How awkward to be staying in a stranger’s house. When booking a Bed & Breakfast, one keeps an eye open for coziness, cleanliness, positive breakfast reviews, and a benevolent portrait of the preferably harmlessly quirky hosts.  But what you don’t think about as you blithely click to sort your B&B search results by price, popularity, and breakfast rating, are the consequences of your actually being a guest in a stranger’s house.

Whenever you visit someone’s house, the unspoken assumption in polite society is that you will more or less abide by the rules of the house, even if they are not exactly your own.  But how can the hosts know that you will be polite, especially when they are often mom-and-pop businesses that do not have resources for online payment processing, let alone background checks?  And how do you, the strange guest, know that the rules of the house will be acceptable to your norms?  There is a big risk involved in this entire transaction that far outweighs the potential cozy cleanly warm breakfast.

And so it came to pass that Nina and I arrived on the doorstep of La Maison Bourlamaque, the Bed & Breakfast we had reserved based upon it’s #14 out of 52 rankings on TripAdvisor.com, the fact that it had a room available for the days surrounding the new year, the rave reviews of its multi-course breakfasts, and not least of all the fact that the proprietor had a Japanese wife.

From the outside, the house was a nicely built believably historic-looking place with no discernible lights on inside.  I rang the doorbell, and after a few moments – just a few more seconds than was comfortable with, to tell you the truth – Stefan, a pale bald heavyset man in his socks and mid-to-late 30s opened the door with a tee-shirt on.  He looked different than I had expected.

Without much fanfare, we were instructed to remove our shoes.  And without making any effort to help with our luggage, he then showed us to our room.  I hauled both suitcases up the stairs, while Nina carried our smaller bags.  Despite having not had a chance to look around yet, the house felt like someone’s house. The room was big, cozy, and clean, which made Nina happy.  The decorations were austere yet tasteful.  After a bit of prodding, Stefan matter-of-factly gave us the minimum amount of information necessary for our comfort: the location of the bathroom (shared with another room) and the wifi passord.  Once Stefan returned to the dimness downstairs, Nina gushed with happiness.  She slammed doors, threw towels around, and claimed her psychological space as an inhabitant of the house.  As all men know, vacations are about making your girls happy, so I was happy too.  It was a cozy, clean room, and breakfast was only a king bed sized night away.  We did a quick test of the bed, left our scents in the toilet, inspected the closets, confirmed that the wifi signal had sufficient power, and finding everything to our satisfaction, we decided to head out for dinner.

Fortunately, Stefan was sitting with his 15″ PowerBook on the couch in the living room, near the door.  Upon questioning, he indicated that there were several restaurants on avenue Cartier, the next street over.  I brought out a map, which he summarily turned upside down, saying that it was better that way, and following some of his rapid pointing, I began to trace what he suggested be our main route to the old city.  While I was still trying to understand how the map could be better understood upside-down, I absentmindedly punched a hole through it with the pen, jabbing it onto his clean and cozy wall.  Afraid to peer behind the map to see the damage, I continued to converse, eliciting the vaguest possible responses, about places Stefan recommended we go. Apparently there were very few, because before I knew it, he had scribbled a single illegible word and a dot on a street near the old city, folded up the map (which I then resumed possession of), and was looking at me expectantly like the quiet kid at the town dance.  Obviously we leave now, I thought.

Avoiding the awkwardness, we re-shoed, gloved, and Chinese fur hatted, and walked over to avenue Cartier, where we had a hearty meal at Café Krieghoff.  Nina informed me that Stefan had quickly scanned the wall for pen marks as we were leaving.  We mangéd on the table d’hotes, enjoying them thoroughly, and Nina noted how many people were eating alone.  I hadn’t noticed, but she was right – there were 4 or 5 solo eaters.  This obviously must be a good sign – no tourists would eat alone, so this must be a local hangout.  We enjoyed the meal even more.  On the way out, I noticed newspaper clippings near the entrance declaring this place good for solo eaters.  Possibly a self-fulfilling prophecy, what do I know?

As a digestif, we carried on walking through the perfectly shoveled sidewalks on the recommended path all the way to the old city, jumping into the local coffee merchant, talking with the proprietor about Obama and hope in franglais (he seemed excited to talk to Americans).  I curtailed my cynicism in face of his aberrant enthusiasm, and we bought the obligatory beans for Nina’s mom, who is said to love coffee, and carried on trotting, ultimately turning back at the old city gates to return to our B&B for the night.

Re-entering the room, Nina found it too cold for her liking.  Suffering gladly, as is the way of her peoples, she stoically stomped downstairs.  I, being hesitant to begin a confrontation with the man over the insulation of his castle, and fearing Nina’s tendency for directness, had assented to her descent on the condition that she please be nice to him for at least the first day.  She returned triumphantly with the story of her defeat.  Not only had he had told her that, despite her being cold, the house was, in fact, already warm, but that she had asked for tea, and he had said that they do not make the guests tea, but tonight he would do it for her, as if he were doing her a favor.

Stefan knocked on the door a few minutes later with a steeping pot of green tea.  Nina avoided eye contact, and put on a pout.  He put down the tea and cups and gently restated his position that the house was warm.  In a self-contradictory turn, he then began to explain that the house was old, and that the heating was centralized, thereby explaining somehow the lack of heat in the room.  Turning the heat up may make one room warm, he said, while another would be a little colder.  I failed to see the logic in this defense, but I sympathized with his plight.  All he had to do was turn the heat up, and even the colder rooms would get warmer, I thought.

He then asked me if I were cold.  At that moment, I was caught red-handed in a tee shirt, and since I generally enjoy cold temperatures and could not possibly have made the case that I was cold, I responded with the diplomatic truth that I was not cold, but that it was not so hot in the room.  Stefan insisted that he was not trying to be cheap by not turning up the heat, and that it was only because the heat was uneven throughout the house.  He repeated this several times.  Nevertheless, it seemed to us that there were no alternate explanations for his resistance to turning up the heat.

Regardless of the temperature of the room, when a guest is cold, you turn up the heat, right? By my reckoning, we were paying the Maison Bourlamaque enough to justify the expectation that a few simple requests would be satisfied.  Stefan should think of himself as our hired hand, should he not?

Stefan did eventually turn up the heat, making this reduntantly known to me the next morning.  And the combination of heat and no-doubt Japanese green tea made us warm and cozy, feeling clean and looking forward to breakfast.  But isn’t it the charm of a Bed & Breakfast that you are obligated, as a house guest, to suffer kindly the failings of the head of the household?  Shouldn’t Stefan have resisted?  Otherwise, wouldn’t we really have done better to stay in a hotel?

And so it came to pass that after a day and a half in Quebec City, Nina and I felt the need to meander. Gourmet fruit cakes and lovely old village landmarks notwithstanding, Quebec is a small place with small things in mind, and we are big-spirited people with square glasses. And so I braved the -20 degree Celsius, and weathered the snow nine blocks (all the way) to the Hertz rental car office on Le Grande-Allée, a relatively wide, beautifully shoveled approach to the center of town, ignoring entirely the historic plains across the street that were once the scene of a decisive battle in the Seven Years’ War that ultimately led to the establishment of Canada as a British colony, despite its French history.

After a minute of conversing in French, the Hertz rental officer and I complicitly completed the rental transaction of a gigantic mini van in heavily accented English. And so it was that on the third day of our restful stay in Quebec City, Nina and I pumped up the heat in the front two of a 7-seated white minivan and departed for an epic twenty minute journey to Île d’Orléans, a large, but sparsely populated island in the St. Lawrence river, where I had arranged for a dog sledding expedition that afternoon.

Just on the mainland side of the bridge to Île d’Orléans lie Montmorency Falls, the largest falls in Quebec Province and taller than Niagra Falls by 30 meters. After a brief sojourn in the visitors’ center restrooms (with the obligatory iPhone email check on the freely accessible wifi – a Quebec standard amenity), we continued the crossing to the island.

Soon after fording the St. Lawrence to the island, Nina decided that it was time to eat. And when Nina says it’s time to eat, we eat. After inquiring in the local boucherie, the only open establishment in the area near the bridge, manned entirely by young girls, the single meaty butcher girl who spoke the “very well English” told us in well broken English that there was a restaurant, La Goéliche, in Sainte-Pétronille, a town down the road. We bought some of the oldest cheese in North America but none of the raw meats, and carried on with hopes high of an impending authentic, rural, Quebecois island meal.

Entering Sainte-Pétronille meant pulling into the parking lot of the tourist chocolate shop, the only establishment in town. There we discovered that we were not the only tourists on the island – a strange older single man and a mainlander-looking couple were loitering inside. We joined them briefly perusing imported Swiss and Belgian chocolates at reasonable prices as if discovering hidden treasures of a long lost island peoples. The cash register was efficiently manned by a small-town goth girl who I don’t think was honestly that depressed. I made the obligatory inspection of the wifi situation in the toilet and we returned to the giant minivan.

Driving a few dozen meters down the road, we came upon La Goéliche, a charming waterfront hotel proudly overlooking its vast separation from the city of Quebec. The hotel was home to the restaurant where the butcher girl had said we could find a meal. After a few moments of purporting to admire the view, in spite of the -20 degree Celsius, I began a lively conversation in French with the hotel manager about the possibility of us working out a mutually-agreeable feeding arrangement. The hotel manager did not for a second make me feel as if my french was less than perfectly fluent, and I at once acknowledged that despite the inconspicuous setting, we had finally found someone who knows how to treat guests.

The hotel manager was clearly very sorry that the kitchen had just closed until later that evening. He began to call the other restaurants on the island in search on our behalf for a nice place to eat. With the formality and courteousness of his telephone demeanor as he pushed forth our case to the other restaurateurs on the island, one would never have supposed that we were on the tip of a desolate island with nary a village with more than ten houses.

As I was fully enamored of the man, perfectly combed hair included, Nina unbeknownst to me, was dangerously eying the fixed-price 9-course gourmet local-celebrity-chef New Years Eve dinner menu advertised by a printout on the front desk. After several moments, the hotel manager succeeded, as did Nina, and we left La Goéliche with a lunch reservation at a restaurant in Saint-Laurent-de-l’Ile-d’Orleans, the next town over, as well as a New Years Eve dinner reservation at La Goéliche.

En route to Saint-Laurent-de-l’Ile-d’Orleans, we passed an open grocery store. Following explicit instructions from my travel companion, I reversed the giant minivan into the parking lot, locking the doors with the wireless keychain out of ingrained paranoia. Based on our delays in finding a meal, in correlation to the imminent dog sledding reservation, we decided to buy some fodder in the grocery shop and skip he restaurant meal. Picking up a mysterious hand-wrapped sandwich for me, some stale bread crackers for Nina, and water for the car, we continued on to the dog sledding site, biting and munching along the way.

At long last, we found the signs for the dog sledding expeditions. The hill up to the expedition location was blocked by an SUV skidding in place. Using city person intimidation techniques, I drove halfway up the hill, and pulled the car behind them, waiting and watching in silence…. Eventually, the driver voluntarily let the SUV slip backwards into the side of the road, thereby giving me room to continue up the hill, and guaranteeing a more difficult time getting himself out of his predicament.

However, by stopping the car halfway up the hill, I had lost momentum. We were also skidding in place. So I backed the giant minivan down the hill, giving enough room for a throttled head-start, and gained enough momentum and traction to get us up the hill, past the looks of desperation from the passengers of the other car, and onward and upwards to a place where motors weren’t necessary and where the transportation mechanism of choice, optimized by generations for such suboptimal conditions, would lick the snow while trotting over it handily.

Discoveries. There are few things to arouse the senses in winter-worn Montreal. As you would expect, it’s cold. But despite its international reputation, there’s really not much here that can’t be found in upstate New York, except on a smaller scale.

However, if one approaches the city with no expectations, there are discoveries to be found. One of the few bright lights in an otherwise hazy town is Paryse, the self-proclaimed snack bar. In layman’s terms, Paryse is more of a haut grunge diner. It was there that we first tried poutine, the pride of Quebec.

Poutine is Quebecois for “cheese fries with gravy”. It’s all too easy for an American to criticise poutine because the fries are soggy, and we all know fries must never be soggy. But as with your general approach to Montreal in regard to holiday destinations, you would be doing yourself a disservice to view poutine in comparison to french fries. Poutine is poutine, a delicately balanced palate of fried potato stewed in an intense chicken-based sauce, topped with melted cheddar cheese curds.

But the gem of Paryse is not its poutine. It’s the namesake Paryse sandwich. The Paryse seamlessly combines toasted dark bread with fried egg, sliced tomato, romaine lettuce, sauteed mushrooms, the mysterious melted cheese curds, pickles, and plenty of mayonnaise. It’s difficult to describe the flavor, and I’m sure it’s almost impossible to replicate. So there is a reason to go to Montreal.

The most surprising thing about Montreal is the feeling of being surrounded by creeps. Each metro station has a few wild-eyed vagabonds loitering just inside the entrance. It’s unusual to see women except in the most public places. Walking the streets, one gets the feeling that every other person has shitty underpants and unexamined, but benign, moles in all the wrong places. New York is teeming with crazies, but everywhere they are diluted to such an extent that, like a homeopathic remedy, their numbers are almost negligible in comparison to the sheer quantity of ordinary people. In Montreal, you get the feeling that the normals have all fled, leaving behind the dregs of the fur traders who have lived on a welfare state since losing their occupations centuries ago. With the advent of railroads, and the ensuing competitive pressures, such high value is unfortunately no longer placed on underfed rabbit hides and squirrel jerky. Any remaining regular people have begun to metastasize, and may be the scariest of all. It’s easy to see the inspiration for most Cronenberg films, if Toronto is anything like Montreal.

Our second day of vacation began innocently enough with a mediocre breakfast at a cozy cafe on Rue St. Denis, a trendy strip of restaurants, clubs and cafes near our hotel. I ate bacon, eggs, and home fries. Nina had investigated the breakfast offerings our hotel provided in the back shed, only to discover a few remaining frozen bagels, a jar of Smuckers jam, and some depressive Asian tourists lounging on the pleather couch, watching t.v. So at the cafe, she ordered the scrambled eggs and a chocolate crepe. The cafe au lait was perfect.

The plan for the day was to explore Vieux Montreal, the original fortified city on the banks of the St. Lawrence. Once past the creeps and blind mutant girls singing opera in the subway, we walked up an icy hill to Basilique Notre Dame, a historic landmark church inside the old city. The church was impressive as all big churches in foreign cities are. The lights were just dim enough to make the architectural and ornamental details interesting without revealing the quality of materials used.

Exiting the church, we slid down the back side of the icy hill to the waterfront Pointe-à-Callière Museum. The area surrounding the museum was covered in a giant sheet of ice. After painstakingly edging our way towards the museum, we entered only to immediately lose confidence in the value of the artifacts on exhibit, judging by the lack of attention paid to the entrance and lobby, and the absence of adults unaccompanied by small children. We left without entering the museum.

Looking at the map, I decided we should head towards the Vieux Port, where there was another museum, a church, a market, and several other historic landmarks. Each block took minutes to navigate through the unadultered ice and snow, and it was only after half an hour, and five or six blocks, that I realized that, for the second time in two days, I had lead us in the exact opposite direction from our desired destination. So we reversed course, and walked along the breezy waterfront until we reached the church, which was closed, finally reaching the Marché Bon Secours, the historic market of the old town. There, we perused miscellaneous fur items from China, on sale at quite reasonable prices. I bought a rabbit fur-lined hat, and Nina bought fur insoles for her cold wet boots.

It was time to eat, and I needed cash. Unfortunately, the only ATM machine in the market building only took Canadian bank cards. This scarcity of ATMs in Montreal was something that was to become more pronounced in our minds the following day. Amenities expected by a New Yorker, such as ATMs, grocery shops, and 24-hour pharmacies are apparently the exception in Montreal. Streets have an abundance of public phones, and it is not uncommon to see early-stage metastasizing phenotypically normal people using them. Nina had enough cash to cover our early dinner, so we headed back up the hill towards the area near Hotel de Ville, the beautiful Montreal City Hall, in search of sustenance.

Most things being closed, we decided upon one of the first restaurants we saw, a place called Le Grill offering cuisine francaise. The restaurant had a sign on the sidewalk pointing to an entrance that was situated through a small frozen courtyard that clearly looked charming in the summer. Once through the door, we were greeted by a friendly African lad in a winter jacket and work boots who showed us to our table.

The table d’hote, the fixed price menu which we each ordered, comes with your choice of soup, salad, or desert, an entree, and tea or coffee. The waiter, who we later found out was the owner’s son, said they only had mushroom or onion soup available. Nina opted for the onion soup, seafood stew, and tea; and I ordered also the onion soup, mules frites, and tea. Fortunately, they did not have the mules frites available, otherwise, I likely would have been poisoned in addition to being ripped off. So I asked for the roast pork instead.

The onion soup was mediocre – not terrible, but nothing great. My roast pork was really not good at all, but somewhat edible. Nina could not bear to eat her seafood stew, so we traded. The seafood was truly disgusting, consisting almost entirely of fake crab. My first bite of what little real seafood it did have tasted literally like shit. However, as you can expect, I didn’t complain to the waiter, neither did Nina… we had obviously made a bad choice of restaurants, and with knowing looks, we carried on, in peace, to have our tea, wondering if anyone else in the place was savvy enough to now just how bad the food was.

When the bill arrived, I instinctively took out my credit card, and was in the process of handing it to the waiter, when Nina said “Wait!” She grabbed the bill out of my hands and did a lightening-seed accounting of each of the itemized charges, clearly not happy with what she was discovering. Each of the dishes we had ordered had been charged at full price, not as one fixed-price menu. Plus, they had already thrown in a tip/service charge, even though we were only two people, and therefore not likely to under-tip. The total should have been about $35 CAD, but it instead showed $67. I withdrew my hand with the credit card, and we both began to convey to the waiter our surprise at being charged so much when the menu clearly showed a fixed price for our meals of about half that cost.

In response, he politely explained that the mushroom soup was included in the table d’hote, but that the onion soup was not. Nice of him to tell us that now that we had already eaten it. Furthermore, our teas had been billed in addition to the price of the meal. He had no explanation for why the tea had not been included, as it clearly was in the menu, except to say that he was not the one who had printed up the bill, so it was not his fault.

The manager, an African man in a winter jacket and ski hat, came over and reiterated what the waiter had said: that the onion soup was not included in the table d’hote. In response to my protests at having been told this after the fact, he admitted that the waiter may not have been as forthcoming about this as he should have been. He ignored my repeated demands to know why the tea had also not been included in the fixed price.

After minutes of the owner’s evading all accusations without the slightest hint of guilt, Nina, either feigning disbelief or honestly surprised at his perseverance, asked whether he truly expected us to pay for what was clearly the waiter’s mistake. To this he tactically offered, “Ok, well if you want to pay for just one soup, that is ok.”, as if he were doing us a favor. He impulsively added, “Today is the 26th of December, a day for relaxing, Madame. Please you should relax today. We are not trying to take money out of your pocket.” This disrespectful attitude, and his constant denial of any wrongdoing on their part really angered Nina, I could see that the manager was inching dangerously close to an an onslaught of biting verbal abuse from this unassuming girl.

Eventually, despite my protests, Nina threatened to call the police. Giving him the feminine outraged look that only one who masters the art of negotiation can manage, her moral righteousness and more likely, the threat of police intervention, indeed seemed to mollify his manners and destroy his obstructions. He muttered repeatedly, “I consent”, as if executing a legally binding document. Nothing about his demeanor or speech indicated a sense of guilt or remorse, and he still continued to say condescending things to insinuate that we were getting something for nothing. But eventually, he acquiesced, and agreed to “make a new bill” (indicating that bill-creation was an arduous task requiring not only skill, but also a strong will and honest determination) that did not have extra charges for the tea or soups (but did still include the undeserved tip).

Phtew (spit on the ground)! Nina had triumphed again.

Montreal, a city that unabashedly boasts its culinary talent, was seemingly devoid of anything appetizing… that is until later that evening.

Christmas is the best time to travel, so I booked tickets to Montreal. Nina and I arrived at JFK early, like good citizens. I had brought some salami and bread, and she had brought Quaker Oats granola bars, so we munched in the terminal, waiting for our flight to begin boarding.

The terminal was crowded with what must have been a whole slew of Jews. But apparently they weren’t going to Canada. Departing flights for Columbus and Rochester emptied our gate, and our flight began boarding… late of course.

The sole stewardess looked like a big bleached Florida Jew, and the guy in front of us flaunted a Red Hot Chili Peppers yamaka. I had on my new square glasses, indicating intellectual status. The stewardess served me coffee, water, and Belgian biscuits. Nina had cran-apple juice with her biscuits. Before we had fully digested, we had begun our descent above Montreal, which looked very orderly, snowy, and depressing. Each block had an equal number of low-rise houses of the same design. Save for a big barren snowy hill, there with very few parks or other landmarks to break up the flat topographically uninteresting sprawl.

Debarking the plane, the airport seemed empty. Not even the passengers from our own flight were in view. Except for a handful of people, the arrival area was desolate. I was treated matter-of-factly by the passport official. And without indicating a reason, he asked me to see “Immigration”, another set of desks where they grill suspicious foreigners.

The immigration officer was a little too muscular for my liking. He swiped my American passport, and asked me whether I had ever been to Canada before. I mentioned that I had come as a kid with my parents, but never since. He then asked whether I had not had problems with Canadian immigration on a previous visit in 1995. A quick flashback reminded me that, yes, I had been to Canada another time, and that it had not gone well at immigration. At that time, I was not yet a US citizen. My friend Alex and I left Rochester, where we were in school, to go clubbing in Toronto for a night.

Stupidly, that time, I had not brought my green card, so upon exiting the country, Canadian immigration officers had detained me for several hours, interrogating and strip searching me. It had been an all-around unpleasant experience. Eventually, the US authorities confirmed my resident alien status, the Canadians relented, and I was allowed to re-enter the US, but not before they had drained my car of all gas (I’m guessing it was in an effort to find drugs in the gas tank, although they never admitted to having done it).

So I confirmed to the immigration officer that I had been to Canada on a long-repressed previous visit. He then asked whether or not I had any other citizenships. To this, I pulled out my British and Israeli passports. He asked why I had these other passports on me. I responded that I always traveled with them in order to be able to answer questions from people like him. He asked why my Israeli passport was expired. I responded that it was not something I worried about. He asked when was the last time I had visited Israel. I responded that it was only a few years ago. He asked which passport I had used to enter Israel. I responded that I had used my American. He asked why. I responded that it was because my Israeli passport had expired. To this, he responded that “this raises some red flags for me. I have dual-nationality: Canada and France. When I travel to France I use my French passport, and when I travel to Canada, I use my Canadian. I would never think of entering one country with the passport from another.” I agreed that this was the best practice, but that while I would also never do such a thing in England, the Israeli authorities did not seem to care, so why should I?

He flipped through the pages of my American passport, pausing on a particular page, saying, “I can’t read this… what is it, Cyrillic?” Yes, I told him, I traveled to Belarus, where she is from, pointing to Nina. “Vey gavaritye pa Ruskie?”, he asked her, without a hint of an accent. She burst out laughing, not expecting him to speak Russian. It was only later, after we had argued with a relentless African man about the over-charging on a fixed-price menu, that we realized that the immigration officer could not have really spoken Russian since he hadn’t recognized the Cyrillic alphabet. The man then began interrogating Nina, before we were able to convince him that she had nothing to do with my immigration problems.

Without much further ado, he allowed us both to enter Canada, and we proceeded to the customs officers. They asked for our customs forms, which I was not able to immediately locate in my bag. Rather than allowing me to fill in a new form, they sent me to the baggage check. Nina followed along, beginning to exhibit signs of resentment at my inability to leave the airport.

The baggage check officer was a mixed blood black woman, who spoke just enough English to comprehend that I had lost my customs form. I said that the immigration officer had forgotten to return it to me. She dispatched another officer to pay a visit to the immigration officer in search of my form, but also asked me to check my bag again for it. Of course it was in my carry-on bag, where I had put it. But this did not put an end to the proceedings.

She began by checking Nina’s bags, despite the fact that she had shown the customs officials her perfectly-filled in form, and had only gone to the baggage check to accompany me. Nina locks her luggage when traveling, so she unlocked it in order to grant the customs official access. Upon opening her suitcase, she found a note on the top of her clothes stating that the US Transportation Safety Administration had also opened her suitcase, sifted through her belongings, and politely re-closed her dinky little lock before sending the luggage on its way.

The Canadian baggage officer did not consider the US TSA’s baggage check to be sufficient. She lifted out Nina’s gigantic bag of contraband Russian medication, peered through a few pairs of panties, and silently returned the medication to its proper place. Then she turned on my suitcase. Coming upon my small bag of a few assorted pills, she asked me what each of them was for, and whether they were really mine. Not satisfied with not having found anything suspect, she wiped a sterile gauze pad all around the lining of my suitcase, and then fed the pad into an antiquated-looking machine that presumably was built to detect narcotics or explosives or both. She called over another official and the two of them hovered over the machine for a few tense minutes. The other officer was dispatched who-knows-where, and came back with a third officer. As I was finally resigning myself to spending the next few days in jail, the original officer said we were free to go.

Once through this ordeal, we decided to find the address of the hotel which we had booked online in preparation for arranging a taxi. Nina was very excited, since we had been able to secure a room in Hôtel Jazz, TripAdvisor’s #1 rated Bed & Breakfast in Montreal. There’s nothing that pleases Nina more than a cozy top-rated Bed & Breakfast with a well-reviewed breakfast offering. Furthermore, I had been able to book the room for four nights using rewards points on my Citi Professional credit card. And there is only one thing that makes Nina more enthusiastic than a cozy Bed & Breakfast, and that is getting something for nothing. This was going be a treat!

When I found the paper with the address, Nina contradicted me. She said, “No, it’s not on Rue Ontario Est, it’s on Rue St Hubert! Where did you get that address from?” I had assembled our itinerary, and all the relevant addresses from a variety of sources, including official reservation confirmation emails, and things found on the web. To be sure, I broke out my iPhone, and checked the official confirmation email. Indeed, the hotel was on Rue Ontario Est, as I had said. Nina pulled out her own printout from the official hotel website, and said, “Look!” Indeed, the hotel website claimed to be on Rue St Hubert. After a few moments of deliberation, we came to the only logical conclusion: I had booked a room at Hotel Le Jazz, the wrong hotel with a similar name. Needless to say, I was not a popular guy with the audience in the Montreal airport.

Outside of the airport, we found an official taxi. The driver did a drive-by of our hotel, before U-turning through the snow and coming to a rest outside of a crumbly-looking row of houses. The sign said “Jazz Hostel”. We had certainly not booked a room in a shabby hostel using credit card reward points accumulated at a cost of $40,000 over a period of 5 years. But apparently this is exactly what I had done. The driver, sensitive to our dismay, as only a man trained in the transportation of people can be, asked rhetorically, “It looked very different on the internet, did it?” He offered sympathetic grunts (in a heavy French accent) and a copy of a brochure containing the addresses of other hotels.

Actually, the room inside was quite nice. There was an elegant queen sized bed, exposed brick, a sitting area with a small table, exposed stone, a mosquito net (for decoration), a fake fireplace, and an antique window looking out to the street. This hostel was not a hostel in the usual sense of the word. Apparently this was a hotel run by a hostel company. There were 8 rooms, each with a private bathroom. A few of the rooms do have the bunk-bed, hostel setup, but we didn’t see those until later. The only real shared space was a shack out back where they claimed to serve breakfast and do “activities”, which I was intent on avoiding at all costs.

We happily deposited our bags, and went out for a walk to explore the area. I considered myself lucky to have ended up in the wrong hotel with a room that I considered very comfortable, although Nina was going to take some working on to come to the same conclusions. We ate our first mediocre Quebecois meal (croque and soup), and carried on, refueled by greasy comfort food and caffeine. Several hours later, after getting lost, slipping continuously on the chronically icy sidewalks, we returned to the hotel to find that our room did not have adequate heating for the cold French Canadian nights.

Nina began freaking out. Of course, I had already resigned myself to sticking it out in the cold room – I am not the type of guy to complain and demand better treatment. By the time we discovered that we needed a new room, the hotel employees had begun one of the scheduled activities in the grimy shed out back: watching a corny DVD on a dirty pleather couch and celebrating Christmas with mulled wine ($2.50 CAD a glass). I was wont to disturb their revelry, but what can you do when you have a pushy Russian Jewish girlfriend?

Before long, I had found myself demanding a new room on a warmer floor upstairs, with functioning heaters. Several hours later, we had moved into our new quarters, which were as nice, if not nicer, than our previous room, and warm. Nina had triumphed… not for the last time.