So it starts, y'all. After a week of saying goodbye and taking in as much Boston as I could, it suddenly felt awkward to go. Like I had talked about it so much that I had already done it. But doing the thing is a whole different enchilada; much less glamorous, a lot more expensive. Left Boston at 1030, got on the freeway at 12--seriously. For all the ways Boston really showed up the last few weeks--weather, people, fun, etc--driving a car in that metropolitan area is still laughably impossible. Anyway, the car felt good except for having a little dip toward the back wheels. Not bottoming out but lets just say I was driving more gingerly than usual.

And other than some spotty cell coverage through Vermont everything went great. Marisa killed it with her mix, even sticking Ginsberg's "Howl" in the middle, just to make sure I was paying attention. I stopped in Quechee State Park for an amazing practice session in the woods, and then got down and dirty with Clark the Kettlebell--300 swings down, 9,700 to go. Ahem.

I was actually really surprised, though, when I crossed into Canada, how foreign everything felt. I mean, km/h? And new money? I spent most of the rest of the way biting my nails about not remembering how to speak French, but of course everyone speaks English, too. By the time I found a parking spot on a quiet street in the most Brookline-esque neighborhood I could've dreamed up, it was getting dark and I was mad hungry.

Like the father from whom I sprang, my instinct led me straight to the first pub I could find for a brew and some sausage and some Canadian football (which people are surprisingly excited about). Awesome. Then this hostel, after an initial shenanigan getting in, turned out to be great. Somewhere between freshman dorm and random Allston party: drinking games and pastel colored walls, with chalk boards everywhere. Veerd.

Around I began leaving words behind. It is an amazing thing to not say anything to anyone for hours and hours on end (although there was definitely some gratuitous yelling, and maybe some god-awful freestyling. Duh.). Of course, the problem is that being social and being silent are sort of like opposites. But the idea of letting new sights and time alone and biking around function like hands wringing water out of a stale wash cloth feels right.

Tomorrow looks packed--markets, McGill, museums, and then something excellent tomorrow night. I will keep you posted. Oh, and I'm going to try to figure out pictures, cause I have some sweet ones.