In September 2009, just before Quebec's trees turned golden, I went to Montreal. I was impressed by the sheer volume of diners who spilled irrepressibly onto the streets, the ubiquitous bike-share system, and the elbow-to-elbow historic core that in the heat and humidity reminded me strangely of Hong Kong. The city's many neighborhoods were intimate and virile. On a park bench, I wrote:
Dense trees deflect the clammy heat. A travelling musician from the Seychelles unbuttons his vest and speaks in halting French to a man with a guitar. A few chuckles later they've started an impromptu rendition of Stand By Me. The vest guy sings with exaggerated feeling and starts playing his hand-drum as a girl carrying a bag made out of bottle caps walks by. She looks amused, stops, and begins harmonizing. Kids at the creperie bang forks on the patio table. A man with dreads flowing from a fibrous hat stamps his feet. Even the surrounding Second Empire townhouses seem to go wild in their shades of royal purple and electric pink.
I was also impressed by the city's history, which parallels the story of Canada itself and lends a certain gravitas to its people and riverbanks. I went to the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts in search of works that would evoke the French Canadian landscape and ended up confronting some interesting continental masterpieces.
