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1976 Olympics, Montreal. My family went up there and camped, I drove my ‘64 VW Microbus up there to join em (hey, 40 horses on that rebuilt motor over the original 36 ). I don’t recall what events we saw, but leaving them I drove northeast along the south shore of the Saint Lawrence. I picked up two Newfie hitchhikers for a distance, Merchant Seamen heading back home, my first exposure to spoken Newfoundland “English” 🙂

This was Francois country. I took four years of French in high school, got an 85 on the Regents exam, knew passé compose, future imparfait, all that Frenchie stuff. All I got from the Quebecois in return was “Je ne comprend pas”.

Then I picked up two French medical students, they was from the Old Country and the Quebecois treated them like royalty. I didn’t make it all the way to the end of the peninsula though, this was before credit cards and my gas/food money was short.

Dropped those guys off, headed south across the Chic Choc Mountains to the south shore. Hit some serious dirt through those spruce woods at one point, but those Microbuses were surprisingly good off-road.

Headed back through the endless woods of New Brunswick. I forget where I crossed back but it was a two lane road, I was the only one there, and the Customs guy having not much else to do searched the vehicle.

So how close did I cut it? Back in NY State coming back across the Hudson River at Bear Mountain I was happy to find there was no toll westbound…. because I didn’t have the cash Made it to my parent’s house running on fumes.

After my Quebecois encounters I lost faith in my French. But then six years later I was in Togo, West Africa. Them French-speaking Togolese understood me parfaitment (mais maitenant apres quarantes sept annes j’oublier beacoup).

So screw the French, et les Quebecois aussi 🙂