Thanks to Coble, a bunch of understanding gentlemen at the Hilton, and the fact that only three of the elevators here face the outdoors, I have been able to navigate the two blocks of Montreal necessary for me to do the stuff I need to do.
I wish I were out doing other exciting things, seeing sites, meeting friendly people with French accents, but I promised myself that, if I went up the one escalator I had to go up, I would get some ice cream, come back here and call it a day. I don’t know what else to do, really. The panic is not subsiding and, in fact, I’m struggling to do stuff I can normally do without thinking twice, such as getting in closed in elevators.
So, yeah, it’s stupid, but I just can’t get ahead of it, so I’m just going to take it easy.
Anyway, my Haitian cab driver. He’d never heard the name “Betsy” before. He said that, in Haiti, they have the name “Bethy” and the name “Betty” but he had never heard “Betsy” and thought he might keep it for his daughter, should he have one.
He wants to retire when he’s 50. He has some land in Haiti and he wants to put up a condo on it and spend the summers in Montreal and the winters in Haiti. He told me that he estimates that there are less than 100 Haitians in Nashville and claims he met them all when down there once.
Apparently, I will be spending the next three days standing next to a guy who looks just like the PC from the Mac vs. PC commercials. It’s really all I can do not to pinch his cheeks.