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.
I wandered around on my own long enough that I was there when the next free tour in English started, so I figured I'd stay for that. "Tour" was a bit of a misnomer, as the group merely sat in a few pews and listened while our guide spoke, but the wedding about to happen in the chapel at the back might have curtailed our group's ability to move around. Or maybe the tours are just talks after all. Whatever the case, Julie, our guide, pointed out some things that I'd noticed and some that I hadn't known, and some that were a combination of the two. For example, the stained glass windows along the walls depict not Biblical stories nor saints' lives but scenes from the history of Montréal, which I had noticed; but I didn't realize that those windows can be opened, an uncommon feature. I also didn't realize that the vault and even the columns were made of wood. That's part of the reason why the windows open: the wooden construction is warmer than stone, which is more pleasant in the winter than in the summer. Julie also told us about a number of hockey players who were married in the basilica, a bit about the pipe organ, and that one of the towers holds ten bells while the other only holds one, named Jean-Baptiste. Cast in London and weighing 11 tons, Jean-Baptiste is so big that when it was still being rung its vibrations were damaging the tower. It is no longer rung, only struck on special occasions. The ten-bell carillon is still used.
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.
