Salutations, traveler of The Internets! Welcome to William's Bloody Hell, so named after our founder, Sir Bloody William.
He is seen in the likeness above in a rare, 19th century woodcut. This
image was rumoured to have been
commissioned after a bout of unpleasantness
in the White Chapel district of London. Do enjoy your stay and peruse our many, varied offerings, much of which cannot be found elsewhere!
:: Today's soundtrack: The Cure "Speak My Language" ::
My vacation was pretty good, thank you so much for asking. I took a little hop over the border into the wild and untamed Canadas in an event which will heretofore be referred to as "The International Incident."
You know they use those there "kilometers" up there on their speed limit signs, right? Oh yes they do have speed limits. Well, I believe they are more of a suggestion really. I mean if you're going really fast, like say, over 100 miles per hour, it's not as though their police will catch up with you. Remember they have them mounted police, so they ride horses. It's not like a horse will go that fast. At least, they couldn't with me anyway.
So after I outran the mounted police in crossing the border, I made it to my destination in Montreal. I shall now bore you with a few sordid anecdotes regarding my northern shenanigans.
For those of you who don't know, the city of Montreal is in Quebec, the French speaking province of Canada. I took some French in high school and I'm fairly decent with it I guess. However....
I was in an Italian restaurant, and while waiting for my entree, I decided to go wash my hands, a polite and sanitary thing to do. So, I got up and looked around for it a bit. A waitress, noticing my wandering, politely asked me, in French mind you, what I was looking for. I understood what she asked, and replied, in French, "the bathroom." She told me where it was in French. yes that's right, I out-smarted myself there. I had no idea what she said back. I had to give up and admit I was a good-for-nothing foreigner with little grasp on her native tongue and could she please repeat that in English? She did so, condescendingly, and my hands got washed.
I slept in late the next morning and missed the conventional breakfast hours. I went out looking for a place that might serve something along the lines of a breakfast pastry at any hour. Enter Tim Horton's. Now, ordering food in French I'm okay. I can order any kind of sandwich or a steak and tell them how I want it done. but breakfast foods, are another matter entirely. When I get up to order, I ask the cashier in French if he speaks English. He replies, in French, asking if I am an American. I tell him yes, and his expression a bit confused, tries to explain to me slowly in French that no one here speaks English and that I would have to order en Français. I look from one little sign to another and am not sure what they say so I resort to pointing in an idiotic, wild way. At this point, my server can't take it anymore and starts laughing. He looks up at me and says, "I'm just fucking with you. I'm from Toronto, eh?" Bastard.
I decided to kill some time one afternoon by sitting down across from the Notre Dame Cathedral and attempting to sketch it. There is a little park right across the street from the cathedral littered with tourists and street vendors, and this is where I set up. I got out my big ol' Plexiglas clip board and a piece of 11x17 paper. I set open my pencil box beside me and went to work. I guess since there are so many folks about in this city who put on little street shows or draw caricatures in order to make a buck, people think nothing of walking right up to you, leering at what you're doing, and striking up a conversation. A homeless guy peeked at my drawing and talked for a while (I gave him a couple bucks when he left) as did a few college students. An Asian tourist watched me work without saying anything for a little bit and then plunked some spare change into my pencil box! I called after her that I didn't need the money, that I wasn't homeless, and not a starving artist. She kept walking without any response. I sunk back into my bench. Then called loudly after her, "You know I'm probably staying at a better hotel than you!!" and resumed penciling. The college students around me started to laugh. Apparently they thought I was a starving artist, too. Is it the way I'm dressed?
