A weem a weck, a weem a weck

After all this time I never put it together that Montreal’s name involved a mountain, Mont Real.  America, and at least this American, is so caught up in itself.  The extent of my knowledge of that city may have gone beyond this old John Prine lyric, but maybe not.

“She was a level headed dancer,

on the road to alcohol.

And I was just a soldier,

on the way to Montreal.”

 

John was referring of course to American boys in the 60’s fleeing the draft and death in Vietnam by going to Canada.  Montreal I’m sure saw its share of expatriated Americans, along with Toronto, and Vancouver, and all the other great Canadian cities.  It’s so much better to call those young men expatriated Americans rather than draft dodgers, just as it is better to call anchor babies the children of illegal immigrants.  Of course now there is no draft to dodge, seeing that conscription into the military is political suicide.  Resurrecting the draft is discussed even less than even meaningful gun control.

 Was John Prine’s AWOL solider, who probably completed basic training and received orders for Southeast Asia, right in refusing to obey that coercive draft?  I don’t know.  I never had to face that choice.  But remind me, what did we accomplish by sending 58,220 young Americans to their death in Vietnam?   Was it more meaningful than the 4,486 young Americans in the all volunteer military volunteer who died in Iraq just a few years ago?  I can’t recall.  One was weapons of mass destruction and the other stopping the spread of communism.  Did we ever find that yellow cake uranium?  Or was it all just tiger pits and those trashy IED’s by the side of the road?  I can’t keep the wars straight.  Old age is a terrible thing.

But this isn’t a political piece it’s a report on vacation.  My wife and I celebrated our anniversary by going to the province of Quebec, which isn’t far away.  Neither of us had been there.  It’s the French speaking portion of Canada, although nearly everyone knows English as well.  And contrary to advice from Americans before we left, they didn’t mind speaking English at all.  All I had to do was say “Bon Jour” in what must be a twangy sort of Central Illinois way, and they would immediately switch to English.  We found Canadians to be nice folks.  We made it a point to talk to lots of them.
 

A lady waiting for the shuttle bus from the Montreal airport turned out to be a social worker, a mental health therapist on her way up North to an indigenous community.  She’s been going up a week a month for twenty years.  Sort of that town’s part time resident head helper.  I have a thing for social workers.  I find them to be good to talk to.  Of course neither of us wanted to talk about mental health, which is work after all for both of us, but when she found out where I was from she expressed her appreciation for Chicago.  She flies across the Great Lakes to visit there often.  She likes the music and the bars.
 

“But you know something?” she said.  “Your poor people in America, they’re really poor.  It’s surprising.”
 

Every country has poor people of course.  I’d not yet seen Canada’s.
 

“What is your federal minimum wage?” I asked.
 

“$11.00.”
 

“Ours is $7.25.”
 

“Whoa.  That explains a lot.”
 

“Yep.”
 

She talked about her community up North some, which she clearly felt part of, and gave us a good tip on Montreal.
 

“Go down by the river at night in the Old City.”
 

My wife plans the details of these vacations and had found us a deal on an apartment in a neighborhood on Air B&B.  We didn’t know exactly where the neighborhood was, but the cabbie did.  The cabbie complained about Uber which was just coming into Montreal.  He couldn’t figure out how they were doing it without having company insurance.  He was sort of mystified.  I told him it was a real deal.  At least he talked to us.  I used to talk to cabbies all the time in Chicago but lately they only talk on their phones to someone else using Bluetooth in their ears.  I think they’re talking to me and I realize not.  So I just chill in the back seat.  It takes something away from the experience.
 

Our neighborhood was Verdun, which was west, and our second floor one bedroom apartment was just off Rue Wellington.  It was a working class neighborhood with a real business district and real people living their lives on the streets.  Just around the corner was a bakery, a cafe, a liquor store, and a grocery.  Everything we needed was on Wellington.  Two blocks away was a Metro stop.
 

The Metro, Montreal’s public transportation, was easy to figure out.  We were six stops away from Montreal’s downtown.  When we were downtown it was a short walk to old town.  Old town in Montreal is really old.  The French came there in 1640.  The British took over for a while in the 1700’s.  It was all about the fur trade back then.  But they built a beautiful city.  Old Montreal is splayed out along the river.  It feels like Europe.  It’s taken over by tourists of course, but so are the pretty cities of Europe in the summer.  We spent a lot of time there.
 

One night we had dinner at an upstairs jazz club in a damned fine old building.  As it got dark the street lights glowed outside the big windows.  The sky opened up over the river.  The food was good but expensive.  We split an entree.
 

It was just a female singer (chanteuse), a bass guitar, and a guy on a electric keyboard.  The best instrument was the woman’s voice.  She closed her eyes during the pretty parts of the song.  She drew out the notes in an alluring way.  I could have listened to her all night.
 

We sat next to a couple some years younger than us, he from Niagara Falls Canada and she from Toronto.  They had driven down from Quebec City.  We were headed there the next day.  The Patrick Kane story had just hit the news and we talked about the Blackhawks.  Very nice people.  He thinks the hawks will be screwed without Patrick Kane by the way, but that’s another story.  We talked about Cuba, where they had traveled a few years before.  Canada has been fine with Cuba since forever, despite pressure from the U.S. not to be so.  Canada sold them codfish and beer.  Cuba sent back cigars, sugar and rum.
 

“You know it must be nice not to be at war with anyone.  To be on good terms with the world.”
 

They both shrugged.  “We’re pretty easy people to get along with,” the man said with a smile.
 

As it turns out Canadians, especially the French Canadians raised a stink about conscription in 1944 during World War II and pretty much killed the concept politically from there forward.  No draft in Canada since way back.  When Americans came there fleeing the draft in the 60’s, they understood.
 

It came to me then that as America takes the lead in fighting ISIS, agonizes over Iran, and opposes North Korea and its craziness Canada, and most of the rest of the world as we know it, takes a back seat.  Wouldn’t that be nice?  Do you think it would change our country’s mind set if that were the case? Maybe even change us?
 

After dinner my wife, remembering the nice woman in the airport, said
 

“Let’s go down by the river.”
 

It was a beautiful night.  It was windy off the river but you didn’t need a jacket.  The narrow streets were absolutely jammed with people.  The bars overflowed.  Street seating at the restaurants was at a premium.  Montreal was buzzing and we were in the middle of it.  Rue St. Paul, one of the many old streets closed to traffic, runs perpendicular to the St. Lawrence river. The biggest crowds were there.  As we turned the corner I saw a man with a torch surrounded by a throng of people. 
 

“Let’s see what’s going on there,” I suggested.
 

As we walked up the man, wearing a remote microphone headset amplified through a beat up speaker, was recruiting volunteers to hold each end of a thirty foot rope.  He was loud and frenetic, never stopped talking, always in motion.  He put the burning torch down, balanced on an orange traffic cone, and approached the people at the edge of the crowd. 

“You’ll be great at this.  I need a barrier here.  I need room to work.  I need to keep people a safe distance, and with the breeze I need people lined up here to block the wind.  All you really have to do is hold the rope.  Well, you can pose a little.  You can strike a pose can’t you?”
 

A middle age woman found herself holding the rope and blushing profusely.  He struck a pose beside here, hand on one hip, head thrown back. 
 

“This is a good one.  A crowd pleaser.  Or you can make up your own.  Try mine.”

She did so, half heartedly, blushing an even deeper red.
 

“Let’s give her a hand.”
 

That was to be his most repeated phrase.  Every two minutes he exhorted the crowd to clap for this or that.  Or to make a noise which he demonstrated as a  crowd chorus.  It was audience participation at its finest.  He was good at Involving people.  He recruited another volunteer for the other end of the rope, this a man, whom he asked to strike a different pose, exhorted us to clap for him, and thus one edge of the stage was defined by two people holding a rope.  He did the same on the other side, then made a big show of moving the ropes in.  He asked people to step up to the front row, fill in the length of the rope.  And for more people to stand behind them.
 

“Block the wind for me.  It’s a torch show.  I need to block that wind.”
 

As he talked to people, persuading them to volunteer, he asked their age, their nationality, and whether they were married or not.  If they were married he asked how long and if their spouse was with them.  It was a wildly diverse crowd.  He was persuasive.  Something about him was likeable.  Hardly anyone turned him down.  He chose a black man from the Bahamas, another black man from Africa, a stout little Dutch man, a Chinese man and a Korean, an Englishman from Kent, a Latina who emigrated from Mexico, a pretty young girl from Germany, an Arabic woman wearing a hijab,  a tiny Filipina, and finally he called on me.
 

“Sir.  Yes you, in the red hat.  Where are you from sir?”
 

“Illinois.”
 

“Illinois.  Do you live anywhere close to Chicago?” 
 

“Yes I do.”
 

“That’s excellent.  And are you married?”

“Yes I am.”

“For how long?”
 

“Thirty three years.  We’re celebrating our anniversary on this trip.”
 

“23 years?”  I knew he heard me correctly.
 

“33.”
 

“And is that your wife beside you?”
 

“Yes it is.”
 

“Whew.  So glad it isn’t your girlfriend.  In front of all these people.  Would you come up here sir?  I need a volunteer.” 
 

I was the last of a dozen people that formed a line at the top of the square roughly defined by the two parallel ropes, small orange traffic cones at the bottom of the square that he constantly moved and shifted. He had created a kind of stage, constantly asking people to move in and move out.  I estimate he had gathered about 200 people around his little area.  From time to time he would refuel his three torches, light them, swing them around, put them back on their cone, let them burn down.   The process was entertaining.  I had no idea what he was doing, but he held the crowd.
 

He exhorted the children to move back, relit his torches, swung them around a little, then put them back down. 
 

“OK ladies and gentlemen I’m going to need everyone’s help because we moving into the main part of the show.  See these brave men and women, these volunteers before you?  Let’s give them a hand.”


(Broad applause.)  “These people will play the part of lions.”
 

I was standing next to the woman who had been asked to hold the rope.  She gulped air involuntarily.
 

“Oh my god,” she said.
 

“And what do lions do ladies and gentlemen?”  The crowd murmured.
 

“They roar of course.  Lions give us a roar.”

We stood mute.
 

“Like this lions…”  He roared loudly into his remote mic.


“Ladies and gentlemen help the lions here.  Show them how to roar.”  The crowd roared at us.
 

“Now lions roar back.”  We roared less than enthusiastically.
 

“Louder!”
 

It went like that until we loosened up.  When we reached a respectable volume as a group of lions he changed tactics.
 

“Now the really best part of the evening begins.  Lions, you will now, alone or in groups, show your individuality and do small routines while I play music on my guitar here.” 
 

He produced an extremely beat up guitar, plastered with silver duct tape, connected to his equally beat up amp, and began to strum.  He played the music of a James Bond theme.  He began with the Englishman from Kent. 
 

“OK England, here’s what I want you to do.  As I play this famous theme song from Thunderball, I want you to step out of the line here, with your hands clasping a pretend revolver, scan the crowd for bad guys, and maybe drop and roll.  Can you do that?  I’ll show you how.”
 

The guy was working so hard.  He was lithe and a good dancer.  He played a mock scene of James Bond perfectly.
 

“Can you do that?”

The Englishman from Kent looked pale but game.  The showman began to strum the familiar song, the man broke into the routine, moving to the center of the empty space, actually dropping and rolling over awkwardly, and the crowd clapped before the showman asked them.  The show was underway.
 

What we realized, standing there in a line as a group, was that each of us in turn, in some fashion, was going to be made a public fool in front of this crowd.  The wonderful part of it was that we knew virtually no one there.  But that was little solace to many.  The woman beside me was clearly terrified.

The Dutchman on the other side seemed infinitely amused. 
 

Next the Chinese and Korean men, amid much banter, were asked to do a Kung Fu routine, kicking, throwing air punches, to a popular tune.  And so it went.  The Mexican woman danced to the song “Tequila.”  The Arabic woman along with the Filipina, the German girl, and the Canadian woman next to me performed a belly dance as a foursome.

When the Canadian joined me back in line after her dance I told her she did just fine.  She smiled.


The two black men, along with the Dutchman, were instructed to do the limbo (using the rope) ending with an energetic bump and grind to a Calypso song.  That was a crowd pleaser.
 

He ended with me.  I was scared, but it was a good scare.  I kind of like the adrenaline.  My role was Casanova.  But he hesitated. 
 

“I need an additional volunteer.  How long did you say you were married?  23 years?”
 

“33,” I answered.
 

“OK, Chicago.  How about we ask your wife of 33 years to join you here, because I need you to play Casanova to a beautiful woman.”
 

He went straight to my wife and tried to take her hand. But he had not counted on encountering anyone as stubborn as my wife.  My wife doesn’t do public performance, for anyone.  She’ll dance with me, sometimes even when we’re the only couple on the dance floor, but she would have no part of this.
 

He realized that pretty quickly and did something ingenious. He chose another woman who looked like her, about the same age.  She even had red hair with highlights.  Swear to god she looked like my wife.  He asked the crowd if she was an acceptable substitute.  They applauded their approval.
 

And so my show began.  My task, while he played Carmen on the guitar, was to strut past this woman once, holding a big artificial read rose, catch her eye, strut back the other way, blow her a kiss, give her the rose, get down on my knees kiss her hand, and overwhelm her with love.  He showed me the moves.  The woman was embarrassed.  I was shaky.
 

“Are you ready?” he said.  What can you say but yes?
 

I walked slowly one way, pretended to just see her, put the rose between my teeth (laughter from the crowd) walked the other way, gave her the rose, got down on one knee (not the bad one), kissed her hand, her forearm, her elbow, her bicep.  The woman playing my wife smiled.  She was a good sport.  And my part of the show ended.  When I got back in line the Canadian woman said I did great.
 

I thought the show was over.  But we had a final act.
 

OK, ladies and gentlemen you all know the song The Lion Sleeps Tonight correct?  Everybody knows that song.  You, the crowd, will sing this “in the jungle, the deepest jungle, the lion sleeps tonight.  In the village the peaceful village the lion sleeps tonight.”  And the women, at least some of them anyway, will sing the high part ‘Ew Ew Ew.’  And then our lions here are going to be the bass line, they will crouch, hunch their shoulders, ball their fists, and take four big strides forward while singing “a weem a weck, a weem a weck” on each stride.  When they reach the end they will turn around and march back singing, but this time with a sexy march, swinging their tails like lions do, and so forth.  And then we repeat it.  You got it now?  Everybody is in on this.  Let me get the music going.”

And we did it.  All 200 of us.  I had stopped feeling silly.  It was fun.  The crowd sang, we sang, we marched like lions, they laughed, we sang more.  It was good.
 

And then the show was over and the entertainer made his pitch.
 

“Ladies and gentlemen let’s give our lions a big hand.”  They did.   “And give yourselves a big hand.  You were a wonderful crowd.  We are proof that all of us, from all over the world, share much more in common that we can ever differ.  We speak different languages, eat different foods, sing different songs but tonight, on a beautiful summer night in a city on a river in North America, we shared the gift of humor, and song, and mutual respect.”
 

“I am not hired by the shopkeepers, or the city, or the tourism board.  I am a street performer.  If I brought a smile to your face, if I entertained you in any way, please consider putting money in my hat.  Here’s my hat.  It’s in my hand.  With hat in hand I appeal to you to support my efforts.  And if you don’t have cash that’s OK. There an ATM just around the corner over there.”
 

“No seriously folks.  If you cannot pay it was my pleasure to entertain you.  If you can support me please consider doing so.  I’m a student.  If I make enough money I’ll be able to go back to school.  If I make even more I won’t have to.”
 

He continued to talk as people put money in his hat.  It was a beautiful night in Montreal.  The lions did something they would have never done back home.  You do that stuff and get away with it on vacation.  You also buy hats.  They look great on vacation.  When you get home and put them on your head they look silly.  Vacation is life lived differently.  It’s good for you.  I recommend it.  I’m going back to Canada tomorrow, this time fishing in Ontario.  I’ll let you know how it goes.  Maybe when I get back Illinois will have a budget.