I left Burlington, VT after a couple days stay with my friend Tim and headed north into Quebec early on Thursday, August 31st. The drive was fairly short, as I had been told it would be, and I had no troubles at the border. They looked quizzical regarding my temporary plates, since I own a new car, and the customs agent scratched his head slightly as he tried to pierce the veil of my packing in order to ascertain the actual contents sequestered deep within the dark chasms and carpeted crevices of my car's interior. Suffice it to say that I was not able to use my rear-view mirror during my journey across the country, and that the car rode very, very low over the back wheel, as one can see here.
Upon entering Quebec, the interstate became more rural, and before long I was driving through fields of corn at a leisurely 50 kph. Kind of like driving through Wisconsin, only in Wisconsin the corn moved much faster. Wisconsin corn would beat Quebec corn in a race every time, I wager. The signs, of course, were in French where they weren't bilingual (which most of them weren't), and so I spent the drive proudly reciting signs out loud to myself, happy that, with sometimes a small amount of reflection, I knew what they meant. "Maïze Sucré", for example, actually means that they are selling sweet corn and not that they are trying to lure tourist rubes into any unsolvable labyrinths.
As you might expect after so much anticipation, consternation, and aggravation surrounding moving to Montreal, to actually drive into the city was a landmark event. I had managed not to get lost so far on my trip – excluding my brief, circular tour near Toledo, OH as I searched for the Super 8 – and gave myself a pat on the back for a trip well done. Driving into Montreal was like opening to a new chapter in the checked-out library book that was my life. My first impression was that the city was big, that I yet had a chance to get myself horribly lost, and that at least the architecture was pretty. I managed not to get lost, despite a great deal of construction that led me on a merry detour and made a halfhour trip through downtown take at least an hour and a half. Finally I parked in front of my apartment building, stretched my legs, and intrepidly strode inside to claim the keys to the small 1 and 1/2 that would likely serve as my castle for the next two years. Much to my chagrin, my apartment was being retiled and was unlivable until the next day. Happilly, upon my confession that I had not another place to stay the night, my kind apartment manager offered me the key to an empty fourth floor apartment until the next day. I did my best to be more heartened by his kindness than frustrated by the fact that I would have to put off unpacking, and walked out into the city to do important things (as one does).
Following the apartment manager's advice, I followed Saint Laurent south for a short time until I found the Canada Trust Bank. I had already spent $80 wiring money to this bank, so I figured, at the least, they owed me a checking account. Setting up my account was easy and speedy. The gentleman who helped me, Pierre-Luc, was Francophone though he spoke English well, and he was very friendly. Approximately thirty minutes after entering the bank, I left with a new account and debit card, and decided to continue south on Saint Laurent to see if things would continue to go so fortuitously. In nearly no time, I spotted the Telus store across the street – which is where I had decided to get a call phone plan after a great deal of research during my stay in Burlington – and an hour later I walked out with my student plan (100 minutes long distance, including into the US, and unlimited incoming calls from anywhere!) and my fancy new phone. The best part was that the phone came activated and about half-charged, so it was ready to use immediately. I called Abby at work and bragged about my productivity, for which she was properly appreciative, and then went back out into the vast, vast city to explore, my productive phase at an end (being that it was now after 5 pm), and my curiosity now ready to take over.
My first exploratory excursion covered, exclusively, the length of Rue Saint Laurent. Saint Laurent is quite long and definately thriving, packed with bars that are packed with people that are packed with booze, which in concert with the many clubs and restaurants that line the street, makes for a caterwauling sort of affair that remains yet alluring through its vibrant variety of offerings. I kept my curiosity at street level, feeling too overwhelmed to venture into a maelstrom of drunk bodies, and by the time I got back to my night's lodging it was nearly midnight and I had walked what I suspect was nearly a total of ten miles, half of it uphill – okay, so up a gentle, barely noticable incline. Feeling accomplished, if exhausted, I liberated the mysteriously present Ikea mattress from its resting place against the wall, layed out my pillow, spread my quilt, smoked a Canadian cigarette, and proceeded to sleep like a giant, syrupy maple log.
To be continued …
