Let me begin this current entry with the following advice: If you wish to travel to Canada with Italians, make sure that you expect approximately 1-2 hours of delay at all border crossings. I can say this with real knowledge, having been a proud visitor to the Immigration offices of both Canada and the United States in the last few days, due to strange Visa requirements...
Tricky guys they are in those offices, pulling clever little tricks like asking me twice what I do for a living....(as if the second time I might accidentally slip up and admit to being a drug-trafficking, whore mongering marauder, and not just a Spanish teacher...)
Anyway, we were able to slip through the cracks of American/Canadian bureacracy, and they let us into Canada...A smart idea on their part, I'd say...
Montreal, as always, was charming and welcoming, and an overall wonderful place to spend a few days (or, to be sure, much more time). Most of our time (my friend Antonella and I) was spent in a luxuriously lazy frame of mind and action, wandering the city, eating great meals, spending time with our good friend Charlie and his roommate Nate (likewise a great man).
Lazy as I was, and little as I did, I must mention the few things of particular interest that I can't get out of my head since my voyage there. Let's call them "Tam Tams" (which, I believe, is in fact what everyone calls it) and Medieval Foam Warrior Challenge Weirdo-Fest (which I do not believe is in fact the official name for the event of which I speak).
Apparently, every Sunday (weather permitting, I assume), many Montrealeans make a small pilgrimage to the Park Mont Royal, which lies at the base of the mountain of the same name. Among these Montreal folk are a group of people that bring along a variety of drums and other instruments of percussion and gather to play intense rhythms for hours. At the same time, hippies and other strange people (as well as some normal, quite good looking people) gather in front of them to dance in the dust. The sight is generally quite wonderful. Unfortunately, however, in the midst of the rising dust, I saw one rather unattractive girl that seemed to be dancing in her underwear, but hey, I guess these things happen.
Okay then, let's get to the most important, strange, and interesting part of these Sunday festivities. A bit up the hill from the hippie drummers, and past the frisbee players and hackey sack gangs, there lies a large dusty field surrounded by trees. It is in this field that the biggest weirdos of Montreal gather every week to engage in a rather strange (yet thrilling) spectacle. I can only imagine what it must take to drag them away from their Dungeons and Dragons games (I mean no disrespect--I speak from the point of view of a former D&D player).
Basically, all who attend join a team, or, better defined, an army. Each army stands on one end of the dusty field (approximately the size of half of a soccer field). Each and every person is armed. Yes, ARMED. Now, granted, they are armed with duct-tape covered foam, but they are armed nonetheless. Some bear battle-axes, some lances, some swords or daggers, or maces. I even saw an Edward Scissorhands-type gentleman that seemed to really enjoy playing the role. Some are dressed in all black, some in medieval garb, some in armor or chainmail. It is really all very strange.
And so, the two armies stand their ground, until representatives from the different sides approach the middle and commence fighting. Once they have done so, the two sides gather their courage and charge the center of the field, screaming their fierce battle cries and attacking eachother with their convincing and rather intimidating weapons. If you are hit in the torso or head, you must fall to the ground, dead. I am not totally sure, but it seems that leg wounds merely make you lame, although the limpies seemed to be killed off rather quickly. When everyone is dead, the armies repair to their side, catch their breath, and start all over again. The fun never seems to end. (In fact, I left after an hour or so and returned an hour or so later, and they were still going strong--this must have lasted at least three hours).
I must say that I was fixated by this sport and spent a great deal of time enjoying the festivities surrounding it, taking in the battle smells and sounds, enjoying the pungent aroma of medieval sweat. I guess that's just what you do in Canada--if you're not too busy drinking beer and eating poutine (for those Jersey folk--disco fries--for those non-Jersey folk, french fries covered with cheese and gravy).
And so, I am now back in NYC, wishing for some medieval battle scenes, wishing for pumping drum rhythms, and wishing for poutine, and finding none. Instead, I've got to settle for street fights, car horns and hot-dogs. And that's just the way it is...
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