A change of view and subject seems in order, so we get the van going and renew cruising downtown Montreal. We pass by the corner of Peel and St. Catherine’s Streets, where, says Jacques, one can find the "most people per square foot of any spot in Canada; the Times Square of Montreal". Beautiful wrought iron spiral staircases spill off the second stories of even the most humble apartment blocks.

We go down St. Laurent Street, the dividing line between English-speaking and French-speaking Montreal. Someone with Montreal license plates asks Jacques directions. They do so in English, unable to pose the question in French. Although French speakers outnumber English speakers by more than five to one, it’s quite possible to spend your entire life in Montreal without learning French and, according to Jacques, many do just that.

Does that make you indignant, I ask?

He shrugs philosophically and, puckering his lips, makes a noise that sounds – I’m sorry I can’t think of a better way of describing it – like a small fart. It’s a common French-Canadian tick, used frequently to punctuate conversation, usually to indicate, "Well, what can you do?"

"We were always told "Tu es né pour un petit pain", Jacques answers. The phrase, literally translates as "You were born for the small slice of bread", meaning you were born to be a second-class citizen; deal with it.

Do you resent Americans, I ask?

"Not really. I mean, sometimes we call them les maudits americains ("the accursed Americans"). But we have little in common with English Canadians and much in common with the Americans. The car I love (a Plymouth convertible) is American, the music we listen to is American, the movies we watch are American. For us, the English Canadians hardly exist".

Jacque’s pager goes off. He’s been assigned the weather girl shot. It’s the universally familiar moment in every local newscast, the one where the weatherperson is at some scenic spot to give the forecast. I wonder how Jacques can do it since our truck is not equipped with any satellite or microwave equipment. It turns out that the station maintains some twenty-five permanently installed plugs at frequently recurring locations.

He hopes we’ll be sent to Old Montreal, a beautiful, historic waterfront district, but as it happens. we’re assigned to the parking lot behind the station. Jacques tells me the weathergirl shot is coveted by cameramen because it’s easy. "Idiotic adolescents" who get in the picture and give the finger while on the air are a problem. More recently, and even more irksome to Jacques, are yuppies who position themselves so as to get in the live picture, flip open their cell phones when the broadcast begins, and call friends and family to announce that they’re on TV.

We have time to kill before the weathergirl shot, so we go across the street for a bière en fût (draft beer). While waiting for the bières to arrive, Jacques starts talking about Le Mondial. I interrupt to ask, what’s Le Mondial?

For the first time, Jacques loses patience with me. "You don’t know what Le Mondial is?" He slaps his forehead and exclaims "Calis Americain!". It’s another Church-derived expletive, literally "Calice American" but having the meaning of "unbelievably ignorant American". I learn that Le Mondial is, of course, the World Cup soccer tournament. Good-natured Jacques soon regains his equanimity, though, and I redeem myself somewhat by asking to be taken to a souvenir shop so as to buy a Montreal Canadians (the beloved hometown hockey team) sweatshirt.

It’s time for the weathergirl shot. The weathergirl is Colette Provencher, and she’s an old pro having done the weather at TVA for 8 years. I ask her if she ever gets nervous. "Jamais", she says. "J’aime mon public, et mon public m’aime". (I love my public and they love me).

I ask her about her work and she shows me a half-sheet of copy paper, on which is scribbled the forecast in shorthand. She tells me proudly that she memorizes this each day so as to be spontaneous while on air. She wants to know what something is in English, and after some fumbling back and forth I finally get what it is and tell her: partly sunny.

I ask Colette if I can take a gag photograph of me standing behind her like one of the jerky adolescents. She graciously agrees, but only after I promise not to give the finger. Another reporter appears: the setup will be used to film the top story of the day as well. A studio assistant is on hand and I ask what the top story is. He has no idea.

The top-story reporter, surprisingly young and disheveled, stands before the camera, crouching first to place his cellular phone on the sidewalk in front of him. He is looking straight into the camera now, talking with someone in the control room, oblivious to anything but his unseen audience. The reporter has no worries about his cell phone; he knows the crowd of gawkers that have assembled behind him will never dare to invade the sacred space of live TV.

The news broadcast begins imperceptibly. I am watching the top-story reporter and assume he is still bantering with the control room. The tip-off is that Colette has taken the chewing gum from her mouth, sticking it on a parking meter just out of camera view.

The top-story reporter finishes and during the interregnum between his story and the weather report, we watch our broken water main story in the viewer of Jacques’ camera. It’s strange, to say the least: I get the sense of looking at a mirror with a mirror.

Colette is in position now, her moment arrives, she performs faultlessly. Within two minutes of finishing she is into her modest sedan and on her way. She lives in the suburbs with her two teenage children and will back in time for the 11:00 broadcast.

"That’s it", says Jacques. "C’est fini".