RTW 48. Drowned Rat

Saturday, 19 June 2010

Montreal, Canada

My view of Montreal being grungy doesn’t improve as I walk down Rue St Denis in the Latin Quarter and pass through some grungy looking hippie hangout under some concrete walkways strewn with tents and sleeping bags.

But then.

It improves slightly as I enter the old city. A complete change in atmosphere and scenery makes for an enjoyable stroll through the back streets. Though not a great deal to see.

Have to wait briefly for a table at lunch whilst it’s cleared. Order a drink at the bar and when table is ready start to take my glass with me. Stunningly beautiful barmaid says, “I’ll take it for you.”. Being completely capable of holding a glass in my hand, and for which I am fully practised, reply with, “It’s OK thank you.”

She retorts with, “It’s my job.”

Oh. OK then.

And she follows me to table. With my glass on her tray.

Am served by another stunningly beautiful young girl. Montreal is beginning to redeem itself.

By now the bright blue sky has given way to thick cloud. Humidity is sky high. Thunderstorm feels like it’s in the air.

It’s getting sticky, dear reader. Seriously sticky.

Not wanting to walk about getting all hot and sweaty investigate an open top bus tour at the Tourist Info office. Asked in English. Told in French. Here we go. Have to prompt her to speak English. Told the buses are finished for the day. It being only early afternoon. More French influence obviously.

Ask the girl I’ve just enquired with what the quickest way is to the top of Mont Royal lookout. Told I have to take a ticket and queue for an adviser.

WHAT?!?

You’ve just answered my question on the bus query. You can surely answer that quick question. There’s going to be a rumpus, dear reader.

She’s not having it.

Ask her if she knows the answer and she repeats that I have to take a ticket and queue for an adviser.

She knows the answer.

Far be it for me to say that there’s one thing worse than the French. The French Canadian. Like the Inbetweeners (Belgians, Luxembourgers, Swiss) they’re not sure what they are. French today. German tomorrow. Something else the day after.

Deary me.

Grab a ticket.

And queue.

Finally.

An answer to an easy question takes ten seconds of someone’s time.

It’s a 20-25 minute walk up the footpath.

That’s the quickest way. That’s all I wanted to know.

What they didn’t say was that it was up a bloody steep path. What they didn’t say was that with this humidity you will get drenched in sweat. What they didn’t say was that there were hundreds of sodding steps to climb.

Jeez.

Bloody hard work, dear reader.

Keep telling myself it will be worth it for the mesmerising views of Montreal from Mont Royal. From which Montreal takes its name. A volcanic hill which in this heat and humidity might as well be Mount Everest.

No gain without pain. I keep telling myself.

Huffing, puffing and perspiring as I wend my way.

Just as I approach the lookout point at the top. A spot of rain. And then another. And another.

Fortunately. I am under cover of some trees.

Ho ho ho.

And then it starts raining.

Not the usual rain us Englanders are used to.

No.

This is like being in a drench shower.

For which tree cover is insufficient.

Quick dash 50 yards for the cover of the Belvedere. And get a little bit wet in doing so.

It’s after an hour of solid heavy rain that I’m glad I made the quick dash to the Belvedere. At least I am now dry. Unlike others who have been caught out. There’s going to be some stiff competition for the Drowned Rat Awards. Smugly sitting in the dry with a wry smirk on my face as I see how drenched some folk are.

The view is dismal. Can see as far as the balustrade a few feet away and then it’s just rain cloud. Oh yes. Well worth the climb.

After well over an hour sitting in the dry and waiting for the rain to subside it peters out to a bit of a spit. I’ll have to make a run for it. The trees lining the path will provide sufficient cover for this little spit of rain.

Ho.

Ho.

Ho.

How wrong I can be.

The slight ease in the rain was a precursor to a further torrent.

I.

Get.

Drenched.

And I mean drenched. Everything I am wearing is soaked through. Right down to underwear.

Have a soggy bottom, dear reader.

Wetter than wet can be.

I would be drier sitting in a bath full of water.

At the bottom of the hill. Have to find a taxi. On this very wet day. At rush hour. Just as a football match has finished.

Yep. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t get any wetter.

Eventually. An empty taxi.

Driver is amused. Very amused. At the drowned rat who looks like he has won the wet t-shirt competition. With soaking wet jeans clinging to my legs I have all the flexibility of someone in a plaster cast as I creak and groan into the taxi.

Where I sit steaming in the warmth of the taxi.