I have returned with aching feet from an exploration of Montreal. Oh, and as of 2:15 PM last Saturday, June 23rd I am married. I left my phone charger somewhere above Vermont I think (in case you’ve called and think I’m dead), and our house is full of gifts, the volume and size of which basically demand that we buy a house; our apartment, while spacious, simply can’t hold this much stuff. I’m pushing for that house to be in Canada, now that I’ve witnessed first hand the miracle that is a French-speaking city. I’ve hauled out all my Rush records and insist on greeting everyone here with “bonjour” or “bonsoir”, even though it makes checkout people visibly consternated and perhaps a bit hostile.

Getting married was easier than they tell you. Going on a honeymoon was significantly more difficult. But no matter the level of difficulty of all the background activities the important thing is that for 10 days we were surrounded by friends and family or on vacation, and everyday when I woke up I was face to face with the easiest and number one best decision I’ve ever made. Every American, especially the ones who think we live in the best country ever, needs to visit Canada at least once. Canada is clean, polite, and has its priorities in fucking order. Want to know how many times I read about Paris Hilton in the newspaper or saw her on TV not counting the times I flipped past CNN? Zero. Goose egg. Zilch. It was really nice. Being even a temporary participant in a society like that makes you realize just how much brainwashing we go through on a daily basis in the US, making us the irritable frat boys of the world. Oh well. I’m off the soap crate for now I guess, except to say that flying out of an airport where no one knows that the fuck the “TSA” is is a nice experience.

Security Person: Sir, what are you doing?
Me: (Taking complete contents of bag out–including laptop–and removing shoes and socks.) Getting ready to go through security. Duh.
Security Person: Oh. Well, we can just put your things through this powerful x-ray machine. It seems to work much better than having some asshole getting $6.15 an hour paw through your stuff and treat you like a terrorist just for trying to get to Washington Dulles Airport.
Me: (Weeping.)
Security Person: Sir? Here, let me help you.
Me: (More weeping.)

Later, after I put on a pair of shoes my wife bought for me I found myself stuck with a shoebox and plastic bag. Hopefully, I approached an attendant in the airport terminal and told her about buying the shoes, and not being able to fit the box into the trash. I told her I was hesitant to simply put it next to the trash lest someone think it was a bomb. She laughed kindly. “Oh no, that’s fine. This is Canada. Everything isn’t a bomb here. Are your shoes comfortable? They look very nice.”