Monday, September 30, 2013

Hells Bells

 Well, you know how the adage goes.  If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all, and at the end of our trip to Quebec, I didn't have many nice things to say, other than the food was great, my travel companion was fabulous, as always, and the scenery was beautiful.  I'll just leave these pictures here, and not comment on the poorly paced out-of-tune carillon which rang non-stop as some sort of auditory torture to accompany our visit to the Chateau Frontenac (which is a hotel) and the St. Lawrence Seaway.




Saturday, September 28, 2013

Quebec City is for Lovers (who want to break up)


 We made the 2.5 hour drive from Montreal to Quebec City, and luckily Montreal's rudeness also extends to its drivers.  FUN!  We were stuck in bumper to bumper traffic in a tunnel under the St. Lawrence Seaway, and this dickwad in a truck kept honking at us for being unable to phase shift through the traffic.  Once we were moving again, and upon discovering we were heading in opposite directions, we gave him the one sign more effective than the middle finger, the "you have a small penis" sign, perfected by my friend Ivana, and indicated by holding the thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.  Note--don't do this anywhere where you're likely to get shot, or if you're going to be continuing in the same direction, for the rage it induces is mighty.  (Mighty satisfying.)  You'll also be happy to know that I serenaded Lizzie with songs by every Canadian singer I know, including kd Lang, Celine Dion, Gordon Lightfoot, Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell, and most importantly, Bryan Adams.  She loved it, I'm sure.

Fun fact about Quebec City:  two couples I know, including my own parents, honeymooned here, and both couples ended up getting divorced.  Every time Lizzie and I saw young couples engaging in public displays of affection, we'd walk by and whisper "You're going to break up."  Ah, L'amour!  heh.

We wanted to walk to the old city for dinner, and stopped by this garden of hydrangeas, and then hoofed it up a huge fucking set of stairs.  Lizzie was super brave, as she's afraid of heights, and the stairs were rickety and the drop precipitous.  We made it to the top, though, and continued on our way, stopping only to note that the patriarchy is everywhere.

We walked for a very long time, and then stopped at a restaurant, where we waited at the hostess station, politely, like normal people, for about 5 minutes, to be sat.  This obnoxious group of four French Canadians shoved in front of us, and when the hostess came, tried to cut us off.  I channeled my fabulous Aunt Debbie, and said "No, we were here first." and he said, in French, "We have a reservation!" so I said "well it doesn't matter if you wait your turn, then, does it?"  He continued to ramble angrily at us, but I had just had enough with the rudeness, and collected the plastic swords from the bar that we armed our paper dolls with, in case I needed to poke someone's eye out.  Seriously, though, any Canadians in the house?  Can you tell me if everyone in Quebec is an insufferable asshole, or is the province just having a bad weekend?

Unrelated, did you know there is a Canadian Football league?  There is, and they have fierce names like the Edmonton Eskimos, the Hamilton Tiger-Cats, and the Montreal Alouettes.  An alouette is a lark, which is not a very fierce mascot, nor is it accurate.  They could be the Montreal jerkface magees.


Pumping Iron

Before we left for Quebec city, we stopped to re-hydrate and have snacks.  Do you even lift, bro?

Folk Art

 Lizzie and I created self-portrait paper dolls.  That's me in the green holding a crepe, and that's Lizzie in the blue with a stake having murdered our enemies.  We discussed opening a restaurant called "Steak n Crepes."  Later, after a quick visit to Mont Royal, Lizzie and I left for Quebec City, where we got these fabulous swords for our doppelgangers to use.


Governor Ramezay Welcomes You to His Chateau



Wherein Lizzie and I take a seat, and check out tiny tunnels.  Chateau Ramezay is a historic building/museum, and upon entering, we listened to a voice actor pretending to be Govenor Ramezay tell us about his beautiful chateau, while his harpy wife chimed in to remind him that it bankrupted him, and that she, the daughter of a rich fur trader, had to beg! Zut alors! Also, in 1775, the house fell into the hands of the, GASP, AMERICANS, and good ol Ben Franklin stayed there, long after M. Ramezay had died, of course.  The chateau also housed Montreal University's Faculty of Medicine, then fell into disrepair, and was bought by an Antiquarian society which restored it into its current museum form in 1895.  It has lots of lovely Canadian historical art and artifacts, and also houses a folk art museum, including a space where children visitors can create their own art by coloring paper-doll magnets.

The Constant Gardener

 First stop at the Chateau Ramezay was the gardens.  We pressed the button by Pierre, here, and learned about his, oh, I'm sorry HIS MASTER'S garden.  There were no potatoes.  Only squashes, and some gourds, and maybe a goat fountain, per the pictures below.  There was another recorded info lecture by a young lady, Suzette, the house maid, who told us all about how she really liked smelling Madame's flowers.  ;)



Vieux Montreal has Crepes.


 This statue is called "English Pug/French Poodle."  There is a lot of English vs. French tension and Montreal, and Lizzie and I sort of wondered if this was why everyone was rude to us, but even when we weren't talking 'Merican, people were jerks, so it's a mystery.  I'm pretty decent with French, though, so I was ready to swear at people in their language of choice, should it be required.

We left our hotel around 10 (after watching French Anne of Vert Gables), and walked to the old city part of Montreal.  WITHOUT GETTING LOST!  YAY! We admired the "Mary Queen of the World" cathedral, saw Victoria Square, and stopped for delicious crepes, where I had to ward off a yellow jacket that wanted in on my maple syrup.  (I HATE BEES).  After getting fooded, we continued exploring, eventually wandering to the garden of Chateau Ramezay, drawn in by these gorgeous trees.



Montreal Has an Attitude Problem

 Salut mes amis!  Ca va bien?  I am muthafuckin' cultured.  So this weekend, Lizzie and I decided to make good on our plans to go north to Montreal and Quebec city.  We left Friday afternoon, drove up through New Hampshire and Vermont (stopping to use the fantastic botanical pee greenhouse in Sharon, VT--the sewerage ran through a series of plants to reclaim the water.  Poor pee plants) up into Quebec.  Once we crossed the border, we got a little lost, and drove through the countryside, encountering lots and lots of olfactory adventures (mostly cow shit) before finally arriving at our hotel in Montreal,  Novotel, which Lizzie had pre-booked for us.  LOL FOREVER!  The fine folks at Novotel had overbooked, and decided not to honor our reservation, so we had to drive over to the Sheraton and pay a MILLION MORE DOLLARS (Canadian) in rates and taxes.  The joke's on you, though, Novotel, because now the four people who read this blog will never book with you.  Seriously, though, the clerks at the Novotel were hella rude, and I hope they get cursed with a plague of termite/bed bug hybrids.  Unrelated, our Garmin's French accent is hilarious.

At the Sheraton, we went up through the stabby garage (there was a staircase to no where--we had to go back down and find the elevator) and then landed at the bar.  As Lizzie and I drank away our troubles (as you do) this stunning young woman sat down two seats away from us, and had just began to enjoy her glass of wine, when the creepiest man in all of Montreal, named Ted, incidentally, sat down next to her, and gave her this bullshit story about how he was a producer for Big Brother, and that he normally wouldn't do something like this, but he was going to give her a private audition because she was so beautiful--she'd be perfect for the show.  He then implored her not to tell anyone, because he was going to murder her, er, I mean, he wasn't supposed to invite people personally to audition, and invited her up to his room.  (Note--Lizzie and I were surprised that he didn't give us this spiel, but altered slightly to invite us to audition for the Biggest Loser.)  This was some serious To Catch a Predator business, and at first I thought she was falling for it, but then I realized she was just placating him so she could escape.  She took his card, which looked like it'd been made on a laser jet printer, promised not to tell her friends, and excused herself, after which Ted sat alone at the bar, scrolling through his Facebook, completely unaware that the chest hair sticking through the top of his zip-up sweater from 1993 was whispering run while you can to all the women in a 10-km radius.

Just as a refresher: if a woman is sitting alone at a bar, it is not an invitation for you to sidle up like a a creepy mccreeperston and hit on her.  If she is flagging interest, go ahead, but if her body language says "leave me the fuck alone.  I just want a goddamn glass of wine before bed," then FUCK OFF.

Note--the Sheraton in Montreal kept charging our card with piles and piles of incidentals, and when Lizzie called to check on what these were, the front desk clerk was also curiously hostile about explaining them (it was basically a hold, in case you were part of a bachelor party, for instance, and projectile vomited all over, well, everything) and it turns out, rudeness was a running theme in dear old Montreal.  It's hard to tell who were tourists, and who weren't, but everyone was pretty consistently douchey.  People usually talk about Parisians being rude, but I've been to Paris, and the people there are lovely and polite, whereas the folks we met in Montreal were the rudest asshats we've ever encountered.  It smacks of desperation, like "being aloof and dickish is cool.  We will be le coolest."  You are not.  You are not Paris.  I'm sorry, but you're going thave to deal with your inferiority feels.  Any city that takes jay-walking as seriously as Montreal does (ask my friend Lisa) needs to engage in some self-reflection.  (Lizzie and I are going to put together a "how to walk on the sidewalk" primer for the citizens of this fair city as well.  Why are you so hung up on jay-walking when no one knows proper sidewalk protocol?!?!)