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Published: January 24th 2013
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Gym Bar Le STOP
Mer and our escort, Debbie, in the background. “You know another great thing about Vermont?” Mer asked rhetorically. “It’s within a reasonable drive to so many other great places. I just found out that Montreal is only three hours away!” “Really?!” I replied, “I’ve always wanted to go there.” A knowing look passed between us, and it was decided, “Let’s go to Montreal!”
We hopped into Debbie, a 1999 Mitsubishi Mirage with an engine designed to power a lawn mower, and drove North. Two hours later, we crossed the Canadian border and continued to drive Nord. A road sign came up on our right-hand side pictorially alerting us to be cautious of car signs colliding into deer signs:
Danger Risque du Collison! “This must be something that only happens in Quebec,” we mused and put ourselves on the lookout.
I would recommend anyone to travel to Quebec, if only for its humorous road signs. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until GYM BAR Le STOP that Mer and I noticed how badly these signs begged to be photographed. We le’stopped and took a picture. Or, in the even worse Frenglish we adopted, we Arreted and took a picture.
I’m not normally one to read aloud every sign I pass,
Beware of Icicles!
Falling on your head and your car! but there’s something entirely too entertaining about verbally butchering the French language with a thick American accent to resist. I know I’ll never train my tongue to perform the acrobatics required to pronounce everything right, so I figure I might as well have some fun with it. It’s done with a light heart, not out of disrespect for French culture (which I rather admire for their many gastronomical advances, namely their bubbly wine, stinky cheese, flaky pastries, and fried potato wedges).
Which brings me to the next really great reason to visit Quebec: it’s so much more fun to be a
touriste than a tourist. Besides stopping to pose with road signs, our first stop of the day was at the Bureau d’information touristique. We parked in the 15-minute parking zone and ran in to get a map. From behind the counter, Renee asked us where we were parked; we answered. With a shake of the head, she stated the obvious, “You can only park zer for 15 minutes.” I jokingly replied, “Ok. So talk fast.” She cocked her head to the side, looking at me like a confused dog. Then, either to spite me or because she honestly
Montreal
Depending on which way you look at it, it could be New York, Boston, or Chicago. thought we’d be interested, she spent the next five minutes explaining the history of the parking space, “They just opened zees. Some people park zer and zen go walking around… Sometimes people come in zee summer and look… We’re not responsible if you get a ticket… It’s only 15 minutes.” Yeah, we got that. Now, where should we go?
The typical
touriste areas were circled on a map: Centre Ville, Vieux Montréal, Plateau Mont-Royal. Mer and I set out to find them. We parked the car in a place we were sure to have more than 15 minutes and started waking around the surprisingly bleak Old Montreal. Granted it was a grey, winter day, but there are cold winter days in Paris too and you’ll still find people outside doing things. Adding to the general air of desolation, every one had chosen that day to drag their withering Christmas trees out onto the sidewalk. The Christmas tree graveyard was a depressing sight, but I haven’t seen a real Christmas trees in years. I bent over one and buried my face in its bristly needles. A deep inhalation flooded my senses with memories of the excitement of Santa and the
terror of being forced to eat my family’s horrible Christmas sausage. I love you guys, but that tradition stops with me (sorry).
We walked and walked and walked and couldn’t really find anything to do. More specifically, we couldn’t find anything to do for free. Even the Notre-Dame charges a $5 entrance fee (and the Catholic Church wonders why it’s accused of being greedy). So, we went into a restaurant and ate poutine. For those of you unfamiliar with Québécois cuisine, poutine is a delightful dish that combines French fries (go figure) with cheese curd and gravy.
Our waiter asked if we wanted anything to drink with our order. I didn’t think I did, until he listed the options, saving the best for last: a strong blonde beer. A few minutes later, he served us up our heart attack on a plate and a tall, frothy cup of Blonde de Chambly. Oh. My. Yum. We had another. Then with a nice fuzzy liquid coat on, we went back out into the cold to search for an I (Heart) Poutine shot glass.
Unsuccessful in our search for the shot glass and something interesting to do, we decided to
go back to the States. But we couldn’t end our Canadian experience without a visit to Tim Horton’s. And I couldn’t go back without a package of Jos. Louis. My favorite childhood dessert – or, as often as I ate them, my favorite childhood breakfast, lunch, and dinner – these tasty little cakes are similar to Ding Dongs, but, oh, so much better.
We searched and searched and searched. In the Canada I remember, you could stand at one Tim Horton’s and throw a donut at the next one – but in this weird place called Montréal everything seems designed to keep its
touristes forever looking for things. We drove in circles throughout residential Quebec, accidentally running several awkwardly placed Arretes. Finally, we saw the unmistakable yellow sign and pulled in. There was a single, sad, sprinkle donut on display. We ate it and went home.
At the end of the day, my favorite part of the day was somewhere between GYM BAR Le STOP and the strong blonde beer. I know that Montréal has more to offer, but I won’t be in a rush to get back – at least without a beautiful day and a local
to give me the scoop.
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