TRUE STORY FROM OP: When I was a teenager, I had a job at a gas station, just of the Trans-Canadian Highway (No, that's not a Woke term for migrants,) and we got a LOT of tourists; mainly from Vermont, New York or Ontario. I live in Quebec, [see attached image] which is known for being French.
Well, I swear on my Mom's ashes, one hot July afternoon, a big-ass Winnebago with Texas plates pulls up to the pumps. I give my usual "Welcome to (Evil Petroleum Corporation's Name,) regular, unleaded, or high octane?" to the driver.
He hops out of the mobile mansion/tour bus (Wearing the ubiquitous ten-gallon hat and a. ski. jacket. in. JULY) and replies, "Your English is pretty good for a Kwee-becker! Say, boy! Where's the snow at?"
I am part of what was once a large and thriving English-speaking community in Quebec; it's my first language. As to the snow, without hesitating I pointed to the on-ramp behind us and said, "Well, you wanna get back on the highway, and at the first junction going north, change highways and drive for, oh, two or three days. This is SUMMER. If you'd have come three weeks ago, I could've directed you to the nearest ski slope."
