My biggest barrier was the obvious language difference, as my grasp on French was the result of several years of schooling, all taken out of a textbook. Ranging from cereal boxes to billboards, everything was proclaimed in a language that made little sense to me. Even a seemingly simple trip to the grocery store was stressful, as I found people in almost any situation would grasp any opportunity to chat with me. On several occasions when I tried to respond to this friendly chitchat, I found myself quickly buried under an avalanche of incomprehension.  But the people I met were amused by my efforts to speak their language, and even from the moment I opened my mouth to a stranger, they would encourage my efforts. But words were not always necessary, as I found that the simple smile of a storekeeper could mean more than “hello” in any language. My host family was also very tolerant, and I loved just listening to the beautiful, elegant words they could say, even if I didn’t understand. 
 

The sights in Trois-Riveries spanned a medley of time and cultures.  Rich history melded with modern innovations as old farms gave way to shopping centers.  One day, I could be exploring what the narrow, winding cobblestone streets of Montreal had hidden, and another I could shop from the chicest boutiques the area had to offer.  Some areas seemed to be dusty, untouched by time for fifty years, like farming neighborhoods with old men selling their expected wares by the side of the road. Not far away, my host family proudly showed me what the newest mall had to offer in the name of vogue.  But, despite the vast differences in the sights, everything I saw had a history.  Beneath the new concrete of the highways on which we drove were roads that had been in use hundreds of years ago.  The newest parts of the city contained the skeleton of the old city.

The people were just as interesting to observe as the sights themselves.  Trips downtown offered a stunning array of people dressed in clothes as colorful as their personalities.  Women reeking of wealth showcasing the current vogue shared the streets with tourists awkwardly outfitted in cheap travel gear and beggars sitting on the corner; the assortment of people kept my eyes entertained.  A walk through downtown Montreal might reveal street performers dazzling audiences, undiscovered artists shyly displaying their talents, or vendors selling everything from CDs to tattoos. 

Pride in their rich Quebecois heritage was obvious, as all the license plates read “I remember,” and my host family would eagerly explain dates until I was embarrassed with my knowledge of American history.  In fact, history was so important to my host family that they knew more of American history than I.  Impossibly old buildings are a source of pride and all hold signs which patiently enlightened everyone who cares to know of their story.  Pride in their language is evident as well, as though law dictates signs are required to be written in English as well as French, the Québécoise make sure that the French lettering is three times as large as the English lettering.