We certainly didn't plan it. In fact, I didn't know it even existed until somewhere along the ocean way, fellow passengers started to panic about whether or not they would be able to get a taxi to Montréal's airport after we docked, what with all the race car fans in town for the weekend. And so, unbeknown to us, our New England/Eastern Canada cruise included the 2010 Canadian Grand Prix de Montréal.
I'm pretty sure God is a Formula One race fan since when we pulled into port on Friday morning it was gray and drippy ~ as it is right now, on Monday morning as we are packing up for our airport transfer home. But in between, from about 1:00pm on Friday until last night, the weather here in Montréal was spectacular. Long-range forecasts of rain apparently had all the pit crews strategizing about rain tires, but instead they had to dig out the Bain du Soleil. Aside from a little less humidity, it couldn't have been nicer outside. Which I'm sure was a relief for all the street vendors and fancy convertible car owners and stage crews and bands that were stationed all around the west side of downtown for the past two days.
I've discovered on this trip that while I don't really enjoy being in the middle of all the hubbub and excitement and chaos of a party life, I do quite enjoy popping in for a few minutes and then spectating from the sidelines. And the Grand Prix – which Rob explained to me as being very high class NASCAR – is ripe for spectating.
A quote from this morning's local newspaper: “Formula One is about money, of course – mountains of it That much was clear in the paddock on a warm race day; never had so much cash been spent on so little clothing.”
For two days, several city streets were blocked off for partying and gawking. We only partook of one. Fancy shiny cars that went fast standing still were lined up along the sidewalks with car-accessory booths and music stages dotted in between. Tons of sidewalk cafes, lots of beer and high-end bar drinks, throngs and thongs of beautiful people filled in the rest.
We smushed our way through while the sun was still out; we didn't want to experience the night version of what already felt like a blend of an ivy league frat party, New Orleans' French Quarter, and a European country club. Lots of young, tanned, accessorized, accented, and provocatively dressed jet setters pranced along dripping wealth. A number of them also carried boxes of Triscuits. I never did find the booth handing out the free samples, nor was I able to snap a good photo of this extraordinarily amusing juxtaposition of have and have not.
The newspaper said about 200,000 people bought tickets to the race, with at least 100,000 more in town just for the experience. If not baring lots of tanned skin or Pumas without socks, fans were easily spotted by their red Ferrari or florescent orange Vodaphone race shirts. We stopped in a Grand Prix Boutique just to find out how much all the race sponsors would pay us to wear their signage plastered across our chests. Imagine my surprise to discover they wanted me to pay them at least $50 for the privilege of pimping their brands.
It was interesting, though, how the glow-in-the-dark walking billboards slowly became more attractive over the course of the weekend. And no, I wasn't drinking. Instead, it was much like walking around Disneyland where at first, all those people wearing large green plush hats with long black dog ears look utterly and literally Goofy. But after several hours of indoctrination, they start looking rather fun and before you know it, you start seriously considering joining the dog hat parade. Fortunately, I learned my “now that I'm home, where in the world will I wear this??” lesson years ago with enormous sunglasses from Marriott's Great America. So needless to say, I am returning home without a Grand Prix souvenir. Realistically, my bright orange all-cotton tractor company t-shirt really suits my little town better than a form-fitting, permanently popped collar, so-orange-it's-almost pink Formula One shirt.
We didn't get to see any of the race since it was held on an island maybe a kilometer south of town. But we heard it. During the qualifications and then the race the next day, we were able to hear the high-pitched zooms from across the water. We walked down to the pier and around the Cirque du Soleil tents (they train just north of Montréal and were debuting their latest show to coincide with Grand Prix) and got as close as we could to the zooming. We couldn't see the cars for the trees but they sounded impressive.
The only fancy cars we did see were the aforementioned ones parked as part of the intentional sidewalk exhibition, as well as the ones parked and zooming here and there around town as part of the “look at me in my fancy wheels” cruising. We saw Ferraris and Bentleys and Mercedes and BMWs and Audis...and Dodges and Mazdas and Fords. All the if-you-have-to-ask-you-can't-afford-it cars I saw had Québec license plates, making me wonder if only locals come to the Canada Grand Prix, or if local dealers rented out the cars and pretty people to drive them around. Talking to some locals over dessert at a sidewalk café, my faux wealth theory isn't entirely far-fetched.
Had it been our choice, we would have gone out of our way to avoid booking a Montréal trip coinciding with their biggest tourist event of the year. However, Grand Prix weekend turned out to be highly entertaining people-watching and great fun from the sidelines. And by knowing the race times, we were able to do our touring while most everyone else was watching fast cars go in circles. All in all, a very unique and unexpected ending to a great trip.
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