The John Lennon/Yoko Ono exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts

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.

Montreal- Day 2-Avast! Pirates!

Completely fooled by the grey light of dawn I woke up at 4 a.m.. Thanks, summer solstice in a northern country. Attempts to fall back asleep were not helped by a growling stomach. So eventually Glenn and I walked down to a local neighborhood breakfast spot, in a light drizzling rain, and had a nice little egg and bagel/coffee wake-up. Soon we were back on the Metro spilling out again at the edge of old Montreal and walking uphill to the Basilica of Notre Dame. This was the church that had the gorgeous, colorful interior space that dazzled the eye.
I will take a short sidebar here to mention that I am very...I guess the word is psychically or intuitively..... affected by buildings and interior spaces. I don't know how else to describe it. I just get an emotional reading from them. Many years ago when we took the kids to San Antonio we went to the Alamo. At one point we tourists were all shuffled into a small side room where all the women and children had been sent to huddle during the big battle with Santa Anna. I was only in there a few moments when I had to bolt and go outside to breathe. The space made me afraid and sad and uncomfortable. Even the Alamo itself made me feel agitated. I can walk into any place and feel safe, excited, repelled, sad, irritated, calm, etc. I never know. Stepping into churches is always interesting because many make me feel uncomfortable or oppressed or judged, some I get no reading at all, like they are spiritually flat, (and don't get me started on mega-churches with my anxiety around crowds and my suspicion of showbiz theatrics) but this Basilica felt calm and happy and uplifting. Good vibe, great maintenance and paint job.
After our tour we continued walking down to the archeological museum (see above right photo) along the river front. This was the day we actually walked our legs off, or at least down to nubs, but we came here to see the pirate exhibit, and a good thing too, because the permanent exhibit at this museum is a bunch of crumbling walls from the excavation of the old city, and pirates are always more exciting than crumbling walls. Yar, matey, the exhibit was designed to feel like you were walking the deck of an old ship. It was kind of cramped and darkly lit for atmosphere, plus there was a crowd already, but it was well-designed so that at various stations on the 'deck' you could read about pirate life and history, as well as learn sea terminology, view historical objects and weapons, and learn about daily life as a buccaneer. One exhibit showed various Jolly Roger flag designs, and when you flipped over to the back side it showed the pirate that flag was associated with and some of the dastardly deeds they had done. Yes, they were a scurvy bunch.
After the tour we went into a large Imax type auditorium to see a film presentation about the history of Montreal. This was entertaining in a detached, ironic way, because it was basically a propganda film for French Canadians. I have grown up on so much British and American propoganda/history lessons that it was amusing to see the world through proud French eyes. I learned all about the wonderful French explorers and settlers, how they and the local Indian tribes lived side by side (in fact, the French did actually co-habitate a lot better with the locals than the British, Spanish, or American settlers ever did), how those evil British invaders with their bad cooking and lack of fashion eventually stole Canada from the French, and then how many other nationalities all came to Montreal (Scottish, English, Irish at first, then everyone else in the 20th century) and all got along famously, making it the wonderful city it is today. I guess they skipped many barroom brawls, workers' strikes, and immigrant ghetto uprisings, but they only had 20 minutes to make their point.
We were released from the film to go down into the excavation area in the basement, which, as predicted, was a long warren of old, crumbling walls. Not even a dinosaur bone to liven it up. Still, it was a nice museum in a cool, modern building, with a lookout tower to gaze out over the St. Lawrence River.
It was time to be hungry again so Glenn took me to another cafe he had already sampled called Marche de la Villette. (see above left photo) This was my favorite place, or maybe it's a tie with the last place we ate before going home. Anyway, it was a deli-like atmosphere, but a deli more out of Provence, France than the U.S. Cheeses hanging everywhere, warm red walls, clutter, quaintness. It was small, busy, warm, and bustling with energy. Plus the waiters were friendly and cute (Glenn said the Frommer's travel guide listed the waiters here as "flirty"). Ours' had dimples, a charming smile, and dark tustled hair. No complaints. I ordered a cassoulet, which was glorified beans and sausage, just really well made and chock full of flavor, along with the standard crusty bread and wine. I kept thinking someone would start playing an accordian somewhere and sing an Edith Piaf song. "No, rien ne rien, no je ne regrete rien"..........If anyone goes to Montreal and wants atmosphere, this is the place to go.
Sometime after this, foot fatigue set in so we got on the Metro to head back to the dorm. We went underground at Victoria Station, which turned out to be an endless warren of shops and Galleria-like malls all strung together beneath the city. A shopper's delight, especially in bad weather. If I hadn't been so tired I would have explored more but the feet had failed me now. And it was here after we got on the Metro that I saw "the lovers". We were sitting there hurling along through the tunnels, trying to look blank and non-focused like everyone else when I saw a couple get on the metro in front of me then stand together as we took off again. The boy was young and tall and facing away from me. His partner was this tiny, petite woman with a tiny, boyish body and very short pixie haircut, who looked at least 15 years older than him. Her face was crinkled and slightly whizened, an odd face, both old and young at the same time, with tiny, almost beady eyes, like a mouse. She was leaning back against the door facing my direction but blocked by her boyfriend's body, and their arms were wrapped around each other. I only mention this non-incident because she was gazing up at him, with her old woman/young boy mouse eyes, and I have never seen anyone so obviously in love. It was almost like she was glowing and her eyes were on fire. Sometimes I read descriptions in books of people madly in love but I've never seen it so dramatically displayed in real life. I can still picture her face and its expression exactly in my mind because it had such a startling impression on me. I'm even puzzled that I'm writing about it, but I can't shake the image: "lovers on the metro". I hope he felt the same.
That second evening Glenn wanted to take me to a district near Mont Royal that had a street scene. It was near one of the universities and it was Friday night so everyone was out to party. One thing about all the neighborhoods and districts we visited weas that there were no free standing houses or residents anywhere. Like most urban cities people lived in apartments, but these were street after street of townhouses and row houses all locked together block after block in a collage of various architectural styles, from grey parisienne stone with mansard roofs, to 1930's Edward Hopper-like red brick, to Sixties boxy and plain, all glued together one after another. Many also had stores, cafes, and bars at the street level with all the residences above. We started at a terraced bar and just sat watching all the people slowly gather and begin the evening 'pub crawl', a mix of students, tourists, locals, and panhandlers. One very drunk, very stoned young man kept us amused for a long time reeling in front of our bar as we sat on the patio observing, until he saw two girls in mini skirts veer into the entrance and began a clumsy, futile trek after them.
However, we were soon hungry again and our waitress gently dissuaded us from even ordering their crappy food, since we were older than the rest of the clientele there for beer , nachos, and fries. So we took off wandering through the melee, the street feeling like a cleaner, less tacky version of Bourbon Street, New Orleans, minus the vomit and trash. We eventually went into a Sushi bar, a Sushi bar with bright pink crushed velour seats at the tables, and the worst service I have ever had in a restaurant. It was the only bad experience of the whole trip. An hour and a half waiting for sushi, long after our saki was gone (even though the food was pretty good) and having a waitress who seemed to spend her time chatting with the guy at the check out counter, as if she had the day off, was not the way to end such a nice day.