I have a flight this morning from Toronto's crazy Island airport, with its 40 metre ferry service. The airport itself is slick and efficient. I was expecting something much more tinpot, but it's very posh and comfortable in the terminal, and the planes are the same.

Montreal airport, by contrast, is miles from anywhere. Happily, there's an airport bus; at the end of which (completely by chance) lies my hotel. My check in conversation goes something like

YT: J'ai reservé une chambre au nom de Georgeson.
FCSR: Vous habitez à l'Arabie Saoudite?
YT: Oui, c'est vrai.
FCSR: بتتكلّم عربي
YT: شوي شوي wait, no-one told me that language was on the exam.

On my first exploration of the city, I stumble upon another venue offering me KT Tunstall, and this time TicketMaster is nowhere to be seen. I happily buy my entertainment for the evening from the box office in the salubrious end of town, nestled between two establishments promising dancers à gogo.

A swift half in the Old Town later, and it's time for the gig, during which we learn that the Auld Alliance between Scotland and the French is not as strong as it once was.

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