Here's a rather provincial approach to indexing my Canadian content:
(With profuse apologies for the preceding pun. I'm so ashamed.)
I never seem to visit Montréal in good weather. Either it's
the rainy season or, more likely, the dead of winter when I'm invited
to come. It's fortunate that the city is such a pretty place, with
plenty of interesting neighborhoods to wander around and architecture
to admire while my feet freeze. I particularly like the look of the
row houses, although I'd think those long exposed stairways would be
awfully unpleasant when the wind blows and the ice makes walking such
a challenge. (Yes, I am a wimp. A couple of decades in California
will do that to a person.)
The building on the right looks particularly forbidding with the snow
and the gray sky, very Addams familyish. It's on the way up to Mount
Royal, the mountain from which the city takes its name. Funny that it
never occurred to me that Montréal comes from Mont Réal;
even I remember that much from French class!
Schwartz's deli is a local landmark, a source for Montréal's
deservedly famous smoked meat sandwiches (kind of halfway between
corned beef and pastrami) and a regular hangout for a late and
lamented local author, GQ columnist and general troublemaker by the
name of Mordecai Richler. The place is tiny, the menu limited, the ambience
completely absent. But the prices are low, the food is good (and
so good for you) and it is a worthwhile cultural
experience. One can't have too many of those.
Schwartz's was
immortalized recently in a 60 Minutes report about the battles over
French vs. English in Québec; they're in trouble with the official
language police over their signs. The problem isn't the sign outside,
which is appropriately lacking in English, but with the menu posted
inside. You're allowed to have English, it seems. You just can't
have English that's more than half the size of the French. Which is,
I assume, what led to the Francification of the restaurant on the
right. Chez la Mère Tucker just doesn't have the same zing as
the English version. Mother Tucker's is just so much easier on the
ear, even if it does sound a lot like one of the
Seven Words You Can
Never Say On Television.
This modern building near the old port houses part of the
Museum of
Archeology and History. The structure was built to preserve the
remains of the early settlement of the city and is linked via the old
sewer system to the old customs house. As impressive as the facility
is, I have a little trouble applying the term archeology to
such recent history. After all, we're talking about the arrival of
the 17th century French, not the 10th century Vikings. But it
is a great place to develop an understanding of the city's
beginnings.
The museum moves from the foundations of early buildings to multimedia
displays of the city's more recent history. And it concludes by
offering visitors a chance to leave their own mementos. What people
choose to leave says a lot about them, don't you think? Pictures,
stamps, a locket; these are to be expected. But what about the local
who left a (presumably unused) condom? Or the woman who dropped off
her wedding ring, with a note announcing her divorce? I'm guessing
that it wasn't the most pleasant of partings...
Canada was my first exposure to a foreign country, and Toronto was my
first exposure to Canada. A four hour drive from the RIT campus in
upstate New York, Toronto was the closest thing to a real city we
could find. (Buffalo didn't qualify.) Here we had access to real
bookstores, restaurants, museums (the Ontario Science Center was a
particular favorite) and other amusements. And after growing up in New York, Toronto was a bit of a
revelation: an big and exciting city that has somehow found a way to
be both clean and friendly.
These days I have a whole new appreciation for the city, with its
juxtaposition of historical and modern architecture in a variety of
styles. Every block downtown seems to have this crazy combination of
contrasting styles, like the sight of that old brick government
building reflected in the mirrored glass of an office tower across
the street. Or Queen Street just a couple of blocks to the west,
where a building can have a trendy restaurant downstairs and a tattoo
and body piercing parlor above.
Toronto is also a city with a sense of humor, even if I'm not always
sure whether I'm supposed to laugh. I walk down Queen Street,
doing my best to notice all of the interesting detail of the funky shops
and restaurants. I'm fascinated by the City TV building, with its unique
approach to wall decoration. And then I'm stopped in my tracks by
the bistro on the right. Formerly Jimmy's Barbershop, the
sign reads. Is
this a joke? Was it really a barbershop before? Why would they
bother memorializing that fact on the sign? Are they still cutting
hair in a back room? Or was the bistro formerly
called Jimmy's Barbershop? Which makes even less sense.
Don't you hate it when they play games with your head like that?
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