Upon finding terminal 3, I was promptly joined by a ladybug come to explore and hide in the folds of my rucksack. I watched it turn about for a time, patrolling zippers and clasps, circling ever on its steps. I lost no few minutes to this exercise and, after some time, wondered just what satisfaction I got from my watching. Did I impute the ladybug some intentionality? Was it simply the vaguely trotting motion that a human might ascribe to its limbs and body? Or did it owe instead to a seeming determination to hang on, displayed on its part? In the end, it clung to the bag until well after I had passed security and a random check.
Some hours later, I found that Montréal, as I had heard said, manifests a great reticence towards English and is yet closer to Anglo-Saxon ways than any other French-speaking urban entity. It is not without reason that Wal-Mart was one of my first sights out of the airport. For their part, Starbucks Coffee became Café Starbucks and Tim Horton’s drivethru “service au volant”. Yet the same does not hold true for the youth, codeswitching, sometimes at obnoxious volumes, between French and English. Dialogues bristle with “anyway” and “fuck” amidst the surrounding French. That said, a certain feeling makes itself felt towards the French-speakers as well, or perhaps I simply took too much away from the teasteeper’s saying under his breath “please leave”. I am left with mixed impressions of this français épuré.
Elsewhere in the way of difference, the plantlife and wildlife show some divergence between Canada and Western Europe. The trees are smaller and interspersed with greater numbers of evergreens. Perhaps this owes to the winter cold. Further investigation would be required in this matter.