Montreal

Montreal

 Willie Zakel was the perfect travel partner to head out with for my first international experience.  He had avoided reform school only because his parents sent him from Virginia to live with his uncle, who was our high school wrestling coach in upstate New York.  I didn’t really think he would go with me when I asked him – but he jumped at the idea – and why wouldn’t he?  He had absolutely nothing going on in his life.

 I had just finished my first week of a summer job at the Remington Rand typewriter factory and had just got paid.  The World Expo was going on in Montreal – and I thought it would be an extraordinary experience to drive there and visit the Expo and the city of Montreal.

 Since Charlie, my grandfather, had had a stroke and could not drive anymore, I considered his Nash Rambler partly mine.  Its well-known feature was that the front seats popped down and turned the entire car into a double bed.  In those days though, no kid my age wanted to get caught driving a Nash Rambler.  It was known as an “uncool” car.  It was not in the same league as Chevrolet’s and Ford’s.  But its redeeming value, and the saving grace for me, was that those seats popped down with one quick pull of a lever.  There was something slightly naughty about driving a car that had seats that you could turn it into a bed in a matter of seconds.  Never mind that the only time that could be exciting for a kid my age was if you had a girl with you who was wild enough and loose enough to agree to pull that lever.  Aside from that fantasy – if you had some gas money and time on your hands you could go on a road trip with your buddies and sleep in the car and avoid paying for a motel.  People would see me driving and yell, “Hey, how ‘bout those seats?  You tried ’em out yet?”

 Willie and I bullshit all the way from Elmira to Montreal.  We had a lot to talk about.  He just finished his senior year of high school and I just barely survived my first year of college.  So we had a lot of catching up to do.  Mainly I wanted to know what had gone on at Southside High that year.  I wanted all the crazy details – like who did what to whom, what crazy things happened, who got arrested, who got a new car, were there any wild parties, etc.

 Once we hit the outskirts of Montreal all the signs were in French, which threw me into unfamiliar psychological territory moving at seventy miles per hour.  The highway was jammed with cars and huge trucks speeding by us as I tried to decipher what the signs were saying, and where we should get off.  I felt out of control but we kept going.  My main goal was just to keep the Rambler in one lane.

 Once it looked like we were actually inside Montreal we managed to get off the highway.  We turned onto a side street to look at our map.  It was apparent, even after looking at the map, that we had no idea where the hell we were.  We just knew we were in Montreal – and that was our first objective – so we weren’t freaking out yet.  It was about one in the morning by that time, so we decided we needed to get some sleep and attack the World Expo the next day.  We drove around looking for a place to pull over and drop down the seats, pull a blanket over us, and go to sleep, which is what we did.

 Our sleep was interrupted at about three a.m. when a powerful spotlight was directed at our faces.  I squinted toward the light to see what was going on.  I could hear someone’s voice, but was blinded by the light.  I tried to figure out if we were being held up, or if it was just a dream, or if some jerk-off was trying to get smart with us.  When the light was directed around the inside of the car I could make out a police officer’s hat – and then his uniform, so I rolled the window down a bit.  The officer grunted, “What are you doing here?”

 I said, “We came to Montreal for the World Expo and got tired so we pulled over to sleep a bit.”

 He said, “Well, you are parked right in front of the police station!”

 I said, “Really?  Gosh, I’m sorry about that!  We’ll move out of here right now.”

 He said, “Look, you can pull into our parking lot and sleep there for the night, and no one will bother you.”

 I said, “That’s really nice of you.  We’ll pull over there now.”

 The next morning we straightened up the car – got the seats back in their upright position and started driving around.  Willie wanted to get a donut so we stopped at some kind of a convenient food mart.  On the way out of the store we asked a young guy how we could get to the Expo.  He was proud that we had bothered to cross an international border to come and visit Montreal, his hometown, and the Expo.  He became our temporary advisor.  He said, “Look, here’s what I think you ought to do.  I wouldn’t try to drive to the Expo – too many cars and no place to park.  There’s a subway station near here.  I’d advise you to park your car around here and take the metro right into the Expo – you’ll get there quickly, it’s cheap and you won’t have to hassle around with parking your car.  You’ll just have to remember where you parked it.”

 So Jean-Paul, that was his name, jumped into the car with us and helped us find a spot to park.  He was on his way to work downtown so he said he’d show us how to get to a subway station.  He said, “I wish I could go with you guys, but I have to work.  I’m sure you’ll have a blast.”

 Willie and I were feeling really good about our trip.  So far we had not had any problems and both the cops and a private citizen were looking out for us.  I mean we weren’t ready to move to Montreal yet – but we started thinking about the possibility.

 The Expo was like something neither of us had ever seen before.  The closest thing to it that I had ever seen was Eldridge Park – but that was like nothing compared to the Expo.  Willie kept mumbling something about The Block in Baltimore, and the more he talked about it the luckier I felt that I had never been there.

 The Expo was bright with so many sights and pavilions.  I couldn’t understand why the Russian pavilion was full of consumer products like TV sets and radios.  Like big deal.  I expected to see something from the future, not the past.  Many of the exhibits and pavilions, however, were extraordinary.  In addition, there were scads of eating spots and beer stands.  We savored being in an environment that was truly exciting and different.  The sky was blue and there were beautiful women everywhere.

 At night we went into the city of Montreal to do some exploring.  It was full of both elegant as well as youthful, hippie-type venues.  We were truly foreigners – literally and figuratively – but we didn’t have money to blow at any of these venues.  We had to be happy just being able to peek in on a level of life that was foreign and exciting.

 On the subway ride back to our car we encountered families and couples who were speaking only French.  I spotted this gorgeous young lady with light blue short shorts and a sleeveless white top.  She was with her family, who were also friendly.  We smiled at each other, but somehow assumed that language was the barrier blocking our venturing into what could become a mad love relationship.

 I thought about what Mrs. Odom, our high school French teacher had told us when we appeared especially uninterested in learning French.  She said, “Someday you will find yourself in a situation where you’ll wish you could communicate in French.”  I said to myself, “She’s full of shit.  I’ll never be in a situation where I will use this stuff.”  I was kicking myself in the ass now.  If I had paid better attention in French class I might now be able to make it with this beautiful young lady who seemed interested in communicating with me.

 Somehow “Comment allez-vous?” came out of my mouth.  I didn’t understand her response but I came back with “Comment vous-appelez vous?”  I understood her to say “Gla.”  I said, “Gla?”  She said, “Oui.”  OK, I had never heard of that name before – but OK, I got her name.  I got to first base.  Willie was sitting there taking it all in.  I doubt if Willie had ever heard a foreign language before.

 Gla (Claire) and I struggled with efforts to communicate.  She spoke no English.  Her family tried to help.  Then it happened – we got to her subway stop.  Wait!  What the hell!  I can’t let this thing end without some sort of closure.  Claire got up to get off the subway and I yelled, “Willie, we’re getting off here!”  He said, “Yeah man, no problem.”  We got off and all of us – Claire’s family, Willie, and me – stood near the tracks while I attempted to get Claire’s phone number.  I think I got it right – and it was obvious that the family had to move on.  I asked, “Are you from Montreal?”  She said, “No – Grand Mere.”  I said to myself, “OK, I got her number – we’ll figure out the rest later.”  I said, “OK, Je telephone vous, OK?”  She smiled and said, “Oui!”

 For me, the Montreal trip was over.  What else could happen that could top what had happened so far?  Willie and I somehow got back onto the next subway train and got off at our stop where the Rambler was parked.  We drove around Montreal until it got light out.  We were both high on bliss.  As soon as the sky started to turn pink, we found the highway and headed back to New York State.

 The Montreal trip with Willie fueled my thirst for international travel.  On our way back to Elmira the discussion focused on where next?  With no funds to finance our explorations we had to be content with thinking about the Finger Lakes area.  Even New York City was too far and too costly for us to consider.

 I was able to reach Claire by phone and got her address.  We corresponded throughout my college years although we never saw each other again.