The Australians are All out Drinking...

So I'm pretty much alone here at Le Sous-bois, with nothing much to do but write about this evening's activities.

I started with the "Light and Sound Show" at Notre Dame, which was horrible in an entertaining sort of way. As you enter, you are given a headset with audio commentary in your language of choice. You see that the altar and all of the stained-glass windows are covered with enormous sheets. The lights go out, and a video begins; it starts with Christ on the cross, then jumps ahead 1600 years to when the French send missionaries to the New World to save the native savages. It's not just propaganda; it's badly-acted, dubbed propaganda. At the end of the film, the curtains drop, and you see the cathedral in all its glory. It's gorgeous, and you're allowed to stay for fifteen whole minutes to look at it. The film, by the way, is entitled, "And then there was Light." Enough said.

Now to the good stuff. I had dinner at Boris Bistro on Rue McGill. This place has been written up in every guidebook imaginable. I think this is generally a good reason to avoid a restaurant, as such write-ups usually mean the place will be swamped with tourists who have read about it. But since there appears to be NO ONE in Montreal at the moment (except Australians, and their even rowdier counterparts, the Kiwis), I decided to give it a try. It was a good call. The place was practically empty, so my incredibly adorable, incredibly flirty waiter had little to do but shower me with attention. He complimented my wine choice (even though they were out of that particular wine--he brought me another one that he thought was "suitable"), applauded me for finishing my duck risotto AFTER eating the goat cheese with caponnata, and encouraged me to order dessert ("It's small, and you don't have to eat it all"). When I requested a glass of port to go along with the dessert, he brought me approximately eight ounces of it. Finally, when I finished the dessert, he commented with a wink, "It's easy to finish, no? It doesn't have to be big to be intense." Oh, to be able to pull off a double-entendre with such class!

Then I walked, very slowly, back to Le Sous-bois, where the drunken Australians/Kiwis, who had not only decided that they LOVE me, but also that my name should be Priscilla (not in reference to any Queen of the Desert, but rather to the "Priscilla" for whom someone had repeatedly been calling on the hostel's public phone), were about to set out for the bars on Plateau de Mont Royal. I imagine they'll be back around 4am, so I'd better get some sleep before I have to serve as guardian for an 18-year-old who needs to get their stomach pumped.

Tomorrow: Supposedly, I'm TOTALLY having lunch with the Australian girls (you know, because they LOVE me). If that doesn't work out (meaning if they forget how much they TOTALLY love me and how they HAVE to have lunch with me before they leave), I'll be heading directly to the Plateau...in search of that classic quebecois treat: poutine! I've got 38 out of 40 Pepto-Bismol tablets left. BRING IT ON!

NOTE: the keyboard has suddenly switched to German, so I apologize for any weird punctuation issues.