Meat Me at the Deli in Montreal

« Return to Montreal

Wherever I find myself in the world, talking to someone from somewhere, the river of conversation inevitably flows like this:
Them: Where are you from?
Me: I live in Vancouver, Canada.
Them: I hear that’s beautiful, but have you been to Montreal?
Me: It is, but no, I haven’t been to Montreal.
Them: Oh, I hear Montreal is the coolest place in Canada/North America/The Universe.
Me: I hear many things too, except buildings that burn down across the street while I’m sleeping [OK, I don't say that, but from now on I will, after a building burnt down across the street from where I was sleeping.]

So it was about time to discover if Montreal is the real cheese, le fromage royale. I was jetlagged half to hell from crossing an astonishing 10 time zones in 14 days, broke, cracked, burnt out, but now’s the time, the time was now because:

a) I had airmiles for a free flight, even if Air Canada insisted on flying me from Vancouver to Calgary, Calgary to Toronto, and finally Toronto to Montreal, return - those vicious bastards!
b) My friend Lili Wexu, possibly Montreal’s finest export and reigning queen of Vancouver’s live music scene, was going to be there to show me around, as;
c) She would be officiating at our friend’s Naomi and Mike’s wedding, legally marrying two people too impossibly good looking for their own good.

What more do you need than a free flight, a friendly guide, a couch, and an occasion (with an open bar) to visit anywhere! Sure, it would mean another week of hard boozing (liver don’t fail me now!), more time zones, and the somewhat troubling fact that I’d be picked up on my return and whisked off immediately to Vancouver Island to start the West Coast Trail - a seven day hike into the depths of physical pain. But after vagabonding on my brother’s couch in Vancouver, having my heart melted by my three-month old niece, I packed the backpack for my hike, a suitcase for Montreal, and here we go again, Modern Gonzo!

A good start. Turns out I just missed the latest terrorist nightmare when I flew out of London - in fact, I must have been on one of the last trans-Atlantic flights before authorities squashed a plot to blow me (and a couple thousand others) up over several U.S. cities. Having my ashes scatter over someone’s BBQ would have been a major inconvenience, far worse than the new regulations that prohibit liquids and gels on flights. But Air Canada did bump me up to a direct flight, even if the long line at YVR security snail-paced its way forward, officials expertly tossing expensive bottles of perfume and lip-gloss into an overflowing bin. It’s boom time for airport employees, who no doubt will smell better than ever in the months to come. Clocks forward, and bien venue a Montreal, the largest French-speaking city in the world, outside of Paris.

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