I got yesterday morning from the second largest landmass, the first nation of hockey and the best part of North America.
After bagging Mullet Creek, Mississauga, I went to Montreal to visit the suburb of Longueuil, from where the Quebecois name for a mullet, un coupe Longueuil, comes.
I was well impressed with Montreal – dating back to the 1600s and with a strong French influence, the city had a historic, continental feel that reminded me of a French or Belgian city, and which was lacking in the few other parts of Canada I’d seen.
It helped that I stayed in a very cool and sociable hostel for a couple of nights, where it was easy to meet fellow travellers and go sight-seeing together. Indeed, so intrigued were two other guys with my mission that they joined me on my trek to Longueuil.
Also, Montreal presented me with a chance to dust off my patchy French. Other than staff in shops, pubs or restaurants, however, I didn’t actually speak to all that many Quebecquers.
The best use my French got was with a Catalan guy who spoke no English, with whom I chatted quite a bit, even stretching to a lengthy discussion about the comparative politics of identity in Catalonia and Scotland.
I was quite proud that my hesitant, faltering French managed this, although I gained substantial reinforcement of my theory that if you don’t know the French word for something, simply say the English word in a French accent and with a French ending, and you’ll not be far away.
There’s photos of my Montreal adventures, and more from the week’s adventures, in the Canada set in my Flickr.
That hostel is quite cute!
Welcome back etc.