Montreal Day 3-Oy, more stairs!

Mark Twain once said of Montreal that you couldn't throw a stone there without breaking a church window. This was one thing I noticed even on the bus trip in from the airport. The city was dotted with green copper spires and domes, mile after mile, neighborhood after neighborhood, easily competing with Lubbock for being churchier than thou. They all seemed to be Catholic, naturally, but I assumed there were a few teeny Protestant churches around, maybe some synagogues and mosques, but they didn't have the same visibility.

We did indeed visit one more church on this last day, but first I needed a bagel. Glenn had already scouted out the bagel cafe we were going to, in yet another quaint busy district, along the Metro. I kind of lost track of exactly which district we were in after awhile, what with traveling like moles underground and just popping up in another place. Anyway, charming cafe, bagels, lattes, what more can I say? Afterwards we headed over to the Mont Royal area to see a huge church called the Oratorio of St. Joseph (see above), at the highest point in the city and boasting the second largest dome in the world, EVER, after St. Peter's in Rome. Getting there involved as much stair climbing and levels as the pyramids in Mexico, but after panting our way up we were rewarded with a really nice view of the city. The church interior itself had actually been described in a travel guide as either inspiring or forbidding, depending on your taste. It was definitely massively masculine in nature, whereas the previously described Basilica of Notre Dame was much lighter and more feminine. This interior, by comparison, was grey and monumental and quite modern, looking like it might have been designed by Howard Roark from The Fountainhead. (this is not in any way an endorsement of Ayn Rand---puhleeeeze.... merely an observation). The walls had large wood carved apostles that were each about 20 feet tall, looking solemn and aescetic, and a giant abstract metal sculpture crown of thorns hovered over the altar, like a spacecraft. I felt small and insignificant and slightly chastised. However, we later went outside and walked among the hilly gardens built around and behind the church, and they were absolutely beautiful. We followed a leafy, shaded path up past beautifully tended plants and flowers, and every few feet there would be a grotto-like space with a stone sculpture from the life of Jesus, and a place to sit and contemplate. I felt so much more comfortable out in this lovely, secluded place then inside under that heavy stone and concrete.
At this point we had decided to check into a hotel our last night, as the dorm was, well, a dorm, and a little plain and a little drab, so Glenn found a reasonable place online called Hotel Labelle Suites. It was downtown a block from a Metro station so we packed up and hauled our things over there in a taxi, since many of the Metro stations did not have escalators, only stairs, and I didn't want us to be hauling three suitcases, two shoulder bags, and a computer laptop bag, up two flights of Metro stairs, not to mention trying to drag them into the train before the doors closed. The hotel, even though in a bustling part of town, turned out to be on a block of abandoned businesses so it just sat there at the end looking all alone, and all very Sixties. It must have been built to accomodate the crowds who would show up for the Expo '67 World's Fair. I expected it to be worn and shabby inside but it had been updated recently and was clean and respectable. It seemed to cater to college students who wanted an upgrade from a hostel, or to families on a budget, since each room had a small kitchenette and cooking supplies provided. The lobby was very small, and the brown leather chairs were so old they were cobwebbed with cracks and creaked loudly when sat in, but the staff was friendly and efficient, and the room was simple but decent.
Our final meal in Montreal was at a lovely restaurant named Express. Glenn knew the way and he knew the menu. It was a white linen tablecloth kind of place, but still very reasonable considering the quality of the food. I enjoyed the fact that Montreal is a place that does not suck the dollar bills out of your pocket, and that good food is not overdone and overpriced. Glenn and I shared a perfect quiche for an appetizer. It's all in the flaky crust, and cooking the eggs not one second too long. For the main course we had ravioli, but this was definitely not your Fazzoli's ravioli. It was thin, thin delicate pastries enveloping spinach and chicken, then covered in a luscious mushroom and red wine sauce. Magnifique! And for dessert a triangle of chocolate tart so rich I had to muffle my yummy sounds.
That evening we went down to the promenade at the edge of the river for the gathering parade of families and tourists, street performers and teenagers, all enjoying the long twilight of summer. We saw a juggler who had gathered a crowd, a bit of a comedian, who was talking so rapidly in both English and French that he would start a sentence in one language and finish in another, and still we all understood him. Since we had to get up at 4:00 a.m. to catch our flight out, we made it an early night and didn't stay to see the fireworks that apparently are set off every night over the river during the summer. We did, however hear and see them from our hotel window later that night, lighting up the sky. Bon Soir Montreal.