40 Hours in Montreal

The drive up was longer than expected. Traffic out of Boston, a clogged border crossing in Vermont. The scenery was pretty; lush green mountains, and the sun was out for long. Once in Quebec the land quickly turned into farms, the signs into French, the distances into kilometers. We saw the buildings of Montreal before a purple sunset over the St. Lawrence River an hour or two after entering the province. 

The St. Lawrence Iroquois were the first people to inhabit this geography. Part of the sprawling Iroquois Confederacy, or the Haudenosaunee (people of the longhouse), this nation farmed and fished and, after Jacques Cartier arrived in 1535, sold the fur of forest mammals to Europeans for their sanguinary coats and hats. The Iroquois fought the French and other First Nations through the 17th century until ceeding Detroit and economic/military dominance in the 1701 Great Peace of Montreal. 

When the English took control in 1760, an oft-tense sometimes-violent intermingling now 2+ centuries in the making began, a contentious cocktail of Francophilia and Anglophone, Canadian and American, a uniquely Quebecois spirit.  

The layered culture seemed to phase-shift into physical manifestations across the town. Plateau Mont Royal (the city's namesake hill) is dense and dotted with popping murals on the edges of three-storied rowhouses. Each facade has its own distinct outdoor stairwell to the higher floors. The water features, the train stations, the parks with stylish urbanites strolling under leafy pathways, all layers stacked upon each other like soil strata. 

Character and energy overflowed onto the streets in the July sunshine. Modern art galleries opened in the old city's cobblestone alleys. People swirled across Saint Helen's Island and the waterfront. The Olympic Stadium towered over the pedestrian-only streets. Cyclists were everywhere; some intersections were quiet sans their rolling chains and the footsteps of those walking by. The populous is diverse, bilingual (many in immigrant communities speak more than two), and pretty physically fit from young to old. 

Even in the bobo areas Montreal has some grime to appreciate. The social justice graffiti and Palestinian colors signal a prominent antiestablishment hipness. Many residents don tottoos and punk hair. The defiance is political too, with Quebec flags far outnumbering the Maple Leaf. My friend compared the region's nationalist/separatist movement to Texan pride, though I think Texas is less standalone and beligerent. Which is saying something. 

Before leaving we looked out over downtown from the east slope of Mont Royal. The terrace is level with the tops of the skyline, and the visitors can see far across the wide river deep into the deciduous forest and flat plains. It's hard to imagine what the place looks like in the dead of winter after weeks below zero. Summer in a cold place has a special aura. The people are cognizant, wholeheartedly enjoying the season. We packed in a universe of experience in our limited time there. I, too, am grateful for the day.