A Different Drummer: The Montreal underground (Part 2)

Susan, Patricia, Gino and I were driving to Montreal in his Tundra on holiday. We had rented a downtown flat on AirBnB. From the pictures, it was a beautiful place, tidy, clean, nestled on a quiet residential tree-lined street, a few blocks from interesting nightlife destinations. Wrong.
The homeowner did not update her web photos or description, even though eight months ago the city had dug up our entire street as far as we could see in both directions. The street was completely gone. In its place was a 15-foot deep pit of mud and sewer water rushing along the bottom. Eight-foot cyclone fences separated the torn up sidewalks from the missing road on both sides. Pedestrians walked over plywood bridges because the sidewalk was collapsed in most places. Our water was turned off, and huge hoses ran along the neighborhood from a nearby fire hydrant bringing temporary water.
There was no parking for our big Tundra truck. Every tenant for blocks had their parking displaced. In a half-truth the owner mentioned a small parking space in her backyard. She didn’t say that the backstreet was only two inches wider than our truck, that it was a dead end without a turn around, and that the parking space was only suitable for Mini Coopers.
Crammed apartment buildings rose up on both sides, with lots of dogs barking and tenants staring down at us from balconies. Gino pulled in, failed at parking, and backed out. People were yelling down in French. We only hoped they were scolding their growling dogs and not us with our Pennsylvania plates. Nowhere else to park was available, so he drove up the alley again and forced his truck into the tiny backyard with a 23-point turn that involved moving planter boxes, pallets, and an iron dog fence.
Inside the apartment conditions were OK, but the bathtub was funky with pink mold on the curtains. The owner had left us a welcoming gift on the kitchen table, a half bottle of rancid wine and a teaspoon of coffee in the bottom of a crumpled bag.
“This places sucks. The ad was totally deceiving,” we all agreed. “Let’s go out, eat, have fun, and cheer up.”
We found the nearest restaurant on the map about five blocks away. Walking there we had to detour several times because other streets in the area were also dug up down to their ancient sewer pipes. Fences everywhere. We could hear periodic flushes of water rushing out of buildings’ pipes on the streets. We painfully imagined where those flushes may have originated.
We found our nightclub, Bar de Lab, partially concealed behind a cyclone fence with water gushing in periodic flushes underneath.
Inside, it was beautiful and friendly, all red lights, and no one spoke English. Our waiter spoke enough to take our orders. “Booze!! Lots of booze, please, and quickly!”
Lab in the name stood for laboratory. They made hundreds of exotic cocktails. We got our first happy experience, French old fashions with oranges carved like origami cranes. Great food menu. We called our waiter back to order dinner.
“Excuse us. Our kitchen is closed because of the construction. We have humus.”
“Merde!”
He directed us to another restaurant two blocks away. There we had a great meal, a hamburger for Sue, salads and ravioli for the rest of us, great pastries. Everyone was friendly, but few spoke any English. I paid the bill. $218 Canadian.
Disoriented and unsure where out apartment was, we used Google Map navigation to find our way home. Because of the construction on so many streets, our walking path led us through a dark park along a winding path. The women refused to enter the park and we had to wing it. After a few wrong turns we got home around 2 a.m.
Poor, poor Gino. As we all crawled into our beds, he thought of something he needed out of his truck. He went out the back kitchen door, making sure it was left unlocked, and walked to his truck. We fell asleep. Gino got back to the apartment door only to find the outside knob was broken and turned freely without opening the unlocked door. He didn’t want to wake anybody up, so he slept in his truck all night without warm clothing. It was cold out, but he didn’t want to start his truck and get the neighborhood dogs to barking. He just shivered the night away.
Luckily, I woke early at 5 a.m. and stepped out the back door for some fresh air. I was shocked to see Gino jump out of his truck. He woke up before me?
He yelled out, “Don’t let the door shut.”
At 7 a.m. bulldozers and dump trucks started their engines outside our bedroom windows. Jackhammers proceeded to tear up more of the road.
We flipped out a bit. “How are we supposed to party late if this is how each morning begins?” A crane dropped a 20-ton steel container into the hole out front and the whole building shook.
“That’s it,” yelled Patricia. “I’m calling AirBnB. I want a refund. We’re leaving.”
AirBnB rules ask that we first contact the homeowner with complaints, so Patricia emailed her and let fly with her remarks. Minutes later, the owner appeared at our back door. She lived upstairs.