It does seem rather counterintuitive, does it not? Confusingly played, Canada.
We found our way into Montréal after taking the wrong highway/road/bridge a time or two, checked into the charmingly named L'Auberge Hôtel de Montréal Manoir Ville-Marie, our little inn located inside an old post office. Definitely not a typical hotel, it leans toward a B&B with its mismatched furnishings and quaint vibe. Voilà, le bureau de poste.
In French, "auberge" means "inn." In my head, auberge and aubergine are interchangeable. Here is a picture of our eggplant.
We all got back in the car to go downtown. We passed this delightful place (Mr. Fix-it) with the most endearing sign I think I've ever seen: "Nous restaurons tout - sauf les cœurs brisés!" or "We restore everything - except broken hearts!"
Too bad the only needing fixing IS my heart...
My sister-in-law did the driving. My brother did the navigating. I'm pretty sure neither of them particularly appreciated how entertaining I found this, but... storytime.
My SIL and I are the only people in the family with what might generously be referred to as a working knowledge of the French language. I have been to France twice, and although my comprehension isn't the greatest, I can generally get around on my own, read a fair bit, and order food. Naturally, French is the primary language of Québec. As my brother was trying to navigate the streets of Montréal, he read the maps to his wife phonetically, and she corrected him under her breath by muttering the proper pronunciation of whichever streetname/attraction/exit he'd just named. This ongoing exchange (which lasted the entire stay in Canada) did not help us get anywhere faster, but it sure was funny from the backseat.