Ah, je me souviens!
Early on in our relationship, Better Half (let’s call him Jacques Cartier for this story) and I motored up to Montréal. I thought I would shine there. I can speak enough French to get by, and I’d been a few times to visit distant relatives so I could act as the tour guide. Even without the internet I found some reasonably priced hotel in a pretty central location AND I had a good gay friend up there who had lots of local gay friends so we would be in the swim, and in a conveniently located foreign country no less. Jacques had never been anywhere in Canada so he was up for this.
The drive went smoothly, beautiful day, almost no traffic, and then none at the border, and then not much on those strange looped highways south of the city that bring you ever closer to Montréal. I’ve long suspected that from the air they form a fleur-de-lis but I have no proof of this.
Then we arrived at the hotel. It seemed a little dreary and was amenity-free. Its lobby was this common room with plastic chairs and tables and a single mounted TV. Lots of men of all ages sat in those plastic chairs chain smoking and not doing much else, not even talking to each other. The Palm Court at the Plaza this was not. We asked where the parking was and the woman at the front desk said that if we had already found a convenient free space just leave the car where it is. We went to our room, along a dimly lighted, narrow hallway, and unpacked.
“There’s something weird about this hotel…”
“Nonsense, Jacques, it’s just cheap. Plus we won’t be staying here much, we have sights to see.”
I dragged him all over. I made him hike up to the Oratoire Saint-Joseph (St. Joseph’s Oratory) high atop Mount Royal for its panoramic views of the city and the St. Lawrence. “But there’s so much more, mon ami!” and we joined a tour. It is fabulous and I hope it is still around. You see all kinds of dioramas and things related to the founder, Brother André, and like any good pilgrimage site there is a collection of things pilgrims have left behind because they have been miraculously cured. Lots of crutches. At the end you come to one of the best gift shops I’ve ever visited, and there you can buy things like little arms and legs and other stuff and if the same part of your body ails you you can…I can’t remember what you do, whether you offer them, or pray with them, I don’t know, I’m not Catholic.
From the heights of Mount Royal we later descended to the bowels of Montréal and did a comprehensive tour of the Underground City. If you’ve never been, it is a vast network that connects métro stations to office buildings and hotels and is lined with stores, cafés, and restaurants. As we began hour two Jacques asked me, “Are they expecting a nuclear strike? Is that what this is all about?” “No, they’re expecting a brutal winter, as they get every year, and that’s what this is all about.”
On a subsequent trip, I don’t think Jacques was with me, I read a very funny story by a guy, maybe a reporter for the Gazette or one of its writers, who spent an entire month never going outside thanks to the Underground City. It’s not commonly done; this was just grist for “content” as we say nowadays. His apartment building had some kind of enclosed access to it, and I guess he was able to work from home, a somewhat inconceivable idea at the time. The one thing I remember about it was that he was breathing clean air but not fresh air, so it was like being in a lunar colony or something. Despite the fact that this was years before the rise of delivery services, he was more than capable of sustaining himself, so extensive is the Underground City. Because it links to a few métro stops he even did a bit of traveling, to visit friends similarly linked.
One night I dragged Jacques into the Vieille Ville, “Old Town,” by the St. Lawrence waterfront. There we had an overpriced but very romantic dinner, as every visitor to Montréal must, I think. After dinner we went somewhere close by and it was warm enough that we could sit outside and drink wine until they booted us out. Barely conscious we dragged ourselves back to our somewhat grim lodgings.
I made contact with that gay friend of mine and a group of us convened at some kind of beer hall off St-Laurent, otherwise known as The Main (La Main). I told the group where we were staying. Turns out, they told us, that we were staying in a hotel used by the provincial government to house asylum seekers while their cases were being processed. “Bienvenue au Canada!” “No, we’re not immigrating here…” This was conducted in French so Jacques was none the wiser.
On our final day I told Jacques that I would show him where the department stores were. I only knew of two, Eaton’s and the Hudson Bay store, so we went there. While in the area I said, “McGill University is just over there; let’s see if they have a bookstore where you don’t need to show an ID to enter.” They did. Jacques was bored to grumpiness so we didn’t linger long, and besides books (at least there) were so much more expensive than in the US, and the exchange rate at the time was pretty favorable. Our last stop was the Museum of Fine Arts, and I can’t even remember what we saw, since museums of fine arts the world over have a little of this and a little of that. The New Criterion has not hired me yet to be their art critic.
When we checked out we found a big honking traffic ticket on the car. I went back to the front desk, the same woman was working there, and asked about it since she said it was OK. “You don’t live in Montréal so what do you care?” and she ripped it up in front of me and threw it in the trash. We made a hasty retreat from the city.
This time at the border there was a backup. No friendly Canadians waving us in, like upon entry. Surly American bullies on our return. They tore the car apart. “Um, can I ask what you’re looking for?” “Drugs.” I kind of snort-laughed. “Don’t you think the illegal drugs come FROM America INTO Canada and not vice versa?” I was lucky I wasn’t shot on the spot.
Once on the American side, somewhere around Lake Placid, Jacques wasn’t feeling well. “Pull over!” There was no shoulder so I did the best I could. He opened the passenger door and proceeded to vomit half his body weight.
“I swear, if I survive the ride back I’m never going anywhere with you again.”
“I wish you had come down with this in Canada because they have amazing over-the-counter drugs—“
“Just drive.”
There have long been a lot of gratuitously obnoxious US border employees compared to the Canadians, with lots of power trippers, petty bureaucrats, and just unhappy nasty people. If they really cared about drugs they’d have just brought out a beagle. They often search for the sake of searching.
One thing I didn’t know until a few years ago is how much organized crime there is in Montreal. It’s sort of like Boston, with entrenched Italian Mafia in a longstanding rivalry with local ethnics, only instead of Irish gangsters it’s the French.
https://montrealgazette.com/news/local-news/major-montreal-organized-crime-figure-raynald-desjardins-to-be-released-soon
They do the usual mob stuff like drugs and protection rackets, but the funniest crime is this, unless you really love pancakes, in which case it’s an outrage:
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Canadian_Maple_Syrup_Heist
At the risk of offending my beloved Canadian friends: but what could be more Canadian than a Great Maple Syrup Heist?
Although there was this:
https://thehockeywriters.com/the-day-the-stanley-cup-was-stolen/
It’s true. Whenever I go to the states, I get treated with 30 questions as if I’m going there to steal jobs that US Amercians can do. To be “fair”, considering native US Amercians don’t go into STEM jobs… why, I’d be doing them a favor… no?
I noticed that I’m usually the only one singled out while white folk get a “Enjoy your trip.”
Instead of acting offended, I smile politely and act cheerful which pisses the petty somewhat racist assholes that end up as customs agents even more. Being my usual surly self is just going to get me grief. I learned that it is best to never give shitheads like that what they want.
Canadian Customs is usually very polite and courteous. I’m always glad to come home.
My American friends think I’m crazy when I mention the organized crime syndicates in Montreal. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say every Montrealer knows someone who knows someone in those circles. And they are not just into drug trafficking… some are allegedly dairy kings (does using that adverb cover my ass?).
There was a significant Hells Angels presence in Sherbrooke. There was a book written about it, but it’s basically unreadable.
Eatons… sigh. My mom misses the store and their cafeteria salad bar. She is of a certain age.
I miss the massive Lego and Star Wars XMAS toy displays they had in the 70s especially at the main store at the Eaton Centre. My parents would let me stand there for hours as I gawked/drooled at all the Lego and Star Wars stuff while they went about shopping.
As for the Underground City, someone made a movie about that (it was actually set in Winnipeg which is another city that needs an underground city thanks to the swarms of mosquitos in the summer and the long miserable winters.)
Montreal is also home of the best deli sandwiches, non-gigantic bagels (Montreal Style is almost quaint to the larger NY style ones) and hot dogs in Canada. I prefer Montreal Steamies (steamed buns and hot dogs) which are soft as opposed to the harder toasted buns from Toronto.
Montreal bagels are the fucking best! I miss them so much (damn you Pandemic!). There’s one local shop in Seattle that makes a very similar product but they are smaller and more plump ( have a tighter hole…not always a good thing 😉). It’s called Eltana if @LoveShaq is interested.
Steamies are dreamy.
Orange Julep orange juice is the perfect partner for a meal of steamies. Nothing like that frothy egg milk orange juice concoction to clean out your bowels.
Montreal bagels are better than New York bagels. I used to live round the corner from Mile End Deli in Brooklyn, started by two Montrealler expats Noah and Rae Bernamoff. They shipped in fresh St-Viateur Bagels and served them at the shop. Those were the days.
My Canadian adventure:
About 10 or so years ago, I had to travel to Buffalo for work. A tradeshow, to be exact. I rented a car because I had a ton of equipment to drag to the show. It ended about noon on Friday, and my flight wasn’t until about 3 on Saturday, so time to sightsee.
I drove up to Niagara Falls. It’s getting dark, it’s raining which isn’t quite turning into ice. Whatever, when will I be back this way again? I brought my passport so I could go over to the Canadian side.
I’m trying to hold an umbrella and take pictures of the park (not near the falls yet) and I slip on some wet pavement and go down. Umbrella’s in one had, phone in the other, so no way to break my fall. Straight-up face plant. Opened up a two-inch gash on my forehead, which promptly bled all over me. Also raised a huge purple bruise along the side of my face. Somehow, my glasses flew off and I recovered them intact with no damage.
The park bathrooms are still open so I get in there to survey the damage. Paper towels staunched the blood flow, but it was down my shirt. I mopped off the excess blood but still looked like I’d been mugged.
A normal person would go back to the hotel and drink. This does not describe me. Dammit, I went to a lot of trouble to get here and bring my passport so I’m going to Canada. I want to see the falls from the other side.
The Canadians didn’t bat an eye. Waved me right through, even though I looked like I’d pissed off Mike Tyson. At this point it’s about 7 pm and I’m getting pretty hungry, but there’s no fast food joints around where I can grab something in relative anonymity.
So I go to the restaurant overlooking the falls. It’s pretty empty, so I stood by the host station for a couple of minutes. Then I notice a gaggle of wait staff staring at my and whispering to each other. Finally one comes over to seat me. They put me in an apparently closed section of the restaurant, but one that had a fantastic view of the falls. And I’ve got it all to myself.
It took about 10 minutes for the waiter that drew the short straw to finally show up. By this point I knew what was going on and decided to head off this shit. I slapped my gold card (we used to have one but don’t bother with it any more) on the table and said, “Yes, I know what I look like and I need a drink now.” He scurried off and had my drink there in less than three minutes.
Poor kid never did ask what happened. But he got an excellent tip.
Now it’s time to go back to the US, my mother country, the land that I love, from sea to shining sea. They practically ripped that rental car apart. It took a good hour for them to decide that they could not find a good reason to detain the bloody guy. By this point half my face was purple and swollen. I had to show every form of ID I had, and tell my story at least 3 times.
Back to the hotel. No aspirin so alcohol had to serve. Getting through security at the airport was almost as memorable as getting back into the US. But airport security laughed more at me.