Treating myself to an outing

Poem at Ottawa's railway station

Train journeys really appeal to me, and to other people it seems, as witnessed by the poem that's displayed these days in the ViaRail station on Tremblay Road, Ottawa. A translation into English is displayed too, on the other side of the entrance, but it's not as good as the original.

My husband being in Vienna, I took myself off to Montreal this morning, just to wander about in the streets and shops and enjoy myself. I didn't go on the metro but once out of the Gare Centrale I walked everywhere, without needing a map. I had lunch in the Vieux Montreal crêperie (Café Muru Crêpe) that I remembered from a few years back, and my "Crêpe d'Accord"there with a café au lait came up to expectations in all respects.

Then I lingered in the Marché Bonsecours with its attractive boutiques, walked through the Vieux Port and Chinatown, then past the Place des Arts and so back to the city centre in the vicinity of McGill University, shopping (or "just looking," mostly) in a perfunctory sort of way. I'm not the world's most avid shopper and my feet and legs got too weary for me to consider visiting a museum as well; anyhow I was quite happy without that, today. The weather had cleared up by lunchtime.

Shades of Paris in the "Square Victoria"

View down rue Bonsecours (after lunch)

Place des Arts, Montreal

The former concourse of Windsor Station

Before getting back to the station I made another detour to take a look at the old Gare Windsor that came into service in 1889 but is a station no longer. It is an imposing building on the outside, nicely preserved inside, and seems to be haunted by the shades of early 20th century immigrants moving westwards in droves, or of Canadian sailors, soldiers or airmen moving to and from the great World Wars through that former ticket office and concourse. It was deserted this afternoon except for a few early home bound commuters taking a short cut through there to reach the metro at Bonaventure.

The train ride home took me towards the sunset all the way that I could appreciate from my window seat.

Speeding home across the Ottawa River, west of Montreal

Happy-go-lucky Montreal

Nighttime view from the hotel

The ride from Ottawa to Montreal in the business class coach of a ViaRail train is fun. We were served a hot meal supplemented by a series of treats including alcoholic beverages and leant back to read our books and magazines by lamplight as the dark, snowy scenery flashed by and the moon rose. Once at Montreal's central station, we had the luxury of being able to glide up the escalator from the station straight into the lobby of our hotel, Le Reine Elizabeth (I assume the masculine article denotes the gender of the hotel, not the Queen) which once again had offered an inexpensive deal for the last two nights of December; to take advantage of it, we'd booked the rooms in November. This is a tastefully decorated, sensibly organised hotel, with soft beds, good quality coffee machines in the rooms, and the bathroom fittings in ergonomically suitable places, which is more than you can say elsewhere. I have slept in 20-something different hotels during this last year, so I appreciate such details. At the Q.E. they give you enough towels, they remember to replace the used shampoo bottles and the bedroom windows can be opened: more plus points. The management also saw to it that our neighbouring room was uninhabited from Dec.31st to Jan. 1st after the previous occupants had woken us up noisily by partying at 4am, the previous night.

Morning view of Place Ville Marie

It might be my imagination, but the citizens of Montreal seem more relaxed than the people who live in Ottawa or Toronto. The massive snow clearing job Montreal needed last weekend (le déneigement following a record snowfall of 45 cm "... 2 cm de plus que le record établi en mars 1971") had been left uncompleted; the sidewalks still deeply covered on Sunday night and Monday morning, so that it felt like slipping up and down sand dunes, even along a main thoroughfare like Sherbrooke Street. This is because Quebec snow-clearing crews stopped work after reaching their official overtime limit, and so they should. Nobody seems to mind.

Gateway to Montreal's Chinatown

My leg muscles are still feeling it, though, because we stumbled through the snow for quite a distance on our sorties from the hotel. First to breakfast at Nickels Deli on Ste. Catherine's as on previous occasions, then east to UQAM and the Place des Arts, then down the hill through the red light district and Chinatown, up the hill to Vieux Montréal and down again to the waterfront (ice front, rather). I got snow down the back of my boots from climbing on a berm to take a photo of some extraordinary graffiti decorating the wall of the "Mission Old Brewery."

Horses pulled calèches trundle along the streets, which looks romantic, with furs and blankets provided for the passengers, but I feel sorry for the horses (this sort of tourist attraction has recently been banned in London and Paris) who wear blinkers, jerk at their harnesses and probably suffer greatly from the cold wind and the present conditions underfoot.

Calèche, Old Port

Place Jacques Cartier, daytime

Rue de la Commune by the Old Port

Towers of Notre Dame Basilica

Christmas shoppers on rue Ste-Catherine, seen from Les 3 Brasseurs

On Monday afternoon we stopped at another brewery, jam packed with customers, Les 3 Brasseurs, for lunch; Elva and Carol had a Flammkuchen between them, like the one I'd eaten a few weeks ago at Stuttgart airport, and the rest of the gang shared two-thirds of my quesadillas. After that I repaired to the hotel for an hour or two of precious oblivion before setting out for supper, 25 minutes' walk away in the Old Port at Le Bourlingueur for a New Year's Eve supper, viz (my choice):

Verrine de saumon et avocat et coriandre
Soupe au cresson
Pétoncles rôties sur lit de poireaux
Tarte tatin aux pommes et sa glace vanille caramel fondant 

New Year's Eve in Montreal: Place Jacques-Cartier at 11pm

Notre-Dame angels

The restaurant was a cosy place with an Alsatian theme, with a metre thick stone walls and little windows overlooking the horses on the rue St-François-Xavier. The waiters and chefs were from France (eg. from Corsica and the Auvergne). No background music whatsoever was playing. Hooray for that; the seven of us could have a proper conversation. At the end of the meal we were enticed along the rue St-Paul by the attractive old buildings and Christmas lights. By 11pm a huge crowd of revellers, waiting for the New Year fireworks, had already gathered in the Place Jacques-Cartier to be entertained from the animateurs and animatrices on stage there. What a noise. The amplified music made the whole body vibrate. It was envigorating for a few minutes but we old fogies didn't fancy standing there for an hour in the cold to wait for the climax, so we ambled back against the opposite flow of the arriving crowds to the comfort of our hotel, passing the front of Notre-Dame with its three blue Christmas angels and other photogenic sites.

On our way back to the hotel

Our corner of the hotel lobby with its palms and poinsettias and leather armchairs was so quiet and comfortable (especially after Carol had contributed a bottle of ice wine to the occasion) and Chris' Predictions for 2013 quiz so enthralling (!) that we missed the Turn of the Year altogether. Suddenly somebody looked at his watch and said, "It's gone midnight!" Oh well, never mind.

Happy New Year!

Good start

Some of the steps

On the first day of the New Year my sister climbed a mountain in Wales (dusted with hoar frost), 886 m, and I climbed Mount Royal in Montreal (thoroughly covered in snow), 233 m. My walk with Chris and three of our friends was less rural than hers, and the views from the top less wild, but there were moments when, looking around, I could have sworn I was far from a city, and the air up there was fresh in every sense. The wind chill in Montreal today was a cheek-numbing -20º, but the south side of the mountain sheltered us from the wind and the exertion warmed us up considerably. The sky was deep blue and the sunshine dazzling.

Mt. Yamaska, from the lookout

Montrealers do know how to enjoy themselves. People wearing broad smiles, scarves and furry hats were pushing themselves up and down the hill on skis or snowshoes and children were rolling about on the slopes on all kinds of sledges; below the path we followed we could also see skaters on a frozen pond. We had to trudge up >400 steps and some upward sloping paths to reach the "chalet" by the Kondiaronk Belvedere––well worth the effort for the splendid views of the city and the Monteregian Hills on the horizon––the chalet being a large hall built in the style of a hunting lodge decorated with massive fireplace, heraldic shields, maps of La Nouvelle France, and rows of stone squirrels, its construction a means of employment for manual labourers during the 1930s Depression. Small children were running around in the big, bright indoor space and we adults were fascinated by the romantic-historic paintings hung near the ceiling, revealing how Canada saw itself in those days (as John commented).

John and I (well wrapped) at the lookout, photo by Chris

Interestingly, a large proportion of the people up there today were Chinese.

We followed the Olmsted trail for a couple of kilometres round the circumference of the hilltop, to the Cross of Mount Royal, past the more modern erections (the transmitter tower and candelabra tower) that share the summit with it. I preferred looking at the snow and ice laden trees. Returning to the chalet with Chris and John we found that Carol and Don had arrived there too. Time for a hot chocolate from the drinks dispenser before we set off along the serpentine trail to the McGill University campus, thus avoiding some of the slippery steps on our way down.

Gory scene in the chalet (battle of Long Sault)

The extensive floor space in the chalet

Downtown Montreal! John and Chris on the Olmsted trail.

Carol and Chris going downhill

Chris, Carol, Don and John walking down the mountain

More about Montreal in my next post.

Don't do it again

I don't suppose I can match last year's account of our trip to Montreal to see the New Year in; best not try too hard. In any case it's always a mistake to repeat an experience a year later and expect the same degree of satisfaction.

Having said that, I personally relished the trip from start to finish, especially the journeys to and fro in the business class coach of the train (we'd bought "supersaver" tickets) with full meals and wine on board. After feeling unwell after Christmas I had my appetite back by the other end of the week.

Our New Year's Eve supper at the Plein Sud restaurant on Ave. Mont-Royal didn't seem to reach quite the same height of perfection as it had on December 31st, 2010, probably because we were expecting that it would. From the chef's point of view the menu wasn't quite so ambitious. The restaurant was more crowded this year; maybe he feels he has established his reputation and doesn't need to make so much of an impression these days. We sat at exactly the same table for eight as before. I gather the magret de canard au foi gras didn't taste as good as last year's beef, although my choice, dos de morue grillée à l’unilatérale, crème de langoustines, turned out to be a superb dish.

New Year's Day skaters, Montreal

Chris wants me to mention that the ancient philosopher Heraclitus (according to Plato) claimed that you cannot step twice into the same river. You certainly wouldn't want to step into the St. Lawrence in Montreal as it was flowing very rapidly past the Île Ste. Hélène and freezing rapidly over in the backwaters. Ocean going ships with ice-breaking hulls were moored in the docks near the Science Centre (closed on January 1st). The old port was lively despite the winter with families skating to music on the Quays Skating Rink (note the webcam on that page).

At midnight when the New Year began we were all at the Old Port with our feet in the snow (slippery ice not far below it), watching the fireworks go off to cheers from the thousands of Montrealers celebrating. We had hiked 3km from the Avenue Mont-Royal, down St.-Laurent Blvd (aka The Main, Mordecai Richler's hangout) with all its nightclubs, the queues outside spilling off the sidewalks into the street, the girls in their mini skirts oblivious to the cold, or pretending to be, their high heels slipping in the slush. That style of dress didn't suit many of them. Walking through the fumes of marijuana and noticing the rows of ambulances lying in wait we speculated as to what it must be like inside the clubs. None of us had any desire to find out. Chris and I felt more at home once we reached the edge of China town where the people looked more demure.

Wall of cuddly toys, Big Bang exhibition

On New Year's Eve we repeated last year's behaviour all day, starting with breakfast in a group at Nickels on Ste. Catherine, then going our separate ways, Chris and I to the bookshop near McGill University, then to the Musée des Beaux Arts, then to the shops where we both bought new winter boots in the sales.

This year's special art exhibitions weren't as grim as last year's Otto Dix show. Chris was taken by the ironic painting by the American artist Mark Tansey that shows a cluster of artists with outdoor easels trying to capture the impossible, a shuttle lift-off from Cape Canaveral. We found the modern art––the Big Bang collection of carte blanche ideas from twenty different Quebec artists, plus the permanent exhibits––both provocative and entertaining, and while we were looking round the museum, John, Jill and Laurie turned up to join us there. We were all impressed by the En Masse black and white graffiti room and by the colourful wall of stuffed animals juxtaposed with (facing) a medieval stone Head of Christ,

"Cet incroyable Tête de Christ du XIIe siècle nous désarme par l’intensité pénétrante de son regard. En face, des centaines de peluches nous dévisagent."

Detail

John made the observation that we might be meant to think that the fluffy toys were modern society's substitute for Jesus, giving people the same warm and cuddly feeling that religion has traditionally supplied.

After that we went to look at the French impressionists and expressionists.

In Montreal, a little extra

We drove all the way to Montreal and back yesterday for the sake of supper with friends (Ottawa friends!) on the rue Ontario. The restaurant where we had a booking is Au Petit Extra beside the Lion d'Or cabaret hall.

The journey there, with Chris driving and Dan along as passenger telling us stories of youth and his family (who were miners in Sydney, Cape Breton), took us along a pretty route by the deep blue Ottawa River and through the late autumn countryside, the horizons clear and the sky and water all pink at sunset as we crossed the bridge onto the Île de Montréal. Highways 40 and 15 through the city suburbs were less attractive but we easily found our way downtown and arrived with an hour to spare, parking on the rue Papineau. After that, the excursion began to acquire added interest. Dan is married to Gianluca Ragazzini (a colleague and friend of my own husband at work) and Gianluca, meeting us in Montreal after a choir rehearsal, was waiting at the bar opposite our parking spot, Le Stud. I have never knowingly entered a gay bar before (only by accident in London once, when my mother wanted somewhere immediate to sit down with a pot of tea) and was immediately struck by the fact that all the people there were large men in black leather, talking loudly. Wearing a fluffy white jacket, I probably stood out in that crowd. We later learned that this place is popular with the "bear" community (unfamiliar with the vocabulary, we had to have it explained) and that a few years ago there had been quite a scandal when a young woman called Audrey Vachon had been bounced from there for intruding on the men's exclusive domain.

They didn't treat me like that; actually we weren't on the premises for more than a few minutes (Chris, to my amusement, nervously trying to make himself inconspicuous at the doorway) before the four of us walked on towards the restaurant, taking in the sights of Le Village Gai along the rue Ste. Catherine, with all its rainbow flags. Many same sex couples were strolling by and the magazines on sale in the shops were definitely customer specific.

Au Petit Extra is up the hill from there and round the corner, past old, Montreal style tenement buildings with their curving outdoor staircases. We discovered the restaurant to be a subdued, elegant place where Gianluca and Dan, who have eaten there many times before, knew the staff. We met the other couple in our party, Steve and Mary, who'd also driven in from Ottawa, and sat down to our meal. The service was excellent, as was the food, prepared in a seriously professional kitchen. My choice was

• aiguillettes de canard fumé et mâche à l'orange 
• mahi-mahi à la caponate
• gâteau framboise-pistache

Above the menu chalked on the wall, I noticed a letter written in the same hand-writing (by our waitress):

Ami Jean, 

Voici trois ans que tu nous quittais. Après bien des larmes, on s'est retroussé les manches et le navire vogue toujours. Tu le reconnaîtrais sans peine. Le Lion d'Or surgit de plus belle et le Petit Extra pourfend*  le temps. Nous pensons souvent à toi et, à bien des égards, tu es toujours là. 

Tu sera bientôt grand-père. Le savais-tu?

On t'embrasse tous.

* = fights against, a fencing term

I told her it was a lovely letter and asked her about it. Apparently the restaurant's former co-proprietor had died three years ago last night; it was written to him.

On leaving we walked back to the car down the avenue Papineau past a 19th century brick church emblazoned with garish, coloured lights, spelling out the message: Le salaire de ton péché c'est l'enfer (presumably a paraphrase of Le salaire de ton péché c'est la mort.)

"My favourite church in Montreal," said Gianluca, with heavy sarcasm.

*****

The day after I published this post came an announcement in the Ottawa Citizen that Ottawa now officially has a Gay Village too.

Our jaunt to Montreal

I thought I had better describe the Otto Dix exhibition in a separate post. Apart from that worthwhile but upsetting experience, we spent a very cheerful time in Montreal.

Carol, Don, Elva, Laurie, Jill, John, Chris and I had seats booked in the business class car of the outward bound train on Thursday evening. The fare included the cost of a very nice meal, a choice of drinks (wine, beer, whisky...) on board and the use of a "Panorama Lounge" offering complimentary hot drinks and newspapers before departure. I don't want to sound like an advert for Via Rail, but we appreciated this. We sat together, served by a suitably obsequious waiter who had to deal with only four other people at the far end of an otherwise empty coach, so he was in a good mood. He gave us an extra box of chocs at the end which we set aside for the economy class return leg. Since we didn't set off until after nightfall, we saw little of the scenery in either direction.

The meal, lasting for half the way to Montreal, began with cheese with grapes. Then there was a Thai curry with Jasmine rice with "a water chestnut and red pepper-bean medley" and a chocolate square with caramel and almonds. At the end of the journey, all we had to do was find the correct escalator from the station concourse up to the lobby of the Queen Elizabeth hotel, lavish with poinsettias and Christmas trees, and check in to our rooms on the 15th floor. Ours had a good view.

We met for a walk under the Christmas lights around the McGill University area, entertained by the tottering high heels and mini skirts worn by the young females of the city, before retiring for the night.

We had breakfast next morning at Nickels on Maisonneuve, a 1950s style diner decorated with icons of the '50s, the picture on the stairway to the washooms being this one. After that Chris and I headed towards the exhibition at the Beaux Arts Museum via a bookshop where he picked up some more resources for his latest history studies. Reeling from our immersion in Otto Dix and his art, we stopped at Wrapcity Gourmet before wandering back to our hotel room to put the books down, where I lay on the bed and didn't wake up again until nearly 5. Meanwhile, Chris joined the others' shopping spree and, encouraged by Carol and Elva, would have bought himself a new jacket if it hadn't been for the long queue at the cash desk.

After my siesta, Carol, Chris and I swam in the hotel pool and sat in the whirlpool, meeting the others in the lobby at 7. Most of our party had walked for miles round the Vieux Port that day so during our 4km walk to supper at Plein Sud I must have been the least footsore. Jill, who had made the booking, promised us a good supper. The night was mild, the snow beside the damp streets rapidly melting. With Laurie's iPhone GPS and Jill's memory of her home city for guidance we made our way along rue Sherbrooke, crossing St Urbain, St. Laurent, etc., crossed the Carré St Louis, then went up lively rue St Denis for six blocks till we found our destination street, Ave. Mont Royal. We arrived at the restaurant on time, just before 8 o'clock.

Our supper, cooked by the family from Bordeaux and served with three bottles of wine, not to mention the Kir, was nothing less than superb. From the menu displayed on a blackboard behind our table, I had the ...

KIR ACCOMPAGNÉ DE SES TAPAS (the tapas being little tarts filled with foamed goat's cheese––espuma de chèvre frais––and finely chopped herbed tomatoes) 

BOUCHÉE AUX PETONCLES ET PLEUROTES CREME AUX POIREAUX AU VIN BLANC LIQUOREUX (a vol-au-vent with scallops and mushrooms) 

A blurred picture of our supper table

SALADE DE ROQUETTE AUX DES DE FOIE GRAS, JAMBON DE MAGRET ET POMMES CARAMELISÉES (wonderfully flavoured arugula leaves) 

FILET DE BŒUF AU FOIE GRAS CRU ET SEL DE GUÉRANDE, DEMI-GLACE A L’ARMAGNAC, POMMES DAUPHINES ET HARICOTS VERTS (mmm! the meat tender beyond words)

MILLEFEUILLE AU CHOCOLAT ET CREME DE MARRONS AU CARAMEL A LA FLEUR DE SEL

The mysterious balls at midnight

The "caramel" and other garnishing sauces were blobbed onto our plates (none of them circular) in various interesting ways. What a work of art. The restaurant was quiet and cosy, besides, and we sat near the window through which we could see that it had begun to pour with rain. We did Chris' annual New Year's Predictions quiz between courses and found out who'd won last year's. It was Chris, who ceremoniously presented himself with the prize: a book about Ancient Persia. You can imagine the comments around the table.

Though the others opted for a ride home on the metro, Chris and I decided to return to the hotel on foot, a romantic walk through a quiet old quarter of the city (rue Laval) with midnight fast approaching. As 2010 switched into 2011, having wished one another a total of 40 happy new years to date, we were talking of transience and constancy in spite of change, and at that very moment were passing the fantastic glowing art installation at the Place des Arts, huge inflated balls that glowed from within and changed colour, blue, turquoise, purple and green. The rain was gently falling, but our coats dried out overnight.

On our way to and from the greenhouses

In the morning, another breakfast with the friends chez Nickels, after which I bought a mustard coloured, knitted tunic dress on sale in the hotel shop, and then we all took the metro to Pie IX for the Botanical Gardens, the greenhouses and Insectarium being open on New Year's Day, even though the cafeteria wasn't. I loved what I found in the greenhouses: the jungle plants that produce exotic spices, the hundreds of orchids in their subtle variety of shapes, textures and colours, the bamboo bridges, the little bananas growing on their stalk, the cacti displayed like a children's choir and the Chinese Garden of Weedlessness, the next best thing to being in China itself, where little Bonsai trees, some of them Chinese elms 75 years old or more, with tiny leaves, were displayed among the bamboo and the pointed rocks.

Chris liked the beetles best.