From Park Bench to Room Service

On Thursday I passed through the U.S.-Canadian border at Rouses Point, which is situated at the northern tip of Lake Champlain, where New York and Vermont meet. My introduction to Canada was less than hospitable.


I queued up with the cars and crawled forward, waiting to approach the border guards. I wasn't worried. Who would suspect I was hiding something when I barely had enough room my panniers for peanut butter?


"Pazzeport, please," said the young, French, male border guard who, little did I know, would soon become intimately acquainted with my personal life. By the look in his eye, it seemed he was not accustomed to (and perhaps not fond of) twenty-year-old girls bicycling alone across his border.


I delivered my passport, and after some scrutinization of my setup, he asked me if I had any weapons. I told him I carried a few different knives, plus pepper spray. The pepper spray raised an eyebrow.


"Zat is illegal in zis country. Step aside please. Go over zer," he said, pointing to what looked like an empty car wash stall. I wasn't worried. I had nothing to hide. He told me to empty all of my bags onto the table, which was quite a hassle, but everyone knows you don't argue with someone who speaks another language, because, well, you can't.


Seemed like a lifetime before he came to check my belongings. In the meantime, he had taken my pepper spray. I was not happy about it. That small piece of plastic with some mystical ooze in it gave me a great sense of security oftentimes while riding through certain areas. I always kept it clipped onto my shirt, and more than once I had grabbed it when I heard a dog barking at me and thought it was going to come chasing after me. Thankfully, I never had to use it.


When he returned to hand me a receipt for the destruction of my pepper spray, he took the liberty of shuffling through all of my belongings. It turned out the item of greatest interest to him was my journal. He flipped through the pages with increasing eagerness, eventually settling on a date I guessed to be about a week beforehand. We then stood there in silence for several minutes as he read my journal.


I sort of giggled to myself. I thought, a French Canadian border guard is reading my private thoughts, and there is nothing I can do about it. 


When all was said and done, he asked me if I had a map of Québec.


"I don't," I said.


"You are very unprepared," he sneered, but didn't give me a map. On that note, I was set free into the marvelous Québec countryside. Free, but feeling a lot less safe without my pepper spray.

I made it to Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu, QC by evening, where I rolled around, lost, until about 11 PM when I crossed a bridge and came upon a park in Iberville. I sat on a bench facing the river, the city lights casting a beautiful reflection on the water.





With no one in the vicinity and feeling relatively safe, I lay my head on the bench and contemplated the stars. This must be what it feels like to be homeless, I thought, and closed my eyes.


At 4:30 AM, with birds chirping and the sky beginning to light up, I awoke. I was freezing, mostly because and my legs were covered in dew. A cold sweat coated the inside of my jacket. Yuck. Looking around, the only sign of life I could see was an ambulance parked about twenty feet away. Someone inside was watching a movie on a laptop. I wondered if they might have thought to look out for me. Teeth chattering uncontrollably, I pedaled out of the park in search of something hot to drink, and to find a bus stop.


An hour later, cured of the chills, I took a seat on the sidewalk at a bus stop, to wait for a bus that would hopefully come, that would hopefully be able to carry my bike, that would go to the central bus station, where I would take another bus to Montréal, where I would catch another bus to Québec city. I had made the decision to take a shortcut and join paths with Derek sooner than we had originally planned.


Three hours later, the bus came. The driver spoke no English, but made it clear that I was not allowed to put my bike on the bus. He drove away, and I stood there, helplessly, wondering what to do next. A minute later, a retirement-aged couple rolled past on bicycles. "Excusez-moi! Parlez-vous Anglais?" I said.


"Oui!"


After a sorry explanation of my situation, they told me that the central bus station was confusing to get to, but not to worry, they would take me there. What a relief. We rode several kilometers to the station. Once we were there, I went in to get a ticket. Just when it seemed everything was going to work out, the woman at the counter told me that their buses do not transport bikes, but the ones out of Montréal do.

I thought, well, Montréal can't be too far.


I went outside to relay this to the couple, who were waiting like saints to make sure everything turned out okay. They replied, no problem, they would lead me to a direct road toward Montréal, which would connect with a bike path into the city. It sounded easy enough. I followed them a few more miles before we parted ways, thanking them for going so far out their way for me, and waving enthusiastically until they disappeared from view.


Twenty kilometers later, after some confusion (and redirection from yet another stranger), I found the bike path. Almost there! I thought. I soon came to a directional sign: "Montréal, 17 km." Hm...well, okay. No problem.


Two kilometers later on the path, I came to a closed gate. It appeared that the bike path ended there. I could not believe it. I stood there, wondering what to do next. One minute later, a man on a bicycle came around the closed gate from the side that was closed and said something in French. Then, sensing my confusion, in English, "This path is closed."


"But," he said, "we can go over the bridge and ride on the other side."


I said, "I'll follow you."


He let me cycle with him (or perhaps he had no choice) the remaining distance, nearly into Montréal. It was a good thing, too, because I am certain I would have gotten lost with the numerous twists and divergences from the path that only someone familiar with the area would know how to navigate. He knew the way to the bus station in Longueuil, from which I could get to Québec City. He was even so kind as to go right up to the ticket counter with me. He did all the talking, and after transactions were completed, a firm handshake, and an earnest thank you, I was so relieved and grateful for my luck, for these angels who appeared to assist me.


After a lively conversation with my Mom, detailing the events of the day, she convinced me to get a hotel room. Within a few hours after reaching Québec, I found a room at the chic Hotel Pur, near the river.


Then this morning, I ordered breakfast in bed. Picked the Frenchest thing off the menu. Whatever it was, it was delicious.