Canadian Storytime

Listen up, it’s storytime.
Growing up in western Maine was great. There were countless miles of rivers to swim, tons of mountains to snowboard and cheap candy at your local Dead River convenience store. An often overlooked aspect of western Maine is it’s close proximity to the great country of Canada, also known as “get drunk when you’re eighteen-ada.”
February 2005, the summer of love, Pat, Seth and I are in Montreal. I’m driving and they’re beyond wasted. (Side note; if you don’t read the whole story you won’t realize that I’m not trying to make drinking look cool.) We are about to head home, when Seth speaks up from the backseat. “I think they’re trying to flag us down.” Sure as shit, a car of four hot girls has pulled up next to us. They’re pointing us towards a parking lot. We pull in and I am quickly reminded of day one of a communication class I took in college. (Warning: Story within a story.) The teacher bursts into the classroom screaming German at us. It was loud, scary and perfectly represented his first point. You can’t communicate if you’re not speaking the same language.
Back to Canada, the girls are speaking French and we’re still having a hard time with the English language.
You would think that screaming “we want to give you kisses” while pointing to your lips would make sense to them. Nay. After a few minutes of failed communication, we left. Empty handed. Defeated. Cock blocked by our own global ignorance.
We rode in silence for a few miles, I mean, kilometers. The silence was broken when Seth drunkenly spoke up again.
“Wait, I know French.”