One of the things I love about myself is my unflinching optimism, and complete refusal to face proven fact and reality. I wouldn't say it's my favourite thing, but it's certainly up there - around about the same level as what I would refer to as my "working knowledge of reasonable personal hygiene." Praise indeed... allow me to explain.
Having woken up at 2am in Washington DC, my first train staggered into New York Penn Station at about 6.45am... where upon I moved my caboodle into the station. Obviously by this time, I was planning for the day, but remarkably was shunned when trying to buy a beer (before 8am) to drink on the train a little later on in the day (around 9am). Not before midday apparently - land of the free indeed! A few hours later, after a light grilling by Customs and Immigration... 6pm to be precise, the train has the audacity to chug into Montreal whilst I'm still asleep - almost doubled over in my seat in fact. Panicking, I do the first reasonable thing that springs to mind, and soil myself before gathering my belongings and disembarking in a furious stupor muttering under my breath.
Changing plans
My main reason for coming to Canada is to visit St. Pierre et Miquelon - two small islands which are the only remnants of the vast empire of 'New France', which once controlled a vast swathe of North America, back in the day. The economy of these islands reached an all-time high during the 1920's, when they illegally shipped booze to New York City during the period of prohibition in the United States. Needless to say, that didn't last forever, and they once again became poor, rude French peasants. Nowadays at least, their claim to fame is that due to their quirky geography, they are the first to cast their votes in the French elections.
To get there, you have to make your way to Newfoundland, or Nova Scotia. Now, I understand maps. And even, to some extent, scale. Obviously a life size map of a country is not something one can easily carry around. However, the map in my book somehow convinced me that the distance from Montreal to Halifax wasn't that far at all. Only a couple of inches, in all reality. I checked the train times, and yes, huzzah!, 2145hrs was the journey time. I could be within a stone's throw if the islands by bedtime.
I looked closer. Don't ask me why, but I did... 21 hours, 45 minutes... one way. By train. Right... but the book says.... oh right! Scale... 1inch = 1000 miles... oh...
Even then, I don't give up, I think to myself - I'll book a flight! and carry on upon my merry idling way to find my bed for the night, and the internet.
Unwilling to find a cash point, and in spite of the previous 24 hours of pain in my knees caused by walking 11 blocks to my hostel in Washington, I decide to walk to my hostel.
It is cold here, very cold. Sub 'f***in' hell!', and substantially colder than 'brr', the weather here is at -20C. In technical terms, this is what's known here as 'brass monkeys.' Within minutes, Jack frost is biting up and down my legs, my ears are on fire, snot freezes, and my eyes are watering profusely. I make it to the hostel just in time... I check in, with the drowsiness overcoming me once again.
This is the kind of tiredness where you just don't care anymore, and where it just takes that second too long to realise that the tap water is actually scalding your hands... after some light cursing, I decide to ignore the evident cold outside, and convince myself that it's actually quite warm - and that I don't need my cardigan. Or a hat. This is the kind of idea on a par with JFK thinking, 'Hmm, what a lovely day for a drive'... you get the picture.
I meet my first room mate. "You are how the French say, 'un glouton'!". We part amicably. Over the course of my travels, I knew that I would become enlightened as to some of the dangers and... unpleasantness that awaits the weary traveller in shared accommodation. However, I was completely unprepared for the fetid stench that awaited me in the dorm room on day two. I concluded that he needed some kind of melodramatic story as to his existence, and this is it.
Whilst dragging his knuckles upon that fine line that separates beast from man, 'The Smelly' has the power to upset the generally clean air of a shared hostel room - and to force people to move their possessions surreptitiously in the middle of the day, lest they should have to be in his presence. Wrapped in his blanket like some kind of decaying trampard, he emits a kind of unimaginable smell that would sicken even the cleaner of a 15th century whorehouse.
Background
Montréal is the world's third biggest Francophone city in the world - that's 'French speaking' to you madam - after Paris and Kinshasa. Don't let that put you off though, despite it's size, the centre is walk-able, and the colonial history here is quite fascinating. The archaeological museum here is build atop a shared Indian / Colonial cemetery, and one of the first buildings that was ever constructed in this fair metropolis.
Once the capital of New France, a report by Lord Durham - into the rebellions in Canada in the mid 1800's, was rightly quite upsetting to a lot of the people here. After slandering the French for having little or no culture, he went on to surmise that the government should decide "once and for ever, the national character of the province," and as if anyone was unsure, he went on "I entertain no doubts as to the national character which must be given to Lower Canada; it must be that of the British Empire." Montréal is now the biggest city in the province of Québec, the flag of which rasps atop flagpoles outnumbering the Maple leaf some 3:1 - the whole vibe of the place is terrific, with people flitting between French and English as they jaywalk across the snowy streets.
The Old Town has it's own charm, with it's small, European style streets, sprinkled liberally with Gothic churches. To the North East of the city, is the 1976 Olympic Stadium. It probably won't shock you to hear that it is very similar in style to it's German counterpart, built for the Munich games some 4 years earlier. The roof now no longer works, as the snow makes it too heavy to lift. Evidently these same bright sparks who planned the layout have gone on to find work in just about every project who's goal was to create yet another overpriced, noteworthy English building.
The nights out were good. Organised by the hostel, led by the receptionist with a penchant for loud jackets, a variety of Canadian beer, and clubs that finally led me to understand the term 'meat market'.
Montréal. Cold. Fun. Terrific. Despite the weather here being the kind intended only for the irredeemably evil, where the best option once you are outside just seems to be to lay down on the ground and hope to die as quickly as possible.
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