Email from Caro: Montreal

Montreal
The fashion statement:  Urban ‘chic’ deconstructed vs Big hair, big sunglasses, gold jewellery French Riviera style

We had read guide books and Canadian newspaper articles about the French Separatists driving out the "Anglais" population, (so much so that only 7% of Quebecois were of British descent) and to expect serious attitude towards those who cannot utter a word of French.  Scary Mary stuff. 

So, Symon and I made a deal: if we encountered too much bloodymindedness, we would just leave and go straight down to Boston earlier than originally planned.  And maybe it was because my expectations were so low, I actually found myself really enjoying Montreal.

The streets were pretty, the people were friendly (they thought it was cute as we attempted to speak a "leetle" French), the shops were great, the cafes were cool, the houses were architecturally beautiful stone with colourful verandahs and had outside winding staircases, the people dressed ‘chic’, the subway was easy to negotiate (much more user-friendly than London).

We stayed in the Mont Royal Plateau district not far from the city centre, in a training hotel for the Quebec tourist board.  Which meant 5 star accommodation for 2 star rates.  Nice.  All the people in the hotel were students, so they didn’t have that "Oh god, another stupid tourist" air about them and they went out of their way to be especially helpful and delighted in the fact that they could practise their English skills on us.
Most sentences starting with, "…urm, ‘ow you say…?".

We found it charming that our address was listed as "Edisburg" instead of "Edinburgh" and Scotland was a district in the "Ukraine" instead of the "UK". Perhaps if we’d said "Ecosse", they would have understood "Scotland". 

But no matter, Symon was happy to be from Russia as long as his name wasn’t "Semen", or "Mr Pfarson" or "Mr Sharman", as has been known in the past.  I have spent an entire hotel reservation conversation as "Mrs Simone Parson".

We were in Montreal for the Comedy Festival, which Symon had found out about, but, oddly enough, wasn’t advertised anywhere in the rest of Canada, so we couldn’t purchase tickets until we arrived.  As a result, we could only get tickets to one show "All Superstar Canada Revue" or something; featuring all the Canadian comediennes/comedians from the festival.  

We scored front row seating and we were so close we were practically sitting on the stage.  That was why I was harassed by nearly every comedian who came on-stage.

There were the 2 Italian-Canadians (The Doo Wops) who serenaded me with the first verse of AC/DCs "You shook me all night long" pretending to be Argentinian and rubbing their microphone stands and guitar suggestively

….and Sean Cullen, who announced that it was far better to be from New Zealand rather than "that shithole Australia" [quote] with small, cute, flightless birds rather than "large jumping rats"[quote]…I felt it better to agree with him rather than make a stand for my Australian friends, for fear of retribution by Sean, you know, ‘cos he was being nice to me, while harassing the rest of the audience.

Then he did his ‘piece-de-resistance’ by improv singing with whatever the audience suggested to real tunes and rhyming all at the same time. Very clever. The topic was trees, so people were shouting "Maple" (by a Canadian, of course), "Cedar", "Ash", "Fir", "Oak"….I really wanted to shout "Pohutukawa" but felt I would be pushing my luck just a wee bit.

All in all, Montreal rocked. The only French problem I encountered was when I was forced to purchase a "brassiere". Girls, what is it about washing machines and underwires in yer bras?  

They come out clean and yet mangled, all at the same time.  I thought the easiest way to purchase would be to go to a store where I know the sizing and I know the styles, you know, to avoid any problems.  The Gap.  An obviously American, cheap, yet quality choice.  No worries, mate. 

I walk into the store, where immediately I was greeted by a "Bon jour, Madame".  Busted.  I had forgotten that in every Gap store there is a meeter and a greeter at the door, armed with a Madonna-esque microphone and battery pack. 

"Uh, oh yeah, bon jour", I replied as I raced off to the undies and bras section.  Immediately encountering another such shop assistant armed with said microphone and battery pack.  Except this one was smiling and chattering away at me. 

"Um…just looking" was my reply as I disappeared behind a display. 

Sh*t, she was following me, smiling and chattering, smiling and chattering, and waiting for a reply expectantly.

"Parlay voo unglaze?" (the Kiwi accent coming through thick and strong)

"Ah, wee", continuing to smile and rifle through some undies to show me.

"No, no, a bra", I said pointing to the style I wanted. 

Smiling and chattering, she selected an assortment of bras for me. 
Padded (no), lacy (no), white (no), brown and pink floral padded (no), natural coloured (no), black (wee wee).  What a palava. 

Can they not leave you alone to look through stuff yourself?  Must they be so bloody helpful?!

Then we had to make each other understood with the size.  I was troubled to learn they didn’t have my size. But then she said something incomprehensible and shot off out the back, returning with the very bra I was looking for: size and colour exact.  Ooh la la delighted.  As I walked away, deeply traumatised from the whole experience, yet happy that we had reached a level of understanding, she was still smiling and chattering at me.

Then at the counter as I was paying, the woman asked me, "Bon jour, deed anybodee ‘elp yoo too-day, Madame?"

I really needed a cigarette and a latte.