So Toronto blew our feeble minds into the most delicious Tapioca Pudding any Grandmother could ever make. I can't even begin to describe with words on it's velocity and grandeur. It was if Rick Moranis himself decided it was time to make a sequel to his greatest legacy, and shrunk me down. I felt so small and unimportant in this massive city. But it felt good. Not saying I was ever important or big. I'm pretty sure if a bus wasn't legally obligated to pull over and wait for police, it'd run me over because it feels sorry for me. I've always hated Buses. Metal monsters.
So. Then We left Toronto and Ventured into Quebec. Surprisingly enough, they didn;t bother assimilating us to their language or culture. As soon as we crossed the border to our new Provincial Weekday home, Everything went to French. It was awesome. Landing in Montreal at 12 am we were stunned. This did not feel like Canada.
The streets are cobblestone. The roads constantly narrow in and widen out. Alley ways appear as quickly as lightning bugs, and when you look to see it, they disapear. Buildings were erected in 1800s and everyone is speaking french. And it's sexy. Going into a bar at 1 am, nervous as a rat in a blender. Everyone in the bar is speaking French, and we are shitty American kids from California who's only frabric of a second language consists of the most important of spanish words. Like Bano, Cerveca, and Donde Esta El Donkey Show? Talking to the bartender, she smiled and spoke in french. We informed her we suck and don't know what the fuck she's saying, and her smile never breakens. Her cute accent is thick and begins to tell us all about Montreal and answers our questions as fast as we throw them. Even to the point where buzzed Canadians wanted more booze to kill the pain, and they couldn't get her attention. This was basically and IS basically the treatment we get here.
I do wish we knew what the hell the streets signs mean. Surprisingly enough French is similiar to Spanish so I can make out a few words, but god help me if I will translate military time. I'm lazy enough as it is. I don't need a homework assignment. Our Hostel is insane, though. I will admit. Gipsy-esque Caravans surround the eating table outside, and hold two beds. The insides look like something out of a 19th century carnival caravan. But we are poor and are sleeping inside.
But the inside is littered with cobblestone walls that look like a bootleg cellar, and crudely erected wooden monstrosities also known as bunk beds. The beds are the finest of air mattresses, filled with what we assume, the finest of Canadian hot breath. It is amazing, though. Everyone is younger, and parties and wants to party. 20+ people fill these double decker bed dorms and I pulled the lame straw and was given the choice to share a bed with Erick or Tice. I would rather die than share a bed with either of those smelly assholes and chose to sleep under the bottom bunk. I have about two feet of space above me, but am given a comfortable amount of room around me. I did sleep soundly, though I hit my head on the bottom of the bed loud enough to wake up my comrades and a few other travelers. I assume the nice Tokyo man, Shatoro. I will admit. . . . Montreal. You amaze me in the greatest ways possible.