Montreal

It seems like I can never go for a walk without someone pulling over in his car and asking me for directions somewhere. I never know what to say. Either I don’t know how to get to the place, or I do, but I don’t know how to explain it. Like, I know how to drive to Saranac Lake, or Burlington, or a number of other places, but I could not give you directions. I don’t remember the names of the roads, or even when to turn left or right. When I am driving there, I just know when and where to turn and don’t even think about it. I have always been bad with directions. Like senior year in college, when I took an 8 hour shortcut to get back to school from Montreal, a trip that usually takes 1 ½ hours.

It was a Thursday in March, and Matt, Kirk, Brian, and I were sitting around in our townhouse, probably watching a Real World Las Vegas re-run or something (that was one of the shows we made sure to watch every week—don’t ask). The phone rings and it’s Tim. He says that Lincoln’s brother is in town from Cleveland to visit, and he has never been to Montreal, so tonight’s the night to take him. So we start to think about it. Everyone is bitching about needing to get back the next morning, not having enough money to get a room there for the night, so I decide to be the DD. Brian can’t go, because he is in charge of the big brother program, where students hang out with a mentally handicapped adult every week (it’s really a nice service/volunteer thing. Brian’s buddy was this guy named Paul. He was really fun. He was into wrestling and stuff, and we would all go bowling sometimes, etc). This night, Brian was hosting a pizza party at our townhouse, where all the students in the program and their buddies came over. So, it was just Kirk, Matt, and I who went up to Montreal. Of course, we stuck around to have some pizza before leaving.

So, we get up to Montreal around 8pm, and head to Peel Pub to meet up with Tim, Lincoln, Lincoln’s brother, and two other guys who came with them. Peel Pub is the place where drunk American kids go to hang out. Complete tourist place. They do have real cheap food, a great exchange rate on the American dollar, 69 cent shots, and 120 ounce (you read that right) pitchers for $15. So, around 9:30, everyone is trashed but me (I had 2 beers, since I won’t be driving home til much later). Lincoln’s brother starts asking about the nudey bars, since they are legendary in this city. Just mention Montreal pretty much anywhere, and you’ll get this knowing glance. St. Catherine’s street, Montreal’s version of Times Square, has strip clubs interspersed between McDonald’s, Burger Kings, Macy’s, etc.

So, we hit up the most famous place (and probably the least sketchy), Club Supersexe. By least sketchy I mean it was still reallllly sketchy. It was filled with drunk teenagers, and middle aged weirdos who looked like Milhouse's dad. Lincoln’s brother is over in the corner getting a lapdance. Matt decided to go to the bathroom and he is really drunk at this point. One of the strippers says to Matt, “hey baby, do you want a lap-dance”, and Matt, immediately, comes back with “do you get paid by the dance or by the hour…”. Before she can mutter a response, Matt finishes, “…Either way, you’re still a whore.”

It was probably good that Matt said that, because we felt like cheap trash in there, and were ready to get out anyways. So Matt, Kirk, Tim and I left Lincoln and his friends in there, and got the hell out before the bouncers could kick our asses.

We wandered around until we found some Cuban place. It was a chill atmosphere. Latin ladies doing the cha-cha; Matt was loving it, since he speaks Spanish, has studied abroad in Ecuador and Costa Rica, and knows how to talk with these women.

We hit up about 3 more bars, plus a stop in McDonald’s for some fine drunken dining before it was time to leave. One of the bars had a breathalizer machine, I blew a .0, so I knew I was good, Kirk was around a .13, and Matt and Tim both blew .20, since that is the highest the machine goes. We walked back to the car, which was quite the adventure. There was still ice and snow on the ground, it was freezing out, and by this time, Tim had slipped a few times and sprained both ankles, so he was hanging on me for support, telling me how such a great friend I am.

I never had a car in college, so I rarely drove anywhere. I had never driven to Montreal myself, or driven home from there. Matt had actually driven up. So, I asked for help getting out of the city and finding the highway. Tim was half drunk, half awake, Kirk and Matt were passed out in the back. Tim was directing me. Mainly, he was saying, yeah, uhuh, and so on when I asked questions. I was like, “Tim, do I turn here," and he said yes, so I turned. He wasn’t paying attention to me, though. He was just ready to pass out.

So, I am driving for over an hour, and I’m wondering why I haven’t come to the border yet. I speed up, and am going about 85 or 90. Once it gets to be 2 hours, I wake everyone up and we realize that instead of heading south, I had driven north. Its now about 3 in the morning, and we are almost on E, so the first thing to worry about is finding an open gas station. Kirk is still toasted, so he stays passed out, other than waking up every 15 minutes or so to smack me across the back of the head and say, “you’re a fucking idiot” or “Sean! How could you not know you were going north!”

We finally find a gas station up in the middle of nowhere. The lady there only spoke French and had never heard of America. We headed back South on a different road, and came across the border around 7am on the other side of Vermont, and had to cross the state. By this time everyone was awake, and I never heard the end of it for the rest of the ride home. We got back at 8:30am, I went to bed only to wake up to my alarm at 9:45, and rush off to my Philosophy of Mind class at 10. I stared at the professor the entire class and did not take a single note, knowing that looking down at my notebook would cause me to close my eyes.

I never had to DD the rest of the year.