Yesterday, I went to a Portuguese chicken take-out joint. All signs were either in French or in Portuguese.
There was a long line, and the servers were clearly in a rush. When it was my turn to order, I ordered in English. Mistake.
The old chicken-servin' lady gave me a swat on the arm with a paper bag and walked away.
Friend: "Did... did she just hit you because you ordered in English?"
Me: "No way."
The old chicken-servin' lady returned, and I asked her - in French - why she hit me. Instant smile on her face, and a completely new demeanor. She told me she did it because she liked me; I'm not so sure.
Que Dieu te bénisse, Montréal.
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http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/mon/899245647.html
It is how I feel too, basically.
Que Dieu bénisse le Montréal, c'est sûr !
The other day, after a long workday in this other great heartless Canadian metropolis, I slipped through subway doors (orderly-like, with time to spare) at the moment they closed on my dress-shirted trailing arm, causing me to drop my travel mug into the space between train and platform and roar with pain and frustration. With monumental effort I wrenched the door open, maneuvered my foot out, and dropped to my (dress-pantsed) knees to retrieve the wayward cup, trapped in some kind of subway limbo. Finally the door opened again and I stood up, dusted myself off, and searched the eyes of my fellow-passengers for a glimmer of anything like sympathy--in vain. Everyone watched, no one helped, and immediately after not helping, no one could be arsed to grunt in my favour. "I love this city," I grumbled. A businessman scowled.
Yeah, but I'll say it again: people on the metro/subway ≠ real people.
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