Bienvenue/Welcome to Montreal

Because I love the idea of being a roaming TNG reporter, I’m filing this one from the road in Montréal. After a few days’ stopover at Cornell University, researching 1960s gay pornography (a post on this to follow in the next couple of weeks), I made my first trip to Canada in over a decade. I’ll be leaving tomorrow for Toronto, but I can’t resist jotting down a few impressions of Montréal. So, to start off an article filled with overgeneralizations based on minimal experience, let’s go with a painfully obvious joke perpetuating just one more stereotype about Canadian speech patterns—Here’s all I have to say a-boot Montréal:

I arrived in Montréal last Saturday evening, right before the final day of the city’s gay pride week, Divers/cite. While Montréal’s constant rain depressed turnout somewhat, it was fun to note the differences with, say, D.C. Gay Pride. As opposed to the moveable feast that is the gay ghetto in D.C. (“It’s Dupont Circ…oh, wait, sorry, we’re in Loga—oops, Shaw, Shaw, all gays must now move into Shaw!”), Montréal’s, the Village gai, is firmly entrenched. Young gents smile down from signs advertising bathhouses as guys stream in and out of Priape, the S&M/fetish shop, share coffee and conversation at any of the numerous outdoor cafés, or cruise each other in a distant, standoffish way. There are women about, but few enough that it’s a noticeably male crowd. It’s a good thing the friend I was staying with suggested that we bring ear plugs, because the music blasting from the main stage’s speakers was bracingly, obscenely loud. Even with my ears blocked, the standard gay-techno-thump echoed through my chest. I managed to muster a smile for the camera, though. In the pic, I’m twenty feet to the right of an invisible mass of shirtless, muscled 40-somethings. As opposed to D.C., where shirts coming off at Pride can sometimes be attributed to the June heat, the last day of Divers/cite was cool and rainy: these fellows just wanted to show off.

Speaking of fellows, those TNG readers who complain about D.C.’s common khaki-and-braided-belt prep look would have a ball in Montréal. While my observations are no doubt biased by spending most of my time in the Mont Royal/Plateau and “McGill University ghetto” neighborhoods, the typical young guy walking down the street sports a definite indie/grunge look. Even these guys, however, seem to follow the unspoken rule of living in Montréal: Thou Shalt Look Put Together at All Times. Every young person, not to mention a very high percentage of those into their 50s, is displaying a look. I’ve never been in a city, not even New York, with such a high percentage of (to steal a phrase from The Kinks) dedicated followers of fashion. The girls all look pale and tragic and like they just stepped off a runway. The boys have artful scruff or hairline beards and a blank look to the eyes. Hands are manicured, thin is in, and t-shirts worn alone are verboten. Even in D.C., I’m vastly less fashionable than everyone else, which made blending into the streets of Montréal a fun challenge. By my last day, I threw on black jeans, black shoes, and a collared shirt, along with a practiced expression of vague insouciance. Perfect…or at least passable.

Possessing a knowledge of schoolboy-French, at a minimum, definitely helps if you’re coming here. Owing to the wave of French nationalism throughout Québec, there are laws that require French first, English second (if at all). This leads to the amusing sight of “Café Starbucks Coffee” signs, although Starbucks isn’t the every-street-corner affair you find in D.C. Here, it’s forced to compete with a Euro-clone, Café Second Cup, and the red-scrawled letters advertising Tim Horton’s. It’s not that any American would feel out of place, with Starbucks, Old Navy, and Urban Outfitters throwing out the shingle on one avenue alone, and with almost all the residents at least partially bilingual. But it does ease the interactions with those who do not look favorably on non-French speakers. When I asked if a clerk spoke English, I accompanied the request with eyes downcast and a murmured ‘Je viens des Etats-Unis’ to at least show that I was apologetic about my crappy French abilities. Maybe it’s The Bush Effect, but everyone seems to expect less of Americans, too. Sad but true, so you might as well use it to your advantage.

While everyone in Montréal is better-dressed than you are and in-shape, it seems evident that residents spend their time doing nothing but eating. This is a logical conclusion based on the number of restaurants. You cannot turn around twice without stumbling past another eating establishment. True, 70% of them are closed at the exact time you’re the hungriest – either because they don’t serve breakfast, don’t serve lunch, don’t serve dinner, or have gone on vacation, making me feel like I am in a week-long Philadelphia. (What’s a Philadelphia? See, I aim to be a full-service columnist: I make travel and literature recommendations simultaneously. Read David Ives’s wicked short play, “The Philadelphia,” to find out. Just don’t give me your goddamn Philadelphia while you’re at it.) I’ve honestly never been in a city where so many shops and restaurants go on vacation, but hey, it’s August and I’m on vacation myself, so no sweat. When I’ve found a restaurant that’s open and serving, the food has been excellent. A cosmopolitan city, there’s also every imaginable kind of ethnic food to compete with the diners and American chains that infest the downtown area.

While the taller buildings of the downtown area suggest New York City, I’ve found the neighborhoods (outside of European-styled Old Montréal) to resemble D.C. If, say, Adams Morgan and Mt. Pleasant got together and spawned a French baby, it would look like the Rue St. Denis or the Rue Mont Royal. The mix of eateries, clothing boutiques, salons (there’s a reason everyone’s coif looks perfect), record shops, and bookstores make window-shopping and wandering fun. On the negative side, every third person has a cigarette in hand and there are waves of acrid smoke outside the shops, so if (cough) you have sensitive lungs, you’ll be either holding your breath or not lasting long strolling the streets. On the other hand, there’s always the possibility of interaction with the locals because cell phones and I-Pods have not taken over life in Montréal as they have in so many other cities. Residents don’t seem to feel the urge to create a personal bubble and disengage from their surroundings, so it isn’t that hard to start a conversation with a fellow shopper if you feel the urge.

I’ve had a wonderful time here. I’ve hiked up Mont Royal, walked among the outdoor statuary near the banks of the Lac du Castors, sipped coffee with my blueberry waffle inside a creperie. I can see why the friends I’m staying with love this place, with its mix of large and small city, the beautiful outdoor areas just a few kilometers from the bustle of the avenues, the crashing together of English and French. I have a feeling that one day I’ll return, spend more days, try new neighborhoods. But for now, I’m just glad my trip is almost done. I’ve missed D.C. It’s time to return home.