O' Canada or: The Canadian Kilted Yaksmen, Pt. 4

Yeah, Elisha Cuthbert is Canadian. Who knew?


Ultimately in this chronicle, we must come to the reason that all underage kids visit Canada: Beer. Let me just say now that it was entirely known by all of our parents why we wanted to go to Canada. It was the same reason they went in 1978.

Beer.

We brought with us an empty cooler and duffel bag just so we could buy ice and keep beer in the room. Needless to say, or first outing with the car was to find any store that would sell beer to kids with another country’s driver’s license at 6PM on a Sunday. We found a little bodega after getting horribly lost, and handed a middle-aged Pakistani couple about $35 for cups and four six-packs of Molsen’s and something called “Fruity Tornado Twist malt beverage.” We ended up sitting in the room playing asshole and pre-gaming until about nine, when we decided to move out.

After wandering the streets, passing large men in suits offering “girlsgirlsgirls” like some ridiculous seventies exploitation film, we walked down the most terrifying street I have ever seen and entered a windowless bar. Jay got a round of Heineken at the bar, while Kessel and I established our claim to a game of cutthroat at the pool table up front. Midway through ordering our second round Jay was asked if he was looking for “a good time” and groped by a remarkably unattractive woman better suited to working the docks for sailors on shore leave, and we decided to head out.

That was when we came across the least Canadian oasis imaginable: McClean’s. We’d found an Irish pub. Immediately we walked in, and as my compatriots meandered up to the bar, I stumbled downstairs into the cleanest bar bathroom I have ever seen, and gleefully listened to the talking vacation adverts hanging above the facilities. When I came upstairs we ordered a couple rounds of Irish Car Bombs¹ from an incredibly attractive, Mid-Western American bartender.

1. Mix a shot of half Jameson’s Irish Whiskey and half Bailey’s Irish Cream and drop it into a pint of Guinness Extra Stout draft and chug immediately before it curdles. Tastes like ice-cold Yoohoo.

About midway through the second round she turns to me and says, “Oh, hey, I never checked your ID, did I?”

“Oh. No,” I said. “But I’m kinda used to it. I was always the older one and looked young, but then I grew the goatee and people just started assuming I was so much older.” I was beginning to ramble drunkenly–to a very attractive woman who quite clearly wanted to settle down and calm the tortured rebel within me, but I can be tamed by no one–so I quickly wrapped it up and tried to appear less than absolutely plastered. She never did check my ID, though.

From there we went across the street, after tipping our lovely hostess well of course, to a more trendy club, with bouncers this time. I had drunkenly gotten slightly lost, and went into the bar to find my friends. I did not see them, so I left to use my cell phone, whereby they came out and got me. Walking in the second time I actually got carded. At this point everything gets sort of purple and I don’t remember much beyond us stumbling back to the hotel, repeating over and over that the cops in Canada supposedly can’t arrest you for public drunkenness if you’re trying to walk home or to your hotel.

I must state that there is a dangerous side to touristy amusement parks like Montreal. Our second night was proof enough of that. After a modest pre-gaming session we walked far too far down the highway until we got lost and grabbed a cab to take us to the bigger clubs in town. This would be like the Parent’s Island portion of our perverted Disney getaway. We stood in line for nearly an hour. Jay bought a 40oz and drank it in line until it got confiscated. He later commented on how weak the bouncers looked and remarked, “I could take him,” right before said bouncer high-kicked a rowdy and lecherous patron who refused to leave a girl alone in the face. He put the sole of his boot up this kid’s nose, and we decided to play nice. Once inside, we discovered we were not actually inside. We had entered the pre-club, where we could buy beer and a few different drinks while waiting for the color of our wristbands to be called, and allowed into the actual club.

My God, that club. There was a bar ninety feet across. What was once a coat-check had been turned into a $1 shot station. Beer flowed double-fisted by the pitcher, and the dance floor looked like something Vanilla Ice once played in. Not being big dancers, we headed up to the second floor, which was actually the third-story balcony, overlooking the industrial catwalks and lighting equipment for the dance floor. After the first two pitchers, Jay couldn’t walk, and I followed Mike down for a pitiful attempt at playing wingman. I had to give up when I could no longer point in the direction of gravity, and stumbled back up to join Jay. Kessel joined us shortly, and we all sang along with the crowd of a thousand as “American Pie” blasted out of the speakers. Some random guy came up to us and started singing and hugging and throwing our hands into a circle like some crazed, inspirational hockey coach. This lasted the entire eight and a half minutes of the song.