Left Boston at before noon, entered Québec about 4:30 after driving through New Hampshire and Vermont.
We’re now some 15 or 20 miles out of Montréal, and all is still that mix of little villages—all St. Périphérie de Chicamungee—and flat farmland with not much yet growing. The exuberance—and tawdriness—of it all. Just passed a giant statue of a man in a red shirt, COKE on his back, holding an enormous red phallic hot dog. Just down the road an ambulance from the 1950s seemingly, red light and all, by the side of the road, an à vendre sign in its front window.
We’re now some 15 or 20 miles out of Montréal, and all is still that mix of little villages—all St. Périphérie de Chicamungee—and flat farmland with not much yet growing. The exuberance—and tawdriness—of it all. Just passed a giant statue of a man in a red shirt, COKE on his back, holding an enormous red phallic hot dog. Just down the road an ambulance from the 1950s seemingly, red light and all, by the side of the road, an à vendre sign in its front window.
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