At the dog park in the Verdun neighborhood of Montreal, C and I watch Honey play with another crazy Pit. Tongues are out. Panting sounds. It's below freezing in April and my feet are cold and the Quebecois Pit can jump as high as my head. Honey keeps running over to me to ask me why all the dogs there are "talking funny." I say it's not polite to say things like that. I say just roll with it.

We chat with some regulars. An old lady with a deep voice tinged with too many cigarettes and a gruff Quebecois accent tells us that pretty soon a few other dogs will come and then it's time for all the others to leave. This doesn't really make sense to us, but it seems of great importance to the woman and we nod our heads.

The drive up had been rocky. We were hungry. Frazzled. We kept making stops for things. A New York trooper had given C a ticket in a stretch of highway that for no apparent reason had become a 55-mile an hour zone. And we had forgotten some things. And we were just tired.

But we had remembered quite a few other things. And that was good. And at the border, the customs agent smiled at us and wished us well. And now there was maple syrup in our stomachs, and tortiere, and all kinds of other food and beer and wine. And Honey enjoying a good romp around the muddy field, still saturated from melted snow.

And the worries we brought with us too melted, but still formed pools on the surface making it clear to us that a longer break was needed.

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