As a truck driver for twenty years, I became good pretty darn good at dealing with directions.
Montreal’s messing with my mind.
I’ve been lost a bunch of times since we got here. I’m ready to put my GPS under a cement truck.
Today in Brossard, after visiting a Russian grocery store nearby, we left for Candiac, just up the road about 15 kilometres to the west. I don’t even think you have to turn anywhere.
We ended up going east, over the Champlain Bridge, and into downtown Montreal.
But we made it back, and I told Luci I did it on purpose so she could see the St. Lawrence Seaway again.
I’d like to mention that people everywhere have been very friendly and helpful, and those didn’t speak English very well certainly gave it the old college try. I haven’t been helpful. I speak some basic French and I haven’t given anything close to the old college try.
I feel guilty that French Canadians are expected to speak English with us, to change from their native tongue as soon as they find out who they’re dealing with. They do it seamlessly, and I admire their ability to jump back and forth between languages. Often I’ve talked to people who speak with just a slight trace of an accent. To me it’s uncanny.
It seems unfair that they must switch to accommodate us, and we don’t have to do anything. I’m hoping to get better about this.
I’m also really hoping that the place we noticed in Candiac and will visit tomorrow will be the end of the apartment search. From B.C. to Montreal, it’s been the problem of what to do about a place to live which has been the most stressful.