I can't believe it's not France: The written account

Bonjour. I need to get this down on the Internet before I forget that vacation ever happened.

First stop: Stowe, Vermont. I've been threatening to do some East Coast skiing since I moved to the East Coast. After a few trips to Pennsylvania and a few trips back out West, I finally hit the slopes of Stowe. One day at a resort is hardly enough to make a good judgment, but I will admit to being pleased with the vertical drop and the variety of terrain Stowe offered. There were a few spots where that variety extended to grass and tree roots, but mostly the runs did the trick. I was fortunate and unfortunate that my snowboarding took place on a Thursday in the rain. Those two factors meant that the mountain was mostly empty. I've never skied in the rain before- once-in-a-lifetime experience, I hope. The rain was annoying, but I suspect that the accompanying warm temperatures kept the mountain from becoming the towering icicle that I anticipated. The snow conditions weren't the powder of the West, but they were a wet and mostly un-sticky sort that allowed for both speed and traction. I enjoyed myself. After a few runs I realized that something was missing. That something turned out to be altitude. Neither my heart nor my lungs ever reached that pounding, pulsing stage of a good run in Colorado. My legs would tire, but the rest of me felt just fine. That's skiing at 4000 feet above the sea and 4000 feet below the base of Winter Park.

By later afternoon, the temperature dropped and the rain turned to snow. I was unprepared for such a drastic shift in weather and could only stare in frustration at my wet gloves and clothes as the chill became too much. I was off the slopes a bit too early, but still had time to eat free ice cream at Ben & Jerry's plant, so that was a wash.

Next stop: Montreal, Canada. Montreal in February is cold as advertised. I wandered from our old old hotel down along the water where I saw the Habitat 67 (now apparently a chi-chi residence if wikipedia is to be believed), ships docked in ice, Montreal's answer to Big Ben, and I think the Biosphere or the Biodome, or some kind of Bio-enclosure. I learned an important lesson as I wandered by the water. That lesson: Never go out without my long underwear again. My legs were freezing! During this meander, I was able to summon my otherwise halting French to announce, "Je ne parle pas Francais." I don't speak French. Like most of the locals we ran into the woman I was speaking to immediately switched to perfect English. Some, particularly those in service, tended to say sentences in French and without missing a beat follow it up with the English translation. It was quite remarkable, really. Which is why I remarked on it, in case you were wondering.

I think Montreal would be a great place to practice French. I found that even a few past tense rules snuck back into my consciousness during the visit. Still, other than the language and some common names, I think we found that Montreal was less European than we'd expected. There were European influences, but the cars, the vibe, the je ne sais quois was still pretty Western.

There was a nice winter stroll through a park, and some interesting time spent underground where city art abounded. The Olympic Stadium complex wasn't all I had hoped it would be, but then the Olympics happened there before I landed on this planet. There was a five-course meal that tasted pretty, well, tasty. There was some poutine, a local delicacy of fries, gravy, and cheese curds that I spiced up with three kinds of meat. That actually turned me into a pescetarian for the time being. All of this was enjoyable and very vacation-worthy, but my favorite event didn't take place in Montreal. It was a dinner in the middle of nowhere. It was a singing, dancing, spoon-playing, delicious-eating extravaganza. The carafe of maple syrup on our table was amazing, and so were the pickled beets. The maple something-or-other pie for dessert was only outdone by the sugar on snow that capped off the evening. Even if the place hadn't been owned by a man with a big white beard, I think I would've been thrilled. I'm glad the NY Times wrote it up.

After a full weekend which must have involved some 795 hat/glove to pocket transfers, I almost made it home with my hat and gloves, but didn't. At the gas station, not a mile from the Manchester, NH airport my hat must have fallen out of the car. I realized it before I checked my bag, but there was nothing I could do by then. It wasn't the perfect end, but it was the best time to lose the hat. I only had to wear my helmet on the walk home.