“Let’s buy a bottle of Jameson. It won’t do any harm.” – I thought.

Hours later, rain was pouring over thousands of inebriated bodies. They started running in different directions. I walked, trying to liberate myself from the yoke of my adopted parents. But again, I was dependent. I guess that learning some french would have helped me in my seek towards independence and lust. So I remained still. Maybe peeing in a wall. Maybe fighting against my jacket.

Before the rain, shouting “abrázame” and trying to hug random females had not provided what I was looking for. Hell, I didn’t even know what was I looking for. I was so oblivious that I couldn’t even follow the concert. When falling became a usual practice, laughter began to be replaced by frustration.

Before going to the park, we stayed at someone’s house (<-help needed here for the name) where we brought beer and whiskey. We had a lot of conversations that Jameson and time would erase from my memories. I can even swear that there was someone that spoke in Spanish with me -though not much. But just in case- "Bonne St-Jean!" An undefined while after Annie appeared we went to the park. The bottle of Jameson that I had been working on still had a remaining 25%. I had to kill it, and they weren't patient... "kill it, quick- it is the most practical solution“.

Before being in the house, I remember Pascal being a bit uncomfortable about talking in English in the streets. Seemingly a joke, it wasn’t- because well, I guess that there’s always an option to bump into a nationalist stupid enough to think that I was from the horrible Ontario and to hate me just because of that. I couldn’t say I hadn’t meet that type before. (And no, here I am not expressing any opinion on Québec nationalism)

And before arriving to Québec, we were at St-Férreol. Aline, Pascal and Roxy, talking about what St-Jean implies -mostly, massive inebriation. Hours before I had bought a bottle of Jameson. I know it wouldn’t do any harm under those circumstances.

Surprisingly, no harsh hangover was present the next day. The herbal cigarettes (both “horrible, horrible” and “terrible, terrible”) that Annie offered were still floating around. We had fun remembering what happened the previous night.

I can say that if St-Jean is about being drunk, I blended quite well with the spirit of that celebration.

(And for now, this is my account from St-Jean’10. It has been almost two years)

Le Shack, promotional poster A child’s nightmares about the bursts of death Exhibición aerea Velar Aerials