Gerald Trip Report 1: Friday
Utterly huge, so check it out behind the cut. Originally posted in chunks on Brunchma, put together here for ease of reading.
You'll have to excuse me, I'm not at my best.
After last weekend's panicked rebookings (and Monstrous Rhinovirus-Induced Full-Weekend Bed-In), I'm finally re-packed, ready for adventure, and nervous as hell. I hitch a ride to the Ottawa station (thank you, my ever-patient family!), board the train, and set out to the wilds of Montreal. Things have been fairly uneventful to this point, and so I fully anticipate my doom shortly.
Turns out it's not my doom, but BadHairLife's. Y'see, driving in Montreal is slightly unpleasant. While every road and such is labelled, there are also detours all over the place. They spring up like dandelions. Thus, Jess is quite understandably an hourish late. She leaves me a very nice voicemail to explain this fact, for which I'll thank her again here. Kept my Panic Quotient down. While waiting, I play an enjoyable game of "Is this a Bruncher?", in which you try to guess if the car that may or may not be approaching the station is the person you've never met before who's giving you a lift to a foreign country. Eventually, I do win this happy little game, so please congratulate me.
A silver Camry approaches my position from my 1:00. I duck and take cover to avoid suppressing fire, and then realize that not only am I not having a 'Nam flashback, I've never ever been to 'Nam. The media is molding my responses again, the bastards. I peer at the driver for a few seconds, see her peer back at me, and then I raise my hand in a cautious wave. Her mind evidently made up, she pulls up beside me, and gets out of her car.
Poor, poor, trusting woman. If only she knew...
"Jess," I try optimistically?
"Yep! Lets get your stuff packed away, Johnny."
And that was that. No awkwardness, no immediate life story sharing, just two pals who're taking a trip together.... who happen never to have met each other in real life ever before. This trend would continue with everybody during the entire Gerald. Weird, but neat and cool of everybody. Kudos to all!
I've been gone for a week, I've been drunk since I left.
Our next stop was Costco, one of those giant club warehouse superstores. We only got lost twice while trying to find it, but we did see a bit of Montreal while doing it, so that was nice. Jess/BHL expressed worry that I might find her taste in music objectionable but it turns out were into the exact same stuff, so I just know the trip down'll be all right. Eventually, we do stumble across this mecca of pure consumerism, grab a cart, and go in.
We knew for a while that we'd need to bring uniquely Canadian snacks down with us. Priority #1 was a case of Kinder Eggs, those lovely chocolate/hazelnut confections with a cheap plastic surprise inside. (Not for resale in the United States. Contains small parts. Not intended for children under the age of 48. Choking Hazard.) We searched high and low down each of the three monstrous candy aisles.
Nothing.
Crap.
Oh well. We'll just find a Wal*Mart or something before we hit the border, and everything'll be shiny, right? Right! In the meantime, we pick up more Canadian taste treats: Coffee Crisp bars (in both regular and caramel), Smarties (which are not what you're thinking: ours are small M&M type-things, not cheap pressed sugar. We call the cheap pressed sugar kind "Rockets"), and something that's sure to go over well: ginormous bags of All-Dressed and Ketchup-flavoured potato chips. Now, before you ask, 'all-dressed' are kind of a combination of salt & vinegar, BBQ, and... something else. Very very nummy, though. Ketchup-flavoured chips are exactly what you think they are.
We pile back into King Camry with our newfound loot, and head off down the road toward the border, and our destinies.
And these so-called vacations will soon be my death.
Idle chat and music appreciation are our constant companions for the next few hundred kilometers. We get lost only several more times this side of the border, and discover that every small town in Quebec - no matter the population, proximity to another town, or any other variable - has a strip club. Jess muses momentarily as to the tooth-to-tattoo ratio of the women working therein, and opines that a 1:1 would be acceptable... unless it's just one really big tattoo, and a single remaining molar.
Shuddering at the mental image, we continue.
We stop at a forgettably-named mid-size Quebec town. we're deep in la paysage francaise, where Anglos are hunted for sport, and their pelts decorate hunting lodges. Noticing a Wal*Mart near the highway, we stop in and quickly go through th game plan: BHL will say absolutely nothing, and I'll cover for us both. Hopefully, my Ottawa-French accent can be muted, or they may suspect that I'm not the real thing.
We clean them out of their entire supply of Kinder eggs, and grab some snax and drinks for the remainder of the trip. Going through the cash is the portrait of fear and anticipation. What if they notice??? Fortunately, BHL gets to make nice with an awesome little kid who is in the cart ahead of us while I sweat over our potential discovery. I thought I did well, but Jess swears I said "thanks" instead of "merci" after my purchase. Either way, the jig is appreciably up, and we boot it out of town and to the border.
I'm so sick of the drink, I need home for a rest.
Reaching the border, I first notice that I've forgotten some things: namely my travellers cheques and my birth certificate. I panic quietly in order to let BHL remain calm (in fact, this writing is the first she'll hear of this development), and quickly assess the situation. I do have my driver's license, health card, and SIN card on me, and I desperately hope it will be enough. There is a mild moment of terror as we're questioned.
"What is the purpose of your visit?"
Jess gets a little stuck on the question. Anyone would, really. I mean, what do you say? "We've never met before today, and now we're taking a six-hour trip to Boston in order to meet more people that we've never met. On the internet. Internet. ... We're Canadians!"
Thinking fast, I smoothly squeak out "We're visiting friends!" Oh yeah. Good one, Johnny. You did wear the clean boxers today, right? It's good to make a good first impression with the guy who'll be exploring your colon.
Border Guard Dwayne says "Okay. Enjoy your stay", and waves us through. As every muscle in my body untenses, I can only think one thing:
Ha ha! Poor sap never found the organic fruits and vegetables I'm smuggling over! Note to DHS: This part is emphatically not true. Please don't eat me.
Once we cross the border, everything is mostly smooth sailing until Boston. Some highlights include (in no order at all):
Then, after only two more minor false steps, we hit Boston. From the amount of times I managed to lose us previous to this, we knew it would be no cakewalk. All those hours I spent watching Flight of the Navigator over the past week were spent in vain. It quickly becomes apparent that not only can I barely fold a map, let alone read it, Boston is actively malevolent in its behaviour towards out-of-towners. I call Bookwyrm using BHL's phone. After an initial "Uh, Ellen? It's JohnnyCanuck. We're running a little late. And lost. There soonish!" Ah, the weird feeling of calling someone you don't know and giving them a pseudonym in a completely serious manner. Something we've all shared, right?
No, because I'm the only person in recorded history to have had this feeling. I'm showing up in Guinness next year. I will do autographs. PM me!
After intuitively feeling our way through Boston, and with judicious use of an ancient atlas, we finally arrive at the hotel. Deciding it'd be best to check in first, meet people, relax, and then force them to carry our baggage in readily becomes the correct decision, for reasons that we'll get to in a moment.
We ascend to the con suite on the 14th floor, and knock on the door to the place where we'll be spending much drunken time over the next few days. The door opens to my authoritative rapping, an I look out into a sea of faces glaring at me with outright hostility.
Well, not exactly. It's Roup.
We stayed in the bars along Charing Cross Road.
You really will have to excuse me at this point, because after the long trip, the exact order in which I met most Brunchers kind of flows together. Therefore, you are all simultaneously the first people I met in Boston. Please feel honoured.
A few handshakes and "nice to finally meet you"s later, we forcibly enlist Flil, some kind of robotic flowerpot, and Bookwyrm (the Bruncher who I'd end up spending most of the weekend hanging out with) to help with our luggage. This is also the point where we're told that due to the contract the hotel had gren sign, there is no outside alcohol allowed in the con suite. We are unclear as to whether this also applies to our own personal rooms. This makes things slightly interesting for BHL and me: the bottles of Pete Knows What™ that we'd picked up at the Interstate Liquor and Lottery Ticket Barn are fairly easy to take in... but what of the 2-4 of Mr. Keith's finest?
Our poor reluctant porters try to hash out some kind of solution with Jess, one that seems to involve one of those New Math problems ("Captain Arizona, Precious Roy, and AnonyBruncher are on one side of a river with a case of beer. The boat is only big enough to hold two people or a person and a case of beer, and all four must cross, but...").
Suddenly, using nothing but the awesome powers of my mind, I declare "We'll do this in the ancient fashion of my people". Fabulous alcohol smugglers, were we Canadians. Helped to keep the States sane during Prohibition. You're welcome! I dump the sleeping bag from my duffel, wrap it around the beer, and then stuff the duffel with the sleeping bag to muffle bottle noise, all the while fending off doubts from the crowd. Lo and behold... it works!
(Hey, I'm not right very often. Let me have this one!)
We port in our luggage. As we walk past hotel security, I make a crack about how I can't believe you guys asked me to bring my GameCube, in an effort to explain the extra bulk and weight of my duffel.
Yep. Smooooooooooooooth.
Alcohol is dropped off first, then the luggage in our respective rooms, then we return to the con suite so that things can begin in earnest.
We never saw nothin' but brass taps and oak,
Again, we've got the flowing-together-memory problem here. In all fairness, there were a lot of comings and goings, and I think I cracked my first beer at the moment of my return to the con suite. I do know that Babs got the first hug given out in Boston, and I proceeded to meet and tlk to a whole truckload of awesome people.
No, really. Like I think I mentioned earlier, we completely avoided any awkward moments. I totally fell into "So you're [INSERT BOARD NAME]!", and then proceeded to pick up like we've been talking for years.
Which is, in a sense, the fact of the matter.
Other people can tell this part of the story much better than I can, as I was very much overwhelmed by fun people, and trying to hold my own in several battles of wits. I'm fairly sure I won a skirmish or three, but eventually lost the war.
People who stood out in my mind: everybody. No, seriously. I'd like to think I got a little bonding time in with you all - and if you feel I neglected you, I am terribly, terribly sorry. Again, seriously.
Kept a shine on the bar with the sleeves of our coats.
Eventually, about fifteen of us realize we're famished in a way that snack food can never satisfy, and so we go to the slightly overpriced and under-menued hotel restaurant. Mind you, no matter how snarkful that last sentence seems, the food is actually quite good. I'm served an awesome spinach salad with apple, and a chicken dish that I can barely pronounce. Much fun conversation ensues, and I hope somebody has bits of it written down.
It is about at this time that one of the waiters, smelling a touch of nerd in the air, invites us to come out with the rest of the wait-staff for a midnight showing of X-Men 3. Many of those at the table are excited at the thought of this, one of the biggest boosters being Dora. Half to three-quarters of the dinner group head up to recruit more movie-goers, leaving the remainder of us to puzzle out our bill. (Traveller's note: Boston seems unable to grasp the concept of "separate bills".) After a few minutes of advanced calculus and figuring out exactly who ate what, we settle up with our waiter and return to the con suite for more hang out time with Brunchers.
At around 11, the long day catches up with me, and I realize that there's no way I can possibly go see a movie and remember what happened the next day. I apologize to many disappointed people and head for my room. Flil and I decide to watch a little TV while waiting for our third roommate (being oblivious about our fourth seekrit roommate), and so House is turned on. I've only ever seen an episode and a half of the show, and I am very interested in watching this... until Liz asks me a question only to see that I'm passed out on the couch. This means that I have been very sneaky about falling asleep, managing to avoid a) snoring or b) drooling.
Realistically, this is where the Story of Friday should end, but I have a bit more to relate that I'm slightly aware of. At some point in the night, Davenport does join us. However, he's completely unaware that there are two beds in th bedroom, as well as the pull-out couch. The poor guy decided to spend the night cold and uncomfortable on the floor beside me, praying that he could obtain the velourish comforter from my twisted claws before becoming an icicle.
Somehow he managed. Good show, Brian.
Next: Saturday!
You'll have to excuse me, I'm not at my best.
After last weekend's panicked rebookings (and Monstrous Rhinovirus-Induced Full-Weekend Bed-In), I'm finally re-packed, ready for adventure, and nervous as hell. I hitch a ride to the Ottawa station (thank you, my ever-patient family!), board the train, and set out to the wilds of Montreal. Things have been fairly uneventful to this point, and so I fully anticipate my doom shortly.
Turns out it's not my doom, but BadHairLife's. Y'see, driving in Montreal is slightly unpleasant. While every road and such is labelled, there are also detours all over the place. They spring up like dandelions. Thus, Jess is quite understandably an hourish late. She leaves me a very nice voicemail to explain this fact, for which I'll thank her again here. Kept my Panic Quotient down. While waiting, I play an enjoyable game of "Is this a Bruncher?", in which you try to guess if the car that may or may not be approaching the station is the person you've never met before who's giving you a lift to a foreign country. Eventually, I do win this happy little game, so please congratulate me.
A silver Camry approaches my position from my 1:00. I duck and take cover to avoid suppressing fire, and then realize that not only am I not having a 'Nam flashback, I've never ever been to 'Nam. The media is molding my responses again, the bastards. I peer at the driver for a few seconds, see her peer back at me, and then I raise my hand in a cautious wave. Her mind evidently made up, she pulls up beside me, and gets out of her car.
Poor, poor, trusting woman. If only she knew...
"Jess," I try optimistically?
"Yep! Lets get your stuff packed away, Johnny."
And that was that. No awkwardness, no immediate life story sharing, just two pals who're taking a trip together.... who happen never to have met each other in real life ever before. This trend would continue with everybody during the entire Gerald. Weird, but neat and cool of everybody. Kudos to all!
I've been gone for a week, I've been drunk since I left.
Our next stop was Costco, one of those giant club warehouse superstores. We only got lost twice while trying to find it, but we did see a bit of Montreal while doing it, so that was nice. Jess/BHL expressed worry that I might find her taste in music objectionable but it turns out were into the exact same stuff, so I just know the trip down'll be all right. Eventually, we do stumble across this mecca of pure consumerism, grab a cart, and go in.
We knew for a while that we'd need to bring uniquely Canadian snacks down with us. Priority #1 was a case of Kinder Eggs, those lovely chocolate/hazelnut confections with a cheap plastic surprise inside. (Not for resale in the United States. Contains small parts. Not intended for children under the age of 48. Choking Hazard.) We searched high and low down each of the three monstrous candy aisles.
Nothing.
Crap.
Oh well. We'll just find a Wal*Mart or something before we hit the border, and everything'll be shiny, right? Right! In the meantime, we pick up more Canadian taste treats: Coffee Crisp bars (in both regular and caramel), Smarties (which are not what you're thinking: ours are small M&M type-things, not cheap pressed sugar. We call the cheap pressed sugar kind "Rockets"), and something that's sure to go over well: ginormous bags of All-Dressed and Ketchup-flavoured potato chips. Now, before you ask, 'all-dressed' are kind of a combination of salt & vinegar, BBQ, and... something else. Very very nummy, though. Ketchup-flavoured chips are exactly what you think they are.
We pile back into King Camry with our newfound loot, and head off down the road toward the border, and our destinies.
And these so-called vacations will soon be my death.
Idle chat and music appreciation are our constant companions for the next few hundred kilometers. We get lost only several more times this side of the border, and discover that every small town in Quebec - no matter the population, proximity to another town, or any other variable - has a strip club. Jess muses momentarily as to the tooth-to-tattoo ratio of the women working therein, and opines that a 1:1 would be acceptable... unless it's just one really big tattoo, and a single remaining molar.
Shuddering at the mental image, we continue.
We stop at a forgettably-named mid-size Quebec town. we're deep in la paysage francaise, where Anglos are hunted for sport, and their pelts decorate hunting lodges. Noticing a Wal*Mart near the highway, we stop in and quickly go through th game plan: BHL will say absolutely nothing, and I'll cover for us both. Hopefully, my Ottawa-French accent can be muted, or they may suspect that I'm not the real thing.
We clean them out of their entire supply of Kinder eggs, and grab some snax and drinks for the remainder of the trip. Going through the cash is the portrait of fear and anticipation. What if they notice??? Fortunately, BHL gets to make nice with an awesome little kid who is in the cart ahead of us while I sweat over our potential discovery. I thought I did well, but Jess swears I said "thanks" instead of "merci" after my purchase. Either way, the jig is appreciably up, and we boot it out of town and to the border.
I'm so sick of the drink, I need home for a rest.
Reaching the border, I first notice that I've forgotten some things: namely my travellers cheques and my birth certificate. I panic quietly in order to let BHL remain calm (in fact, this writing is the first she'll hear of this development), and quickly assess the situation. I do have my driver's license, health card, and SIN card on me, and I desperately hope it will be enough. There is a mild moment of terror as we're questioned.
"What is the purpose of your visit?"
Jess gets a little stuck on the question. Anyone would, really. I mean, what do you say? "We've never met before today, and now we're taking a six-hour trip to Boston in order to meet more people that we've never met. On the internet. Internet. ... We're Canadians!"
Thinking fast, I smoothly squeak out "We're visiting friends!" Oh yeah. Good one, Johnny. You did wear the clean boxers today, right? It's good to make a good first impression with the guy who'll be exploring your colon.
Border Guard Dwayne says "Okay. Enjoy your stay", and waves us through. As every muscle in my body untenses, I can only think one thing:
Ha ha! Poor sap never found the organic fruits and vegetables I'm smuggling over! Note to DHS: This part is emphatically not true. Please don't eat me.
Once we cross the border, everything is mostly smooth sailing until Boston. Some highlights include (in no order at all):
- Rocking out to The Darkness
- Me (as border guard): "Anything to declare?" BHL: "Certainly no Israeli nationals in my luggage, sir! Oh no!"
- The Liquor And Lottery Ticket Barn
- "It's 'Live Free Or Die', not 'Live Free Or Rest Stop'!"
- Vermont I-89 Whale Tails
- "So, as a lawyer, how often do you completely lose faith in humanity?" "Oh, about 7 days a week, really."
Then, after only two more minor false steps, we hit Boston. From the amount of times I managed to lose us previous to this, we knew it would be no cakewalk. All those hours I spent watching Flight of the Navigator over the past week were spent in vain. It quickly becomes apparent that not only can I barely fold a map, let alone read it, Boston is actively malevolent in its behaviour towards out-of-towners. I call Bookwyrm using BHL's phone. After an initial "Uh, Ellen? It's JohnnyCanuck. We're running a little late. And lost. There soonish!" Ah, the weird feeling of calling someone you don't know and giving them a pseudonym in a completely serious manner. Something we've all shared, right?
No, because I'm the only person in recorded history to have had this feeling. I'm showing up in Guinness next year. I will do autographs. PM me!
After intuitively feeling our way through Boston, and with judicious use of an ancient atlas, we finally arrive at the hotel. Deciding it'd be best to check in first, meet people, relax, and then force them to carry our baggage in readily becomes the correct decision, for reasons that we'll get to in a moment.
We ascend to the con suite on the 14th floor, and knock on the door to the place where we'll be spending much drunken time over the next few days. The door opens to my authoritative rapping, an I look out into a sea of faces glaring at me with outright hostility.
Well, not exactly. It's Roup.
We stayed in the bars along Charing Cross Road.
You really will have to excuse me at this point, because after the long trip, the exact order in which I met most Brunchers kind of flows together. Therefore, you are all simultaneously the first people I met in Boston. Please feel honoured.
A few handshakes and "nice to finally meet you"s later, we forcibly enlist Flil, some kind of robotic flowerpot, and Bookwyrm (the Bruncher who I'd end up spending most of the weekend hanging out with) to help with our luggage. This is also the point where we're told that due to the contract the hotel had gren sign, there is no outside alcohol allowed in the con suite. We are unclear as to whether this also applies to our own personal rooms. This makes things slightly interesting for BHL and me: the bottles of Pete Knows What™ that we'd picked up at the Interstate Liquor and Lottery Ticket Barn are fairly easy to take in... but what of the 2-4 of Mr. Keith's finest?
Our poor reluctant porters try to hash out some kind of solution with Jess, one that seems to involve one of those New Math problems ("Captain Arizona, Precious Roy, and AnonyBruncher are on one side of a river with a case of beer. The boat is only big enough to hold two people or a person and a case of beer, and all four must cross, but...").
Suddenly, using nothing but the awesome powers of my mind, I declare "We'll do this in the ancient fashion of my people". Fabulous alcohol smugglers, were we Canadians. Helped to keep the States sane during Prohibition. You're welcome! I dump the sleeping bag from my duffel, wrap it around the beer, and then stuff the duffel with the sleeping bag to muffle bottle noise, all the while fending off doubts from the crowd. Lo and behold... it works!
(Hey, I'm not right very often. Let me have this one!)
We port in our luggage. As we walk past hotel security, I make a crack about how I can't believe you guys asked me to bring my GameCube, in an effort to explain the extra bulk and weight of my duffel.
Yep. Smooooooooooooooth.
Alcohol is dropped off first, then the luggage in our respective rooms, then we return to the con suite so that things can begin in earnest.
We never saw nothin' but brass taps and oak,
Again, we've got the flowing-together-memory problem here. In all fairness, there were a lot of comings and goings, and I think I cracked my first beer at the moment of my return to the con suite. I do know that Babs got the first hug given out in Boston, and I proceeded to meet and tlk to a whole truckload of awesome people.
No, really. Like I think I mentioned earlier, we completely avoided any awkward moments. I totally fell into "So you're [INSERT BOARD NAME]!", and then proceeded to pick up like we've been talking for years.
Which is, in a sense, the fact of the matter.
Other people can tell this part of the story much better than I can, as I was very much overwhelmed by fun people, and trying to hold my own in several battles of wits. I'm fairly sure I won a skirmish or three, but eventually lost the war.
People who stood out in my mind: everybody. No, seriously. I'd like to think I got a little bonding time in with you all - and if you feel I neglected you, I am terribly, terribly sorry. Again, seriously.
Kept a shine on the bar with the sleeves of our coats.
Eventually, about fifteen of us realize we're famished in a way that snack food can never satisfy, and so we go to the slightly overpriced and under-menued hotel restaurant. Mind you, no matter how snarkful that last sentence seems, the food is actually quite good. I'm served an awesome spinach salad with apple, and a chicken dish that I can barely pronounce. Much fun conversation ensues, and I hope somebody has bits of it written down.
It is about at this time that one of the waiters, smelling a touch of nerd in the air, invites us to come out with the rest of the wait-staff for a midnight showing of X-Men 3. Many of those at the table are excited at the thought of this, one of the biggest boosters being Dora. Half to three-quarters of the dinner group head up to recruit more movie-goers, leaving the remainder of us to puzzle out our bill. (Traveller's note: Boston seems unable to grasp the concept of "separate bills".) After a few minutes of advanced calculus and figuring out exactly who ate what, we settle up with our waiter and return to the con suite for more hang out time with Brunchers.
At around 11, the long day catches up with me, and I realize that there's no way I can possibly go see a movie and remember what happened the next day. I apologize to many disappointed people and head for my room. Flil and I decide to watch a little TV while waiting for our third roommate (being oblivious about our fourth seekrit roommate), and so House is turned on. I've only ever seen an episode and a half of the show, and I am very interested in watching this... until Liz asks me a question only to see that I'm passed out on the couch. This means that I have been very sneaky about falling asleep, managing to avoid a) snoring or b) drooling.
Realistically, this is where the Story of Friday should end, but I have a bit more to relate that I'm slightly aware of. At some point in the night, Davenport does join us. However, he's completely unaware that there are two beds in th bedroom, as well as the pull-out couch. The poor guy decided to spend the night cold and uncomfortable on the floor beside me, praying that he could obtain the velourish comforter from my twisted claws before becoming an icicle.
Somehow he managed. Good show, Brian.
Next: Saturday!