And so Spring Break 2011 was upon me. People began jetting off to all and sundry. Friends hopped onto planes to Cancun, Orlando and California, all with the set purpose of sitting in the sun, getting drunk and going out.
So where, I hear you ask, did I go on my Spring Break? What wonderful nirvana of sexy, sunny debauchery did I find myself in? What closer-to-the-equator shenanigans did I enjoy? Well, ladies and gentleman, I must admit once again that I failed. I didn’t just fail a little. I failed a lot. The type of failure that only the sound of someone scraping the bottom of a barrel marked “Already quite crap ideas anyway” could generate.
While my friends boarded south-bound planes I found myself getting on an eleven hour train journey to Montreal. No sun, sea and sex, more like minus ten Celsius, snow everywhere and such freakish weather conditions that most boats were frozen into the harbour.
I have been told by various people that Montreal is some form of icy wonderland of wonderful wonder where everyone is happy and lovely and all your dreams come true. After staying there I believe that the Montreal tourism board must be very good at publicity. A wonderland of wonderful wonder it was not!
We got off the train and began to walk to our hostel. Within a few blocks the area had turned from a dull business district into a gaudy sex shop area with a few shoe stores in between. Neon lights promised everything you had ever dreamed of, a couple of things that might have frequented your nightmares and some stuff you could swear was not possible unless you were double-jointed with access to a large supply of ping-pong balls.
Eventually we arrived at our hostel. The neighbourhood, though slightly better, was a little odd; too quiet. Was something going on in another part of town that we didn’t know about? Was there a massive Bruce Spingsteen concert taking place? Maybe Barack Obama was in town? Could Montreal be a city full of circus fans and all be at Cirque du Soleil? Apparently not. Montreal was just an achingly underplayed “vibrant cultural hub”.
On Sunday we were up bright and early ready for three days of Montreal-based fun but by Monday lunchtime we were sat in a cafe wondering what to do. We had been up Mont Royal. It took four hours of snowy walks thanks to a wrong turn. We had a look around the harbour. There really wasn’t a lot to do. We had been to the main shopping district. It’s just too hard to get enthused about another branch of American Eagle. So what now?
Well, we decided to play to Montreal’s strengths. What did Montreal have to offer that nowhere else had? LOTS OF SEX SHOPS AND SHOE SHOPS! And so began our epic photo-journalism project – “Montreal: City of Sex Shops and Shoe Shops”. Strangely, the first time I felt I was having fun all weekend was lolloping around the city taking snaps of random shop fronts.
By the middle of the week we were on a train, making our way back to New York. It had been an odd few days. We were both so perplexed. Why was Montreal so quiet? Why did everyone else think it was so good? Why didn’t we go to Cancun?
As we headed home we began to try to think of a new catchphrase for Canada. A few ideas were batted back and forth. Suggestions were entertained and quickly abandoned. Puns were thrown out. And then we found the perfect catchphrase.
Canada: It’s Good Enough.