Friday in Montreal: Canadian Citizenship Application Denied!

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Okay, I didn’t actually apply for Canadian citizenship, but I should have. And around this time in 2009, when I’m trekking cross country across our vast neighbor to the north, don’t be surprised if you see a helicopter chase on CNN involving a runaway American tourist attempting to disappear into the woods somewhere near the Vermont-Quebec border.

We awoke early at the campground, around 7:30a. While trying to fully dress myself from the driver’s seat - boxers, socks, shoes and all - I managed to fall gracelessly and with all my weight onto the car horn for a full eight seconds. So I’m pretty sure the other kind and appreciative folks camping at North Beach were up at 7:32. Don’t you just love being “that guy”? I whispered apologies out the car window as loudly as I could. We left shortly thereafter (before the riot ensued), opting to skip the fifty cent showers in favor of survival.

From somewhere off Church Street the night before, we’d seen the unmistakable flicker of an early twentieth century diner and knew that’s where we’d be eating in the morning. K and I are both suckers for classic early 20th century diners and Henry’s Diner didn’t disappoint. At least not in the atmosphere department - vinyl seats, waitresses in Grease-esque getup, and enough chrome to make the fellas at American Chopper jealous. Though the incredibly low ceiling contributed well to the quaint atmosphere, I considered my hobbit-like five-foot-six stature a blessing. Aside from the atmosphere, the service was impeccable. The food: mediocre. And that’s being charitable. It was like the taste fairies snuck in overnight and removed all the flavor from their food stocks. Or, remember antimatter from Star Trek? Perhaps they smeared “antitaste” on Henry’s griddles?

Anyway, we opted not to stick around to find the bottom of Henry’s alleged bottomless cup of java. We had things to meet and people to do. So we left Burlington around nine.

Our last fifty or so miles to the Canada border were quiet and uneventful. The scenery of northern New England truly is incredible. But it’s not something the novice photographer can’t capture with any real confidence. It’s a “you just have to be there” experience and I never get tired of the hundreds of miles of Vermont’s mountainous sprawl.

The entry process into Canada is almost laughable when compared to our return crossing back into the U.S. I think it went something like this:

Guard: Bonjour!

[I hand passports to the border crossing guard]

Guard: What’s this? No, thank you. Where are you from?

Me: Rhode Island.

Guard: And your favorite color?

Me: Um … blue, I guess.

Guard: ME TOO! DO YOU LIKE PUPPIES TOO?!??

Me: Huh?

Guard: Enjoy your stay! Au revoir!

… or something like that. I am pushing thirty so my memory gets a bit fuzzy at times.

The hour or so drive from the border to downtown Montreal is scenic in its desolation. It’s unnaturally flat, as though every corn farm stretches for a thousand miles beyond any line of sight, until some point where it simply drops off at the end of the earth. There are two guaranteed landmarks I look for every time. Aside from simply following the signs to Iberville, the way you know you’re headed the right way are The Big Boy (my name for it, not theirs):

… and this unnamed (until recently anyway) and clearly world class strip club:

I told K of my small wishlist of things that I really wanted to try and do while in Montreal. Among them: Olympic Stadium and Biodome. We were lucky enough to get a two-fer as both of these most touristy of tourist traps sit on the same plot of land, about hundred yards from one another. For thirty bucks Canadian, you get access to both, including an elevator ride to the top of the Stadium. There honestly isn’t much to say about either, except that the Biodome is well worth it if you fancy yourself a zoo and animal loving kind of chap, which I am.

The Olympic Stadium is a classic example of a national monument that’s well passed its prime. I’m sure it was quite a symbol of national pride in its heyday. But that heyday has long come and gone and might as well have been in the days that man was still fascinated by fire and the wheel. The “highlight” of the “tour” (emphasis on quotes for both) is the elevator ride to the top. Why the architect decided to face all three glass sides of it away from the downtown city skyline and instead overlook the dismal, gray sprawl of Montreal suburbia, I have no idea.

After our longish car ride and a heapin’ helping of touristy goodness, we agreed it was time to make a beeline for downtown, check in to our hotel, and find some food. And beer.

I was fairly certain that there are two Delta Hotels in the downtown area, however TomTom disagreed. K sided with the TomTom and shortly thereafter, we were pulling into the parking garage of a hotel for which we did not in fact have reservations. After some quick banter and computer checking, the receptionist confirmed lack of said reservations and proceeded to very slowly and deliberately draw a map with full Fre-nglish narration to the “real” Delta. This would turn out to be one of only two times that TomTom failed us. Not a bad track record given the multitude of times it saved our skin.

Upon opening the door to our hotel room at the “real” Delta, we heaved our bags into the room and I slapped a fist full of some U.S. money and what I think was a Papa Gino’s 2-for-1 pizza coupon and my SuperCuts frequent flyer card to the bellhop. I wasn’t in the mood to double-check: we were hungry and time it was a wastin’.

Only a couple blocks from the Delta, we stumbled upon Pub Victoria - its front window lit with neon promises of Guinness and other delicious beery goodness. Aside from the eerie jukebox scratching because Eddie Murphy just walked in the cowboy bar in 48 Hours silence when we stepped through the front door, the place seemed pretty cool. That coolness was short lived however when we sat there for almost ten minutes with the waitstaff and managers glancing over in our direction and continuing to chat amongst themselves without ever saying a word to us. We gave each other the “let’s get the hell out of here” look and bailed. I never beg people for my service or to take my money. If they don’t want it, I’m out and I’ll never come back.

A few blocks down, we stumbled upon a promising lunch joint called Restaurant McGill. Umbrellas and tables outside, Corona signs in the front windows (classic Canadian beer!) and a very awkward, almost disturbing, 1970’s poster-sized photo of a woman with feathered hair devouring a gyro with the emphatic rapture of a porn movie box cover. I only wish I’d taken a picture. Aside from being visibly agitated that we wished to eat outside, the waitress was courteous if not a bit short - the classic French-Canadian attitude.

We headed out shortly afterwards for a stroll around Montreal’s Old Port - a part of the city that neither of us had ever been. Okay, I had actually been there once on New Year’s Eve quite a few years back. I was with one of my ne’er-do-well friends who was trying to go home with a girl he’d met that night (a girl who, it turns out, he continues to date and live with in sin to this day). And he and this girlfriend-to-be were trying to force me and her friend together. I think I remember an awkward peck on the cheek, fireworks, and clapping - not unlike the day I was born. Beyond that, everything’s a blur. I’ll chalk it up to my age. Yeah - that’s it. My age.

At some point, we passed a street full of classic cars, big budget movie production equipment, actors in early twentieth century period clothing, and about a dozen snowmaking machines. The street was lit-up like they were setting up for the Super Bowl. We had no idea what it was at the time, but a quick bit of Googling reveals Brad Pitt’s The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button was filming there at the same time. Neat!

We closed out the night with a late dinner at Le Deux Pierrots - a French bistro with an awesome, second story terrace overlooking the St. Lawrence River. K had a fisherman’s wrap which was actually a lot bigger and better than it sounds. It looked like five pounds of scallops, lobster, crab, cheese and whatever else they managed to cram into a flaky sundried tomato wrap. The entire place felt like someone found an abandoned lot between 2 buildings and erected just enough scaffolding and brickwork to support a two-story restaurant. Tres cool! I have no idea what they do in the winter because there’s no front or back wall to the place!