I find this cool. You see, until she got me on a plane in March, I'd never flown. I have no great fear; I'm just a cheap person. I think it is perfectly poetic that I get to escort my pal to Canada, a place I've visited since I was too young to even remember I'd been there. (I probably shouldn't mention the rumor about my parents "forgetting" to declare me going north and having to smuggle me back coming south.)
This is also the first time I've needed a passport to go to the Great White North. Before, a simple birth certificate would suffice. Of course, when bringing the children, I also had to bring my marriage certificate and my late husband's death certificate to show proof that I was not absconding with my own progeny, but, again, probably something I needn't mention. Anyway, we are both excited to get our passports stamped for the very first time.
The tour guide and bus driver warn us: Do NOT crack jokes with the border guards; do NOT try to be evasive about any question you are asked; Entire buses have been impounded for hours because someone thought about being a smart-ass, we are told. When it's our turn to speak to the Canadian agents, honestly they do NOT fuck around. They get right to the hard questions: firearms, weapons, contraband... I am so nervous that I just keep whispering, "No ... noooo ... NO!" as if I am horrified to be asked.
But, we are incredibly disappointed to discover that no one stamps passports anymore. Say, what? I mean, there should be optional stamps and ink pads at each border that are approved for stamping that individuals can stamp on their own. Now, when I go out of the country again (for surely I'll be back in Canada again at some point, anyway), I'll look like the dork who never goes anywhere. What's the sense in having the ugly passport picture if you don't get to decorate the rest of the damn thing with cool country stamps?
When we arrive at the hotel, we are told we can either take our luggage or leave it for the bellhops to bring up. I see no reason to make some poor shclep be responsible for my skivvies, so I grab my own bag, as does my roommate and our two other traveling companions. I see the key that I am given says 1422. I look up at the hotel.
Holy crap, we are staying in a skyscraper. My pal and I are on the fourteenth floor, and our companions are on the twenty-first floor. Not one for heights, this is kind of ironic, and it takes a few passes at the window to orient myself. My roommate and I decide that we need tonic water or soda of some kind, maybe some orange juice, to mix with the liquor we brought from the US. I only brought a few nips because I am afraid of being incarcerated in Canada for illegal trafficking of alcohol across national borders, and also it is because I did not pay attention to allowable amounts.
My pal and I search all over the hotel, find one soda machine, and decide that's not good enough. We need mixers. I am also thinking that maybe I'll buy some Prosecco or something easy to drink that doesn't need to be mixed. We put on our walking shoes and start a recon mission.
Carefully walking around the block in a square, we realize that we are in the retooled Red Light District. There's a massage parlor then parking for the Forum, dirty movie theater next to an American clothing store, tattoo parlor adjacent to Tim Hortons. Mostly, this area is all new stores, like a giant mall gone mad and all open-air. We double-back then increase the size of our square, branching out blocks further than we've been, all the time looking for one simple thing: a place to buy sodas or mixers (without getting lost).
We realize that we have to get back to catch the dinner bus to The Old Port. Maybe we'll find mixers there. After all, there are tons of shops along the waterfront. Alas, nothing. It seems a little bit like we've been thrown into urban Amish country where the language is French.
Once we get back to the hotel, it's only about 8:30, so we go back on a mission to find soda, retracing our steps but enlarging the perimeter. We are about to turn back, totally disgusted that there are no 7/11-type stores anywhere, when my friend's husband says, "Oh, let's just go one more block." Mercifully, we find a pharmacy, a CVS/Walgreens/Rite-Aid type place, and we find lemonade, orange juice, Sprite, and Coke.
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| (WithOUT alcohol? What's the punchline?) |
By the time we haul everything back, I'm almost too tired to drink. Almost. We do manage to sneak some red and white wine over the border, so I hit up some of that.
I will say this, though -- The city is beautiful, and both walks (the one in the afternoon and the one by street light and moonlight) are safe and pleasant. On the bus to dinner, we did see a few homeless people under the bridge in the nearby park, but they were minding their own business and were not out accosting people like the Boston Bums and Lawrence Lynchers (this latter crew operates a spectacular con game).
Better than the walk, though, is the view. By daylight we can see for a very long distance, and the cityscape is magnificent. By night, the twinkling lights make the city look magical. Welcome to Montreal -- We may not be able to toast you with Canadian spirits, but we will mix the US alcohol with Canadian tonic. Seems appropriate for my pal's first adventure outside her own borders.
