No Excuses...

I'll save the long-winded apology. Back to Montreal.

So pretty much I had to wait in the airport for roughly 2 hours for the rest of my party to arrive (flying out of your own state's major airport on the company's dime isn't so bad after all). After my entire customs debacle (sans the cavity search), I went in search for food. Besides the really filling two half-dollar sized cookies and glass of water I got on the airplane, I hadn't eaten anything in awhile. I was really hoping for some authentic French Canadian food, like Burger King or McDonalds, but unfortunately all I came across was Tim Hortons; apparently the Roy Rogers of Montreal. It was the only place where you could order a sandwich or donuts...or even a combo with a coffee. Since I didn't feel like wandering around anymore, I figured to just order a sandwich and wait until they landed. So I sauntered up to the register, even trying to lay down a smooth game by saying "Bonjour" to the cashier. But either my accent was bad or she wasn't in the mood, because she didn't even respond. Anyway, I ordered the "Deli Trio" special, which was a drink and a sandwich, when the cashier asked, in her French Canadian/English accent, if I wanted "sizz" or something like that, to which I of course replied, "Yes," since you never turn down a French Canadian in their own city no less. She then began to pick out six donuts from underneath the glass case. "This restaurant is awesome," I thought. "If they give me a draft beer for dessert, I'm buying stock in this company." I went with six chocolate glazed, and she placed them on the table. But then some weird things started to happen: she continued to ask me questions and then put six waters on the counter. I knew something was wrong. "Whoa, I think there was some miscommunication. I only wanted one water and a sandwich," I said, in my friendliest tone ever. "But you didn't say that," the cashier said in response, not in a friendly tone. So for the next 30 seconds we argued as to what I ordered and what I should have ordered. Eventually the manager came over and smoothed everything over by only giving me the one sandwich and water combination. Apparently, ordering a "Deli Trio" means you're getting a donut, drink, and sandwich. And "sizz" meant "six." Not the best way to start off a trip. But how cool would it be to get a sixer of donuts with a meal? I smell an American rip-off...

The rest of my group soon came after I ate my sandwich (though I should have told her no mustard. But at that point, I may have been given a roundhouse kick for asking such a request) and wandered around looking for a phone card in two different stores. Mind you, I was wearing a suit, and I see my group wearing jeans and sneakers. Just my luck.

I knew only one guy on this trip. The other two I had no clue what they looked like. I pictured one of them to look like someone from "Beauty and the Geek," complete with glasses and pants pulled up to his chest. The other, I thought would be this graying old fat man. Shows just how wrong we can be. They both introduced themselves, and boy, was I surprised. The "nerd" was this muscular bald dude who looked like he could destroy me in minutes. The other was a 4'11 (at the tallest) balding man with a moustache who looked like he just woke up from sleeping in a dryer. Disheveled and annoyed at customs for asking him too many questions, I instantly knew this would be an interesting two days. Throw in a heavyset black man who resembled Sherman Klump's father from "The Nutty Professor," and you had quite the motley crew.

After exchanging pleasantries we picked up our car for the trip, a very nice Hyundai SUV. Before we could leave though, a thorough body check of the car had to be completed, so we weren't unnecessarily billed for any damage. Since one of our group members worked with Budget Rent-a-Car previously, he went over every inch of the car, from the blinkers to the brakes. All the while, the short man (we'll call Mini-Man) was behind the wheel, seemingly unsure of how to operate the windshield wipers. And he was driving me?

Somehow we ended up making it out of the garage and onto the road. Luckily we had a GPS so we couldn't get lost, even though we had Dale Earnhardt, Jr. driving. He bobbed and weaved out of traffic like Muhammad Ali in his prime, stop signs and traffic lights be damned (well not exactly, but you get the idea). We stumbled onto our hotel's street, but because they were undergoing renovations, there was no sign for the entrance. So we had to drive around the block at least 3 times looking for it. We'd come to where we thought was the entrance: it was a service one only. Another wasn't the right building. All the while, Mini-Man was screaming at everyone in sight (passengers, pedestrians, other cars on the road, a guy in a wheelchair crossing the street). He even wanted to make an "illegal U-Turn" on one of our wrong turns. He began to back up on a one-way street, avoiding looking in the rearview mirror and the cars behind him. We almost had to bribe him to convince him not to do it. "It's just right ahead," we told him. Soon enough, we found it, and as soon as we got out of the car, Mini-Man began to argue with the bellhop about the lack of signs pointing you to the hotel, even though the kid had nothing to do with anything. That was one thing with this guy; he argued about everything. Got the master suite in the hotel? Damnit, he needed a bigger refrigerator. No 90 ounce steak on the menu? Well they better cook the 32 oz. one perfectly or there'd be hell to pay. And he said all of this while he profusely sweated, as if we were in the Sahara Desert, even though it was bout 15 degrees there all day. Couple that with a tendency to over drink and make a fool of himself, and you had one of the most colorful characters I've ever met.

But back to checking in: the very attractive hotel worker (I have a weakness for women named "Vanessa" who wear those stylish glasses) checked us in, we went to our rooms. Let me just tell you how bad these guys abuse our company's money. Instead of staying in a small 3-star room, they get executive suites with desks and mini-bars on the top floor. Me? I get a crappy room with two double beds and a broken thermostat. And forget about TV. Canadian TV sucks; besides showing "Viva La Bam" with course language intact, there's nothing on but hockey and crappy melodramas. The one bright spot was seeing a piece of "Arrested Development"; I really need to watch that show.

That night, we settled on dinner. I found out after I got all decked out that we were just eating in the hotel restaurant. Dinner was interesting. All we talked about was politics and religion. One of the party members, after telling him I was a journalism major in college, thought that was a green light to ask me about every event that's ever happened in the world and asking me for my opinion. When I hadn't heard of it ("You mean to tell me you don't know the history of the IRS?"), he would get upset. He also added "journalism student" to every question he asked me, as if that meant I should have my finger on the pulse of every current event ever. Then I had Mini-Man ordering two "Antifreeze" cocktails in under an hour and then continuously telling me to drink the beer he ordered. Then on my left, was Mr. Klump, doing his best Morgan Freeman impersonation, all the while trying to convert me to Christianity. And yes, I had only known these people (besides Klump) for less than a day. They eventually went to bed but seeing it was only about 8:30, I knew I had to go out and explore the town. I had told everyone I was going to stay out all night since I was only there for the night, but it wasn't as easy as I would have hoped. One, it's weird when you're alone. You don't want to roll up to a bar alone and be "that guy." Two, it was snowing like someone shook a snowglobe and dumped it all over, because it was coming down hard. Tiring of wandering the main strip (as it was within walking distance of the hotel), I settled on a fine establishment called "Super Sexe," which offered tales of "full contact dancing." I'll withhold the details of that encounter, as this is a family site, but let's just say Montreal rules, and I have to go back. And their people are very friendly.

I'll spare you the details of the trip, as it was as boring to experience it as it would be to write it. The trip home wasn't much better. A one-hour flight turned into a five-hour nightmare, as I ended up not getting home until well after 10:00pm, when I started at the airport at 2pm. So yes, a very long day to a very interesting two days.

And that was my trip. And then it was back to work. It still sucks, in case you know. Caring about what I do has long since passed. I simply do the bare minimum and what I'm told, and leave. I've applied to another internship and am really hoping something comes out of it. But I know not to get excited, because I've been let down before. I guess I'm almost accepting the fact that I'm stuck there for a bit longer...until I think about everything I hate, and then it fuels me again. Oh well; I'm sure it gets tiring to hear me bitch. Hell, writing it gets tedious. So for now, I'll try not to focus on it, and maybe just share anecdotes and stories, rather than bringing out my tiny violin. Here's to new beginnings.

It's the End of the World as We Know It: I hate when a female gives you a high-five. It's always an awkward gesture any way you cut it. The only positive was that though she has a boyfriend, she doesn't hate me, though I never gave her a reason to do so. My lunch bag has seemingly become a part of common workplace folklore, as everyone is amazed at its durability and look (it's made of neoprene "wetsuit" material and expands when more objects are put into it...yes, sexual innuendo noted). It's a sad day when that is getting more play than you.