Southerners in French Canada

I do enjoy going up into Canada. How can you not like a country that gave us Tim Hortons, has mounties, break-up on the rivers, money with a queen and loonies, not to forget the quirky way they end most all sentences with....aee.  

Traveling up into Montreal is a different story.  Everything is in French. 

The little villages run right into each other and reading directions from our dispatchers, whom it appears, aren't sure what the difference is between right and left makes for interesting driving. 

So...we are meandering along, as much as you can weighing 72,000 pounds (not kilograms), and stop to ask two gentlemen for directions.  Needless to say, they are speaking french with a few english words thrown in...Georgia (it's written on Dannys sweatshirt) and McDonalds (presumably we can turn around there).  Now, the only french I really know and speak well would be the french fries I can order at said McDonalds.

Danny, with his best southern drawl, thanks them and says "just point me to Martin Luther King Boulevard, I think I can find my way from there".  We do get turned around find our pick-up location drive back to the border and after two attempts made it through customs. 

Back on U.S. soil where there is, for the most part, english spoken and the miles are counted off in...well miles, only for me to be attacked in the parking lot of Office Max by none other than a Canadian Goose.  It flew at me, landing on my head, biteing and clawing.  Danny had to beat it off of me with his Georgia Bulldog ball cap. 

I wonder if it only spoke french.