jersey. The driver didn't seem too eager to make good time, as he took a prolonged "rest" stop during which I later learned he was grappling with the dilemma of what cigarette pack to choose...
Around 7 or 8 a.m. we reached Albany, which was another layover, this time for only half an hour. For the lack of anything better to do, I engaged the guy who had been ahead of me in boarding in New York and who also had managed to buy his return ticket in the nick of time. He told me he was coming from West Palm Beach in Florida and had been on Greyhound for two days already. I was speechless. The guy had decided to finally visit the relatives who kept inviting him to Montreal and chose to travel via the bus as he couldn't afford the plane. Bad decision. His was truly a horror story. Everything was going fine until the driver got lost in Orlando, causing the passengers to miss their scheduled bus. After waiting for something like 8 hours, him and others had to fight to get on the next bus. Somehow he had managed to reach New York and was now finally heading for Canada. One of the Indians from the front of the bus joined our conversation, which was cut short by the call for boarding.
The number of passengers had halved in Albany, so the eight or so remaining people had the entire bus to themselves. I plopped down somewhere in the middle, watching as the Indian fellow conversationalist sat right in front. This was an act of grace from somewhere in heavens, because the ride proved to be a never-ending nightmare. The driver, the same chubby harem keeper-type who had started from New York, cheerfully informed us we were going to make 9 stops before the border. Uhm, excuse me? In addition, there were also going to be a couple of "rest" stops and of course the border wait. The Indian kept me busy talking about Montreal (he worked as an engineer there) while I was counting down the stops: Saratoga Springs, Lake George, Elizabethtown, Plattsburgh... Of course, no one was getting on in these little towns, and maybe one or two people got off. Nevertheless, our "friend" Travis at the wheel kept cruising the roads of upper New York state, making meticulous stops at every designated point and taking his time. Eventually, what was supposed to be an 8-hr trip turned into a 10-hr debacle.
And we were not yet done. At the border, after the Canadian officers finally decided to tear themselves away from their coffee and donuts and process us, my Indian friend proved right once again: there always was someone who ran into trouble and kept all the others waiting. Needless to say, fate picks on the unlucky ones, so who else than the Floridian to get it this time? When failing to provide an exact address for his stay, the guy was detained and thoroughly questioned for the motive of entering Canada. It didn't help when the officers found a stack of utility bills the poor chap had grabbed from the mailbox on his out of the house. They really thought he was trying to defect to Canada. Only a phone call to his relatives bailed him out. Eventually he was allowed back on the bus and upon picking up three black guys loitering around the checkpoint (I still have no idea how or why were these ragtags allowed to get on), we headed down Aut-15 to Montreal.
Quebec roads are not that different from the U.S. except that all signs are in French... and the quality of pavement is worse. Montreal is located on an island on St. Lawrence River, which we crossed on Pont Cartier (Cartier Bridge) I think. Thanks to my trustworthy Fodor guide, I had learned that the Central Bus Station and our arrival point was located right above a metro station. All I had to do was take the train in the right direction and I would be getting off right at McGill University, where I was to meet Andi. When the bus pulled into its terminal and Travis finally released us, I had prepared to bark something not quite pleasant in his ear, but the Indian guy offered to guide me when he learned of my destination (in the same direction as his), so I gave up on stirring trouble and just followed him to the metro.
Once on board, I was immediately struck by the stark difference in people. The girls in Montreal are simply superb. They all dress casually, but elegantly, and skirts are put to their use here. I had forgotten how long it'd been since I saw most of the women on the street wearing skirts. Also, there are far fewer overweight or obese people in Montreal. It was like landing on a completely different planet. The Indian and I finally parted ways, having thanked him heartily for all the help. He will remain one of the most memorable characters I have met during the course of my travels.
I was supposed to meet Andi on the McGill campus, but we hadn't agreed on a particular building. Andi was still taking his medical exam when I arrived, therefore calling him was not an option. I started getting cold as I entered the campus; the weather in Montreal was noticeably cooler and a chilling wind was scattering clouds above the city. Luckily, my trustworthy vest was easily accessible. I took refuge in the closest library I could find and waited for about an hour before Andi called. We met up and headed over his apartment, where there was no elevator of course. Hauling the big suitcase up two narrow flights of stairs was the last push, and when I finally flung it in a corner I felt like a terrible weight had been taken off my shoulders (which was true, the backpack felt like it was weighing tons by now...).
I gave Andi the books, the handle of Ballantine's and the shaker -- gifts I had come bearing from the other side of the continent. He put the shaker to use immediately by preparing two delicious margaritas. Refueled by the alcohol, we went out to grab a bite; I was adamant my first meal in Montreal be "poutine", the local fries drenched in gravy and covered in cheese curds. After gorging out at the local Frite Alors, we headed out to the Jazz Festival, the yearly event hosted by Montreal and reputed to be the biggest in the world. We checked out an African act for a while, but since both Andi and I were exhausted from our day, we went back to the apartment. Since no reunion is complete without beer, Andi produced two half-liter cans from his fridge, which we proceeded to empty quickly as the apartment was still hot from earlier on. I then got my evening workout by inflating the mattress with a hand pump. Oblivious to the fact I would be roasting in my sleeping bag overnight, I hopped on the mattress and promptly passed out.
This was just day 3.
East Coast Travels (Part 1)
I figured my return from two weeks of traveling on the East Coast is the best opportunity to resume keeping a blog. Once the LiveJournal fad died along with the end of high school (well, I clang to it through the first year of college, let's be honest), I didn't really see a need to write down the more memorable events happening in my life. But now I sort of regret it because I've done so much over the course of the last four years, traveled so many places -- and even though I still remember the bulk, dates, people or places are starting to escape my memory. This unsettles me for a reason I cannot yet explain. It will also be a good opportunity to tackle creative writing again, after some puerile attempts at sounding sophisticated during LiveJournal. Thankfully, those have long been deleted, along with the rest of the journal. Here's to a new start.
I wished to write about most of these experiences as or right after they happened, but since internet access was hard to find (particularly in Montreal), the reader will have to take it in in several posts. Good luck, and if you get through all of them, I will be impressed. Without further ado...
I set out for a Oakland Airport on a gloomy morning that was totally uncharacteristic of the middle of the summer - it was July 1st, after all, shouldn't it have been sunny and warm? After dragging the biggest suitcase I could find down the streets of Berkeley to the Bart station, I realized my windbreaking vest was making me hot, even though the outside temperature was hovering around 60F. The suitcase was also giving me reason for concern, as the two week's worth of clean clothes I had packed was not complementing well the things I was taking to Andi in Montreal. It was feeling a little on the heavy side, but I kept reassuring myself that it was just a bad intuition and that it'd be right around the 50 lb limit. I decided to bring enough clothes in the eventuality I wouldn't be able to do laundry during the trip - a strategy that proved unwise, as it shall be seen.
After checking it at United's counter, I heaved the suitcase on the scale to see the red digital display laugh a big 6-0 at me. Well shit, I thought, not a good start. It was time for fast decisions, and the first one came in no time: I sure as hell wasn't going to pay an extra 100 bucks for going 10 lbs over the weight limit. The next step was to figure out what to take out and where to put it; my backpack was already almost full. There's a saying in Romanian that can be paraphrased as good vision helps you get over the unexpected, so in that spirit I pulled out a plastic bag I had stuffed in my backpack for emergency situations and proceeded to load it with all the books our courier here was entrusted to delivering in Canada. Since Andi goes to med school at McGill, his brother Matei asked me if I could take along four volumes...of the medical kind. I had cheerfully agreed, without realizing how heavy they were. Their removal from the suitcase lightened the load by about 8 or 9 pounds, but it was still not enough as the woman at the counter gave a brusque denial when asked if they could let an extra pound or two slide by. Took out brush, toothpaste, comb and deodorant out of the toiletries bag and rammed them into the backpack, then reshuffled some clothes; miraculously, the suitcase now stood at an even 50 and I waved it away in frustration as I made for the security check.
The first leg of the flight was to LAX. Kind of counterintuitive flying back, I thought to myself, as I had just returned from Altair's wedding in Arcadia the day before... I was also thinking of how to give Matei a hard time over burdening me with a handle of Ballentine's that was single-handedly the heaviest thing in my luggage. However, when I did talk to Matei during my layover, he ended up helping me to decide on taking Greyhound from Washington to Montreal instead of driving. It should be noted at this point that I was flying to DC and had planned a roadtrip to Canada - which I would have had to undertake alone, my companion having bailed. Called up my sister and had her buy me a ticket for Greyhound over the internet, departure date July 2nd 11:45 pm from Washington.
During the flight to Dulles there was not much to do except take it in small doses of Cartarescu's last volume from his Orbitor epic (it's impossible, at least for me, to be able to read more than a couple of pages of Orbitor without stopping to digest them -- the writing is so rich and complex, the meaning so heavy, the metaphor so lyrical). About a third of the way through the flight I found myself distracted by the cleavage of the Japanese girl in the middle seat. I was sitting to her right and as such had a clear view of her left breast, which was contouring itself shamelessly in my field of vision. Every time I looked up from the book, the perky intruder was becoming more and more insistent. Eventually I decided the game wasn't worth my time, so I sneaked full views several times. The breast wasn't anything special, just a nice regular part of the female body. Satisfied with this conclusion, the breast stopped distracting me thereafter. When Cartarescu became unbearable, I stared at my plane ticket; the discovery of flying into IAD - Dulles' aiport code - made me wonder if this trip was going to be auspicious (in Romanian, "iad" means hell).
After getting into Dulles with a short delay and plus three hours time difference (essentially, three lost hours), hopping into the shuttle was almost a blessing. There was only one other person in there, a blonde that was quiet, but you could feel she was angry about something. I casually started a conversation which quickly turned lopsided, as I listened to her bitch about how she had to fight with the shuttle company in order to get in the van; "it was all their fault, they misspelled my name and wouldn't allow me to get on even though I showed the credit card I used to purchase, what a bunch of incompetents, I am never taking this again" etc etc. The bash-fest was interrupted when a skinny, scared-looking girl entered and asked us in a broken English if we knew of a hotel around a specific park in Alexandria (both me and the blonde were going to Alexandria). Upon questioning through slowly spoken sentences and hand gestures, we were able to find out the girl was a Russian who had come to work in the U.S. for the summer (at least that's what her work contract said, the only document she had). Unfortunately, we could not figure out why her employer hadn't sent someone to meet her or why he had instructed her to go to this park in Alexandria at that hour of the night. Naturally, the phone number provided on her papers was working only during business hours, so we couldn't get a hold of anyone. There was nothing to do but instruct the driver (himself a young African man who barely understood the language) to drop the Russian off at the first hotel in Alexandria.
During the ride from Dulles, Anna (the blonde) and I continued our conversation, this time on a more relaxed tone. I found out she's from Palo Alto, went to UC Santa Barbara, had just quit her job in SF and was coming to DC to visit her boyfriend. She even went to Berkeley for a year before deciding she didn't like it. I told her about myself and my travel plans. Meanwhile, the Russian didn't utter a sound and the traffic turned nightmarish about 2 miles from Alexandria. I was getting impatient: after spending the whole day traveling, the last thing I needed was being stuck in a I-405 morning-type of bottleneck at 10 p.m. Thankfully the highway exit came and was soon unloaded in front of Oana's building, the long-coveted resting place. Oana came and let me in, then fixed me some eggs which I must say were utterly delicious after the kind of day I had had. Since this was the first time we met, we talked for a while, then watched an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm before calling it a night. I passed out as soon as I lay on the living room couch.
By the time I awoke the next day, both Oana and her roommate were gone. This meant I could take my time getting ready without having to dash for the bathroom to not expose the dreary eyes, dry mouth and mangled hair. Oana left me her own set of keys and gave me instructions on how to get to downtown by metro, so upon having a breakfast out of her cereal and catching a few games from one of Federer's matches at Wimbledon, I headed out to our nation's capital. On the walk to the metro I made the full acquaintance of DC summer weather, which for someone coming out of dry, cool Bay Area is like a kick to the head. I found myself sweating even before getting on the train. Over the next few days I learned what humidity means, the hard way... Initially, I was going to visit the Library of Congress that day, but after wandering the hallways of its buildings, I decided a map was necessary for any future endeavors in our nation's capital. Armed with the ubiquitous simplified tourist map of Capitol Hill (which two docile old docents provided me with upon leaving the LOC), I made my way to Union Station. Found a bookshop there; in typical Romanian tradition, I decided against buying guides after looking at the prices, only to have to come back a few hours later and happily drop $35 bucks on Fodor's Washington DC and Montreal 2008.
Since I was supposed to meet Oana back at her place around 6 pm to let her in, the best use of my time was to walk the streets of Capitol Hill. It was not my first time there - six years ago the NYLC had flown me to DC and we had gotten thorough tours of the Capitol building, the Senate buildings, most of the monuments and the Mall. What was glossed over then was the White House, so finding a destination now proved easy. Touring the White House was out of the question, as you can only get in with a group and you have to make a reservation 6 months in advance through your Senator or Rep's office. I therefore had to be content with walking the perimeter of the building and gawking with the rest of the tourists through the grates of the outer fence. You can't even see the door from that distance. Well, whatever.
Back to Union Station, I walked into the bookstore without hesitation and purchased the guides. Dehydrated, hot and tired, the ride back to Alexandria felt like a well-deserved rest. My bus was leaving that night, so Oana and I spent the rest of the afternoon hanging out. We went to the neighborhood grocery store to buy, among others, the things which Oana later gracefully turned into sandwiches for the road. I rearranged my baggage, but the weight problem persisted; to save some headaches (and muscle exertion), I left my suit and shoes in Oana's closet, with the intention of retrieving them upon return from Montreal. At this point I was taking Greyhound's baggage policy seriously (the same 50-lb limit) when in fact no one there gives a flying fuck. All in all, I got the show on the road with enough time to get to the station one good hour ahead of the departure time - another pointless maneuver since seats are not guaranteed unless you are in line.
The metro ride was common sense, but once I got off at the station which I thought was closest to the Greyhound station finding my way turned into an adventure. The station is rarely marked on maps and there are no signs pointing even to the street it's on. Incidentally, the metro station was Union Station, the hub of DC's rail and vehicle transportation; surely I can find someone in a place like this who can point me in the right direction?... Inside, all the information desks were closed, shops locked up and one or two human figures scurrying along toward the train terminals. A hepatic yellow light was bathing the bleary tiled floor, where a bored janitor was pretending to empty the trash cans. For the lack of anyone else, I approached this solitary figure, expecting a morose and hostile answer. To my surprise, the woman patiently gave me directions that were reasonably understandable: go out this door, turn right, walk down, turn left...
I took a side street that seemed to be descending for a long time, flanked on the right by a rock wall that kept getting bigger and bigger the further down I went. At this point I had become pressed for time and started cursing in Romanian at whoever had decided to put the bus the station at its unfindable location. After coming out on the other side, I stood at the intersection of two empty streets (which thankfully had signs) without any idea which one to take. The janitor's directions had suddenly stopped making sense. With a few dark silhouettes checking me out from across the street, I dialed up Oana and asked for help, to which she told me there's nothing she could as she didn't know where I was and didn't have a map. Just as I was thinking what a swell situation I had gotten myself in, I saw a bus pull into a building one block away. I made my way to what was indeed the Greyhound station, where many desolate, bleary characters of the African-American persuasion were waiting to take a bus to nowhere or were simply loitering around. Waiting in a slow-moving ticket line was irritating enough, but the true surprise came while standing in the boarding line: an indifferent attendant informed us we might not be able to get on the scheduled bus because passengers from an earlier delayed run were getting priority. Eventually though, everyone got on board, baggage and all. It was close to midnight as the bus finally started its journey. Destination: New York.
I wished to write about most of these experiences as or right after they happened, but since internet access was hard to find (particularly in Montreal), the reader will have to take it in in several posts. Good luck, and if you get through all of them, I will be impressed. Without further ado...
I set out for a Oakland Airport on a gloomy morning that was totally uncharacteristic of the middle of the summer - it was July 1st, after all, shouldn't it have been sunny and warm? After dragging the biggest suitcase I could find down the streets of Berkeley to the Bart station, I realized my windbreaking vest was making me hot, even though the outside temperature was hovering around 60F. The suitcase was also giving me reason for concern, as the two week's worth of clean clothes I had packed was not complementing well the things I was taking to Andi in Montreal. It was feeling a little on the heavy side, but I kept reassuring myself that it was just a bad intuition and that it'd be right around the 50 lb limit. I decided to bring enough clothes in the eventuality I wouldn't be able to do laundry during the trip - a strategy that proved unwise, as it shall be seen.
After checking it at United's counter, I heaved the suitcase on the scale to see the red digital display laugh a big 6-0 at me. Well shit, I thought, not a good start. It was time for fast decisions, and the first one came in no time: I sure as hell wasn't going to pay an extra 100 bucks for going 10 lbs over the weight limit. The next step was to figure out what to take out and where to put it; my backpack was already almost full. There's a saying in Romanian that can be paraphrased as good vision helps you get over the unexpected, so in that spirit I pulled out a plastic bag I had stuffed in my backpack for emergency situations and proceeded to load it with all the books our courier here was entrusted to delivering in Canada. Since Andi goes to med school at McGill, his brother Matei asked me if I could take along four volumes...of the medical kind. I had cheerfully agreed, without realizing how heavy they were. Their removal from the suitcase lightened the load by about 8 or 9 pounds, but it was still not enough as the woman at the counter gave a brusque denial when asked if they could let an extra pound or two slide by. Took out brush, toothpaste, comb and deodorant out of the toiletries bag and rammed them into the backpack, then reshuffled some clothes; miraculously, the suitcase now stood at an even 50 and I waved it away in frustration as I made for the security check.
The first leg of the flight was to LAX. Kind of counterintuitive flying back, I thought to myself, as I had just returned from Altair's wedding in Arcadia the day before... I was also thinking of how to give Matei a hard time over burdening me with a handle of Ballentine's that was single-handedly the heaviest thing in my luggage. However, when I did talk to Matei during my layover, he ended up helping me to decide on taking Greyhound from Washington to Montreal instead of driving. It should be noted at this point that I was flying to DC and had planned a roadtrip to Canada - which I would have had to undertake alone, my companion having bailed. Called up my sister and had her buy me a ticket for Greyhound over the internet, departure date July 2nd 11:45 pm from Washington.
During the flight to Dulles there was not much to do except take it in small doses of Cartarescu's last volume from his Orbitor epic (it's impossible, at least for me, to be able to read more than a couple of pages of Orbitor without stopping to digest them -- the writing is so rich and complex, the meaning so heavy, the metaphor so lyrical). About a third of the way through the flight I found myself distracted by the cleavage of the Japanese girl in the middle seat. I was sitting to her right and as such had a clear view of her left breast, which was contouring itself shamelessly in my field of vision. Every time I looked up from the book, the perky intruder was becoming more and more insistent. Eventually I decided the game wasn't worth my time, so I sneaked full views several times. The breast wasn't anything special, just a nice regular part of the female body. Satisfied with this conclusion, the breast stopped distracting me thereafter. When Cartarescu became unbearable, I stared at my plane ticket; the discovery of flying into IAD - Dulles' aiport code - made me wonder if this trip was going to be auspicious (in Romanian, "iad" means hell).
After getting into Dulles with a short delay and plus three hours time difference (essentially, three lost hours), hopping into the shuttle was almost a blessing. There was only one other person in there, a blonde that was quiet, but you could feel she was angry about something. I casually started a conversation which quickly turned lopsided, as I listened to her bitch about how she had to fight with the shuttle company in order to get in the van; "it was all their fault, they misspelled my name and wouldn't allow me to get on even though I showed the credit card I used to purchase, what a bunch of incompetents, I am never taking this again" etc etc. The bash-fest was interrupted when a skinny, scared-looking girl entered and asked us in a broken English if we knew of a hotel around a specific park in Alexandria (both me and the blonde were going to Alexandria). Upon questioning through slowly spoken sentences and hand gestures, we were able to find out the girl was a Russian who had come to work in the U.S. for the summer (at least that's what her work contract said, the only document she had). Unfortunately, we could not figure out why her employer hadn't sent someone to meet her or why he had instructed her to go to this park in Alexandria at that hour of the night. Naturally, the phone number provided on her papers was working only during business hours, so we couldn't get a hold of anyone. There was nothing to do but instruct the driver (himself a young African man who barely understood the language) to drop the Russian off at the first hotel in Alexandria.
During the ride from Dulles, Anna (the blonde) and I continued our conversation, this time on a more relaxed tone. I found out she's from Palo Alto, went to UC Santa Barbara, had just quit her job in SF and was coming to DC to visit her boyfriend. She even went to Berkeley for a year before deciding she didn't like it. I told her about myself and my travel plans. Meanwhile, the Russian didn't utter a sound and the traffic turned nightmarish about 2 miles from Alexandria. I was getting impatient: after spending the whole day traveling, the last thing I needed was being stuck in a I-405 morning-type of bottleneck at 10 p.m. Thankfully the highway exit came and was soon unloaded in front of Oana's building, the long-coveted resting place. Oana came and let me in, then fixed me some eggs which I must say were utterly delicious after the kind of day I had had. Since this was the first time we met, we talked for a while, then watched an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm before calling it a night. I passed out as soon as I lay on the living room couch.
By the time I awoke the next day, both Oana and her roommate were gone. This meant I could take my time getting ready without having to dash for the bathroom to not expose the dreary eyes, dry mouth and mangled hair. Oana left me her own set of keys and gave me instructions on how to get to downtown by metro, so upon having a breakfast out of her cereal and catching a few games from one of Federer's matches at Wimbledon, I headed out to our nation's capital. On the walk to the metro I made the full acquaintance of DC summer weather, which for someone coming out of dry, cool Bay Area is like a kick to the head. I found myself sweating even before getting on the train. Over the next few days I learned what humidity means, the hard way... Initially, I was going to visit the Library of Congress that day, but after wandering the hallways of its buildings, I decided a map was necessary for any future endeavors in our nation's capital. Armed with the ubiquitous simplified tourist map of Capitol Hill (which two docile old docents provided me with upon leaving the LOC), I made my way to Union Station. Found a bookshop there; in typical Romanian tradition, I decided against buying guides after looking at the prices, only to have to come back a few hours later and happily drop $35 bucks on Fodor's Washington DC and Montreal 2008.
Since I was supposed to meet Oana back at her place around 6 pm to let her in, the best use of my time was to walk the streets of Capitol Hill. It was not my first time there - six years ago the NYLC had flown me to DC and we had gotten thorough tours of the Capitol building, the Senate buildings, most of the monuments and the Mall. What was glossed over then was the White House, so finding a destination now proved easy. Touring the White House was out of the question, as you can only get in with a group and you have to make a reservation 6 months in advance through your Senator or Rep's office. I therefore had to be content with walking the perimeter of the building and gawking with the rest of the tourists through the grates of the outer fence. You can't even see the door from that distance. Well, whatever.
Back to Union Station, I walked into the bookstore without hesitation and purchased the guides. Dehydrated, hot and tired, the ride back to Alexandria felt like a well-deserved rest. My bus was leaving that night, so Oana and I spent the rest of the afternoon hanging out. We went to the neighborhood grocery store to buy, among others, the things which Oana later gracefully turned into sandwiches for the road. I rearranged my baggage, but the weight problem persisted; to save some headaches (and muscle exertion), I left my suit and shoes in Oana's closet, with the intention of retrieving them upon return from Montreal. At this point I was taking Greyhound's baggage policy seriously (the same 50-lb limit) when in fact no one there gives a flying fuck. All in all, I got the show on the road with enough time to get to the station one good hour ahead of the departure time - another pointless maneuver since seats are not guaranteed unless you are in line.
The metro ride was common sense, but once I got off at the station which I thought was closest to the Greyhound station finding my way turned into an adventure. The station is rarely marked on maps and there are no signs pointing even to the street it's on. Incidentally, the metro station was Union Station, the hub of DC's rail and vehicle transportation; surely I can find someone in a place like this who can point me in the right direction?... Inside, all the information desks were closed, shops locked up and one or two human figures scurrying along toward the train terminals. A hepatic yellow light was bathing the bleary tiled floor, where a bored janitor was pretending to empty the trash cans. For the lack of anyone else, I approached this solitary figure, expecting a morose and hostile answer. To my surprise, the woman patiently gave me directions that were reasonably understandable: go out this door, turn right, walk down, turn left...
I took a side street that seemed to be descending for a long time, flanked on the right by a rock wall that kept getting bigger and bigger the further down I went. At this point I had become pressed for time and started cursing in Romanian at whoever had decided to put the bus the station at its unfindable location. After coming out on the other side, I stood at the intersection of two empty streets (which thankfully had signs) without any idea which one to take. The janitor's directions had suddenly stopped making sense. With a few dark silhouettes checking me out from across the street, I dialed up Oana and asked for help, to which she told me there's nothing she could as she didn't know where I was and didn't have a map. Just as I was thinking what a swell situation I had gotten myself in, I saw a bus pull into a building one block away. I made my way to what was indeed the Greyhound station, where many desolate, bleary characters of the African-American persuasion were waiting to take a bus to nowhere or were simply loitering around. Waiting in a slow-moving ticket line was irritating enough, but the true surprise came while standing in the boarding line: an indifferent attendant informed us we might not be able to get on the scheduled bus because passengers from an earlier delayed run were getting priority. Eventually though, everyone got on board, baggage and all. It was close to midnight as the bus finally started its journey. Destination: New York.
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