Le baguette, le baguette? LE FROMAGEEE

For the first time since Christmas break, Beau was granted a day off by the Evil Accounting Firm That Must Not Be Named. He spent all week muttering to himself and secretly researching on his laptop with shiftier eyes than usual. This suggested he was up to no good. You see, when I have a day off, I like to do things like putter around the apartment, read in a corner, or watch 11 hour marathons of ANTM. Not Beau – his precious little free time is spent outside the house engaging in normal human activities. And that’s how I ended up in Canada last weekend.

Friday morning we clambered into the car for the 6 hour ride to Montreal with a full arsenal of snacks and maps but lacking one important feature. The stereo was busted. No radio, no CDs, no iPod. Just a happily driving Beau and a caffeinated, chattering Dangerous K. Here are a few ways we kept ourselves busy:

1) Singing acapella versions of such favorites as "Climb Every Mountain" from The Sound of Music and Neil Diamond’s "Sweet Caroline" and a consequent discussion of what my voice most resembles (verdict: a cat being stapled to a wall).

2) Mooing at every cow we passed in Vermont and debating their top speed and any possible factors that might affect their top speed. For example, do angry bovines move faster? I don’t know for certain but T would say yes and he speaks from experience involving an ill-aimed snowball and a very ticked off bull.

3) Anticipating increasingly dramatic road signs. First we saw “Deer Crossing” then “Moose Crossing” then “Bear Crossing." I spent half the trip bouncing up and down praying for “T-Rex Crossing.”

4) On that note, explaining to Beau the applicableness of Jurassic Park quotes to instances to every day life. I memorized the entire movie years ago.

5) Debating preferred qualities in babbling brooks such as rocks to babble over and valleys to babble through.

I’ve been to Mexico a few times but I’ve never visited our northern neighbors so I didn’t really know what to expect. Still, I was surprised when we crossed from the verdant wooded mountains of Vermont into the stark farmed flat lands of Canada. Luckily, every tiny run down village we passed through featured shacks boasting French phrases which we would repeat aloud to each other with snorting laughter.

We dropped our belongings off at our hotel on Sherbrooke Street, which appeared to be the main drag through town on the map and wandered off in search of food. The streets were lined with thousands of cafes, each empty except for an exceptionally dressed couple or two. Assuming our grungy jeans and t-shirts might be frowned upon in such establishments, I turned on my Irish pub radar and immediately honed in on Ye Olde Orchard where I quickly discovered Canada’s only accomplishment: a local cider brewed in Quebec which had been given such a long, unpronounceable name that I forgot it after only one pint.

A meal and several pints later, it became clear that Beau was intoxicated. In his prime Beau could put a frat boy to shame. Now he has a couple of drinks and starts singing along to Queen songs and shouting “le poissons” at onlookers. I didn’t let that stand in my way though, so I kept him sitting there getting drunker until I was good and ready to drag his wasted body back through the streets of Montreal to crash into benches and mumble broken French at stop lights. He clambered into bed and quickly fell asleep while I lounged in the sitting room reading (Oh yeah, we totally had a fancy suite. With a couch. And a bookshelf. Thanks for those hotel points, Evil Accounting Firm). Finally, I turned off the lights and groped my way into the pitch black room, completely disoriented and managed to land on the edge of the bed.

Moments later, Beau’s friendly little arm landed on my head and I swatted it away. We repeated this several more times until silence ensued. Then the bed springs creaked and I heard Beau scuttle around the room. Scuttle, scuttle, scuttle. I was about to open my mouth and complain when instead, Beau opened his mouth and vomited on the night stand. MY night stand. He had graciously scuttled to my side of the bed and unable to find the bathroom door, heaved a mere 6 inches from my head.

I escorted him to the bathroom and, upon seeing that my Armani glasses had been hit by the storm, became a bitch for about 10 minutes. By the time things were cleaned up and the lights were out, I was laughing too hysterically to maintain any façade of anger.

In the morning, I awoke to an embarrassed and apologetic little Beau who promptly showed me that he had sterilized my glasses. We set off for the Biodome which was advertised as an indoor zoo of immense and wild proportions. And they had penguins.

The Montreal subway was easy enough to navigate but was tricky to actually get into. There were no ticket machines and the lone ticket booth lady informed us she only had one daily pass left. When the passes were eventually obtained they looked more like scratch lottery tickets except instead of cash prizes, we won entry to the subway.

A train transfer later and we were at the Biosphere… and eerily alone. As we walked through the scenic entry garden we wondered aloud about the lack of crowd. It must be an off season for tourists. It must be the rainy weather. It must be a hidden gem of Montreal. It must be closed?

No, it wasn’t closed. $20 later we were granted entrance and the lonely ticket girl even talked us through the brochure of exhibits and shows. Our heads tilted together confidentially as we wandered off towards a display on water conservation or some such nonsense.

“Where are my penguins, Beau?”

“Hmm… I don’t see them on the map.”

“But, Beau, where are my penguins?”

“We’ll find your penguins, honey”

Of course, we never found them or any other exotic animals because we had mistakenly gone to the Biosphere not the Biodome. Why would a city have two tourist traps with nearly identical names? That’s just mean. Montreal is a bully.

15 minutes later we scurried past the disappointed ticket girl who had just let us in. I suspect she’s used to this kind of rejection. Our next target was historic downtown Montreal. How can you go wrong there?

After being unable to find any books and getting scolded by a security guard at the National Library and Archives and nearly breaking an expensive looking vase in the Marché Bonsecours we ventured out for a spot of lunch. As we walked down a square lined with cafes, waiters popped out from every doorway to “bonjour” at us and it was all I could do to keep myself from responding, “There goes the baker with his tray like always…” (that was for you Bologna. Don’t say I never did anything for you).

It was increasingly unnerving to be one of the only dozen or so tourists in the city. We were conspicuous walking targets. We longed for a buzzing epicenter of angry businessmen and shuffling panhandlers. There wasn’t a single crowd of Japanese people furiously snapping pictures. Standing completely alone in front of these massive historic structures was a little like being the sole survivors in one of those end-of-the-world movies. It was creepy and unnerving and made us just a little bit uncomfortable.

Having failed at the entire day, we gave up, bought bathing suits at the local Old Navy, and retired to the hotel’s indoor pool before eating an early dinner and renting Juno (which is Canadian so I think it counts as sight seeing). Along our walk back to the hotel, the atmosphere continued to confuse us. It appeared that 90% of the city was covered in graffiti. There were a disproportionate number of crazy old men wandering about. And the map suggested that this was the good part of town.

We peeled out of there at 9:00 am cursing the French. I’ve never been so appreciative of America. It’s not that we had a bad time. Not at all. It’s just we didn’t understand Canada. Why was the country strictly populated by teenage hipsters? Didn’t they know that hip and Canadian are diametric opposites? What had driven a previously prosperous city to such a state of disrepair and shabbiness? Were the crazy old men a result of nationalized health care? Where were the cheese shops? Where were my penguins?