That’s the most honest lead sentence I can conjure, and I don’t believe, even with time to reflect, that I will come up with one much better. I’m currently in quaint, seaside Portland, Maine, and I saw the Sam Roberts Band live at the Port City Music Hall soon [...]]]> (PORTLAND, Maine) — Thank you, Sam Roberts.

That’s the most honest lead sentence I can conjure, and I don’t believe, even with time to reflect, that I will come up with one much better. I’m currently in quaint, seaside Portland, Maine, and I saw the Sam Roberts Band live at the Port City Music Hall soon after I arrived here. That was four days ago now, and I’m still stunned.

Roberts is a fellow out of Montréal (strange, how I have left Canada but perhaps not fully), who does rock with a strong beat and indie undertones. Unlike the beautifully sad, cerebral music for which I often go, Roberts is straightforward, with rifting guitars and pounding drums that pull you right out of your head. His stuff isn’t introverted nor delectably dorky, and perhaps that is what had kept me away since I was introduced to him about a year ago. Tuesday night, however, as I listened to his full set, I was into it. I was dancing, even, which I hardly ever do. It was a treat.

Watching someone make music, even rocking stuff, is incredibly intimate. I had forgotten this. How often do you get free reign to simply stare at a man for an hour as his sweaty, gyrating body disappears into a kind of trance? Roberts and his band looked like they went to another world. They were jumping around and pounding their feet into the stage. Roberts would often close his eyes while he tilted his head and poured himself into the mic. Sometimes his voice had so much power behind it that the hipsters around me hollered and raised their hands in reverence. There was nothing theoretical nor witty nor philosophical about what we listeners were feeling. It was just real, and I was ecstatic to have landed there.

Being in an audience is a rarity for me, but I know that doesn’t have to be the case. Everywhere, people can’t help but perform. Part of my trip, I’m starting to see, is making the effort to see them. When someone is truly transported on stage, I am as well. Once you get a whiff of that good stuff, you only want more.

While I’d love to attribute this realization purely to seeing Mr. Roberts, I know that’s not the case. These feelings really began to crystallize about two weeks ago, in Québec — thanks to another dynamic guy who treated the stage underneath him like he owned the thing.

Jean-Marc Massie, beating his saw.

The Québecker in question is Jean-Marc Massie, a professional storyteller whose aura of creativity (and pheromones) is so thick that it’s almost surprising you can’t see it. Along with fellow storytellers Simon Gauthier and Marc St. Pierre, he was the opening act at Chants de Vielles, an annual folk festival in the Québec countryside that celebrates all kinds of performers. Before he got on the stage, I was skeptical about how much I would care about what he had to say. The prospect of spending a few hours hearing a story told in a language other than my own sounded exhausting.

And it was, but in the best way.

As soon as he and his posse strutted onto the stage, it was as though they had grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. My wandering mind shut up, and my attention was on them completely. Massie was at the front of the stage, the other men at the back. As Massie began to talk and whip his body around, his two companions backed him up with the sounds of a keyboard and musical saws. I had little idea what Massie was saying (something about a person with gold growing out if his head, maybe?), but it didn’t matter. His body language did. He ran from one end of the platform to the other. He crouched down low and pretended to whisper and then jumped up quickly and began to shout. Behind him, there was a full stock of unconventional iron instruments, and he kept grabbing them throughout the performance. He underscored important moments of his story by hitting the stage with heavy chains. Behind him, there were about a dozen tire irons hanging from the ceiling, which he hit occasionally with another iron. The effect was like listening to the clang of demonic wind chimes. He beat bongo drums as if he was angry with them. By the time he jumped into the audience and played a bugle-like thing in my face, I was amazed.

It’s so rare to see that much passion in front of you, and I found myself wanting to bottle it up and save it for later, for use when I need some motivation. I think we spend so much of our day hiding our emotion, keeping an even keel for the sake of momentum. To see someone completely letting himself go was such a release. As I watched him, I realized how desperately I want to be that emotive and unselfconscious. The idea of being able to put yourself out there so fully took the wind out of me.

Simon Gauthier, taking a different approach with his saw.

After Massie’s performance, we talked a little bit, and I told him how much I appreciated his work. He looked flattered, and I think for a while we did vibe off each other, talking about the few things our shared, limited vocabulary allowed. I wasn’t, however, able to fully convey what had touched me about his show. It made me feel powerless to feel something so strongly and yet not be able to convey it. Perhaps he got my meaning through osmosis. I’d like to believe that. The next day of the festival, we talked again, and he kissed the top of my head as a way of saying goodbye. Is that a Québec thing? I don’t know.

My lack of eloquence with Massie is probably partially why I walked up to Roberts after his show. It was a relief to be able to fully explain to someone how much his music and energy had affected me. It felt so good to be woken up, and I had this need to tell him so. Thankfully, he seemed happy to hear it. He was smiling, his eyes still shining from the show’s juice. We talked for a few minutes about his tour and my trip, and he invited me to see his show in New York. He gave me travel advice, and I gave him the address for my blog. I walked away from him and the music hall feeling effervescent and hopeful. On the way back to my trailer, I didn’t even get lost, which for me is like a tiny miracle.

Sitting, stunned, in my little home, I remember my interior monologue being incredibly simple, as it often is after good things. “Wow” I kept thinking, and “Thank you.”

My amazing host, Françoise, watching ships as they power by her home on the St. Lawrence River.

I’m actually surprised how long it took to get here, to the frightened [...]]]> (VERCHERES, Québec) — I like today’s morning chilliness and blowing rain along the small-town banks of the St. Lawrence River. On an unrelated note, I’m scared.

My amazing host, Françoise, watching ships as they power by her home on the St. Lawrence River.

I’m actually surprised how long it took to get here, to the frightened place.  Months ago, I even romanticized the idea, as though my fear would signify that I was truly on my trip. In actuality, it’s just scary. A small but noisy part of me is afraid that I’m going to run out of money and motivation and emotional support. I’m afraid of exiting the cushy womb that has been Canada. I’m afraid that even telling you these things makes me sound less interesting.

But it is what’s real right now. Perhaps it is just the need to move on that’s making me feel so uneasy. Don’t get too comfortable, my fear is saying. Believe me, I’m listening.

It almost always takes something drastic to get me out of a lovely place. And rural Québec really has been a treat — far beyond the fatty pleasures of poutine, even. When I drive or ride my bike around, I feel as though I’m looking at the farmlands of France. I’m in a small town, only 30 minutes from Montréal, yet I’m in an alternate reality of tiny roads, cows and miles (excuse me, kilometers) of golden soy crops. Some of the houses here, made of stones or logs, are older than my country. Most residents speak a little English, but almost everyone I’ve met who is a few years out of school is pretty rusty. It’s great. Not only does that give me a chance to practice my pidgin French but it makes me feel as though I’m in a place much more foreign than Canada. No one even says “eh” around these parts. Amazing.

I have gone into Montréal, but only once, and my experience served as a gentle reminder that maybe I really am a small town person at heart. I liked being surrounded by solemn buildings and crowded streets, all with a lightly European feel, but it took me the entire day to act like myself. I have a love/hate relationship with cities. I appreciate their rapid pulse and dynamic intensity, but they do intimidate me. I think I look like a fake in them and that people can tell, just by looking at my mismatched clothes and make-up free face that I don’t belong. If that doesn’t do it, my driving certainly will. Trying to find a parking garage in the downtown area wasn’t just painful for me but also for most drivers near my truck, with its camper shell, protruding tow hitch and conspicuous, California plates. I became that person who cluelessly goes the wrong way on a one-way street and accidentally cuts off cabbies. It still hurts to think about.

A big sculpture and a tiny boy in Montréal. I had to convince this kid's dad, who didn't really speak English, to let me take his picture.

Once I was able to ditch my vehicle, I was taken with Montréal, however. I just wanted to sit on a bench and watch everyone around me, and I probably could have. I adore that about cities. At one point, while I was entering a metro station, I saw a young, hippy couple say their good-byes. The guy, with his guitar strapped to his back, held his lady for about 30 seconds, and then they kissed and parted. The intensity between them suggested the trip was going to be a long one. He walked down the stairs, and she walked toward the exit, and I kept watching her to see if she would turn to get one last glimpse of him. She did. I smiled and furrowed my brow in appreciation and light jealousy.

Even in cities, human connection is all around. I know that’s obvious, but it’s easy for me to forget when I’m in a new, urban setting. It’s hard to keep in mind that, of course, there is community everywhere.

I got a small but tasty bite of that the same night, when I visited Concordia University’s radio station, CJLO. I was there for an interview, mostly, and some sharing of music. Since I have no sense of direction, I ended up taking two metro rides and a bus and then walking about 15 blocks. When I arrived at the station, I was disheveled, sweaty and more relieved than I can say. When the music director and my interviewer, Omar, offered me a glass of water and half his cookie, I melted. It was tiny act, but it made me instantly enjoy him.

I love to watch people who love what they do, especially when they have real skills to boot. From what I saw, that’s Omar. During the interview, he was prepared and organized and seemed to really care. He somehow managed to be himself on the air while staying professional and precise. I am such a fan of good radio that I found myself taking mental notes for the next time I happen to be rooted in a place long enough to host my own radio show again. I’ve done that both in Colorado and Utah, though I know I still have a lot to learn.

Omar Husain, CJLO's music director and the host of "Hooked on Sonics."

For my future reference, I think what made the interview so good was how easy it seemed. There was joking and self-deprecation on both sides, and I felt vital in a way I haven’t in a while. What a drug. Afterwards, Omar introduced me to the station crew and weighted me down with tons of CJLO schwag. I walked away from the school with postcards, buttons, a magazine, a T-shirt — and a bit of radio afterglow.

I had felt similarly after being on the air at CHUO in Ottawa and CHRW in London (thank you so much Sookie, Mike and Dave), but with this experience it finally hit me how much I want to do radio in my future. The discovery felt monumental. As I drove back from Montréal, I tucked that desire away in my mind with a promise that I will retrieve it, someday.

Now, it’s three days later, and instead of still feeling high, I’m scared. I don’t truly know what this fear means or why it has attached itself to me, but I’m going to try to work with it. I’d like to think that it is exactly what I need to keep me from staying forever in the faux French countryside. Being comfortable somewhere is a gift, but I feel I have to fight that so often in order to keep moving forward. Not yet, I keep telling myself. Not yet.

Maine is sounding more exciting by the moment.