Roadtrip: Day 8

Day 8: Sunday

Quebec City, Quebec 1:10am

It's amazing how cool this city is at night. Don't get me wrong, it is pretty damn sweet during the day. But when the sun goes down and the lights come on in the other QC, it is spectacular.

I was just sitting in the hotel room doing nothing a couple hours ago, so I decided to go for a walk. The town was extremely festive this afternoon, but I figured most of the celebration would have died down by 11 oclock in the evening.

Mistaken.

People still out in the thousands, getting their drink on, their hook-up on, their life on. It was so damn refreshing to say. Unabashed happiness, dry sex in naked view, French language everywhere (which, as much as I disliked prior to this trip, is starting to grow on me so much that I now nearly regard it as a turn-on in itself). I would really love to live here for about half a year, perhaps pick up some French, and certainly pick up some French women. 

I am not sure what tomorrow will hold for us, but it is essentially our last day, so we are going to make the most of it. I can guarantee you that.

I am not the traveling type, typically. At least, not internationally. I travel a fair amount throughout the states, and I feel like I have assumed this comfort level that stretches only nation-wide. So this trip was a bit of a stretch for me. Never have I immersed myself in a culture so different from my own. I've never been to Europe. I went to Tijuana once. That doesn't really count. Hence, this is a big step for me. And when I first arrived, I have to say, I had a bit of anxiety. 

Slowly, it has subsided. I never really got completely comfortable in Montreal. It was just too serious for me. I felt like they did not take too kindly to people who obviously spoke English first there, much less Americans.

Here in the QC, although it is even more French than Montreal, I sense a greater acceptance. Sure, they realize I'm a tourist. They probably see me and a few stereotypes pop into their head. But for the most part, they incorporate me into their culture. I love it. I really wish I knew French right now. I really wish I knew something, anything, other than English. I feel so dumb.

I have long regarded myself as not only a smart person, but also a fairly well-learned one. This trip has turned that notion upside down. I have not met a single person here who is not bilingual. NOT ONE. Imagine some shit like that in the USA. Fuck, even our PRESIDENT can't speak more than one language! And here, the bus drivers, the gas station employees, the MCDONALD'S WORKERS for Christ sake, all of them know French and English. Amazing, and braggable. I am jealous.

Quebec City, Quebec 11:47am

Just woke up a little while ago in this fair city. The bed is arguably the most comfortable I've slept in. Counter that with the fact that they keep the hotel temperature cool and I was slumbering with several beers in my system, and you've got a combo that is sure to push anyone's sleep past 11o'clock. 

Regardless, I am now well-rested and eager to get out and do what I do as a tourist: Force the people of Quebec to demean themselves by speaking English as opposed to French because otherwise there is no way I will understand them; repeatedly ask "Do you accept American Express?" as I purchase food after souvenir after beer; and cut through a few locals, causing a spray of presumed French cursings to rise into the air.

All of this, I enjoy. It is part of being a tourist. I like appearing completely and utterly foreign, pulling a huge map out and staring quizzically at its many contours and words that I do not understand (that's Preston's job).

I shall cleanse now, sir.

ASIDE from Montreal: "I'm not sleepin in the park again, I'M FUCKED!" The aforementioned quote belongs to a rather young, rather crazy New Zealander that P and I met during our stay in Montreal. Preston threw him a few coins; I skimped on this issue. The guy was freaking me out a bit, especially after he said that. 

10:53pm

Last night in the Cue Sea. It has been quite a two days, I must say. We drank a considerable amount of booze, flirted with numerous rather-attractive females, and probably demeaned ourselves a bit. But, it was quite the experience. In the beginning, namely when we checked in to our hotel in Montreal, I wasn't so sure I wanted to do this anymore. Now, I don't want it to end.

This trip ends, and so does, effectively, our childhood. We get home and we just have a few weeks until we head off to college. Who knows what's going to happen. The thing that is certain, the thing that scares me so much, is that nothing will ever be the same as it has been for these eighteen years of my life.

But enough about that. Back to the trip. The finale began at a local steakhouse with an extremely French name. I won't try to find out what it was. But it was damn good. The total bill tallied $38.38, tip excluded, but that is quite reasonable when you consider the meal we received. Started off with a creamy veg soup that was delicious. Even the forever anti-veg Preston slurped that shit up like a beautiful Milf's whole-grade breastcreme (2% breastlait for those on a diet). And those nipples dribbled as far as this soup was concerned.

Next came a salad. I'd go either way on this thing. Mom's made better, but it was sufficient in giving me enough ruffage to pinch off a solid one when I returned to my Clermont toilette, built by Cranada, a presumed division of America's Crane shittas.

Ah, now the main course. Fries and, above all, a tender Filet Mignon, expertly cooked to medium. Slightly pink, but charred just enough to give it that perfect crunch. As the juice ran red down my mouth, I gave a toothy grin to the waitress and mouthed two words: "Very good." Preston nodded in agreement. We were both pretty drunk after putting a few down back at the hotel prior to the meal. Once we got those pints going at dinner, we were sufficiently buzzed.

Dessert was okay, but I think I speak for Preston when I say that it was a bit too foreign for our tastes.

We got out of there and headed to our faithful corner store to pick up one last six-pack. Preston, who in his drunken stupors was becoming quite good friends with the clerk, James, a large Afro-French Canadian man clad in doo-rag and eyebrow piercing, threw his boy a dollar tip and gave him a stellar dap, a nice pound, and pleasantries, as well as numbers for the ensuing night, were exchanged ;)

Back to the hotel, where we got our gar and drink on. Currently, still getting that drink on. Should pass out here pretty soon, and that will do it for QC, and Canada to boot. Been a great trip.