Summer Road Trip - Montreal

Daytime view from our hotel

Oh Canada. How Canadians love Canada, like I have not seen any other people love their country. As an "arrogant" American, I have often assumed Canadians enthusiastically proclaim their love for Canada just to prove to Americans that they absolutely, under no circumstances, are jealous of us. I have even joked around, calling Canada "America-lite". How could any self-respecting, English-speaking member of the New World not be completely ashamed to still be part of the British Commonwealth? Can you really not feel some sort of embarrassment to have to print the head of the Queen on your money? The Queen! The monarchy! The old-fashioned, out-of-date, intolerable idea that you are "special", "privileged", or fit to rule, simply because you were born to certain parents. Oh yes, your majesty, you deserve my utmost devotion, as your subservient subject, because you have achieved the amazing feat of being born into the "royal" family. No thank you, in fact, thinking about that idea makes me want to puke. But, I guess that is the Yankee in me talking, I am, after all, from one of the original thirteen colonies, growing up in the birthplace of American Liberty and Freedom, where we celebrate, live and breathe the idea that this life is ours to make, these rules are ours to break in the name of... of what? Free will? Because it is the right thing to do? Something like that. Whatever name you want to give it, it is a truly "noble" effort our country has undertaken, to balance community and the individual, freedom and safety, expression and peace. But... Canada? Okay, so I don't really know why Canadians are so damn proud, maybe they really do love their queen-worshiping, hockey crazed, beautiful, yet frigid country. But they do. Oh, Canada.

Hanging Flowers

Then there is French Canada or Quebec. Where does their allegiance lie? Do they even consider themselves Canadian? Or do they begrudgingly accept it? I can not begin to know, because I don't speak French. Even in the midst of English speaking Canada they hold fast to their language and their culture and they refuse to completely succumb to the British throne. This is marvelous! Let them be free! Let them secede! I say the same thing about Northern Ireland and Texas.

Overlooking a Chinatown building

It was gray out and kind of cool with threats of rain. But as we walked through Chinatown, next to our hotel, the skies began to clear. Of course, as tourists, we do the touristy thing and walk over to the Vieux-Montréal area, the old section of the city. The streets are narrow, some cobblestoned or stone paved. There are hanging flowers, and window boxes cheering up the old, gray stone buildings.

Bicyclists

We walked over to the old cathedral where horse drawn carriages pick up tourists and cart them around this touristy section of the city. At noon the cathedral bells chime to celebrate the midday.
In one doorway a young, punk-ish, Canadian woman in a neon yellow jumper with hot pink hair leans against the stone and smokes with a grimace on her face. Bicycles zoom past. Postal workers deliver mail. We pass many cafes serving freakishly expensive lunch and choose one for ourselves.

Down at the port, a tugboat is doing its thing on a barge, while they get ready to lift the giant containers onto shore. I think at this point we are actually a little bored, so I take the map out to see where we can go next. While stopped, a middle-aged couple ask us if we need help finding something. They seem determined to point us away from the touristy part of Montreal and go inward to the "real" Montreal, the French-speaking Montreal. I often feel this way about visitors who come to San Francisco. We are convinced by them and head towards the Latin Quarter and to the Parc La Fontaine.

The Latin Quarter looks different during the day than the night before when it was dark and pouring rain. Sloping gently uphill, the neighborhood is lined with restaurants and shops splashed with bright colors. The homes too, are often bright, either in the color of the buildings, the roofs or the trim, but also in the plants. There are lots of flowers, spilled over in planters along the sidewalk, from fire escapes, or from window boxes. The most popular flower seemed to be begonias, reminding me of Paris. It feels homey, in a very trendy way, and reminds me a bit of the East Village in New York City. Perhaps true trendiness is when you make no effort to do so, but despite your best efforts, you just are trendy. I will never claim to be trendy because in plain and simple terms, I am not and will not ever be trendy. I just don't know how to do it, or be it. I marvel at trendy people, thank god for them, because I think it is an art I really appreciate, especially having no skill for it myself. The people on the streets look like they live here, they know where they are going, as opposed to the people in the touristy section, wandering, looking aimlessly around. Here, if you are walking on the sidewalk you have a place to go and things to do. The air is filled with musical French conversation, like a language symphony. It is so real and enveloping that I get the feeling that if I stayed here awhile I would naturally start speaking it too, it would just spout out, like a fountain from some expressive place within me, you just can't help it. I like hearing this foreign language, which I can not say about all foreign languages. For instance, I don't enjoy hearing Chinese when I am in Chinatown (or anywhere else for that matter) it just doesn't appeal to my ears. Maybe it is the tones and the rhythm, I'm not sure. I remember in one of my favorite movies, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, Cristina tells Maria Elena that she took Chinese in college because she thought it sounded pretty. Maria Elena asks Cristina to say something in Chinese, which she does and after which, Maria Elena says dubiously, "You think that sounds pretty?" I was glad I am not the only one. I am not really picking on Chinese, really, I won't say I think English sounds pretty either, but I am not going to analyze it, I can't, it is just my native language, it is not a choice. But if I were to choose a language, simply because it sounded nice, I might pick French, or maybe Italian. Thinking of all this makes me want to go to Spain, Italy and France. Sometimes I get the travel bug so bad I actually feel a strong feeling in my stomach akin to sickness, almost like nervousness but more like yearning.
Speaking of Italian, we stopped in a gelato place, but I guess it is French gelato. I ordered lemon, which did not taste like creamy gelato, instead it was more like Italian water ice that I can't find anywhere west of Pittsburgh, and it was exactly what I wanted. In this neighborhood, I like how there are bright colors,

After leaving the Latin Quarter we walked through a more subdued neighborhood, lined with old-fashioned, city townhouses with long, long steps reaching out from the house down to the sidewalk. I found these a bit odd, strange, compared to the Victorian townhouse steps of San Francisco. We find the park, Parc La Fontaine. It is cool, emerald green, with a large snaking pond dotted with tall, swooping trees. Therese could not get over the amazing grass. She kept saying, "I love this grass! We didn't have anything like this in Iraq." She didn't talk about her time in Iraq very often. She then told us a story about how visiting generals or bigwigs of some rank, were asking why the soldiers did not pull the weeds around their FOB, or military post. The bigwigs complained, but the soldiers left the weeds because it was the only green thing they ever got to see in the parched, summer, Iraq desert. Somewhere, even weeds are precious and a welcome sight. This thought makes me smile.

Turning around to head towards the car, we took a different route back to the parking garage. It is more commercial, not as neighborhood feeling. One section is slightly dodgy. It is less scenic than the Latin Quarter, but here we encountered a pedestrian, the purple pants girl. I don't think you can wear shiny, skin-tight, purple pants anywhere without expecting looks. I think you must want to be noticed. This concept is foreign to me because I am always trying to dress so that I don't get noticed, remember I am not trendy? I'd much rather wear muted colors and disappear into the crowd or the background or the landscape. This works so well, that it seems I often end up invisible.
We exited Montreal just as the Monday rush hour traffic starts. We zoomed past farmland and meadows full of multi-colored wildflowers. French signs turn into English signs. The sunny skies turn into overcast skies, which turn into rain. It was raining in Sackets Harbor and looks like it has done so all day. Merle is excited to see us. He had good reports from the dog sitter. I packed quickly. I am leaving very early in the morning. My flight to Salt Lake City is scheduled to land around 1pm, after which, I am supposed to drive to Jackson Hole, Wyoming to visit the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone. Paul called, there was an escaped murderer hiding out in Yellowstone National Park. Hmm... the chances of this affecting me was remote. But, I would be camping and hiking by myself. Hmm... a female by herself in a rather remote part of the country with an escaped convict who had already killed two people in their camper in New Mexico the week before. Maybe they would see me as an easy target. Maybe he would gone by the time I got there. Maybe he would be captured by the time I got there. Maybe not. Maybe it wasn't worth the chance, however remote. I didn't want to became a news story or a statistic. Maybe I am being paranoid, absurd, ridiculous. Maybe I am too cowardly to take risks. Maybe this kind of risk is just dumb. I would be so disappointed to miss the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone, which was supposed to be the climax of my hiking and landscape excursions. Maybe I should just go with the flow, turn my canoe downstream, make the best of it, use sound judgment, not let my expectations and emotions make my decisions. I could go see Becki in southern Utah. I didn't want to go there originally because it would be too hot, but I did want to see her. It is beautiful where she lives, although a different beauty. There is plenty to do while she is at work and after work I can hang out with her. All these thoughts raced through my mind over a span of about five seconds. I had my decision.

"I'll go visit my friend Becki in southern Utah instead." I said. Therese seemed relieved by this idea. I called Becki and five minutes later I was completely changing my plans. I called Paul back, he seemed relieved too. I did not let my disappointment about the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone linger long, what's the point?
I finished packing and hung out with Therese and we talked until midnight. I was sad to be going, to be leaving family. So sad, such a familiar sadness every time I leave, I can hardly take it.

Montreal, Quebec, Canada to Sackets Harbor, New York:

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Summer Road Trip - New York: Kayaking River Waves & Crossing the Border

The day started off not looking so good.
I want to catch myself here, because who's to say what a "good" day is supposed to look like? If you are a wedding photographer you probably want an overcast day, but if you are a bride you want it to be sunny. If you are a macro flower photographer you want the air to be completely still, but if you are a sailor you want it to be windy. So instead of assigning certain weather a label of "good" or "bad" maybe I should just try to describe it, as it is, as a fact.

The day started off with massively oppressive, dismal skies; goose-bump inflicting, soggy air and a looming threat of torrential rain and monstrous thunderstorms.
Is that better? Maybe that's too much? Sounds a little bit like I don't approve of the weather, right? Okay, let me try again, with something more objective, if I can manage it, without being devoid of expression.

The day started off with heavy, gray skies and cool, humid air.

Clayton

We took off, not too early in the morning, back to Clayton for kayaking. Since our camping trip was canceled, we decided that we would kayak for a few hours in the morning before the weather got bad around 2pm and then head to Montreal. At the kayak shop they warned us about the weather and then helped us into the water. The push off dock is a very calm inlet off the river and we headed along the channel out into the wide open Saint Lawrence River. With the wind at our backs, we started paddling along, downtown Clayton on our right. After some discussion, we decided to head across the river and around the bend. "Susan" had my handheld GPS to determine how far we had traveled and our speed. With an eye on the weather, we took off, the current pulling us in circles as we tried to head toward our agreed destination.

Paddling away from Clayton

The water was surprising clear, probably even clearer when the sun is out. The wide river had many islands, spread apart, some with houses on them and some only big enough for a few trees and shrubs. I was armed with my point-and-shoot camera, safely enclosed in its underwater case. I had packed my SLR camera in a dry bag secured at the end of the kayak. As soon as I got in the water, I could not understand why I brought it. I think I had some romantic notion that we would be able to kayak out to an island and on dry land, I could take some photographs. But that was not happening today.

Therese paddling past an island

As we got further and further out, the wind helping us with speed, the sky kind of cleared a little bit and it sort of got sunny. Or at least, the sky got a little blue. This was fun. It was fun seeing the flat islands and the houses built on them, although they were starting to kind of look the same. They were all pretty much covered with trees, but it was still neat. I wanted to go around the bend in the river to see what was there, so I continued in that direction, ahead of Therese and "Susan". I completely ignored the large, light gray swell of a cloud that was beginning to overwhelm the sky. It just didn't look like more than a rain cloud. We were already wet so why not kayak in the rain? Eventually, I decided too not get to far ahead of the other two and when they caught up Therese told me that "Susan" was worried about that cloud. I took a good look at it. What time is it? Is it almost time for the predicted thunderstorms? I decided that the cloud probably wasn't that threatening, but the water was starting to get kind of choppy so, I guess we could head back.

An island

I would like to say, for the record, that my judgment of the situation was, um, well, it was not operating at its peak. Okay, I underestimated the severity of the situation. I admit it! When we turned around, to face the wind, and kayak against the waves back from where we came, the story of kayaking the Saint Lawrence River completely changes. What was before, a fun, enjoyable, kayak trip in mild waves and weather, turned into a nerve racking, white-capped wave, hand clenching, lose-your-hat-in-the-wind, ocean liner dodging kayak trip.

Passing the steamship

Our speed back was much, much slower against the wind. The waves suddenly whipped up forcing us to greet each one head-on to avoid being overturned. Before, I had my camera clipped to the kayak and I would unclip it, at my leisure, to take a picture. Now, I didn't want to let go of the kayak paddle for fear of losing the paddle or fear of being rolled by a wave. I took no pictures. Luckily my hair was secured in a twisted knot and this was helping to keep my hat from blowing off my head. Suddenly, the "rain" cloud looked more menacing. How had I not read it properly? How easily I am fooled by my own desires and optimism.
With anxiety, nervousness and determination, I pull my kayak towards the shore. If we could at least get close to the other shore, we could pull the kayaks out and maybe walk back to the rental place. I am keeping my kayak near the other islands, in case we can't make it and we need to get out of the water anywhere for solid ground. I am seriously considering one such island that has exactly three trees and some shrubs. It is tiny, but we could at least be out of the water there, in case lightning started. Then maybe, we could somehow get the attention of the coast guard to come get us, or a passing motor boat. I am making these plans, thinking, thinking, backup plans, Plan B, if all else fails. Or maybe, we will just make it across the river and be fine. Okay, let's shoot for that, we should try to avoid being stranded on an island in the middle  of the river.

"Susan" pulling the kayak out of the water

Feeling a little better about the "plan", I continue up and down the white-capped waves. Then it suddenly dawns on me that this too could be fun. Just think of it as a roller coaster, a thrill ride, a challenge, an adventure. Yes, this is fun. My anxiety, nervousness and fear vanished, all that was left was determination. With renewed energy, I paddled my way up each wave, digging in and enjoying the ride down the other side. The shore was getting closer and closer and then the weather starts to relax and the waves lessen. We make our way back into the channel, to our landing and pull our boats out of the water. The guy from the rental place comes out to help. "Its good you came back when you did, I just heard that a huge swell is on its way in." he says. Good thing? Maybe it would have been even more thrilling to kayak in that swell... or, maybe not. Maybe its better to add on thrills incrementally, to keep from jumping into something that you can't get yourself out of. Okay, maybe next time I'll go for more thrilling.
We drive into downtown Clayton for some lunch, stopping at Koffee Kove. We had scoped this place out the other day, there had been a line out the door, but it kind of looked like a dive, and it was, but the good kind of dive. There were old fishing relics on the paneled walls. There were harried waitresses rushing around. Therese and I ordered the Haddock Fish Sandwich, which was supposed to be what they are famous for, their fried fish. It was probably the biggest fish sandwich I have ever seen. It was long, with an equally long piece of perfectly cooked fried fish on it. It was amazing. I think I ate half and "Susan" who only got a salad, ended up eating most of mine and Therese's sandwiches. 
Okay, on to Montreal. It seems as soon as we get in the car to leave, it starts to rain. At the border, while going through the tollbooth-style customs, the young Canadian customs official grills us with:
"How does everyone in the car know each other?"
"Where do you live?"
"Why do you live in New York but have a Pennsylvania license plate?"
"Why are you going to Canada?"
"What are you doing in Montreal?"
"Why Montreal?"
"Where are you staying in Montreal"
"What's the address of your hotel in Montreal?"
To the last question, Therese feebly answers, butchering the pronunciation of the street name, Boulevard Rene Levesque. Suddenly, he seems satisfied with his questioning and smiles, "I guess you didn't have time to practice your French before going to Montreal. Its pronounced Ren-ay La-veck. Have a good time in Canada."

Small house island

Once in Canada, we miss the highway and end up on the scenic road that travels along the water all the way into Montreal. On a clearer, sunnier day, I'm sure this scenic road is well worth it, but it is pouring rain and we would prefer to get into the city before it gets dark. But even in the rain, I can see many islands in the river, some only big enough to hold the house which seems to cover every square foot of land. It is there that Therese suddenly remembers that she forgot to pack undergarments. We are off on a hunt for ladies undergarments. She uses their GPS to find the name of a store in a nearby town and punches in the address. We follow it into this town, downtown where everything is closed on a Sunday afternoon in pouring rain. We pass the darkened store which is our destination, "Pauline's Lingerie." The GPS seems to get into a hysteria about this and the computerized lady's voice says, "Arriving at Pauline's Lingerie. Recalculating. Turn around for Pauline's Lingerie. Recalculating. Pauline's Lingerie. Recalculating. Pauline's Lingerie. Recalculating."

Small island

Geez, I guess she really wants us to go to Pauline's Lingerie. I stare in awe at the small device which has the ability to be so emphatic, annoying and persistent, that you either want to throw it out the window or just do what it says. Well we finally find a store, like Target, and Therese took care of her garment needs. They did want to charge us 5 cents for the plastic bag, which I liked, but was a little surprised about too. Evetually, we made our way onto the Canadian highway, with unfamiliar kilometers per hour speeds. In the car I call Paul to find out the names of some restaurants for dinner. He looks it up on the internet and gives me some phone numbers. I call to make a reservation, where the man on the other line answers in French.
"Bonjour. Parlez-vous anglais? S'il vous plaît?" I say, nervously, while also trying to muster up my very best, yet awkward feeling, French pronunciation.

Therese on the Subway

"Yes, I speak English." he says. Oh good, and I make a reservation for nine o'clock.

Near Sherbrooke station

After a couple of hours we navigate our way to the Travelodge on Boulevard Ren-ay La-veck. The rain is coming down in sheets as we lug our already wet stuff inside and up to our room. Then we head out into the foreign city jungle. We wander, a little lost, Montreal's underground, a series of underground hallways and passageways from building to building. I imagine it was intended for cover in the extremely cold winters, but it works out quite nicely in pouring rain as well. Then, we manage to buy three subway tickets, get on the right train and get off at the Sherbrooke stop.

"Authentic" Montreal?

We walked the streets of "authentic" Montreal, I believe this is the Latin Quarter. It is raining, but I can still admire the old buildings, which remind me of other older sections of East Coast cities, but our architecture is different. This definitely feels more, French. After several blocks we arrive at our restaurant, a rather small one, called L'Express.

L'Express

L'Express has a black and white checkered floor, brass fixtures, men-only servers and a long, dark wood bar. It reminds me a bit of the Tadich Grill in San Francisco, kind of old-fashioned. It is nice to get out of the rain, but the waiting area is muggy and hot and they can't find my reservation. The maître d' assures me there is no worry and we are sat at a table about fifteen minutes later.

Pickles & Mustard

We talk about appetizers, we somehow figure out the menu in French, I order a bottle of wine, a Côtes du Roussillon. We must reek of English, because no one even attempted to speak to us in French. Maybe they heard us speaking to each other in English, I don't know. After ordering, they bring over a large glass jar of baby pickles and a jar of spicy mustard. I don't know this custom, but we used the wooden tongs to fish out the pickles and the small spoon to slop some mustard on them. They are quite good and we are starving so we probably ate far too many, but I was really trying to hold back. 

Bone Marrow Appetizer

Our appetizer came, we were adventurous and ordered bone marrow. Yes, bone marrow, I think Anthony Bourdain calls it "butter of the gods" or something like that. So we slathered our "toast" and bread with bone marrow. I have had this before, but tonight it wasn't striking we with awe like it has in the past. It has a very rich, oily, meaty taste but does not spread as nicely as I would like. We finish maybe half before giving up. 

Therese

"Susan"

Then comes our entrees. I had ordered the lobster risotto, which was okay. The lobster pieces were good, maybe a little overcooked but the risotto could have used more flavor. Therese ordered the duck confit, which was amazing, with amazing wild rice. "Susan" ordered meat & mushroom ravioli, which were probably the best of the three entrees. After all that we even ordered dessert, which was hazelnut chocolate torte. 
Feeling very full, we decide to attempt a cab ride home, since we are really not that far from our hotel. Miraclously, we do find one and he even understands some English. In a slur of French, I only managed to recognize the sounds of the street our hotel is on and it sounds like a question, so I guess he is confirming the address. 
"Oui." I say, and we are off. 

Montreal from our hotel

Now, before I go most places, I will study the map. Even in San Francisco, when I have to drive to a part of the city which I am not familiar with, I will study the map. I will memorize cross streets, parallel streets, one way streets, number of blocks and estimated distances so that I have some reference when I try to find my way around. But I am not afraid of getting lost in San Francisco and not finding my way back. In other places, especially when I don't know the language or the place could be somewhat dangerous, I will study the map beforehand and often discreetly, while turned away or under a table. This is helpful when trying to figure out which bus stop to get off at, or which direction to walk in when exiting a train station, without looking lost. It is also very helpful when you don't want to get ripped off by a cabbie.  Our cabbie seemed to head off immediately in the right direction and, although he did got a way that I thought was a little bit out of the way, we did end up at our hotel without an exorbitant fare. I am glad there are honest people in this world.

I pulled out the sofa bed of our tiny, shared Montreal hotel room. Before turning in, we are all exhausted, I take a few photographs out the window, since this will be my only opportunity to see a Montreal night.  I reflect to myself, "What an odd day. We kayaked amongst islands through white-capped river waves before a storm. Then we had a gourmet dinner in a French-speaking city. Now I am going to sleep on a sofa bed in a cramped hotel room in Canada."

Sackets Harbor to Clayton, New York to Montreal, Quebec, Canada:

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