You have spent years at medical school, and are now almost a doctor, nurse, or whatever the case may be. You're doing one of those 'practice sessions' you do, on a dummy. Let's say its open heart surgery.
All of a sudden a fire breaks out in the room. Then the electricity goes. Then your instructor Overdoses on god-knows-what. It's your job to handle the situation.
And it's all a test.
Possibly, the gentleman I met on the train to Montreal has the best job ever.
Imagine a Tom Arnold look a-like, who's a doctor. It's his job to fuck with the students in this way, and many, many others one can only begin to imagine.
Unfortunately, he de-trained about 5 hours before Montreal so the stories were kind relatively short.
I arrive in the evening to a somewhat soggy French Canadian day.
I've never quite known what to expect of Montreal.
The cab driver greets me in French - I have no idea what he's saying.
Turns out he speaks English anyway.
“Thank God” - the first thing to cross my mind.
I find somewhere to stay in le Plateau - undoubtedly the suave part of the city.
By now I'm so keen to have a proper meal after a few days of American food so I gather Brent, a New Zealander I met on the train, and we head out.
The waitress greets me in French too.
"Errr, parlet vous anglais,?"
"My English... No so good.."
I'm beginning to get worried now.
But the food was amazing. Chicken braised in salsa. So good. SO good.
I make a quick trip to the chemist and once again I'm confronted by the French language. I still have no idea what the shopkeeper was saying. Luckily, I make it through with only the use of "bonjour." and "merci beaucoup." And a smile.
Thursday rolls around and I start looking for jobs. No point in messing about I figure. There are a couple listed that actually say 'English only' - now my confidence begins to grow.
Still unsure if I’ve adjusted to the time difference, but I guess that’s the problem with staying out all night and sleeping in all day. There's more evidence of that when back at the hotel I fall asleep at 8pm, mid discussion of where everyone (everyone being those gathered in the lounge area, from all parts of the world) wants to go for the night. At midnight I wake up and a brief chat with Melina, a beautiful, tall, dark, German woman, leads to an early morning drink at a couple of bars on le Plateau. Luckily, she speaks French, which gets me out of embarrassing myself trying to order drinks.
On a Thursday, after midnight, Le Plateau is still kicking. Apparently it kicks late into the night on any evening. The bands have finished playing but the numerous trendy bars and clubs on the streets are still full. We down a couple of French beers in a couple of French bars and then sadly, discover that when 3am rolls around, the bars close. Unless you know of a private loft party, you're left on the street.
I decide I'm going to need to know about loft parties.
We chat our way back to the hotel and as we stumble in the door, so do a couple of others staying here, Mario and Charles, a German and a Frenchman. Shortly after, so do a couple of German girls. They had been talking earlier in the night, along with the rest of the German clan, about getting up at 730am to watch the Germany vs Serbia world cup game. Unpredictably we all stay awake talking and laughing until 730 rolls around.
Then 10am rolls around.
Bed calls.
So you see what I mean by now, oui?
The days are short and the nights are long.
3 hours of sleep later and I'm up, trying to open a bank account.
Sorted.
4pm and the phone rings, Its Christine, a French Canadian local I've been put in touch with through Clare, back in Australia. One hour later I'm at parc la fontaine, relaxing lakeside with Christine and Kamalee, being told I'm going to need a pushbike in Montreal. It's almost mandatory. The girls take me to a small diner on the corner of rue Herbert and Rachel, and order me a classic Montreal dish called Putine. Melina had told me about this and it was supposed to be simple, but amazing. And it was. So good, kind of like a gourmet chips and gravy. And the burger was fantastique as well.
I'm going to love living here.
IF I can live here.
And at the moment, that's the problem. The more of Montreal I see and experience, the more I want to stay. The more important it becomes to find a job. To speak French. To get a pushbike. To meet people, know people. I want this to work so badly at the moment, I'm contemplating staying inside all day learning French until I'm fluent.
24 job applications later, and I’m no closer to being able to stay.
Christine and Kamalee tell me about a festival on Sunday, which apparently happens every Sunday in summer.
Looks like I'm going.
Looks like I don't have a choice.
Christine walks me home and we drop into a bar on Mont Royal Ave (where I'm staying) called Candy Bar. Everything, of course, has a candy theme. The stools have girls legs holding them up, the drinks are severed with candy and everything is pink. Interesting. It’s like being inside a 10 year old girl’s mind. Relax, I said mind.
Back at the hotel and it's business as usual. We have beers and discuss where to go for the evening. Melina tells of a 90s party at a club called Le Tulip. For a $5 cover, we enter at 1130pm. The club has taken over an old theatre and about 150 people are dancing their asses off to popular songs from the 1990s under a big, sparkly, blue and pink flashing sign that reads POP 90.
After I had embarrassed myself on the dance floor for long enough, asked for a couple of wet pussy shooters and received something called a juicy pussy instead, it was back to the hotel for late night snacks. Bed at 430am.
I think my body must be desperate for some sort of consistency by now, because when I woke up it was almost 3pm.
I take it easy for most of the afternoon, until I get hungry for some more Quebec food. I walk with Melina to La Banquise, place nearby where there is an impressive selection of Putine to discover. And more tasty burgers. Its open 24 hours.
I can see this is going to be the source of my financial peril.
Before I know it, it's beer-o'clock again. We're back out where we belong, in the thick of the Plateau night. Myself, Melina, Charles (French) and Mario (German) and a couple of others have found another club to try out. ‘The Shop’ has any kind of drink for $2, ALL night, so Charles, Melina and I order 15 shots before dancing the night away all over again.
Sunday rolls around and after receiving a couple of phone calls about potential jobs (which don't materialise) and watching an 'independence of quebec' parade, Charles and I leg it to Jean-Dreeau for the Picnic Electronik Sunday. From 4pm until 10pm we danced, danced, danced. We smoked some Mary-Jane, drank some beers and enjoyed the mass of people here to have a great time in the warm Montreal summer. The park had a perfect view of Downtown Montreal, and something called the biosphere, and the evening turned rather magical as the sun went down.
But it’s like that here, there’s just one festival after the next. One party after the next. They tell me because the winter is so harsh and cold, that when summer rolls around every one just wants to party non-stop. Every Sunday is Tam Tam - a big drumming festival in Parc du Mount Royal AND Picnic Electronik. Since I’ve been here has been Quebec Day which is a massive day to the locals as it is, Canada day, and now the Jazz Festival which runs for about four weeks. In June alone, yes JUST JUNE, there is also the Beer Festival, Tour la Nuit, Les FrancoFolies, St Ambroise Fringe Festival, The Montreal Grand Prix and a handful more.
No other city I’ve ever been in has ever come close to appearing this busy.
So far so good. Sort of.
The most wonderful, beautiful, grand people I've met so far are nothing more than passers by (Julie, Nora, Ingrid, Melina, Charles, Mario..), which is fine, everyone has their places to be, and the two ever-so-hospitiable locals Christine and Kamalee have taken me under their wing
which is mighty kind of them, and Montreal as a whole is fan-fucking-tastic, there's still a bit of a dark cloud hanging over head..
It’s now June 30. I’ve been here for two weeks and I don’t know where the time has gone. I can’t account for it all because I’ve been having so much damn fun. I’ve been busy, uncommitted, intrigued and influenced. I’ve been eating like a drop out form The Biggest Looser, partying all night and exploring all day. I’ve been shopping like a trophy-wife, I’ve been introducing myself 20 times a day, I’ve been getting lost and pretending to be French.
I’m hooked.
I’m also fucked unless I find a job.
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