Quebec journal (in progress)

This is definitely a work in progress as I'm going off my own memory as well as Martins-- and when I talk to Dano his too. So some of this may change....
 
Sadly, my journal of this trip, a very detailed and concise document of things we did, street names, people, secret moments and thoughts— a journal that I would go out of my way to write in while Martin and Dano were off eating breakfast or drinking a beer or maybe they were right there beside me while I ignored them and wrote—religiously, every day I made time to document things no matter how crazy things got— from the sweaty smell of three guys sitting in the front seat of a small pick-up truck to the nasty dry mouth of a hangover.

Back then, my friends Kevin and Jamie were living in an apartment building in Braintree. Two girls lived downstairs, the older sister was a mean druggy type but Kevin and Jamie were friends with them so I played nice. One night as she was leaving I asked her for a ride. My journal was in my back pack and well, it fell out of my bag and into her car. So her junkie boyfriend found it later and assumed that we were having an affair (no idea how he could have assumed that had he tried to read this thing). In jealous rage he hucks it out the car window near the Braintree T station. I was furious. I drove to the T station and combed through the grass, trash and the street (both sides) everywhere but could never find it. In this current narrative I’m trying to piece together this trip from my own pictures and faded memories with the help of Martin and hopefully Dano (who I have still not talked to about this).

So here we go. Me and Dano drove to Montreal to meet our Canadian friend Martin Gagnon. A little history here: Dano had met Martin at Castle Mountain youth hostel on his cross country trip (1993), somewhere in Alberta (Martin was traveling as well). They became friends and exchanged numbers. Long after their trips were over, they got in contact with one another and Martin came to Boston for a visit. Myself and Martin hit it off right away. His passion for life and his good humor drew me in. Martin was a ladies man. In fact the main reason he chose our destination to Lac Saint Jean was that he had heard through friends that women outnumbered men 10-4. 

Once in Montreal, Martin took us to the diner where his mother was a server and we had Poutine and smoked meat. Poutine, a Canadian appetizer that Martin introduced to us was simply french fries, mozzarella cheese and hot brown gravy and I loved it (for a time afterwards I tried to recreate it at home but rarely came close to the intended flavor). After a night of cheese and crackers, Labatt's Blue and Molson beer (the big cans) and a night of drinking at a popular Montreal bar, dancing and singing The Roof is on Fire in French— and after I met a pretty Canadian girl who gave me her address— after all this, the next day we headed for Trois Rivieres (Three Rivers).

He has been living in Trois Rivieres while going to school. He had just graduated, I believe and received an associate degree in Psychology. He wants to get a job counseling troubled kids. Anyway, he wants to show us around this wonderful city and it is a beautiful place, right on the great Saint Lawrence River. We met some of his school friends, including a wonderful girl, a friend of his who I secretly had a crush on. Everyone is super friendly and not bogged down by judgement and pretense. It really does seem to be a freer society here. Anyway, that night he took us to a hopping bar called The Liverpool where we began the night drinking beer and shooting pool ( I remember walking in and Prodigy’s Diesel was cranking over the house speakers driving through my body) and the night ended with some Canadian girl (from here on in, any mention of a woman is Canadian and I will not see another American woman until we get back to Boston), blowing me outside, as I lay down on the sidewalk just inside a storefront before Martin and Dano whisk me away to keep us together while the girl is yelling at me in French because I was running off. It was a real Jim Morrison type of moment that’s for sure… looking back.

Trois Rivieres on our return trip home. Outside Martin's old apartment spring 1995. Dano, Martin and me.

Next was Quebec City, a great historical city, divided into two parts, by a wall that that was built as a defense against attackers (Martin is very proud of his heritage and with almost every stop, he relates to us the history of a certain building or battlefield and the history of the wall). The newer section of Quebec is on the upper half; the older historical section is on the lower half. We walked down a long flight of stairs to get to the bottom where Martin takes us to the oldest street in North America (it’s name escapes me for the moment) and culminates with a visit to the historical church, Notre-Dame-de-la Victoire.

Me and Dano on the stairs leading down into Old Quebec.

Dano and me on the steps of Notre-Dame-de-la Victoire.

Martin and Dano on the oldest street in North America.

From Quebec City we moved north again, following the Saint Lawrence River. At Saint-Joseph-de-la-Rive we crossed the Saint Lawrence River to a small island called, Iles-aux-Coudres.  We descended into the ferry slip, a 13 degree decline and waited as the workers roped in the ferry. It was a 15 minute ride. Our aim was to get a room at a small Bed and Breakfast and we talked with people in a local bar about where we might go however the place we went to was closed. I don’t remember how but an elderly couple— very wonderful hospitable people let us stay in their house for the night. We got morning showers and right before we left I thanked them and despite my lack of religious beliefs, I wished them God Bless. During Martin’s exchange with them in the driveway they were overjoyed by my comment so much so that it may have restored their faith in humanity. Anyway we drove around the picturesque island, watching for deer and taking some photos and breathing in the cool spring air.

                                                             

The ferry to Iles-aux-Coudres.

                                                                 

Me with the elderly couple. Iles-aux-Coudres.

Martin and Dano, Iles-aux-Coudres.

Deer watching, Iles-aux-Coudres.

We drove towards Tadoussac and crossed the Saguenay River by way of a ferry. From Tadoussac we drove north north west to Chicoutimi in the Lac Saint Jean area. Chicoutimi was another fun city. We found a hopping bar where Dano met a beautiful girl from Ontario, who spoke some English. She was a falconer. They hit it off, talked and laughed. Well somehow, they separated— he wasn’t sure why, maybe he went to the bathroom and lost her afterwards or just in the confusion of a busy bar, whatever but— he ended up on the dance floor with another girl, younger maybe like 20, thin, braces— they were dancing and getting close and then, the falconer girl came up to him and whispered in his ear, “you just blew what could have been the best night of your life.” Tough break. It’s funny, me and Dano were treated like rock stars in Canada, for some unknown reason. Girls just came at us. Our egos were definitely a little inflated when we got home. Despite this, at least on my end, though I made out with many girls on this trip, and one unfinished blow job, I didn’t sleep with anyone. I’m not saying this is good or bad but just as a matter of truth (booze and sex has never been too compatible for me). So after the bar closed we partied long into the night, singing with locals on the street. 

Crossing the Saguenay River towards Tadoussac.

The road after Tadoussac.

The Saguenay. Dano and Martin.

Relaxing along the Saguenay River.

Right outside Chicoutimi.

We began to circle Lac Saint Jean, rented a room and spent the night in Dolbeau. We bought beers and hung outside in the parking lot only to discover that Dano had locked us out of the truck. He had left his keys in the ignition. Fortunately he had a few hand tools in the back of the pick-up truck and was able to take the door window out so we could retrieve keys. We continued hanging in the back of the truck just outside our room, the truck radio cranking the Rage Against the Machine song, Killing in the Name of. Later I left them back at the motel and walked to a bar and drank with the locals.

Hanging at the truck in Dolbeau

Dano just got the keys out of the ignition and restored the window. Dolbeau.

"Fuck you I won't do what you told me!"

The next day we continued driving around Lac Saint Jean and rented a room in Roberval. We saw the most amazing view of the lake here. My first impression of the lake-- wow—it was frozen solid and stretched out as far as I could see— reminiscent in size to Lake Eerie. The sun was bright and warm on my face. As we sat and rested and stared at the lake, two girls were strolling nearby; me and Martin looked at each other and smiled. We approached them and talked— well he did most of the talking as they didn’t speak a word of English. They were flirtatious and smiling. They invited us to meet up with them at a local club later on that night. 

Gazing over Lac Saint Jean

At the club, not a soul spoke English. Despite the language barrier me and Dano had a blast anyway. I put more effort into speaking French on this trip than I did in 2 years of high school French. Besides, I discovered the amazing power of communication through gestures and the eyes. It must have been ladies night and those two girls pulled a fast one on us. On stage male strippers did their Chippendale routines. In between dancing penis and groaning women (definitely 10 women to 4 men here) we danced to music and talked with locals using whatever means available. Of course by the end of the night, I was hammered. I had lost Dano, Martin (truth be told, I saw them briefly through a drunken haze in the parking lot as the bar emptied out after last call; Martin was leaving with the blonde and Dano with the brunette, the girls from the afternoon). Somehow I ended up getting a ride with a large boned Indian woman. I never slept with her as I was so drunk I just passed out on her couch. The morning was a nightmare as I tried desperately to communicate to her in my limited French. She just shrugged and shook her head no. I tried to explain my situation and that I needed a ride back to the club. Head shakes and looks of confusion. Eventually I was able to call a cab. However, I didn’t have my wallet or money— so, when we reached the motel we were staying at, I told the driver that I’d be right back— that I was just going inside to get money (Dano’s truck was not there); instead, I bolted into the woods until the cabbie left. Meanwhile, Dano and Martin had been driving around all morning looking for me, nearly going to the hospital and police station to see if I showed up there.  

So… the long drive back to Trois Rivieres, no side trips, just a direct shot south on 55. Martin’s graduation party was on this night. We arrive back at his apartment. At this point, weary from the road and the partying, I'm in little mood to drink. I just want a low key night. It’s been a whirlwind so far. Me and Dano hadn’t planned on going to the party either and we had not packed any formal clothes. Somehow Martin talked us into going and his friends were very receptive to me and Dano— of course, our conversations at some point turn towards hockey— more precisely, the historical Boston- Montreal rivalry and even though the Canadiens have pretty much ruled the hockey world, Martin and his friends do treat the Bruins as a respectful opponent. Anyway, I remember driving around much later that night with Dano, Martin and a couple of his friends in search of booze. I may have had a few beers but nothing epic. The next day we drove to Montreal and dropped Martin off at his mother’s house then continued on to Boston.

I was inspired by Canada on this trip— the land and its people, so much so that when I got home in the spring of 1995, I had started looking for an apartment in Montreal. I called the girl that I had met on our first night and she mailed to me the Montreal classifieds and I began in earnest. I wasn’t working for a real company yet— I was living at my parents and working part time jobs or as a laborer for hire— usually as a helper for Scott or Johnny – even Slabs. I had left New England School of Photography in 1994 because I just couldn’t afford it by myself on a Papa Gino’s salary. I had nothing going on. I realized all this when I got home and it was the perfect moment to seize. I was taking control over my future.

But then that fateful day in Harvard Square occurred, maybe a month removed from my trip, and I was wrongfully arrested for assault and battery. For the next year, my life was a blur of Cambridge district court, AA classes and meetings, piss tests and general depression. This will be another story on another blog. But the point is, Lac Saint Jean was a trip that really grabbed and shook me awake; it made me desire change and a new life. I will always hold a special place in my heart for Canada (except for the insane madness and blindness that comes from the average Canadian’s hockey fan, which I guess is more like a sickness, so I will let that go. We can’t all be perfect). and it's people. After my court battle ended successfully and I was allowed to actually travel again, it was 1996. I had just began dating a girl named Robin MacKinnon, and it was the first real relationship that I had been involved in since Jolene in 1993 (although you could probably make a case that that wasn’t a real relationship). And then I went ahead and married Robin six years later. I had been to Montreal a few times before this trip and a few times afterward and every time it was a wonderful experience however, Lac Saint Jean was the trip that affected me most and inspired me towards change. 

Dano and Martin on the front steps of his mothers house in Montreal.

Montreal 8781 Rue Foucher. Saying goodbye.