Hitchhiking Memoir Part 10: Montreal, Psych Ward prisoners and the...

You are about to read Part 10 of my Hitchhiking Memoir that follows me through a 1 month 10,000 Km adventure around Canada. The first 9 parts are linked below if you are so inclined (they will perhaps give you a better idea of how I got here and who I am)... but you can pretty much jump in right here and enjoy the story too. I encourage comments and conversation and community. I like the rewards that upvotes provide but they are not necessary, but thanks if you want to provide for me!

Enjoy Part 10!

Martin was nice enough to drop me off in downtown Montreal. He went 20 minutes out of his way to drop me off right where I needed to be. I have a really good friend, Paul, who lives in Montreal and works at Place Ville Marie (a large skyscraper in downtown Montreal). I walked into the lobby looking like a road worn vagrant. I was wearing old pants and a dirty t-shirt and a bandana... I had a 50 pound backpack and old steelworker boots on. This building was full of suits, ties, power suits and high heels. Very professional and very formal. I didn't really mind either way... I sat on the big leather sofa in the lobby and began writing down some of my exploits so I could later share them with you.

Soon enough Paul found his way down to the lobby and we had a good reunion. We had spent a few years in the same dorm at the University of Alberta and were happy to share some laughs again. Paul had been aware that I was coming and told me that I could stay on his couch indefinitely and as long as required. I was told Montreal was a gem of a city... so I took him up on that offer.

I ended up staying in Montreal for 3 days. The highlights of this town are many. There are amazing building wall sized graffiti murals all over this city... and it makes this city truly vibrant. I love how brilliant artists are allowed to shine and make the city look better too. One day I hope to see way more of this... Montreal is just a bit ahead in this (and many other ways). The city closed downtown off for the Jazz festival and there had to be 5 stages and hundreds of thousands of people downtown enjoying the music at any given time. It blew my mind. On the mountain (mount royal = Montreal) on Sundays there is a tam tam jam and there had to be 5000 people drumming and dancing and hanging out. The mountain was full of all sorts of special interest groups... drum circles, music jams, pot smokers, jugglers and flow arts people and more. Most notably, there was a group of 100 or so who made their own knight costumes, armour and foam weapons and charged at each other over and over again like a scene from Braveheart. This was an epic game of tag in the format of a last man standing battle.

It was humid and exceedingly hot in Montreal. A kind of heat that a prairie guy such as myself was not used to. On the day I left Montreal, it had to be 35 or 40 celsius. I walked with Paul to the Metro station (train) and he went to work. I took a train east to get myself near the edge of the city. I had to walk for a few hours still to get out of the city. I had heard far too many stories about people who got arrested for hitchhiking in the city and ended up back in the centre of the city... effectively being swallowed by the city. I did not want that... so I walked. It was hot. I was dripping sweat. There was a moment where I was drinking water out of my bottle and I spilled the entire thing. This is an emergency to someone like me who may not get to find another source of water for hours... who is also dripping sweat.

I am taken care of. Always.

I spilled water and 50 feet away from the spill was a public fountain in the middle of nowhere. I not only filled my water bottle to the brim... I drank a litre of water out of the fountain. I was set up. The funny thing is... had I not spilled my water, I would have not thought about how important it was and might have missed the fountain completely. Synchronicities.

I walked with my pack for about 6 hours out of the city and caught a ride with Jean-Paul and his wife, who had already moved into the back of the vehicle (likely for her own safety?). They spoke no english and I spoke enough French to introduce myself, thank them and tell them that i do not speak french. I felt bad about this. We had a pleasant ride, but had not real way of communicating.

They got me to Trois-Rivieres by 4 pm... and 10 minutes later I was picked up by LaHare (i have no idea how to spell his name... that is how it sounds). He wanted to tell me his life story and of his accomplishments. He was a druggist and worked in hospitals and in the medical world his entire career. He also credits himself as one of the main movers in the anti-smoking movement. He first got hospitals to be smoke free... soon followed government buildings and restaurants. He even had a moment when at a political celebration in a government building where he stopped a speech of a minister who was about to light a cigarette. "Excuse me Minister, but this is now a smoke free building, would you please set a good example and smoke outside." I thought this was pretty funny. He was proud... and I suppose he had a right to be. I cannot imagine it now... even though I lived through it as a kid. Smoke filled rooms, a blue haze everywhere you went because you could smoke anywhere... it blows my mind now to think it was that way. We have to some degree LaHare to thank for it.

I got 2 more rides on the way to Quebec City. One construction worker in a work truck filled with tools. I never did catch his name as there was, again, a major communication barrier. Samuel was the other guy who picked me up in his Hyundai. We could speak a little bit... but again... not much to report as it was mostly just a silent car ride... He did have a good taste in music though.

I got to Quebec City and it hit me... This is an old city. I forget that that side of the continent has been built and majorly inhabited for a longer time... There were old apartments and streets that seemed pre-automobile here. Something that does not exist in Alberta. I went past a homeless man in perhaps around 60. He yelled something at me and I turned around... He said something in French and I let him know that I was not able to speak french (in french respectfully enough). He replied "I have no problem speaking English with a nice working class guy." I sat down and let him speak.

He sounded slightly impaired and spoke with a mild stutter. He then mentioned that speaking english helps ease his mind from his psychiatric disability. We talked about where I was headed and he told me that Halifax is like Quebec... "Rich with politicians." He told me to take the ferry to Dartmouth where I can have a better working class experience. I could tell where his allegiance was... and I was cool with that.

He told me about the 30 blurry years he spent in a psych ward. He said they wanted to keep him there for the rest of his life... and ruin it. He was describing what his life was like inside those walls... and it sounded like prison. He wanted a tattoo on his arm that said K739. This was the drug that they kept him on. He could not remember much and everything was blurry and un-sequential. Just a mish-mash of events. 30 years worth!

He told me that he got enough of his wits together one day to write a letter to the prime minister of Canada, Jean Chretien at the time. Shortly after that he was released. He does not remember what he wrote... he just remembers writing the letter. I guess it was enough. He is lucky. He seems to enjoy sitting in the park smoking cheap ($2) cigars and speaking to nice working class people. He seems harmless... I think it is a crime that people like him stay locked behind closed doors heavily sedated on unknown drugs.

He also informed me that his brother had just died... he drank too much and was on epileptic medication... these are not good substances to mix apparently. He was not going to the funeral because he did not want to set foot in a church. I get it. Some people need to grieve one way to get closure... others do it in different ways. I respect that... he wasn't sure if the rest of his family was going to respect that... I hope it worked out for him.

More synchronicity. LaHare, the druggist, most likely was somehow involved in the "treatment" of this man... LaHare seemed to be a very well off many and from the sounds of it... he had a large jurisdiction when it cam to pushing pills. To take this a step further... I was at Jazzfest in Montreal with a girl who was drinking heavily while on Epileptic medication. Her boyfriend was telling her to slow down... and she didn't seems like she was heeding his warnings... Very interesting how all of these things come together.

I ended up walking around town for hours looking for a place to sleep. The city was beautiful. There were bridges and cobblestone paths. Nice graffiti in lots of spots. One such graffiti piece warned me that the police are armed and dangerous. i found it funny, but ended up meeting 2 bike cops... 2 times... and they took note of me. Had they met me a third... let's not speculate... it did not happen.

I ended up in a park with a tent shanty town. There were 6 or so "homeless" people getting ready to sleep in this park. Alex, who spoke fairly good English warned me about the police in this city. They were not kind to the homeless. He told me that this park is where they leave us alone... so stay here and you should be fine. I did. I set up under a tree and was sleeping fine. Alex woke me up and told me it was likely going to rain. He told me there was room for me in his tent. I took him upon his offer. He offered me beer too... but I was proudly sober for a few years and was not about to break that in a Quebec City Shanty town.

Alex was a drug runner. He sold cocaine in nightclubs in the 90's. He was rich. He lived the fast life. Cars, women, cocaine. He is much happier now. He lives on the street and has all he needs. He told me the whole fast life nearly ruined his. This was far more simple. He also told me of the other threat to the homeless... other than police. Crack... and crack dealers.

Alex was a cocaine user during the fast times of his life. Since he became homeless he must have still been using. He tells me that he quits... but sometimes he gets hunted down by the dealers and beat up until he takes more. That sounds pretty rough... but he still prefers it to selling cocaine in nightclubs.

The tent was set up on a small slant. I woke up at 5 in the morning and it had slid down the hill and was at a very large slant at this time... LOL. I got out of the tent and set back up under the same tree. It did not rain, but I was glad to have a friend who was looking out for me... and who could very well have saved me from one of the threats to the homeless. I did not have a good feeling about the way those bike cops were looking at me... and I am glad I stumbled upon that shanty town. Like I said... I am taken care of... Always.

Hitchhiking Memoir Part 10: Montreal, Psych Ward prisoners and the homeless threat.