The weather was better than forecast: though chilly, it was bright and sunny most of the time. The temperature seemed to fluctuate; at times it was almost warm, but then the wind picked up and it cooled off again. Still, and as usual, the weather was better than it should have been for spring break.
Early in the morning we twenty or so passengers were roused from the bus and made to go into a building, where Canadian border patrol agents questioned us briefly. Fortunately, I knew this was going to happen, as I'd read about it online. I'll admit to being incredulous at the idea; the last time I crossed a border on a bus where we actually had to stop was between Hungary and Romania, and there the guards took our passports and checked them, leaving us to wait on the bus. Getting off of the bus to be checked out is probably preferable to surrendering one's passport in a foreign country where one doesn't speak the language. This time I was asked where I was going, why, and for how long, whether I was meeting anyone there and whether I planned to leave anything in the country. Apparently I seemed safe enough to let enter, and it didn't take too long for everyone to be allowed in.
Despite the obvious border crossing, and despite the fact that most people I heard spoke French, it didn't seem that I was really in a different country. I'm not sure why that is. In addition, a lot of people online (particularly on the TripAdvisor forums) say that Montréal feels European, a sentiment I did not share. No one can deny that the city was influenced by its early French inhabitants, but influence is not ambiance. I didn't have much trouble because of the language difference, though I did realize that my French sounds better in my head and that my receptive skills are not fantastic.
Though I don't often drink coffee, I definitely needed some upon disembarking at a quarter to six. There was a Tim Hortons not far from the Gare d'Autocars, and I managed to get a small coffee and a beignet aux pommes (it's not what I'd call an apple fritter, which is what the website claims it is). Thus fortified I returned to the métro and took the blue line to Jean-Talon. The métro itself is fairly easy to use; there are only three or four major lines, and you just need to know toward which terminal you're headed. My problem came whenever I had to leave a station and figure out which way to head on the street. This is not something I did well at all. However, this first time I managed to find my way to the Marché Jean-Talon, a daily market. Though the market supposedly opened at 7, most of the sellers were still unloading their goods when I arrived. Most of the stalls were produce, but there were others selling other types of food, like bread and pastries, seafood, and foie gras poutine; few of these were close to opening so early. I was excited to see several stalls with different kinds of apples, though most seemed to be selling them by the basket, rather than individually. There was also plenty of freshly-pressed apple juice, and lots and lots of maple and honey products. I bought some juice, and found a stall selling apples singly; the man there was unpacking McIntoshes but let me pick a few. Then, when I went to pay, he said there was no charge, and gave me another apple, a small plum-colored one, as well. I couldn't even think of how to ask if he was sure (being fairly sure myself that the only foreign word I could recall at that moment, "Pravda?", wouldn't do the trick), and he insisted, so I got three free apples. It was so kind that I almost cried.
I
knew that there is a Polish cafe somewhere in Montréal, and I believe
it was that fact that led me to grab my phone at 10 PM to search the Internet for places that
might sell Kofola. A comment somewhere noted that a Romanian deli named Bucarest stocked it at one point, so I made my way there. Bucarest is on what seems to be a highway that runs through the city--it reminded me of how Fordham Road becomes Pelham Parkway in the Bronx. Its location means I absolutely would never have found it if I hadn't known where to look. The deli, which is a good size, had all sorts of Central and Eastern European goods, including the hoped-for Kofola, in one- and two-liter bottles. I bought two one-liter bottles, for ease of carrying, and a Milka bar; I didn't want to get much more than that and have to carry it around all day.
Theoretically not far from Bucarest, though you would not know it from the somewhat meandering route I took, is l'Oratoire Saint-Joseph du Mont-Royal. L'Oratoire was conceived of by a monk named Frère André and
is dedicated to St Joseph, Jesus' earthly father. Visitors can ascend
the steps in front of the basilica--and pilgrims can climb on their
knees--or people who are just mildly interested and have already walked a
lot can take a shuttle bus from the parking lot to the entrance. From
the outside it looks like a pretty standard, though large, sacred building, one that
wouldn't be out of place in Vienna; the inside is a different matter. For one thing, l'Oratoire has more escalators in it than any other church I've ever been in.
On the first floor is the shrine, with statues of St Joseph in his different roles, like Model of
Workers, Protector of the Church, and Terror of
Demons. There were candles before the statues, and between them racks with canes discarded by those who had been healed. Behind the shrine was an alcove with a statue of the Virgin Mary in front of a raw, dripping rock wall, part of Mont-Royal itself. On the next level up is a gift shop, the terrace, with windy views of the city, and the basilica proper. This is where the stylistic disconnect between exterior and interior was most obvious and jarring, because while the outside is very neoclassical, the basilica is quite postmodern and almost brutalist, made mainly of concrete. It strikes me as an odd choice to make--though the interior was finished in 1966. Among the decorations are the apostles, arranged in groups of three, carved from wood and larger-than-life; their size means that they are literally looking down on the viewer, and their expressions are all fairly unimpressed as well. In the other, larger gift shop, located in a building adjacent to the oratory, among the usual rosaries and such, they also sold prayer cards, though these were printed not on paper but on plastic, the size and weight of a credit card, with the prayer on the back in French, English, or Spanish. I, of course, bought one featuring St George, with a prayer in French.
If one church is good, more is better. My next stop, in Vieille Ville and near the old port, was Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours. Because of its location the chapel became known as a site to which sailors came to give thanks for good weather. On the port (as in waterfront, not the opposite of starboard) side, the chapel is topped not with a Touchdown Jesus but a Touchdown Mary statue. The port side also has an interesting wooden gallery attached to the stone building, to what purpose I'm not sure; I think it's part of the museum that I didn't visit. The interior of the chapel is decorated relatively sedately and was certainly the brightest of any of the churches I saw that day. The vault was wood, painted in pastel hues, and I was amused to see that hanging from the ceiling were lamps in the form of small ships. Despite the fact that it was Saturday, there seemed to be a small school group there, with a docent giving a talk. That's something I would like to do, I think, though I might have a problem if I thought the kids were being disrespectful. Still, I think it would be satisfying to work in a beautiful, historic church.
I did basically no shopping on my trip, but I did wander into a store in the old town that sold Inuit art. Though there was some jewelry and a whole room of fur coats and accessories, as well as fur rugs, most of what was for sale was sculpture. Most of the sculptures were of animals, my favorite of which were the dancing bears. They're just so joyful.
I also spent some time walking around the Vieux Port. The Saint Lawrence River was moving swiftly, but, as you can see, the marina was still iced over. There were a few yachts moored there, despite the fact that I thought you were supposed to take your boat out of the water when it might freeze. But I don't own a yacht, so what do I know? There was also a truly huge freighter docked in the river, near the Molson building and the Jacques Cartier Bridge. The Vieux Port has many activities that are better suited to warm weather than when there are still mounds of snow on the ground; no one was taking advantage of the beach umbrellas when the sand below was mostly covered in ice. The clock tower at the end of the quay was open, and I believe free to ascend, but I chose to sit on a bench by the river and rest my feet.
The first thing I said when anyone asked what I planned to see in Montréal was "the basilica"--that is, Notre-Dame Basilica. (Oh, francophone Catholics, we know you love Mary, but did you really have to name every dang thing Notre-Dame de Whatever?) In Place d'Armes, the square opposite the entrance, is a monument to the people who founded the city, which was first known as Ville-Marie (come on, Catholics!): Paul Chomedey de Maisonneuve, Jeanne Mance, Charles Le Moyne, Lambert Closse, and the Iroquois. From the outside the basilica looks like a small two-towered Gothic cathedral, made of fairly nondescript stone, just like you'd see in any number of towns in England or France. It's certainly nothing to write home about. The interior, on the other hand, is a different story. It's well worth the five dollar (Canadian or American) entrance fee to see it. As so often seems to be the case, pictures do not do justice to the decoration. The interior is probably what many of the cathedrals of Europe looked like before their paint jobs were faded by the centuries; it is magnificent, though I can see how it might seem a bit gaudy to someone used to the aforementioned faded style. The basilica reminds me a little of the one in Kraków, and even like some of the restored synagogues in Central Europe, particularly the Spanish Synagogue in Prague. The blue around the altar was glorious. I was more than a little put off by the number of people taking pictures of themselves or others in front of it, but I tried to focus less on the annoyance that my fellow visitors were causing me and more on the sublime beauty of the church itself, and what that beauty was created to represent and exalt.
One might think that with all of the churches and cathedrals I've been to, I would be less moved by them at this point. I'm thankful that that isn't so.
The last significant thing I did was eat poutine. Poutine is simply cheese curds and gravy on fries. Restaurants around the city offer a number of variations, including lobster poutine and vegan options, but I went for the classic--or la Classique, as it's called at La Banquise. La Banquise only offers two sizes, régulier or grande; I got the regular and only ate about half of it, saving the rest for my breakfast the next morning. It was just as good (if not perhaps better) then.My trip didn't turn out anywhere near how I thought it would, and I know now that things have changed and will have to change the next time I travel anywhere farther than a few hours away. I can't say I'm pleased with or prepared for this turn of events, and that discovering these seemingly new limitations hasn't put me off the idea of traveling somewhat. I hope in time that feeling will fade, and I'll soon be eager to go again, but right now I don't feel sure that will happen. I'll be here if it does, though.
