...had a ton of fun. In short, Montreal is amazing. In long, I will tell you why and what I did over the course of my vacation. Not everything can be shared due to legal purposes—funny and true!—but for the most part everything worthwhile will be shared.
Tyler, Joe, and I leave early Thursday morning, from Connecticut to Canada on a straight course. The ride is nothing special. For the most part I text my friend who thankfully entertains me, and Kilgore (Tyler) and I listen to music. Classical music on the last stretch of the drive, which adds a nice element to the scenic upstate New York.
Let’s jump ahead to crossing the border, where I met the biggest bitch I will ever meet. Of course I forget my passport in the trunk, so I jump out and snag it to present it to the border guard woman person—she’s the enormous bitch. I hate her. I forever will. She says, in her bitchy voice, “Why did you bring your passport?” Of course I have no idea how to respond to this, so I stutter and think. “To give it to you?” I ask, which is apparently the answer she wanted, as he nods arrogantly. She then asks us a slew of questions—where we’re going, why, the hotel’s address?!, how long we’re staying, and more irrelevant questions. It takes us like five minutes to find the hotel’s address, and all the while she just stares at us. Really. Hugest bitch ever; you had to hear her voice.
I should have hit on her and see how far that got me, if I would have landed in Canadian jail.
We finally arrive in the city of Montreal and promptly drive around in circles for awhile, not realizing we passed our hotel once, and nearly twice. We then, of course, park in the wrong parking garage and have to switch to another one beneath the hotel, in what resembles an end of the world bunker. Our hotel is also on the edge of Asia Town. Yes, Asia Town in Montreal, and even inside the hotel is quite Asian. There’s an enormous and elaborate koi pond with bridges and everything.
Later we go out to eat and locate beer, and it is then I realize two things. One: I’m horribly underdressed in this city; everyone looks like gold. Two: 29 out of 30 women in Montreal are beautiful, and I’m not exaggerating. This trend continues throughout the trip, as we all notice that women in Montreal are stupidly attractive. I really should move to Montreal, by the way. I’m still stunned.
Also, we find six packs of beer, which is of the most importance. Phew.
I should probably tell you the reason why we went to Montreal. For myself, there’s a few reasons. One: a Grand Prix in Magic the Gathering, a card game that my friends and I play. Two and more importantly: I’m trying to expand my painting business right now in a big way. With acrylic arts I do alterations to Magic cards. It’s a fairly lucrative business and a ton of fun, so I brought my art supplies and painted for many hours at the convention, selling a fair amount of my art. Three and most importantly: I love traveling with friends and I’ll do it at every opportunity, to anywhere. I save just about all my money for traveling expenses.
So it’s Thursday night, our first night, and of course we decide to go out and get drunk while meeting up with a few friends. We drink towers of beer at the first bar—towers about four feet tall, nine liters of beer or something, and leave for another bar, as we want to see a lot of the city.
At this point I’m still entirely sober and just full on beer. One guy is already very drunk, and others are rather drunk as well. I’m very silent at this point, as I’m slipping into one of my extremely introspective states, just thinking about myself in relation to the world and the people of it, and how drunken people act, and how I have now stopped myself from reaching that absurd and annoying point, and how Montreal, like most cities, is quite fantastic, and how today has been a very good day, from the car ride up to now, and so on.
And so we leave that bar in search of, of course, a strip club. However, one member of our group insists that we must get in for free, drink for free, have free VIP, and so on and so on—of course no bouncers agree to this and we look like silly Americans. So we’re on the street somewhere in Montreal haggling with bouncers about stripper prices and whatnot, and the entire situation is quite hilarious, until everyone passes up a very good offer into a strip club. Passing up good offers is not hilarious. However, Kilgore and I are sick of waiting so we agree to go inside.
This is my first strip club anywhere, ever. Yes, I suppose I’m rather old for a first timer, but I didn’t think I would really enjoy it, and I was right. Strip clubs are more depressing than anything else, and more than not the strippers aren’t even that attractive. All that, and I’m quite odd; I think I prefer talking to a girl more so than watching her dance on a stage. If I can talk to you for hours and find pleasure in it, then chances are I like you very much. If I can’t talk to you, then waste of time. But I’m a strange person and strip clubs have never been for me. That said, I’ll go to them.
The strip club: the first thing I see is a young gentleman laying on stage having his ass whipped by a belt. Great start. Kilgore and I sit off to the side and I spend $18 on bad beer. Even better start. The guy is claiming how he’s a marine and belts don’t hurt him.
Ugh, what?
Other than the one blond, the strippers aren’t all great, and ironically, the most attractive girl in the club is the waitress. She was very nice. Watching the somewhat-pretty-half naked women dance on stage, I’m still entirely introspective rather than just enjoying the moment. Alas, I think too deeply and too often, even when I’m just barley buzzed. Strippers come over to us and solicit Kilgore while completely ignoring me, which I don’t mind but find humorous. He’s dressed far better than I am. I’m in a hoody promoting a metal band and black pin-stripe shorts. One stripper is actually very pleasant to talk to, but all in all Kilgore and I leave rather quickly, so as not to be separated from our friends. We have no idea where they are at this point.
Awhile later the entire group somehow ends up inside a dive bar, where we stay for at least two or three hours. Yes, a dive bar in Montreal. Most of the group is quite drunk. I’m 7 beers and 6 shots deep and very much sober, for some reason, but I don’t mind all that much. Mostly I just sit in the back with my friend, Brian, as we discuss things and watch drunk people make fools out of themselves. All the while this intense dubstep insanity music is playing and really fucking with my brain. I feel like I should be on ecstasy, a lot of it—I’ve never touched the stuff but still!—to be sitting in this bar, as the music is that intense. At some point Zelda-dubstep starts blaring, which is hilarious since we’re a bunch of nerds in a dive bar and Zelda music is playing, and apparently the bartender is also a nerd, and somewhat attractive, but I’m not going to waste my time trying to talk to a bartender. I rather just, well, do nothing.
Home at some time near 4am, I think.
Friday
I have nightmares due to the intensely loud dubstep and alcohol. I also partially freeze to death, as I’m on the floor beside an open window without a blanket, so I sleep in my hoody—I do this the entire vacation. Also, to fall asleep each night I put The Sea and the Rhythm on repeat on my Ipod. The song’s by Iron and Wine and probably my second favorite song of all time. Here’s a link. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nyiSg_iNLSI
Watch it.
As we came here to play Magic, we go to the convention center and play Magic much of the day. I won’t go into great detail, as I’m sure it’s boring for most readers. Let’s just say this weekend wasn’t my best.
There’s really not much to talk about for Friday, as we have to be up early Saturday for the big tournament, the Grand Prix.
For lunch Kilgore and I attend a noodle place. We’re sitting next to a group of six older women, from 30-50 I believe, and I have a grand idea of making them fall in love with Kilgore and I, escorting us around the city and buying us tons of gifts and perhaps using us as sex slaves. However, Kilgore doesn’t seem too into this idea, so it’s quickly abandoned.
The best part of the day was me painting at the venue and having other players appreciate my art. I’ll soon explain.
The worst part of the vacation, by far: dinner Friday night. For some reason we choose to eat the sketchiest, cheapest place in all of Montreal. I order a chicken burger and fries. I don’t know what meat I ate, but my god it was not chicken. Not at all. I think it was pure cartilage. And the fries we covered in a horrible, horrible gravy and revolting cheese. Even now I shiver about it. Really, by far the worst meal I have ever eaten. I think it made me sick. Just thinking about it now disgusts me.
Saturday
We wake up early for the tournament. I promptly do horrible, drop out, and set up my paint station at a random table near a fair amount of traffic so people stop, observe, look at my cards, and buy from me.
My plan very much succeeds. Lots of people stop by and look, and I talk to them about painting and Magic and whatnot. A few people buy my cards, which is always exciting, not for the money but because they appreciate it enough to spend a rather hefty amount of money for cards that do not normally cost so much. But hey, art is expensive.
A few professional artists are also at the venue. RK Post, Chippy, and a few others, and more than once random people come up to me and say, “Hey, are you Chippy?”, “Are you RK Post?”, “Are you the resident artist at this venue?” While I wish I could get away with the lies, I tell them the truth, that I’m just a card painter here to sell my work, but yes, I am an artist, would you like to see my stuff? Regardless, I was humbled and humored at people asking me if I was a famous artist.
Later on we drink more, play more cards, and eat dinner at an amazing Mexican restaurant. Seven of us attend, and we eat a ton of high quality Mexican food in Montreal. The margaritas were especially tasty.
Sunday
I wake up before my roommates and head to the venue, where I paint for ten straight hours. Yesterday people commissioned me to paint them cards, so I have to finish those and others for my friends back at home. It all equals a ton of painting, and I finish what I have to finish and make some monies.
And now, for the grand finale, I will detail the disaster that was Sunday night. Disaster may be an understatement.
We’re in our friends’ hotel room, drinking as usual. My one friend insists that he can chug a 1/4th of a bottle of vodka. Of course, for hilarity’s sake, we insist he cannot, knowing he will attempt to prove us wrong. He downs the vodka, surprisingly, and then a beer, and I know he will soon be wasted, as he’s a very small guy. My equally knowledgeable friends also know this, and we want to see how far we can take this, so we all start doing shots of Dewar’s scotch—a revolting drink but at least it fucks you up. And these aren’t normal shots. It’s more like three shots at once, so in about thirty minutes my friend is hilariously drunk. He keeps hugging everyone, insisting that he loves them. At one point he tackles me off the bed, into the gap between the bed and the wall. He also keeps calling some girl from home, until we take away his phone to save him the $15 a minute. We’re good friends. Really.
The funniest part was when Kilgore and I returned to the room, only to open the door into my friend’s head; he’s laying on the floor staring at his phone, talking at it but not into it.
Realizing we cannot take our friend out to a bar, as he’s far, far too drunk and we’ll all likely be arrested, we attempt to bring him back to his hotel. A horrible mistake. Our friend can’t stand, or walk, and sometimes he tries to run away from us only to fall into bushes or nearly into the road, and people are staring. A lot of stares, but thankfully we avoid the police until my friend almost blacks out on the street. It’s then a few of us—not me included—realize we must take him back to the hotel room, as the walk is too far and he’s too drunk and we’ll all soon be in jail.
So the rest of us, five in total, head to my drunken friend’s hotel to contact the people’s he’s staying with, to tell them that he’s fine and not dead, yet. Of course we fail at this as well, and by this time it’s too late to eat a good dinner on our last night, so we settle for horrible pizza.
And now the rest of the night begins. Such a long, horrible yet humorous night.
We randomly meet up with another group of six people, I think, and they want to go to an Absinthe bar. While I hate absinthe, I agree since it’s something to do. However, two of our friends return to their hotel, leaving me, Joe, and Kilgore along with this new group.
So we start walking to this bar, which we’re told is close. And we walk, and walk, and walk, and walk, uphill, and walk, and walk. Joe and I make jokes and complain the entire time, as it’s a fucking long walk and Sunday night, our last night, is going straight to hell. Walking. Caring for drunken people, and walking. Honestly, hours of walking. We’ve done nothing else and now it’s 1am or close to it.
But the grace of the gods we finally arrive at this bar…which is clearly a date scene and not a group of seven dudes and a girl scene, but oh well, I’m fine with anything. I’m very easy to please, and if not I’m pleased, I’ll just stay quiet.
So we all order absinthe, and it’s on fire and whatnot, and the sugar is melting, and for 140 proof alcohol, it does nothing for more. Sigh! Just a buzz would be nice at this point. But here’s the good part. The waitress never asked for money, so my $12.00 absinthe is free. I win! Eventually I order a beer and tip her $4.00, since my first drink as free and all.
I’m a nice guy.
We agree to leave this bar rather soon, since it really is all couples. Joe and I are still rather frustrated at this point, since we’re still entirely sober and it’s nearing 2am. Horrible night! The absinthe isn’t real absinthe, and I’m almost entirely sure it’s watered down, since I should at least feel something. But I don’t. No wormwood in this shit..
So we leave two people at the bar, the nice couple amongst us, and we go on a late night quest to find breasts at a strip club. We pass many, and they all look horrible or closed. It is, of course, 2am on a Sunday night, so we’re going to get the B-Team of Strippers, and my god that’s what we eventually get, at around 2:20am.
I don’t even remember the name of the fucking club, just that I hated it…apart from one incredibly hot stripper who was barely on stage.
Here’s what happened. We sit for about 15 minutes and no one is dancing. Somehow my Coors Light cost more than a Corona and Stella. What the fuck?
Wait, what? Yes, there’s no strippers dancing, just standing around talking and being jerks. One stripper looks about 4 months pregnant, and another, who sadly dances, is a horribly fat Asian. I had to look away then; I almost fell asleep. All the while I’m talking to my friend, who I just talked to the first time about 40 minutes earlier, and he’s a cool guy so at least that makes the awful strip club bearable. We’re there nearly an hour, maybe more, and at least 45 minutes of that is stripperless. I’m so angry at this point, and when the strippers come up to solicit our group with lap dances and whatnot, they of course avoid me entirely. So apparently strippers are afraid of me, or intimidated by my roguish good looks and they want me to strip for them. Yes, that must be it.
We leave at 3am, when it’s closing, and wander home, depressed and angry at the night. At least it was a humorous night, if you can find humor in that the night couldn’t have possibly gone worse unless one of us was arrested.
And that’s about it.
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