Joe and I went to Montreal many times while we were together. It was a reasonable distance from camp (about 3 hours) and we could leave the kids with my parents and go up for some fun. These pictures were taken the last time we went, on July 6, 2007.

.
These pictures make me smile although they appear to be pretty boring at first glance I am sure. The story is this....we checked into a hotel one afternoon and and Joe left to go park the truck in the parking garage. This was a new truck by the way, (I am still paying on this thing and will be until 2012!) and that's kind of important to the story. Anyway, I stood in the lobby area of the hotel for a while waiting for Joe. He didn't come back and 15 or 20 minutes had passed so I sat down. I remember thinking "what the....where did he go?" but I was completely content sitting there. It was really busy and there were all sorts of characters to watch so I was in full people-watching mode.
.
I sat there.....for OVER AN HOUR.
.
Finally I saw Joe coming towards me, and I smiled and he smiled and we were both completely content in that moment. I expected him to be angry about something (whatever kept him so long) and he expected me to be mad for having to wait for so long. But neither of us were mad at all, we were just...............happy.

He apologized for taking so long and he was telling me this story about how he couldn't understand the parking attendant (remember, people speak French in Montreal- many people speak English as well but they can have very thick accents) and for some reason he didn't ask the attendant to clarify what he said. So he started driving into the garage and he was looking for a spot. He had to go further and further in because the garage was so full. As he drove, the ceiling was getting lower and lower. Picture my husband in his new truck in a busy parking garage with a ceiling that is making his antenna rattle every 10 feet due to the ceiling of the parking structure closing in on him. Finally, he saw a spot, clearly marked that he should not park there. Right next to the spot was a big DANGER sign, signalling that he would not be able to take his truck any further due to the height of the ceiling.
.
So he parked in that spot, and wiped the sweat off his brow I am sure. Then, not wanting to get towed, he ran back to the parking attendant and told him where he was parked. The parking attendant told him that he was supposed to park in a different area, that his truck would not fit in the area where he was trying to park (this is what the attendant originally told Joe that he did not understand). So Joe walks the parking attendant to his spot (the attendant was sure that Joe had gotten stuck or would not be able to get out). When they reached the spot, the attendant laughed and was amazed that the truck had fit under so many barriers on the way in. Joe laughed too. They both looked at the top of the truck, searching for scrapes. There were none. So the attendant told him to just stay there.
.
I took the pictures on the way out the next day. You can't tell from them, but honestly, there were things hanging down in the garage-signs and pipes and stuff- that I too was amazed that Joe fit underneath them. The whole thing was like a big optical illusion. That parking guy is probably still talking about the crazy American that took his pick-up into the car only area of the parking garage.
.
Was that just a really boring story? Well, I got on a roll and it still is funny to me for some reason. I really had another Montreal story in mind to tell.
.
But before that one, I just want to say that I had way too much fun that night and woke up with the most excrutiating headache early early in the morning....like 5 or 6am. I seriously thought my head was going to explode and I had to push on the sides of it to make it feel better. I woke Joe up and told him how much it hurt. Without me asking, he got out of bed, got dressed and went to find me some Tylenol. The hotel store was not open yet so he pounded the streets of Montreal, no idea where he was going, to find someplace that was open. He walked half an hour before finding me some and coming back. He was so nice to me.
.
Okay, so anyway, one time we were in a pub in Montreal. In case you don't know, Canadians LOVE THEIR HOCKEY. Seriously, hockey is big up there. And also in case you don't know, the arch rival of the Boston Bruins are the Montreal Canadiens. So there Joe and I sit in a giant room filled with tons of tables full of twenty-something male hockey fans drinking lots and lots of beer, and of course what was on TV? A Bruins-Canadiens hockey game. Every person in this place (except us) was rooting for the Canadiens and all eyes were on the big screens positioned all over the room.
.
The Canadiens were doing pretty well and the crowd was happy. They hated the Bruins, you could tell by their comments and gestures every time there was a big hit or some play that they approved or disapproved of. It was a tough crowd. I had thoughts of "wow, I'm glad they don't know we're Bruins fans". Still, we were having tons of fun.
.
Then, it happened.
.
The Bruins scored.

Secretly of course I was happy to see the puck go in the net. But as the buzzer sounded what do I see out of the corner of my eye? MY HUSBAND, ON HIS FEET, ARMS IN THE AIR, CHEERING as loud as if he were in a Boston bar. Suddenly the place was quiet (except for Joe) and every head in there turned and looked at him and he just cheered louder. I think I slunk slightly in my chair, eyes wide and totally astonished that he had outed us in this bar full of the enemy. When he sat back down I told him I couldn't believe what he did, but of course we laughed and my heart was full of love for him. This was the man that I fell in love with, anywhere he went, never afraid to be himself. And passionate and fearless about anything that he loved, in this case, his Boston Bruins.
.
In typical Joe fashion, by the time we left the bar he had 50 friends and they were glad to have someone to aim there comments at when the Bruins did something they didn't like (in fun, and vice-versa of course).
.
.
.