Original Article: http://dartreview.com/archives/2001/05/28/frosh_in_canada_a_travel_guide.php
Monday, May 28, 2001
Tired of the alcohol abuse and barbaric misogyny so rampant at Dartmouth, we decided to go to Montreal. There were four of us—not the largest crowd, but enough to have a good time.
We hatched the idea during a winter brainstorming session on avoiding the hazards and pitfalls of campus life. It seemed like a great idea and a manageable one—Montreal is only a few hours away.
Our drive took us straight through the campus of University of Vermont in Burlington. The streets were filled with pierced males and overweight female goths.
Once you cross the border from Vermont into Canada, the roads get really bad. Also, all the fields appear to be fallow. In one field, a farmer was burning all his trees.
Finally, we found civilization among a lot of French signs. On restaurant, which appeared to be a KFC, was instead a PFK. Another restaurant, probably a Chinese buffett, was dubbed Kenny Wong's Restaurant. How offensive.
By the time we reached the hotel in Montreal, it was getting pretty late—early by our standards—and we wanted to see the city. We quickly settled in the room and donned tight dance clothes like the Eurotrash we are. Actually we didn't, but we did put on long sleeves because it was cold and rainy.
It was blatantly obvious that we were Americans. We spoke no French and wore sandals, which are absent from the wardrobe of the average Canadian.
We were miles from home, alone in a foreign country, and very idealistic. We wanted to appreciate the culture of Canada. We wanted to mingle with French-speaking youth. We wanted to see what goes on in a country whose government borders on socialist.
As we began our long, strange journey through Montreal, we made a startling discovery. Both bars and supermarkets, clubs and convenient stores, were ready and willing to sell us alcohol. The drinking age in Quebec is 18. We were appalled. Was Montreal to be another wasteland of drunken and rowdy behavior? We surveyed the scene cautiously.
Our first stop of the evening was at a classy establishment known as Winston Churchill's. We knew it was a bit out of our league when the bouncer made a nasty remark about our sandals. Canadians. Prices were a bit high, and the crowd was older. We moved on.
Hurley's. The quintessential Irish pub. Excited Irish youth, dancing about and belting out ethic tunes with ear-splitting pride. Seth felt right at home. Again, an older crowd. Again, high prices. However, we tarried a bit at Hurley's, soaking up the unique atmosphere. A chap to our right noticed our interest in his conversation. He had politely mentioned that his friend 'Could nae sit down without leakin' a li'le.' He beckoned for us to join him. Inquiring as to our origins, he proceeded to trash the United States. As we grinned and encouraged him, the fellow remarked that he did not know where America was. 'There's Mexico and there's Canada, and a li'le line between 'em,' he said, gesticulating wildly. 'You chaps from that line?' He left, but our conversation continued. Larry, well-versed in phonological linguistics, noted the fellow's glottal stops.
As we left Hurley's, a member of our party nearly tripped. He looked down with annoyance at the obstacle in his path and found it to be a grown man in an oversized diaper, complete with gigantic pacifier. There was a large puddle at his feet. Poor bladder control, or something more insidious? Most likely the latter. Canada is known for its free thinkers and loose morals, but this was a little bit much. We passed, somehow keeping our dinners in our stomachs.
By this time it was quite late, and fatigue had caught up to us. We headed to our hotel, the Travelodge. Our tired eyes were soon distracted by flashing blue lights. Mounties! These protectors of the Canadian people quickly broke up a street-corner brawl. Three Mounties pinned the drunken combatant to the pavement. One intoxicated Canadian attempted to attract their attention. He stumbled in and out of the street, barely maintaining his balance. He then presented his hands, ready to be cuffed, to the Mounties. The Mounties ignored him and went about their business, busting heads.
Fights are cool, and we saw most of the action. We asked a spectator where these hoodlums had come from. He said the Peel Pub, a hang-out popular with local youth.
We checked it out. It was ghetto. American rap music, mostly Outkast, was blasting. We sat down and looked around. There were kids dancing in the corner.
Just as we were about to leave, a Canadian accosted us and introduced himself as Steve. We made small talk, and he told us to come and sit with him and his girlfriend Catherine. He warned us that fights often break out and that the police occasionally raid the place. At this point, we were really wondering why he had taken such an interest in us. We were frightened. Seth tried to question his authority. Steve called Seth a 'NARC.'
We found Steve sketchy, and we are good kids, so we waited for our chance to leave. Peel Pub closed, and Steve wanted us to follow him to another bar. We accepted, but as the crowds filed out, we ran like hell.
As college students, we enjoy sampling life at other universities. McGill is in Montreal and is supposed to be pretty good academically, at least for a Canadian school.
The campus was empty. School had let out on April 7, over a month before we had arrived. Our quest to find students failed, but we found something else—a giant Canadian flag. It was sitting alone in an empty academic building that was supposed to be locked. It begged us to take it home to a better country. We obliged and detached it from the flagpole. We stashed it in Larry's back pack and made our way off campus.
Situated on the banks of the St. Lawrence, the stately buildings of Old Montreal present a formidable front. Walking over the narrow, cobble-stoned paths, we noticed Native American wares in the windows of most stores. We did not pass up the opportunity to windowshop. The stores were full of insensitive items: totem poles, headdresses, stereotypical little Indian braves and squaws with pot bellies, war paint, loin cloths, and tomahawks. Wah-Hoo-Wah Canada. Scalp 'em.
We ate at a local restaurant with a French name: Le Keg. After a large dinner, we were still hungry. What to eat in a French speaking province? Crepes! We found the local creperie, but much to our dismay, crepes do not come cheap. We left, stomachs empty, and roamed the side streets of Old Montreal seeking less pricey crepes. We found no crepes, only illicit paraphernalia. As we bent down to examine some of the merchandise at one shop, the proprietor quietly moved in. We arose, almost colliding with this gap-toothed, unshaven yokel. We made haste from Old Montreal.
Montreal may present itself as a charming European city on the other side of the Atlantic, but it definitely is not. To give Montreal some credit, it does have some European traits. Everyone smokes, and minstrels play in the streets. But, instead of playing French folk songs, the play Eagles' classics like 'Hotel California' and 'Witchy Woman.'
Montreal: the sin city of the North? Without a doubt. We were surprised by the amount of debauchery that goes on in broad daylight. Drug deals were common, and one Canuck kept passing by us offering to 'hook us up.' We repeatedly refused, dubious of what he planned to hook us up with. Maybe we were just jumping to conclusions, but we doubted it was anything legal.
On each block, dirty Canadian men tried to lure passersby into their dank sex clubs. These establishments had flashing neon lights and women enslaved by vice. They had clever and suggestive names like Club Legal Contact and Club Super Legal Contact. It was really shady, especially since the only people coming out were middle-aged men. We needed Chick tracts.
Unlike Hanover, Montreal appears to have a homeless problem. Canadian panhandlers are overly aggressive and sometimes rude. One poor bum, sitting against a wall, yelled 'Hey, baby' every time someone passed. Another fellow approached closely, uncomfortably so, those who passed him and played a few notes on his harmonica. Late Saturday night, we were passing by an alley when we saw shadows moving against a back wall. Not using our best judgement, we inspected and saw a man in a dumpster. Wonder if he got shafted at room draw.
The weekend in Montreal passed quickly, and soon it was time to return home. But this was only the beginning of our Canadian odyssey. It was unusually difficult to get out of Montreal, probably because while there are many signs that read 'Montreal,' there are few that read 'Hanover.' We were forced take a more scenic route, I-87, back to the States.
Arriving at the border, we inhaled deeply the fragrant American air and commented on how eager we were to return to Dartmouth. The border patrol had other plans for us. After a minute of grueling interrogation, we were told to pull into Bay #2.
Customs went through Seth's car with drug dogs, and tore it apart bit by bit. They then systematically examined each of our possessions, asking about our more eclectic items, such as the contraband flag. One officer was particularly intrigued by a small container and its contents. It turned out to be pencil lead. She was doubtful at first, obviously assuming it to be a terrorist tool or some illicit substance. Customs went through our wallets, examining the veracity of each card. They found nothing and were noticeably disappointed. Relieved after this hour-long ordeal, we headed back to Hanover and had an uneventful ride. Dartmouth 1, Customs 0.
Canada may appear to be a barren wasteland to our north, but there are good things about it. The people, although French-speaking, are generally decent and mostly well-groomed. Montreal is a change of pace from Hanover and a place that every student should visit a least once during his Dartmouth career. Check it out by all means. You'll probably have a good time.