Montreal I: Never again poutine

It’s almost 10 am of a Sunday morning, and I have asphalt to pound exploring Second City. (Unless Toronto is the Second City. I don’t know these things well.) So in brief:

• I tried staying up till 4 am in Melbourne, so I could sleep peacably on the plane to Montreal. The staying up bit work, but since I was waiting in Melbourne for 2 hours (because it was only a domestic flight), another three hours in Sydney, and two hours in LA, a lot of the make-up sleeping got done on benches and Economy flights, instead of in the long-haul comfort of Premium Economy, Qantas. Which means I was pretty zombied by the time I got to Montreal.
• I got processed by immigration in LAX a lot quicker than in Montreal, and that astonished me.
• I woke up at 4 am, 5 am, and 7:30 am. I’m as adjusted to the time zone as I’ll ever be, I think.

The cabbie encounter from the airport this time remained in French, and I was tired, so I was pretty taciturn. Still:

CABBIE: We may have some trouble getting to your hotel. There’s a firework display on.
ME: Yes, I read the something at the aerodrome.
CABBIE: It is some sort of competition, a different country each Saturday night. (Hand gesture to illustrate the churn of fireworking nations)
ME: Hong Kong the tonight.
CABBIE: Yes, it’s Japan tonight.
ME: [It bally well is Hong Kong tonight too] And it was the Australia last occasion.
CABBIE: I see sir knows all about the city!
ME: Yes, I read the something at the aerodrome.

Given the competition from the thunderstorm *crackle*, I don’t know how Hong Kong (it bally well was Hong Kong) fared; the morning news seemed to show it went alright. Montreal is decidedly in party mood: Rue Sherbrooke, where I am, was packed and buzzing at 10 pm (despite the rain—but then, at least it isn’t snow); and I have the poor photo from the window to prove it:

As opposed to this morning, when it was pretty damn quiet at 8 am (and still is now at 10 am):

I was not, so I had a poutine and went to watch telly.

Poutine. Well, I’ve had the genuine article now, as opposed to the faint allusion to poutine at Lord of the Fries in Melbourne. Um, yeah, I get it, it’s comfort food, but nothing amazing. I was expecting the cheese curds to be something tangier.

Three days off my diet, and I’ve got to do something about restricting calorie intake; I was 12 kg down when I left town, I don’t want to be 12 kg up when I get back. No more poutine may be one way of doing it…