One Week In Montreal

Wednesday:

The Liquor Store: Upon arrival I went to the liquor store to arm my afterparty move. In the vodka aisle I was debating whether I should get Absolut or Skyy. Seemingly out of nowhere, a tall girl appeared and said something to me in French. I took advantage of this and asked her if there’s a “local liquor” that I should try. She showed me a couple things as I asked her questions. I tried to continue the conversation, but she was with a girlfriend and didn’t stick around to chat.

The Too Good To Be True: My first night out in Montreal was quiet. I walked up and down St Laurent, the main nightlife strip, but couldn’t find a bar with more than ten people. I settled on a lounge that had two girls sitting at the bar. There was another girl, alone, who looked at me and smiled. Immediately I approached and she started asking me questions in a thick French accent. It can’t be this easy! Indeed, it can’t. She was friends with the bartender and DJ, who kept “checking” on her. I had no chance.

The Tall Blonde: A taxi driver led me to a place where a college kid was throwing a party. I was the oldest guy there. I spotted a stunning blonde, hotter than even the top tier of Croatia. I approached, but it didn’t hook so well. I was appreciative of the opportunity on a level of talent I rarely see in the wild.

Thursday:

The Return Of The Coffee Shop: I found a coffee shop with a communal table. There were three attractive girls around me. I approached the one who smiled at me. I asked, “Do you know what time this coffee shop closes?” She was from Vancouver and talked a lot—I barely had to do anything. I left with her number and texted her the next day. I sent “How are you?” and she asked me if I wanted to have a drink. It felt like a trap, and sure enough the date fell apart after I found out she only wanted to talk “about travel.” I didn’t want to waste two more hours to find out if that was true, so I dipped. She was the only non-French speaker I interacted with.

The Pixie: I went to a hipster bar and sat next to a girl. She had a bit of attitude but was cute, with a great body. I ordered a drink and she said that I “could” get one for her, too. I declined, and three minutes later her date arrived.

Friday:

The Tall French Girl Part I: She approached me in another hipster bar by saying something in French. “Can you say that again in English?” I replied. A little taller than I’d like, but thin and sexy. “Let’s get a drink and sit down,” I said. She didn’t want to kiss and went out for a smoke, never to return. I didn’t go with her because I suspected she wouldn’t bang me same night. I wanted to talk to other girls.

The 18 Year Old: I approached a young girl. The oldest guy she had dated was 28. I bought her a shot of tequila, then we went at it, sloppily. Her body was delicious. She invited me to the afterparty with her friends, but the cockblock came, and I was left alone on the street. A wingman wouldn’t have hurt.

The Tall French Girl Part II: I saw her on the sidewalk in front of the bar. “Where did you go?” I asked, feigning mild disappointment. She didn’t meet another guy, and didn’t see me kissing the other girl. “Let’s go for a walk,” I said. We walked straight into my place. It took over an hour to kiss her. Getting her onto my bed took another hour. I was getting tired. She wouldn’t let me remove her clothing. “I have to go home, I have a dog,” she said, “but you can take my number.”

Saturday:

The Petite: At the coffee shop I saw a girl with a perfect body. She was wearing a short skirt and high boots. I got a half boner staring at her. Face was fine, but irrelevant. Once the café was about to close, I looked at her laptop and said, “Is that a good laptop?” It was a good laptop, with internet access. We walked out together and she asked me if I wanted to have a beer. I agreed and on the way over she told me she had a boyfriend. She took me to a bar that seemed expensive, but she was eager to pay her way. She lived in another city and was leaving in two days. Then came one of her friends, a spinster who immediately started talking in French even though she spoke English. I made an excuse and left.

The Thick Hair: At another hipster bar I met a young French girl. She was curious and friendly. I was the first American she had really talked to. Two tequilla shots. I’m touching, getting closer. Sometimes it’s so much easier to game an 18-year-old than a 24-year-old. They get impressed easy. Until her friend comes. I think I need a wingman.

The Romanian: Halloween festivities were hurting me. Bigger groups with fewer people overall. In a bar I approached a hot Romanian girl, but she was with her boyfriend. Her sister was there, a butterface, but body was good. She likes American guys. I’m American. She asked me to come outside to smoke. “Let’s go for a walk,” I said. She bought cigarettes then we ran into her sister and three other guys. One of the guys she knew tried to pull the robbery. He told her, “I was thinking about how great we get along.” Not good. “Hey, I’m going this way,” I said, ready to say goodbye, but she ditched everyone and came with me to my apartment. She didn’t even want to kiss at first, but succumbed eventually. She was nervous and awkward. I took her to my bed, got some clothes off, then suddenly, “I can’t do this! I have to leave!”

Sunday:

The Dream Girl: I went to a club on hip hop night. I spotted a gorgeous girl with wavy hair and green eyes. She was extremely shy and I didn’t make much headway when the first cockblock came. Ten minutes later she stood next to me and I gave her a gentle elbow without saying anything. She resumed the conversation and opened up as I dropped some value. At some point I told her I was a nice guy and she replied, “You’re definitely an asshole. Only assholes say they’re nice!” It was on, but then this ugly Indian cunt came and said, “I’m only here for two days and I want to hang out with her so I’m going to take her away!” They were celebrating a birthday. For the rest of the night she was firmly in the middle of a group of six girls. Access denied.

The Toronto Butterface: I went to another bar, where I talked to a blonde from Toronto who was visiting her friend. She was dressed in a cat costume. Every minute she would break the conversation to talk to the gay bartender, returning with “Sorry!” The bar closed and the lights came on. Her face was rough. She must’ve realized my displeasure when she said, “I feel like you’re judging me.” I replied, “No, I’m just trying to figure out the color of your eyes because I’m… colorblind.” It didn’t last much longer after that.

Monday:

The Student: I settled into a coffee shop and asked a cute French girl what time it was closing. It hooked and we talked for a bit, but she got ready to leave when I announced I was in town for a short while.

I tried my best to get laid with a French-Canadian girl, but I failed. Should I have been more patient with dating? Should I have gotten more numbers? Should I have pipelined? The issues I faced:

1. I was getting great vibes, with many girls approaching me outright as if I was in Iceland, but the sex speed was slower than I expected.

2. I should have researched more venues instead of settling on the one nearest me. I got lazy.

3. I went during Halloween weekend. I never get laid during Halloween. I feel that girls are more concerned with getting validation than getting laid.

4. I should have lied about how long I was staying. Montreal girls are not slutty like Scandinavian girls—they don’t seem to want to put much investment in a guy who is leaving soon.

I got down not just on my Montreal failure but on the concept of the short flag mission. While exciting, it’s a guarantee you’ll have to aim lower and select for sluts (not that I dislike sluts). There were too many cases of nice girls slipping through my grasp when I knew they’d be mine if I stayed longer.

My Montreal experience highlighted the downside of love touristry. Even though I had the resources to spend a week there with solid logistics, I still walked away empty handed. I had one week in Toronto to make magic happen, but the drop in quality and increase in difficulty killed my motivation. My first flag failure was all but assured. I spent two weeks in Canada, had two short dates, kissed four girls, and got three back to my apartments, but in the end I simply could not connect. It was a tough failure to swallow.

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