Boston, Logan International Airport

The kid's playing with a little Lego figure on a bike. "Hey," his mama says, "We can do a bike race. You'll be Lance Armstrong and I'll be... Do you know another cyclist?"
"Jan Ulrich," the father answers.
"Okay, then I'll be Jan Ulrich." She pronounces the words carefully, tastes the unfamiliar language. And off they go, two cyclists rqcing through the lobby, almost colliding with me.
"Look out!" mama shrieks, "Don't disturb the other people." Frightened the boy looks up, notices me and hides behind his mama. I must have scared him.
"When do we leave?" He asks and peaks from behind his mother's legs in my direction.
"Not yet. They haven't called us yet."
"Will she be on the plane?" indicating me.
"I don't know, honey. Why don't we ask her where she's going?"
I say I'm going to Montréal. "Well, she's going up North and we're going South, so she won't be on our plane."
The boy seems quite relieved. I must have made an impression: as pale as a ghost and feeling very shaky and tired from the journey I probably scared that poor little fellow. You start to wonder if he'll remember that strange lady in Boston when he's my age.

"Europeans"

In touristy guides Québec is considered very European. When walking through the suburbs of this city I don't agree: sidewalks, houses with porches... it all feels very American to me. P. has the solution when he notices the lack of American chains of stores: "Europe – for Americans – is America without Wal-Mart and Starbucks."