I HAVE A CRUSH ON A CITY

Posted on August 30, 2014

Diane Moalem embarks on a quirky Franco-Canadian journey of love-filled discovery in a province yearning for independence.

“It is a place not to be forgotten or mixed up in the mind with other places, or altered for a moment in the crowd of scenes a traveller can recall.”
Charles Dickens, novelist

 

Manically rushing to Toronto’s Union Station was not the most ideal start for a truly enlightening, and at times, bizarre journey, into French-speaking Canadian Quebéc. As the train heaves away from the bustling platform in Toronto, I finally have a moment to breath after a few chaotic days. Resting my head on the VIA Train seat, I allow the past few days to disappear as I whoosh past the sprawling green countryside in to uncharted territory in June 2012.

 

I am in Canada to visit my brother, a resident of Toronto. I want to see French Canada, having been to Toronto and the capital, Ottawa, before. My brother told me about the Quebéc sovereignty movement, which advocates for independence from the rest of English-speaking Canada. The UN’s charter defines a ‘nation’ to be a majority with unifying characteristics of language, tradition, and culture. The Canadian Parliament has acknowledged Quebéc as an individual nation within a unified Canada. Wanting to see the difference for myself, I chose Montréal because I heard it was beautiful, not too far from Toronto but that’s all I really knew before arriving. I am beyond eager to simply get lost and immerse myself in beautiful unfamiliarity that Montréal promises. My blissful ignorance about where I would go is actually a blessing; no expectations allow me to see everything with bright eyes and wonder.

 

My brother was kind enough to book my train ticket and hostel for me, which meant I quite literally went head-first into the unknown. Glancing over, I notice the weathered hands of the elderly man who sits next to me on our five-hour train ride. His crinkled eyes look out with the warmth of experience of a full life. I couldn’t help but ponder what life had etched onto his gentle face; I play with the idea that he is a famous retired history and politics professor. The last few hours seem to drag on at a glacial pace, I have become restless and keen to arrive and explore.

 

They say that first impressions are what you remember most about a person. My first impression of the city as I walk into the Montréal Central Station is of a tall moustached Canadian mountie wearing a beret with true Parisian flare. Montréal shyly reveals its Canadian side, yet I was not expecting the city to be seemingly plucked from the heart of France.

 

Arming myself with a map acquired at the Central Station information desk, I embark down a warren of corridors into the belly of the train station to the linked subway. Being fairly clueless, the Franco-Canadians were gracious enough to let me know where to buy a subway ticket and then inform me that I was waiting on the wrong platform. After allowing my embarrassment to subside, I set off into the overwhelming second-largest city in Canada.

 

Staying at a top hostel, Montréal Central, in the Latin Quarter, I meet the obliging Josué. Dazzling with a charming, yet cheeky, French sparkle in his Bleu de France eyes, he is the most informative person I have met in recent years. He tells me how the city is predominantly on an island, surrounded by the St. Laurent River and the Ottawa River. Montréal was named after the small mountain, the three-headed Mount Royal. The most logical system I have ever come across, the city is geographically divided into east and west with St. Laurent Boulevard as the median. The numbering system is ingenious; the number reflects how many meters each building is away from the median. So finding 1102 Rue St. Catherine Est, home to a trendy coffee shop, Plazzetta, is fairly easy.

 

The modest hostel is clean, modern, and very inviting. Placed in the basement in a 6-person mixed-gender dorm room with very noisy rickety air-conditioning, I am delighted to find everything spotless, comfortable and with the added bonus of free breakfast daily. A lovely middle-aged Eastern-European lady with crazy red hair cleans the rooms and kindly offers a chat. During my stay, I met a barrage of new, wonderful, and at times odd people. Lesson learned; always knock on the door when going into your mixed-dorm room when sharing with a couple.

 

I decide to take an afternoon stroll, suggested by Josué, to downtown Montréal. Experiencing a heat wave averaging at 35° Celsius with too much humidity, a cool breeze coming from the Saint-Laurent River is a most welcome reprieve. Walking down Rue Berri, I pass the Place Émilie-Gamelin, one of many mini-recreational oases amidst the concrete jungle. Josué said lovely summer concerts are held there on Saturdays. Looking around, I can see that Montréal is Quebéc’s cultural hub, which has left the city inundated with fantastic functional art exhibited in the streets.

The relaxing Place Émilie-Gamelin, a lovely park for recreational activities. However, all gems have their flaws; the first evening I was in Montréal, someone was stabbed in this park and therefore the park was closed due to an active crime scene. Luckily, the victim survived.

Outdoor art exhibitions form part of Montréal’s daily life, Place Emilie-Gamelin

Changing over to Rue St. Denis, I am enthralled with the eloquent blend of modern buildings with old Baroque-styled churches. The city confidently and respectfully carries its past into the future. I love the small touches that add unique character such as the red streets signs printed in a romantic white swirly font. I may not be in Paris but the French signs of love lead me all the way down to the Old City. I find ‘R+E’ written in a heart on every surface conceivable, perhaps the initials of two young star-crossed lovers.

Following in their French ancestor’s footsteps, Montréal may be a city of love too.

The Old city area, known as Ville-Marie, is on the banks of the Saint-Laurent River. The history of the area is staggering, evidence found from the First Nation native people dating back 4 000 years and later colonised by the French in 1535. Imitations of European Baroque architecture adorn the buildings along Rue Notre-Dame as I walk towards the Notre-Dame Basilica. I have just missed the last Basilica tour but will return with my brother in a few days. Loving the French homage and flare, the Basilica is lavishly decorated with gilded gold leaf, heavy oak, and delicately stained glass in the truly ornate Baroque-style.

The Basilica was designed by architect François Dollier de Casson.

Situated opposite the Basilica is the Place d’Armes, a cobbled square with the Maisonneuve Monument in bronze and concrete in honour of the founder of Montréal, Paul Chomeday de Maisonneuve. Horses and carriages line the square opposite the Basilica for a slow romantic tour of Ville-Marie. After chatting to the driver of a pretty green wooden carriage and feeding his horse a carrot, I head further down between the streets.

Place d’Armes offers a great vantage point for tourists to huddle around and take snapshots of the Basilica with little regard for the amazing monument adjacent to them.

Strolling through the darkening streets, I walk past industrial design storefronts with multi-coloured elastic band stools and true Parisian-style luxury hotels and finally to Square Victoria. A bronze cast monument dedicated to British Queen Victoria stands proudly in the centre of the square while trees are oddly adorned with balls of wool on string. I am not quite sure whether this is pretty vandalism or an abstract art installation. Teenagers on skateboards whizz past me as I enter the underground city. Many streets in Montréal have been replicated underground to escape winter’s icy bite. Shopping centres, buildings, and the subway connect to this pedestrian warren of eternal corridors. The subway is childishly easy to navigate with four colour-coded lines covering most of the city, yet unbelievably, captures the heat of the day. 

 

The Latin Quarter seems to be the ideal spot to stay, with restaurants, bars, shops, and theatres spilling onto the pavements. While grabbing a quick meal, I peruse the free English events magazine only to find one of my favourite bands playing that very night. Scrambling to find out more details through the restaurant’s Wi-Fi, the performance starts within half an hour and it is a mere three city blocks from where I am sitting. The beauty of travelling alone without an itinerary, is the sheer spontaneity of running down the road to watch a rock show. I watch an amazing performance by a British band called Keane in a spectacular old theatre called L’Olympia on Rue St. Catherine. Awe-struck by the beauty of the theatre, I take photographs while waiting for the main act to begin. After receiving some discerning glares, I explain to the two tall men behind me that I am a foreigner. They succinctly reply with, “ We know!”

 

Built in 1925, L’Olympia is a piece of Montréal’s architectural and cultural heritage. A bright red interior with gold detailing, and dangling chandeliers, this old cinema has been transformed into a live music venue with enough quirkiness and elegance that only the French could pull off.

British band Keane perform at L’Olympia Theatre on the 18^th of June 2012. Image courtesy of L’Olympia Theatre.

The restored L’Olympia Theatre built in 1925 hosts Montréal’s best live acts. Image courtesy of L’Olympia Theatre.

In the summer months, Rue St. Catherine is closed to traffic and becomes the social hub of the area, extending into Le Village, the gay district.

Setting off early on the green subway line to the Viau stop, I spend the day exploring three out of the four Space for Life institutions: the Biodôme, the Jardin de Botanique de Montréal and the Insectarium de Montréal. The Biodôme is massive and the entrance is rather elusive. Paying the student rate of $24 for a combination ticket to all three attractions, I opted out of the child-oriented Planetarium. With a focus on preservation and awareness, these attractions are a must see.

 

Walking through the entrance, I had no idea I would actually be transported to a South American rainforest complete with a tumbling waterfall, furry capybaras, brilliant blue Hyacinth macaws, and Cotton-top Tamarins hanging from trees that timidly stretch for the ceiling. Based on the Costa Rican rain forest, the artificial rivers teams with an array of colourful tropical fish like the Emperor tetra. The heat and humidity hang heavy in the thick air of the 2,600m² spectacular ecosystem.

 

The threatened species, the Cotton-top Tamarin, hails from northern Columbia. Image courtesy of the Biodôme.

Moving onto the Laurentian Maple Forest, I am able to lay my eyes on a reproduction of one of Quebéc’s most stunning forests. A true example of adaption as the indoor ecosystem follows the same seasons as nature outdoors. A tailored climate perfectly suits the vegetation and expanding wildlife of this forest in a bubble. My eyes widen with awe upon looking at the majestic lynx resting on a high rock and purveying its territory.

 

The best part of the next ecosystem, The Gulf of Lawrence, a massive two floors of aquatic splendour, is the Black scoter birds’ tiny black feet paddling around on the surface. I become mesmorised with the underwater flurry of this lake from the underground viewing deck, I am able to then walk up a ramp to the surface of the small lake, which is filled with squawking birds of all shapes and sizes.

 

The Labrador Coast and the Sub-Arctic Islands exhibits are last but certainly not least. With an intense love for all cute animals, I can barely contain myself at the sight of an adorable Atlantic puffin waddling up to the glass and looking me in the eye. I love watching the tottering flippered birds swim, clamber up rocks, and squawk their hearts out. As daylight beams down, I leave the Biodôme and walk up to the entrance of the colossal Botanical Gardens.

The adorable Atlantic puffin averages a mere 30cm in length, they are able to fly but not well. Image courtesy of the Biodôme.

Entering through a small entrance, I pluck up the courage to go to the Insectarium first. Along with multitudes of screeching primary school children on a school tour, the air-conditioning only heightens the hairs standing on the back of my neck. Honestly, I am not one to appreciate 40cm stick insects or hairy tarantulas big enough to cause permanent nightmares. Needing to relax and lower my heart rate, I sit on a bench in the gardens as a darling light brown squirrel trapezes between trees.

 

As a great admirer of the delicate intricacy of nature’s finest, I can smell the citrus roses to my heart’s content. Boasting thirty themed gardens, ten greenhouses, and 22 000 plants, this is one of the best in the world. I wonder around absorbing the magical colours, asymmetrical shapes, and the heavenly smells for hours. My favourite, however, is the most serene and magnificent, the Japanese garden. Carefully constructed with the utmost attention to detail, the immaculate garden is simply sublime. Standing on the bridge appreciating the abundant Japanese plants, trickling water, and methodical placement of stones, I only tear myself away from this green oasis because the Botanical Gardens are closing.

The serene Japanese Garden in the Botanical Gardens             

Image courtesy of the Botanical Gardens.

After dinner with some new hostel roommates on Rue St. Catherine, as we walk back, I recall a sign on the noticeboard suggesting that hostel employees will be taking guests to Café Campus at 9:30pm. We come across the bright-lighted Café Campus in the Le Village, the gay area. I bring the reluctant American, Ross, with me to check for people we may recognise. Obliviously climbing the steeled edged wooden stairs, we arrived mid-way through a male strip tease. With my jaw scraping the ground out of shock, one of the many beautifully sculpted shirtless French men approaches us. He sweetly explains, in broken English, that this is a men’s only gay bar and that ladies’ night is on Sunday. I have never been so grateful for dim lighting as my blushing cheeks were radiating crimson!

 

Once we arrive back at the hostel, unbeknown to me, we find out that there is another Café Campus a few streets away on Rue Prince Arthur Est. Abandoning the original intention of going to Campus Café, I tag along with a group of about twelve to the multi-story Le Saint-Sulpice on Rue St. Denis. The hostel employee, the flamboyant Christophe, tells me we are sitting in the biggest terrace in Montréal. Rather quiet on a Tuesday night, Le Saint-Sulpice becomes manic on weekends with sixty colour-coded waitresses for food, drinks, and bills. He tells us, “You can’t move ‘ere on de weekends, you’ll go to de bar and you’ll never be found again!” The infectious laugh of a quirky Spanish hostel guest named Celia, after the Simon & Garfunkel song, fills the emptying square as she teaches us a cup trick. Some practice later, and all twelve of us are able to do it in unison much to the bemusement of the rest of the square.

Le Saint-Sulpice opens out to a massive terrace for daily relaxed dining with friends or a youth-filled buzz on weekends. Alternatively, the dance floor with featured DJs will keep you moving until the wee hours of the morning.

Images courtesy of Le Saint-Sulspice

Calling it a night at 3am, with the rickety air-conditioning in the background of my thoughts, I reflect on my experiences thus far. Most notable, I am taken aback by the friendliness, kindness, and joie de vivre of the Franco-Canadians. Montréalers almost seem suspiciously nice; they bizarrely thank you for asking them a question. It is easy to see the vast culture gap between French and English Canada. Toronto in comparison, is vast, unwelcoming, and like any other banal Western city. You feel that sense of being surrounded by throngs of people yet being completely alone. With my last waking moments before drifting off, I am starting to see why Quebéc wants independence.

 

With the new addition of my bearded sibling, we leisurely stroll about the city with delicate Lucienne Boyer songs crooning in our minds. Taking the green subway line to the commercial hub, Place-des-Arts, the heat is overwhelming. Much like any other commercial centre, high rise buildings and shops brim with the latest trends on Rue St. Catherine Ouest. Filled with a sense of unexpected pride, I show my brother my favourite spots in the city with which I am starting to have a crush. Two thoughtful South Africans leaving today, were obliging enough to leave the balance of their forty-eight hour subway passes for my brother and I. A little bit of homegrown love goes a long way to the warm the heart of a traveller.

 

Forest green ivy hugs the walls of the nearly two hundred year old McGill University, which is nestled at the base of the Mount Royal Mountain. The pristine campus is inviting, beautiful, and boasts grass so green and soft you want to roll up in it have an afternoon nap. Montreal’s artistic side emerges with a huge wooden functional art piece on the grass for students to sit in and study with beaming sunlight and fresh air. While sitting on a cement-moulded bench at the entrance of the university, without thinking, I put my camera down to examine the sprawling map. We went on our merry way but by the time I realised and retraced my steps, my brand new camera was gone.

The downtown campus lies amidst the burgeoning city.

Image courtesy of McGill University

Not without its flaws, the ear-piercing clang of spoons on metal pots echoes through the emptying streets as the student protests gather momentum each night. Escorted by heavy police presence, the peaceful protest rallying against university tuition increases, winds its way through the city. Interested to see the events unfold, a group of us follow the protest until we arrive at China Town. Wandering through cobbled streets with vendors peering out of dusty windows, this Asian gem is bountiful in quirky character and reveals the diversity of the city. Laden with Chinese pastries promised to be scrumptious, I look down curiously as the chewy tapioca pearls gently swish in the mango flavoured bubble tea that I am persuaded to try for the first time. Multi-cultural immigrants cohesively add to a melding cosmopolitan ensuring a French-themed world tour.

 

I never thought I’d leave Africa to go to North America and wind up spending a night in Japan. Blindly following the boisterous Vancouver resident, Vince, walking up Rue St. Laurent with a few more newly acquired hostel friends, we arrived at Montréal’s nightlife corridor. The three-story Tokyo Bar attracts eager students and tourists alike. Established in 1997, this is a premier spot with a large wooden open rooftop terrace with great ambience and twinkling lights. I’d recommend going on weekends seeing the random Wednesday was deathly quiet. On our return, Vince, single-handedly manages to pierce the warm street air with racial slurs a mere few metres away from two not so friendly black men. With the good intention of apologising, he proceeds to ask the two men whether they are selling marijuana or cocaine just as a curious police car saunters past. Two Scandinavians and I hold the same sentiment of utter panic and irritation; we swiftly flee the Jersey-Shore-akin antics in search of our hostel. After getting horrendously lost at 2am in the overwhelming dark, I have never been so grateful to lay my head down on a soft pillow.

 

We end in the beginning. My brother and I spend our last full summery day in Vieux-Montréal, Old Montreal. We stand along the railings on the bank of the St. Laurent River and overlook the Old Port. Previously home to a fur trading post, La Place Royale, established in 1611 by the French explorer Samuel de Champlain, this became pinnacle of colonization for New France. Pointe-à-Callière, the birthplace of Montréal, is now an archaeological and historical museum sheathed in modern concrete and glass.

Built on the confluence between the St. Laurent River and the smaller Petite Rivière, the multi-level Pointe-à-Callière was established to commemorate the city’s three-hundred-and-fifty year birthday.

Image courtesy of Jean Gagnon

Displaying the proud First Nations heritage through artifacts, we wander through an underground cavern of archaeological sites comprising of an impressive six centuries of history. On the first floor, I once again visit Japan within French Canada. The magnificent temporary samurai exhibition of distinguished Montréalian professor and collector, Richard Béliveau, is one of the most vast and rare collections in the world. The armour akin to an exoskeleton and weapons carefully crafted for execution, the relics of the samurai, ancient Japanese masters of discipline, honour, and combat, are regally on display.

In stark contrast to the cultural transportation into Japanese heritage, we later enter perhaps the epitome of modern French culture; the ‘Montréal Love Stories’ exhibit. The signs of love already visible around the city and now memorialized and heralded for its beauty and sheer importance as the fabric of a true diaspora. Local artists create a heart-warming tribute to the romantic soul of the city and its people through love letters, photographs, objects, and first-hand stories. This exhibition garners a smile so wide I look like a goofy smitten teenager, as proved by my brother’s quizzical scrutiny. Like the intricacy of a fingerprint, adulation is such a personal experience that no two people can share.

 

Joined by our hostel roommate, British veterinarian student, Alice, we welcome the cool evening reprieve by watching the gentle glow of the sun disappear from our street-side table at the Mexican restaurant, the 3 Amigos on Rue St. Denis. Although Quebéc is eighty percent French-speaking, almost everyone is bilingual, which is a relief seeing the menu is only in French.

Topping off the intercultural spicy dinner with delectable Parisian chocolaty treats from Juliette et Chocolat, this quaint little patisserie is the last Franco-filled goodbye to this magical city for which my affection has blossomed.

 

I look out the window with a deep pensive sigh as the VIA train lurches forward on our return to English Toronto the following day. With five hours to spare, I am able to reflect on this fortuitous jam-packed trip that surprised me at every turn. I was taken aback by the sheer French flavour of Montréal coupled with the thriving infrastructure of North America. The friendliness, cleanliness, and Parisian quirk combined are unparalleled in the world.

One cannot avoid being enveloped by love from this city. Perhaps I have a naïve interpretation of this city. However, having been to Paris twice, I will gladly choose New France any day. Although full Québec independence may be far off, the identification of the province as a nation seems completely justified, as it could not be more different than the rest of English speaking Canada. Rich multi-cultural heritage, beautiful architecture, and an undeniable je ne sais quoi make this French-Canadian city unforgettable.

It’s true; I have a crush on a city.

©Diane Moalem