A Weekend in Montreal

July 12-13 – When deciding on this jaunt to the eastern portion of the US, it was one town, one cottage. Then we chose to add an island. Niagara Falls is on the way. Going to Montreal seemed a logical next step. And after the cottage on the coast of Maine, I added a week in a place I couldn’t pass up — Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. Mike said we had to tour Nova Scotia and he wanted to see St. John in New Brunswick. Four weeks grew into an unbelievable ten, not counting travel time.

When finally, with everything neatly compiled, and my travel plans inserted into a lengthy itinerary, I was most excited about Niagara Falls (it didn’t disappoint), staying on Monhegan Island for a week and walking their seventeen miles of trails, painting on the screened-in porch of our cottage by the bay in Searsport —

— and shopping in the Montreal Public Markets. And today is the day. A foodie at heart I do love farmers markets; making a beeline for them. Always.

Saturday

The Montreal Metro

We head for the Metro which will take us to Jean Talon Market—one of the oldest public markets in Montreal and one of the biggest in North America. Michael leads the way.

We find the Metro entrance and walk down the steps to a very deserted underground. This seems wrong. No one is here. What looks like an information office is closed up tight. There are no steps leading down to the trains, only stairs leading up to the street and we can’t read the signs that are, of course, in French. Mike turns to walk back the way we came, then turns again heading up the stairs in the opposite direction. Daylight. Another Metro entrance. Another deserted terminal. But someone is in the ticket booth.

“Do you speak English,” I ask.

“The woman behind the glass puts her thumb and forefinger together saying, “Just a little bit.”

I speak very slowly, trying to enunciate as best I can, when in perfect English I hear, “I was just pulling your leg. My mother was an English teacher. How can I help you?”

Even strangers it seems can tell my middle name is gullible.

I am fascinated with the walls of the empty subway; narrow rainbows of color separated by deeply jagged lines of cement. No way can graffiti touch these unguarded walls.

Jean Talon Market

We emerge from the subway several blocks from the market and follow people wheeling empty carts and carrying empty bags. I have my own empty bag tucked away in my purse. I’m buying dinner for tonight, not having a clue what it is going to be.

We walk into a fish monger’s which both delights and dismays me. So many choices. A HOT day and no ice in my bag equal disaster. There are individual specialty markets for porc—porc everything. Canard. Bœuf. Veau. Agneau. The bacon entices, but I walk on. I find veal chops in a market specializing in veau and poulet and am seduced. The chops are beautiful; the pricing very reasonable. I change kilograms to pounds and calculate veal chops in Montreal are $10 a pound less than at Central Market in Austin.

The produce is beautiful. Baby carrots and rainbow carrots—seemingly impossible to find at home—are everywhere. I want to buy it all, and by the time I have my bag loaded with a seeming twenty pounds of various and sundry things, Michael claims I did buy it all, especially as he hauls it up our thirty-five steps and into our tiny kitchen. He thinks he needs a nap. So — he naps.

Tapas, Dinner, and Fireworks

After stashing the groceries, I believe that Michael also needs a reward for his patience. We head to a local tapas bar for drinks and frites. Back at home, a simple dinner is on the table in record time. Mozart piano concertos accompany us as we sip deep red wine and dine on the deliciousness of perfectly cooked veal chops bathed in a mustard sauce that is studded with shallots. We finish the wine sitting in our cozy living room and decide to step out the door into the night; serendipity guiding us. Always.

Unexpectely, the eastern sky explodes with fireworks.

We tumble wearily into bed at eleven. I sleep like a baby.

Sunday

Montreal Museum of Fine Art

A Faberge exhibit is in town, not to be missed, and even though rain threatens we head out the door. Umbrella-less we stop and make a purchase. Mike declines the option of purchasing one for himself, for although they are all small, they are full of flowers and rainbows. By the time we walk to the metro, he is damp. By the time we walk from the metro to the museum, he is WET.

Nothing is easy. Originally walking the wrong way to get here, when we finally arrive, the door is locked. I hear, “Charlotte are you sure it is open today.”

I look across the street and see a newer, modern building—it claims to be the Montreal Museum of Fine Art—but so does the one before us. There are long lines for tickets; everyone eager to see the treasures of Nicholas and Alexandra. I walk to the gift shop while Mike buys tickets, hoping to find a less girlie small umbrella. They are here. They are very up-market. So are the prices.

Tickets in hand we walk up stairs, down halls, down stairs, up stairs, and down more halls, crossing under the street to emerge in the building that was locked. More than one hundred stair steps later we walk into the exquisite world of Faberge. It is stunning. No wonder the Russian people revolted! The wide gap between the haves and have-nots is more than apparent in these small nonessential jewel-like treasures.

It seems highly unusual, but everyone is taking pictures. Guiltily, afraid of a reprimand, I begin clicking away trying to capture these treasures, wishing I could hold one. Just once.