the habit of being

“Vous êtes trés jolie, mademoiselle,” says the old man walking past me on St-Denis. Somehow this is not nearly as creepy as the English equivalent. Somehow it isn’t creepy at all. I smile at him. I’d never do that in New York.

I’m sitting on a bench eating sushi. I made it through a whole sentence in French before the woman at the register switched to English on me. I’m slightly proud.. this is a step up from my first day in Montréal, during which I didn’t venture further than a “bonjour!” or a “oui!”

The hostel is made of indoor treehouses. The outdoor ones are still being constructed day by day. Men use electric saws in the courtyard, and we all get up early, make coffee, smear jelly on croissants and bagels. I’ve met people from Switzerland, China, Germany, France, Manitoba, North Carolina, England, Ireland, Scotland, Sweden, and Italy so far. I’m better at remembering the countries than the names.

Compared to New York, Old Montréal seems deserted. Everyone here is a tourist; none of us can give each other directions.

Carmen and Diane are from Winnipeg, working secretarial jobs in the same place they were born. They’ve been friends for a decade, and they are the loudest people I’ve met. Eric, from Australia, said he though it would be the Americans who would be loud, but that we are some of the quietest people here. Everyone I tell that I’m from the States asks me what I think of Bush, and I feel like it’s necessary to explain that We’re Not All Like That. Carmen and Diane went off to Québec City with Ryan from North Carolina in a rented car. I think Diane and Ryan are sleeping together.

Some people here have been travelling for months. 17 countries in 30 days, et cetera. Desert islands, yellow fever vaccinations, beautiful motel rooms for $4 US, entire years off work. They smile about my hitch-hiking trip, but none of them have done that, exactly. None of them have begged or slept in the street.

There are only two other girls travelling alone. One is a teacher from Germany on her summer break, seeing all the big cities in Canada. One is a bartender from Fire Island. Her name is Laura, she’s 19, and she is a former ballet dancer, always doing tricks and showing off. Every photo op prompts a split or a cardwheel or a handstand. Somehow it is common knowledge in the hostel that she is a virgin because the man she fell in love with said no, and that he said no beause didn’t love her back. It is also known that she takes Effexor.

Laura and I walked around the Montréal casino, and saw an old lady win $500 on her first quarter in the slot machine. We congratulated her, and she started putting her winnings back through the slot by the handful. Laura wouldn’t shut up about how she’d wanted the woman to save it, about how depressing it all was. A sleazy-looking man at the roulette table asked her what her number was, and she didn’t understand, so he shouted in English, and said he’d give her $25 if it came up. She said 29, and then he asked me and I said 15. They didn’t come up, and then her necklace broke and my shirt came untied and she kept saying the man was Satan. That night was her last night, and she hooked up with a guy who spoke broken English, got vomiting drunk, and lost one of her Chinese slippers.

The next day, Laura’s boy tapped me on the head with a travel guide, and came up behind me while I was reading a borrowed copy of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time and tapped my shoulder and made me jump. I ignored it. The boy who let me borrow the book also cooked me pasta and washed my dishes two nights in a row. He wants me to show him around the Bronx when he’s in New York, even though I keep explaining that I don’t know anything about the Bronx.

I got the Biosphere and the Biodôme confused, and made a group of five people cough up money to see a “water museum” by promising penguins that weren’t there. I saw the penguins myself the next day.