part__xiii_thirteen

Let me paint a picture for you right now. I am in the RV. Fully dressed, and laying in bed (which is a pull out couch). The other three are all sleeping in the back beds. It's 11:35am. I got up at 8:00am. I've, so far, spent an hour at Second Cup– oh, I didn't tell you? I'm in Montréal...Canada, that is–and an hour walking around taking pictures. And they are still sleeping. I cannot. So, naturally, I got out my computer to see if I could pick up anyones wi-fi. I can. And I am. Thank you "mary_net". 

Montréal. It thirty minutes north of the border. Literally, a three hour drive from Vermont, where we were Friday. And, yet, they speak a different language. They exchange different currency. And it seems overwhelmingly European. I mean, obviously, it's another country, but it's just kind of amazing nonetheless. We spent yesterday getting to know the city, and went dancing last night. Lots of fun was had. However, it's important I tell you of the beginnings of our journey to Canada. Starting before we crossed the border.

So in Vermont, our contact, who was possibly one of the sweetest women I've ever met, told us we simply must go to Montréal. When are we going to be three hours from such an amazing city again? was her reasoning. Judith didn't need to say another word. We were sold. After the event at Castleton, we left and headed for the border. 

Our phones signals began to fade as we inched closer to customs. Scott pulled off at a gas station, what I would learn after the fact, was a few minutes from the border. We went to the bathroom and got gas. Then Scott nonchalantly asks if I wanna drive. I say, sure, thinking he just is tired of driving, and I it just feels like my turn was up soon anyways. After we get back on the road. I ask how much further to the border. This is when Scott lets me know it's like two minutes away. What a cheeky slag. Now you have to understand what we're trying to do now. We are trying to get a 36-foot RV filled with not only our stuff, but all the materials and what not the company we work for has given us. After all, it is their RV. As we pull up to customs, I start getting real nervous knowing I'm going to be the one getting grilled. We hand the agent our passports and appropriate papers. And then the questions started. Why are you crossing? How are you all related? Do you have any alcohol on the RV? Any tobacco? Any firearms? Put a dollar value on your belongings?! And on and on they went. Each one of them, me answering with a little less confidence than the one before. Saying things like, "We're going on holiday," and "No we don't have any tobacco, unless my cigarettes count?" or "No we don't have any alcohol on the RV. Wait, yes we do. Like 7 beers, in our refridgerator, does that count?" After this barrage of questions he ushers us forward and tells us to park for round two. The search. 

At the next station, we are met by not one, not two, not even three, but four agents ready to search our vehicle. The asked us to step out and we did. Not a warm process. They asked us about our criminal records. Lets just say Canadian customs was a funny place for confession. They immediately ask us if our fridge is broken (which it most definitely is, hence the potent, potent oder). We tell them it is, and that we aren't growing anything intentionally. Next we have to go into the building, which was a nice break from the 29 degree night, and we had to sit and wait while they checked our backgrounds. Luckily to help pass the time I brought my harmonica in. All the while we sat wondering if this debacle of a plan was actually going to pan out.

It did, we crossed and I proceeded to follow any and every sign that had the word Montréal on it. And were ushered in to the city by Ludacris singing "Pimpin' all over the world". Immediately after arriving, however, we realized that we had spent about three minutes thinking this decision, and it may lead to disaster, or it may lead to glory. And glory it was. We made it, and after about an hour of driving around and some awkward "we're not from here" conversations, we found a parking place. We didn't pay the meter, and yet we haven't got a ticket. My theory is that they simply don't know what to do with this monstrosity of a vehicle.  And our weekend has been so good. I couldn't be happier about our decision to come to this foreign country. Thank you Montréal.