July 27, 2006
She's so 'Tragically Hip'
Jill runs into the band at the airport with no lipstick on!

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Most days when I wake, like many Americans perfunctorily scraping noses against grind stones, my first thoughts focus on coffee and my hefty commute.

But a handful of special days I save for myself. On these certain days I open my eyes, my heart warms, and thoughts assemble "Hip day!"

There is this rock band I know, The Tragically Hip, greatest live band ever and, unequivocally, better than sliced bread.

I am a Canadian wannabe; everything I touch turns to maple leaves.

I've been branded "one-dimensional" given my propensity to, ya know, "belabour" the point. Besides one boyfriend I fired because he didn't appreciate the Hip, everyone else to whom I've introduced their music became a fan.

I flew to Montreal last weekend to see them with masses of other Hip followers.

My theory is that the French-Canadians traveled south until they found land on a river that was as hot and muggy as Montreal, and so became New Orleans.

Not having developed this theory before I left, I mistakenly over-packed jeans, jackets and four pairs of high-heeled shoes (and I couldn't resist another pair once I got there!).

My French, although I took four years of it and have been to France a few times, is rotten. But Montreal is not Paris.

If you can muster "Bonjour, comment allez-vous?" followed by a scared foreign look that depicts "J'ai mal au ventre" (I have a stomach ache), they'll grant you English.

The band was just off a European tour and, ironically, we were all off our planes at the same time. Some might call this fortunate, running into your favorite band at the airport, but not after four hours of travel.

I had "nap" hair, mascara all over my face and I was messing up my French vocabulary tres bon. But in baggage claim, I turned around and there they stood.

It was greetings and hugs all around but, curse my mother, all I could think was "I'm not wearing lipstick!"

After catching up, touring the city and torturing my feet with hills and heels, the weekend culminated with the concert.

Seeing the Hip at an outdoor venue in the ski village of Saint-Sauveur was, perhaps, like seeing a moose running alongside your car: pretty amazing.

My girlfriend and I pressed our way to the front row, passing out our friendly "pardon!" to persons left in our wake.

Finally in my element, I stood before the band, smiling and dancing. I never tire of their music . . . those talented Canucks.