Let's see, where am I? Oh yeah, Montreal, that city of vice, culture, street-cafes and hot men. But it would be easy for me to forget, considering how many different places I've visited over the last two weeks. So far, though, I've accurately identified my surroundings when I've woken up each morning :)

I'm getting better at packing. Or rather, I should say I'm becoming less prone to unpack when I check in. Not that I've typically unpacked much except for long stays, but now I'm unpacking even less, which means I'm on the road quicker. This morning, I checked out by 9.00 or so, and took some coffee and the New York Times down to the waterfront to take in the morning sun.

Despite the best of intentions, I faffed away the morning. Oh ... to "faff" is an expression from my home dialect (called "Geordie", the dialect of North East England) which means to "engage in frivolous and time-consuming activities", such as drinking coffee.

Another coffee

It was noon before I left Burlington, and sped off up Interstate 89. An hour later, I'd passed the Canadian border without incident. Unlike U.S. customs inspectors, the Canadian woman who checked my passport was polite and friendly. Everytime I've crossed this border I've noticed that the landscape seems to change immediately. The trees, and fields and the horizon all look somehow different and indefinably ... not of the United States, but I can't put my finger on what precisely is different.

Before long I was in Montreal. Finding my hotel proved easy, even to someone as geographically challenged as me, since the motorway ended downtown, only a few straight blocks from the intersection where the hotel was. Since my friend John-Paul had chosen and booked the hotel (he was originally supposed to join me here, but he's gotten himself an abscess or something and can't make it), I had no idea what it would be like. It turned out to be in the gay "village", just East of the main shopping area.

I was impressed with the hotel - clean and simple, with friendly staff, and a good location. My good impression deteriorated somewhat when, in my room, I nearly stepped on a used syringe in my bare feet! I worked myself up into a temper so that I could get the manager to make it up to me with some sort of freebie, but he'd gone for the day. I'll have to work myself up tomorrow morning all over again, when he's back on duty.

I was pretty tired, as I hadn't slept well the night before, but I took a stroll around the village to take in the atmosphere. Like most gay areas, it was mostly seedy, although there were some nice restaurants, and it was by no means as much a ghetto as the Castro is. I setup my tripod to take some photos, and got some help from a girl on roller-blades.

Do I look like rent or what?

Volunteer photographer's assistant

Mind you, she doesn't take a bad photo!