So, what I have decided will be a mystery until the tail end of this post is where M. and I decided to go instead of France. It was in a northern direction, so northerly we did go. At about the half way mark M. drove, which allowed me to take a few photographs without risking anyone's life.
We drove through this small town and should have stopped whatever 'Railroads on Parade' was ... but we didn't because I am a merciless time taskmaster and wanted to make sure we arrived at our destination in plenty of time for ... well it ended up being in plenty of time for rush hour but shhh.
So. Our destination was Canada. And here is what it looks like when you are driving up to go across. I didn't take any more photographs because we didn't want them to think we were casing the joint, especially because we were not casing the joint. The French Canadian who allowed us to cross asked us if we had switch blades. I would never even think of that as being a question one would have to ask of two upper class white women, but there you go. Upper class comparatively to, I don't know what I'm talking about.
The signs in the province of Quebec are in French.
M. purchased a set of CDs to help us remember how to speak French, which we put in as soon as we crossed the border. She and I were in at least one French class together in high school, so it was like a mini-reunion of sorts. Not really. We were reminded of how to say it is a little truck, it is a big truck, it is a little car, it is a big car, and a few other phrases that really helped us out throughout our visit to ... Montreal! In this photograph I think M. is exclaiming something along the lines of 'sacre bleu, il est un grand camion!' But maybe not. We definitely didn't learn 'sacre bleu'.
The driving speed wasn't bad for the majority of our way to Montreal, but once we hit its true limits the fun was 'fin.'
Here's one thing we learned throughout the tedious driving that then followed: French Canadian drivers are assholes and don't know how to make right or left turns. They also are rude and unsafe and have no respect for simply waiting your turn to merge. So in that way they're very much like the French. Note: I haven't actually had the experience of French people being overly mean, but it's a stereotype that works in this context, so I'm going with it.
We crossed this bridge. It took a very long time to cross this bridge.
Next up you will see what we ate. I realized just now that I didn't take a single photograph of our hotel. It wasn't so spectacular that it truly deserved a photograph, neither was it so awful that it shouldn't have at least one photographic proof moment.
We drove through this small town and should have stopped whatever 'Railroads on Parade' was ... but we didn't because I am a merciless time taskmaster and wanted to make sure we arrived at our destination in plenty of time for ... well it ended up being in plenty of time for rush hour but shhh.
So. Our destination was Canada. And here is what it looks like when you are driving up to go across. I didn't take any more photographs because we didn't want them to think we were casing the joint, especially because we were not casing the joint. The French Canadian who allowed us to cross asked us if we had switch blades. I would never even think of that as being a question one would have to ask of two upper class white women, but there you go. Upper class comparatively to, I don't know what I'm talking about.
The signs in the province of Quebec are in French.
M. purchased a set of CDs to help us remember how to speak French, which we put in as soon as we crossed the border. She and I were in at least one French class together in high school, so it was like a mini-reunion of sorts. Not really. We were reminded of how to say it is a little truck, it is a big truck, it is a little car, it is a big car, and a few other phrases that really helped us out throughout our visit to ... Montreal! In this photograph I think M. is exclaiming something along the lines of 'sacre bleu, il est un grand camion!' But maybe not. We definitely didn't learn 'sacre bleu'.
The driving speed wasn't bad for the majority of our way to Montreal, but once we hit its true limits the fun was 'fin.'
Here's one thing we learned throughout the tedious driving that then followed: French Canadian drivers are assholes and don't know how to make right or left turns. They also are rude and unsafe and have no respect for simply waiting your turn to merge. So in that way they're very much like the French. Note: I haven't actually had the experience of French people being overly mean, but it's a stereotype that works in this context, so I'm going with it.
We crossed this bridge. It took a very long time to cross this bridge.
Next up you will see what we ate. I realized just now that I didn't take a single photograph of our hotel. It wasn't so spectacular that it truly deserved a photograph, neither was it so awful that it shouldn't have at least one photographic proof moment.
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