We just came back this weekend from Quebec City, where I hadn’t been since I was thirteen. Friends of ours, Jen and Greg, are getting married there in the Summer, so we tagged along to check out the church, meet the preacher, and also because apparently we missed all the snow and bitter cold.
It’s sort of amazing what I don’t remember from the last time I was there. Back then, it was for a grade eight school trip. I remember the drive into the city, past the cliffside that we were told Wolfe and his men scaled prior to the Battle of the Plains of Abraham. I also remember being told not to look inside a certain sex shop we’d be passing, then passing it, and then the crush of thirty kids all trying to press their faces against the window (some came home with crab-ridden eyebrows, so I’m told ). And I also remember that the inter-school dance at the end of the trip was cut short because some idiots from St. Mike’s thought it would be a great idea to buy butterfly knives and practice their ninja work against the walls of their hotel room.
This time we stayed at Hotel Le Priori, which was very cool, and very affordable. It also had a less affordable but quite chic little restaurant attached, called Toast! (which, lets face it, is just fun to say.). The city itself was like many of the European cities I’d been to, but cleaner, and without a population of strays that rivals the population of people, which is nice.
Despite being an Anglo-friendly city, Sarah had ample opportunities to show off her mad skills with the French language. During those times, I like to consider myself her mute companion. Actually, we discovered that whenever Sarah converses with someone in French, she instinctually assumes that because she can understand what’s being said, so can I. Likewise, I always assume that, because Sarah knows that I don’t speak French, so does everyone else in the world. So when I’m addressed by a stranger in French, I tend to stare dumbly at them for ten to thirty seconds just waiting for them to get it. Then I get bored and just turn away.
On the way back, I also had the chance to drive our friends’ new Subaru Impreza. After bragging about the merits of cruise control, I almost hydroplaned us all to our deaths somewhere in the guts of Montreal, but other than that, colour me impreza-ed!
It’s sort of amazing what I don’t remember from the last time I was there. Back then, it was for a grade eight school trip. I remember the drive into the city, past the cliffside that we were told Wolfe and his men scaled prior to the Battle of the Plains of Abraham. I also remember being told not to look inside a certain sex shop we’d be passing, then passing it, and then the crush of thirty kids all trying to press their faces against the window (some came home with crab-ridden eyebrows, so I’m told ). And I also remember that the inter-school dance at the end of the trip was cut short because some idiots from St. Mike’s thought it would be a great idea to buy butterfly knives and practice their ninja work against the walls of their hotel room.
This time we stayed at Hotel Le Priori, which was very cool, and very affordable. It also had a less affordable but quite chic little restaurant attached, called Toast! (which, lets face it, is just fun to say.). The city itself was like many of the European cities I’d been to, but cleaner, and without a population of strays that rivals the population of people, which is nice.
Despite being an Anglo-friendly city, Sarah had ample opportunities to show off her mad skills with the French language. During those times, I like to consider myself her mute companion. Actually, we discovered that whenever Sarah converses with someone in French, she instinctually assumes that because she can understand what’s being said, so can I. Likewise, I always assume that, because Sarah knows that I don’t speak French, so does everyone else in the world. So when I’m addressed by a stranger in French, I tend to stare dumbly at them for ten to thirty seconds just waiting for them to get it. Then I get bored and just turn away.
On the way back, I also had the chance to drive our friends’ new Subaru Impreza. After bragging about the merits of cruise control, I almost hydroplaned us all to our deaths somewhere in the guts of Montreal, but other than that, colour me impreza-ed!
Comments
So are guys who drive Imprezas.
... er...
Actually, a friend of mine who knows his stuff when it comes to cars test drove an Impreza and said it handled better than anything else he'd driven.
And my girlriend has a Subaru.
She's hot, too.
Look at you bunch of hot people. Maybe if I had some bread, I could... um... toast... it on all of you.
Perhaps that's how you do it Quebec style.
Wow.
All these hot people too.
Reay is hot. Especially since he became Kieffer.
Jay is hot, and has always been I suspect.
I am so hot that I am brown from my own hotness.
is there another way to handle that situation?
you're on jamie's blogroll, and i very much laughed at the reason behind "Touch you Last", and then i just kept scrolling...