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.
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