Bagels, Birds and a Basilica
First encounters
The muse has returned. Thank you for your patience, dear readers.
… and now, back to fall adventures in Montreal.
My first full day in Montreal is sunny, but cold and windy.
First, breakfast.
Yelp and Maps offer many choices. I decide on La Fabrique de Bagel, reading somewhere that it is woman owned. It’s a short walk, so I set out on foot, thankful for the meager warmth the sun doles out. There’s construction on Rue Ste Catherine. I navigate the closed sidewalks and scour the imposing shop fronts. The cafe is well concealed. A man walks by with a croissant and coffee. “Is that from La Fabrique?” I ask. “No, SoLit,” he responds, gesturing down the road. My mind is set on La Fabrique. I finally realize it’s in a cineplex and decide to track it down anyway. I spot a coffee counter and enter through a heavy, old-fashioned door. It’s a Starbucks. Nope! Not eating there. I soldier on down a flight of steps and see a sign for La Fabrique.
The fresh-faced youngsters at the counter wait patiently as I order an espresso (short) and ham, egg and cheese on a Montreal-style bagel, studded with sesame seeds. The ham is succulent and full of flavor. The egg is cooked perfectly. Melted cheese oozes on the bagel.
I walk to sunny Square Dorchester, taking pictures of a half-fountain, a nosy white pigeon, pink-tipped leaves and finally settle down on a pedestrian bridge to absorb breathe in the morning air, absorb the atmosphere. At this time on a Saturday morning, there aren’t many others abroad. I fish out my phone and scan my hastily compiled OneNote list of things to see and do. The old city and Notre Dame Basilica sound as good a place as any.
Although it’s still quite green everywhere, there are hints of fall. I walk past the monuments around Square Dorchester, taking pictures of the Wilfrid Laurier sculpture. I apologize profusely to the neon-vested man with a leaf blower. No matter which way he turns to avoid my bumbling footsteps, there I am, camera in hand, ready to trip him up.
Leaving the square, I walk towards Vieux Montreal. My lenses (manufactured and natural) gobble up everything in sight. Click, click, click. Vibrant oxalis, iconic buildings, shadows cast by said buildings, manhole covers (always a draw) and store window displays. Some pictures I will physically see at some unforeseen future moment. Others will reconstruct themselves in my mind. And in both cases, they will recreate memories of a glorious walk through a new city.
Although she knows the answer, a smiling young woman at the Bureau d’Information Touristique de Montréal asks if I prefer to chat in English or French. She hands me a map and points out places of interest. I walk to a bench around the corner, enter her suggestions into OneNote and ditch the paper map. I visit the Notre Dame Basilica website and buy a ticket to visit.
The tourist agent’s description of Marché Bonsecours sounds intriguing. My sunshine-addled mind hears something about art. Maps gets me to the market but the entrance proves hard to find. A disdainful restaurant server gives me directions. I muddle my way to it, walk through imposing white doors. It’s a mall. Perhaps there is a part that is more artsy but I will NOT spend a sunny autumn day walking through a mall.
Outside, there are artists with tents full of the same art you see everywhere you go - watercolors, sketches, photographs, acrylics. None of these pique my interest. I walk down to the sun drenched Old Port. There’s a tiny kiosk selling gelato and caffeine-based drinks. I buy a bottle of water and walk down the promenade, amidst merrymaking tourists and locals.
After spanning the length of the promenade one way, then the other, I settle down at a picnic table to rub on sunscreen. A toddler gambols around. I make friends with a local, who submits to my interest until he realizes that I have nothing edible to offer. He looks down his patrician beak at me and flies off.
At some point, lunch sounds like a good idea. Something light. Unwilling to spend time in a crowded cafe or restaurant, I scan the shelves of a Petit Dépanneur and select a salad. Two men, engrossed in conversation, nod slightly when I approach a table next to theirs. There are used coffee cups on it. One of the men pauses, looks up and tells me those were left by a previous customer. I settle down and… take pictures of my pretty salad and the lacy coffee trails in the cups. A tiny packet of handmade chocolates grabs my attention as I leave. Each of the three minuscule confections is packed with unusual spicy flavors - cayenne, turmeric, ginger.
After the leisurely lunch, I wander towards the Basilique Notre Dame, peering through the gates of Saint-Sulpice Seminary, chuckling at Marc André J. Fortier‘s The English Pug and the French Poodle. I walk through the imposing, ornate basilica doors. Inside, it is gloomy. Meager light filters through the stained glass windows. Elaborate chandeliers strain to eke out a few lumens. Banks of dim, unreliable candles crowd alcoves and niches. I pop a coin into one of the votive stands and watch an electronic candle hesitate, then flicker for some seconds. People mill around taking selfies, photographing the aging treasures. Others sit in the pews, seeking peace amid the mild chaos of tourists. I wander around, then sit for a short while, drinking it all in. I gasp for the bright sunshine that I left behind. With a minor twinge of guilt, I yank open the heavy doors, hesitate a moment, then escape.