Preparation
So this happened last summer. I moved to Montreal from Vancouver about a year ago, and I was trying to build a new group of friends. Because in Vancouver… making friends is difficult. In Montreal, people like to hug other people. In Vancouver, people like to hug trees.
One weekend my friends Basile, Alex, and Martin invited me on a camping trip. I actually already had plans that night – I wanted to go to a dance club. But at the last moment I decided to join them.
...you know what? Adventure.
They also told me they had all the camping equipment and even a sleeping bag for me, so I packed almost nothing. I love travelling light. My backpack basically contained water, a snack, and optimism.
We met in the morning and they said, “Great, we are going camping in the United States.” Oh. That was new information.
So the first step of our trip was turning around and driving back to everyone’s apartments to collect our passports. Then we started driving south toward the border.
On the way
While we were driving, I suddenly remembered something important. Everyone in the car could travel to the US… except me. I am Czech.
So I asked, “Guys… do you know what ESTA is?” They did not.
For Europeans, an ESTA is the online travel authorization that allows you to enter the United States. Normally you apply for it before the trip. But this trip was… spontaneous.
So now I was in the back seat of a moving car, filling out a visa application.
My friends were like, “Don’t worry, we are about forty minutes from the border.” Forty minutes sounded perfect.
Then the application asked for a passport photo. Inside the car.
So we improvised. Someone held a white camping pillow behind my head while I tried to take a photo. The car was moving, the lighting was terrible, and I was basically bouncing while trying to look like a serious passport photo.
Meanwhile I kept asking Basile how far we were from the border.
“Twenty minutes.”
Then ten.
Then five.
Eventually we were already in the line of cars approaching the checkpoint when I finally submitted the application and paid the fee. Perfect timing.
At the Border
The border officer looked at our passports and immediately noticed the problem. “You do not have a valid visa.”
I proudly showed him the receipt for the ESTA I had paid literally thirty seconds earlier.
He nodded and asked if I knew how long approval might take. Sometimes twenty minutes, he said. Sometimes multiple days. That is a pretty wide range.
They asked us to park the car and wait. Eventually another officer came and talked to me. He admitted the situation was interesting… but unfortunately it was a holiday weekend and his supervisor was not available.
So he could not make any exceptions. Which meant my entry to the United States was denied.
My friends really wanted to go camping, and honestly I did not want to ruin their trip.
So I told them, “Just drop me in the nearest town and I will figure out how to get back to Montreal.”
On the map we found a small place called Lacolle. It looked promising. There was a train station and maybe a bus. Perfect.
Lacolle
My friends dropped me off and drove away. Suddenly it was just me and about 2,700 residents of this very quiet border town.
I saw a small pizzeria that also served poutine, so I went inside. I ordered food, sat down, and calmly ate my poutine while thinking about the situation. At this point everything still felt manageable.
After eating I asked the staff, “So… how do I get to Montreal from here? Is there a train?” They said the train station closed in 1998. Okay. “And the bus?” There was no bus.
I checked Uber – but apparently even Uber drivers are not that adventurous.
Meanwhile my phone battery was starting to drop because of the visa application earlier. Ten percent… nine percent…
The staff suggested I try the gas station in the north part of town.
So I walked there and checked the map again.
Walking to Montreal would take about fourteen hours.
The next town was three hours away.
This was the moment I realized something important about Canada.
In Europe everything is close. If you get lost in the forest, you walk long enough and eventually you reach a small village. Every village has a bus stop, and every larger town has trains. In Canada… you might also just die.
The gas station
At the gas station a friendly worker tried to help me. He suggested calling a taxi from a nearby city. My phone battery was dying. So I called.
“Where are you located?” the operator asked. “At the gas station in Lacolle.” “I need the address.” “I do not know the address. It is the only gas station in Lacolle.” “If you do not give me the address, I cannot come.”
The call escalated and eventually ended. So that option was gone.
Outside the gas station I noticed an older man sitting at a stone table and smoking a cigarette. He looked like a local. So I started talking to him.
Of course I did not immediately ask for help. First we talked for about forty minutes. We discussed life in Lacolle, the cost of rent in Montreal, and my career in art. Eventually I explained my situation.
He decided to help. His first idea was asking the police.
A young policewoman was sitting nearby in her car. I noticed something interesting about Canada. For some reason, people working in public service here are incredibly attractive. I do not know why. Maybe it is part of the training.
Unfortunately although friendly, she could not drive me toward Montreal because it was outside her patrol area.
But she gave useful advice. “If you want to hitchhike,” she said, “do it further north… definitely not in front of our police station.”
Defeated, I returned to the old man. But he did not waste any more time. He took me back behind the building and found me a big cardboard box. I carry my sketchbook everywhere, so the last thing I wrote was “MONTREAL” on it. It was time to hitchhike.
On the road
My phone finally died. I started walking north.
Car after car passed without stopping. The sun was slowly going down. At some point I started thinking that maybe I would have to sleep in a field somewhere and continue walking the next day.
I had an extra layer with me and I realized that compared to BC, these lands should be free of wolves, coyotes, and bears..
Just when I was about to accept that plan… one car stopped.
The driver looked at me and said, “You got very lucky.”
Apparently nobody wants to take hitchhikers these days and the roads leading to Montreal from the south are highways. So if he had not stopped, I would have been stuck anyway.
He was not going to Montreal, but he lived in Saint-Jérôme-sur-Richelieu and could drop me there. During the ride he also mentioned that he was a local weed dealer and offered me some.
I politely declined. There had already been enough adventure for one day.
The ending
At his place I refilled my water and charged my phone. From there I could finally order an Uber to Brossard. From Brossard I took the REM into downtown Montreal.
And the best part? I still made it to the dance club that evening.
My friends there saw me and looked completely confused.
“Wait,” they said.
“Wasn’t Vlad supposed to be camping in the United States?”