Montreal
"Why did I do that?"
I tell myself as the distinct stale humid air of New Jersey hits my face while getting off the plane at EWR.
Maybe it was not a good idea to book a one way ticket to Montreal, hoping I could catch the following day's 6am flight back, negating the need to book a hotel. It doesn't work, so don't try it. Actually it may work, just make sure you're not in a particularly dreary mood while doing so.
If you choose to fly United from New York to Montreal there is only one aircraft available for the route: The tube-in-the-sky 50 seater Umbraer RJ-145. Scared of flying? Rather endure a root canal than sit through 2 minutes of turbulence? This plane will all but guarantee the Hemispheres magazine you're reading will be dripping with nervous palm sweat by the time the landing gear comes down.
Did I mention flight bothers me?
Needless to say I made it safely to Canada. The fear of course, all in my head. I arrive to two lines merging to the customs exit. One being very short and the other very long. Not wanting to be 'that guy' who kinda sorta cuts the line, I stay behind the longer of the two. Problem is there's a cutie pie at the end of the short line. Do I say screw it and risk pissing others off but get to talk to the girl? or stay in the long one because it's the right thing to do? Before I know it a hoard of people rush behind her. Boy do I regret my decision now.
An hour later I get through customs without even a Canadian passport stamp to show off and take the 747 bus into the city. My god does this place remind me of Toronto [can't fathom why]. But really, the ride as you're arriving downtown has a shocking resemblance.
First and arguably the only reason I'm going to Montreal is for the infamous 'double down' at Joe Beef, a devilish pseudo-sandwich of bacon and cheese between two (ready for it?) whole pieces of foie gras.
The bar is full. Damn. "Try our sister restaurant next door!" The hostess cheerfully recommends.
The bar is also full. Damn again. [Let it be known that one must wait to be seated at the bar, basically like a table reservation instead of the usual standing behind someone until they get up].
Well this trip is off to an unflattering start.
Lying to myself trying to pretend I'm not angry as all hell, I start walking down the main drag of Rue Notre-Dame. Barely a block later I enter Drinker Set-Cunegonde, a hip open air spot with a couple of local beers on tap and what looked like a bachelorette party going on. Now usually this is the point where I strike up some conversation starting with 'Hey I just landed!' or 'What's good around here for a new comer?' But my self confidence is instantly slashed in half as it become clear as day that EVERYBODY is speaking French, making me feel like the mono linguistic American of international stereotype. I order two beers from the bearded-hipster bartender Max and am on my way, unable to muster up enough gusto to bring up conversation with the cute Canadian chick a couple stools down.
Slightly inebriated, I walk along the river as the sun sets, imagining the most sad, sappy, poor-me orchestrations playing in my head as I find an empty bench to sit down on and sort my thoughts. No sooner does a lanky black dude and his Aviator-clad white girlfriend unapologetically plop themselves right next to me. Curtis (I think) cracks one of two 40 oz bottles clasped between his legs and hands me a paper dixie cup, filling me up with no question.
Curtis: In Canada beer is 10.1%. None of that 5% bullshit you guys have in America.
Me: True, but this tastes like shit; like sugar and cheap alcohol were added.
Curtis: Yeah it get's you #$%^ed up! I used to make a lot of money winning Edward 40 Hands competitions!
Me: I'm sure you did... How'd you both meet?
Curtis & Girlfriend in unison: TtIiNnDdEeRr!
Me: Of course you did...
About 30 minutes of useless banter and two 40 oz beers later I wish them the best of luck and continue my helpless night.
I came to eat and have a good time, instead I'm depressed and hungry. Great. Time to fire up Yelp.ca and see what's good around me, way too lethargic to go through the checklist I made of Anthony Bourdain approved spots and a list of favorites a friend graciously wrote for me. "Can't miss the pulled pork Poutine" one review reads. Sure, sounds good. A couple blocks later I enter to a near empty restaurant, maybe a couple in the corner and one lone girl searing her retina's staring at her phone without pause at the bar.
"Bonjour! sa va?! Un?" the energetic yet gritty hostess-waitress-bartender yells.
"Yep, just me..." I respond half jokingly, held embarrassed.
Dragging my feet up to the bar, I order the said pulled pork Poutine and a Moscow Mule because I could give two damns what people thought of me by this point. The meal arrives cold on the outside, molten-lava hot on the inside. Never wanting to be the 'excuse me my food blows' kinda guy, or maybe it's that I don't want spit in my food once it's been sent back and 'warmed up' I decide to dig in. Stirring the hot and cold parts together proves a reasonable room temperature half assed excuse for a dish. This is all while I watch the now not so lonesome girl at the bar have what seems like every guy in Montreal stop by for a kiss on the cheek and handful of exchanged words. As I finish the bartender asks if I 'would like some water?'. Bartending for a handful of years I knew exactly what that meant, I guess I was drunker than expected remembering now that the beer earlier was twice as strong as normal. I sign my check and get out of there.
10pm... 10pm and I'm done for. Not having enough energy to make it an all nighter and go directly to the airport for the 6am flight as planned, I check my flight. Turns out United cancelled it because not enough seats were filled. DUCK! DUCK DUCK DUCK! (thanks for being the more polite one auto-correct). The next one is not until 10am and there's not a chance in hell I'm going to wander the empty streets of Montreal drunk and alone until the sun decides to rise.
70 Canadian Dollars later and a quick installation of the Hotels.com app lands me a one bed room at the Residences UQAM Oest, a super clean and stylish Hostel that I actually highly recommend. After laying down and battling with the dreaded drunk spins, I err... make my mark and finally fall asleep.
The next morning I make it to the airport on time but hung over out of my mind. The plane is full [downside of flying standby] forcing me to wait all day until the 5pm flight. With the airline gods on my side, I get a seat, numb my 27,000 foot anxiety with a mini Jack Daniels and arrive back in Jersey city in one piece.
Feeling down? stay home.
I tell myself as the distinct stale humid air of New Jersey hits my face while getting off the plane at EWR.
Maybe it was not a good idea to book a one way ticket to Montreal, hoping I could catch the following day's 6am flight back, negating the need to book a hotel. It doesn't work, so don't try it. Actually it may work, just make sure you're not in a particularly dreary mood while doing so.
If you choose to fly United from New York to Montreal there is only one aircraft available for the route: The tube-in-the-sky 50 seater Umbraer RJ-145. Scared of flying? Rather endure a root canal than sit through 2 minutes of turbulence? This plane will all but guarantee the Hemispheres magazine you're reading will be dripping with nervous palm sweat by the time the landing gear comes down.
Did I mention flight bothers me?
Needless to say I made it safely to Canada. The fear of course, all in my head. I arrive to two lines merging to the customs exit. One being very short and the other very long. Not wanting to be 'that guy' who kinda sorta cuts the line, I stay behind the longer of the two. Problem is there's a cutie pie at the end of the short line. Do I say screw it and risk pissing others off but get to talk to the girl? or stay in the long one because it's the right thing to do? Before I know it a hoard of people rush behind her. Boy do I regret my decision now.
An hour later I get through customs without even a Canadian passport stamp to show off and take the 747 bus into the city. My god does this place remind me of Toronto [can't fathom why]. But really, the ride as you're arriving downtown has a shocking resemblance.
First and arguably the only reason I'm going to Montreal is for the infamous 'double down' at Joe Beef, a devilish pseudo-sandwich of bacon and cheese between two (ready for it?) whole pieces of foie gras.
The bar is full. Damn. "Try our sister restaurant next door!" The hostess cheerfully recommends.
The bar is also full. Damn again. [Let it be known that one must wait to be seated at the bar, basically like a table reservation instead of the usual standing behind someone until they get up].
Well this trip is off to an unflattering start.
Lying to myself trying to pretend I'm not angry as all hell, I start walking down the main drag of Rue Notre-Dame. Barely a block later I enter Drinker Set-Cunegonde, a hip open air spot with a couple of local beers on tap and what looked like a bachelorette party going on. Now usually this is the point where I strike up some conversation starting with 'Hey I just landed!' or 'What's good around here for a new comer?' But my self confidence is instantly slashed in half as it become clear as day that EVERYBODY is speaking French, making me feel like the mono linguistic American of international stereotype. I order two beers from the bearded-hipster bartender Max and am on my way, unable to muster up enough gusto to bring up conversation with the cute Canadian chick a couple stools down.
Slightly inebriated, I walk along the river as the sun sets, imagining the most sad, sappy, poor-me orchestrations playing in my head as I find an empty bench to sit down on and sort my thoughts. No sooner does a lanky black dude and his Aviator-clad white girlfriend unapologetically plop themselves right next to me. Curtis (I think) cracks one of two 40 oz bottles clasped between his legs and hands me a paper dixie cup, filling me up with no question.
Curtis: In Canada beer is 10.1%. None of that 5% bullshit you guys have in America.
Me: True, but this tastes like shit; like sugar and cheap alcohol were added.
Curtis: Yeah it get's you #$%^ed up! I used to make a lot of money winning Edward 40 Hands competitions!
Me: I'm sure you did... How'd you both meet?
Curtis & Girlfriend in unison: TtIiNnDdEeRr!
Me: Of course you did...
About 30 minutes of useless banter and two 40 oz beers later I wish them the best of luck and continue my helpless night.
I came to eat and have a good time, instead I'm depressed and hungry. Great. Time to fire up Yelp.ca and see what's good around me, way too lethargic to go through the checklist I made of Anthony Bourdain approved spots and a list of favorites a friend graciously wrote for me. "Can't miss the pulled pork Poutine" one review reads. Sure, sounds good. A couple blocks later I enter to a near empty restaurant, maybe a couple in the corner and one lone girl searing her retina's staring at her phone without pause at the bar.
"Bonjour! sa va?! Un?" the energetic yet gritty hostess-waitress-bartender yells.
"Yep, just me..." I respond half jokingly, held embarrassed.
Dragging my feet up to the bar, I order the said pulled pork Poutine and a Moscow Mule because I could give two damns what people thought of me by this point. The meal arrives cold on the outside, molten-lava hot on the inside. Never wanting to be the 'excuse me my food blows' kinda guy, or maybe it's that I don't want spit in my food once it's been sent back and 'warmed up' I decide to dig in. Stirring the hot and cold parts together proves a reasonable room temperature half assed excuse for a dish. This is all while I watch the now not so lonesome girl at the bar have what seems like every guy in Montreal stop by for a kiss on the cheek and handful of exchanged words. As I finish the bartender asks if I 'would like some water?'. Bartending for a handful of years I knew exactly what that meant, I guess I was drunker than expected remembering now that the beer earlier was twice as strong as normal. I sign my check and get out of there.
10pm... 10pm and I'm done for. Not having enough energy to make it an all nighter and go directly to the airport for the 6am flight as planned, I check my flight. Turns out United cancelled it because not enough seats were filled. DUCK! DUCK DUCK DUCK! (thanks for being the more polite one auto-correct). The next one is not until 10am and there's not a chance in hell I'm going to wander the empty streets of Montreal drunk and alone until the sun decides to rise.
70 Canadian Dollars later and a quick installation of the Hotels.com app lands me a one bed room at the Residences UQAM Oest, a super clean and stylish Hostel that I actually highly recommend. After laying down and battling with the dreaded drunk spins, I err... make my mark and finally fall asleep.
The next morning I make it to the airport on time but hung over out of my mind. The plane is full [downside of flying standby] forcing me to wait all day until the 5pm flight. With the airline gods on my side, I get a seat, numb my 27,000 foot anxiety with a mini Jack Daniels and arrive back in Jersey city in one piece.
Feeling down? stay home.
