Alex has a mild obsession with the movie Amadeus. This comes from seeing it as a child, home with a cd, and her father thought it would be an interesting thing for her. Not Strawberry Shortcake, not The Care Bears, not My Little Pony … a movie based on the play of a fictitious event in the life of composer Antonio Salieri, claiming he’d killed Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
It was the 40th anniversary of the movie last year and Alex had tried to convince the Calgary Philharmonic Orchestra to play with the movie. We’d already seen Marvel and Harry Potter movies, and they’ve also done Star Wars, so why not a movie of one of the greatest composers of all time?
Nope. Not in the cards, it seemed. But it was on the play list for the Montreal Philharmonic. And very serendipitously, on Alex’s birthday.
Now, if your going to ask if we were crazy enough to fly over halfway across Canada just to watch a movie, well, you clearly haven’t read enough of the seemingly crazy things we’ve done on a lark.
We left Friday morning, taking Porter Airlines for the first time. Porter’s been running out of Toronto for over a decade, but has only reached Calgary in the last couple of years. We’d not taken them before mostly as we had to stick to the cheapest fares possible. The trends for UltraBasic (looking at you, WestJet) and paying extra for a carry on (you, too, Flair), not to mention less-than-wonderful service (ahem, Lynx), we opted to give Porter a shot.
We still had to pay for a checked bag (just one, for all of us; it’s only a weekend), but otherwise I have zero complaints. Two seats in a row, actual glass for drinking, you feel kind of like first class, even in the back, which Monkey and I were on the leg into Toronto. (Alex and Choo Choo were up in the front.) I watched Denis’ Dune, Part 2.
We ate in the Fionn McCool’s in Pearson. It was a reasonable lunch, and rather annoyingly/worryingly, the cost of an airport meal was the same as a regular restaurant meal in Calgary, including Ontario’s PST, further highlighting how expensive it is to live in Alberta’s largest city.
The flight to Montreal was uneventful, which was good, since our arrival was … slow. Arriving at Gate 4, we had nearly 45 minutes before our singular bag appeared. Then we attempted the route 747 bus that would take us right to our hotel downtown. But the massive crowd of people changed our minds and Alex proposed getting an Uber instead, being a mere 6 minutes away.
Well, folks, all those people were waiting for Ubers, which were clogging the Arrivals lane with all the taxis, barely allowing the empty 747 to pass. Our Uber was still 25 minutes until it arrived. The drove 10-15 km/h more slowly than anyone else on Hwy 20. It was 90 mins until we were in our hotel.
Let’s talk accommodations. We discovered on our last Britain trip that Travelodges are fine for our needs: a bed, a shower, and not much else. When your priorities are tourism, you don’t stay in the hotel room. And the Travelodges in the UK were perfect.
We were assigned 302, which when opened, looked like it still had its occupants. We were apologetically moved to 305.
I’d not stayed in a room this small since I was in Paris back in 2007. And that was just me. There were four of us. There were two singles, plus two fold-down beds mounted to the wall, looking very 1940s in construction. The girls slept up, Alex and I down.
Dinner was, expectedly, a challenge. It was -20C, we had no plan, and Alex can’t eat wheat. We wandered to Rue Saint Catherine and headed Ouest to find anything. The Saint Hubert was apparently frowned upon, which in a way I was both disappointed and relieved (I haven’t eaten in one since I was Choo Choo’s age), and continued on. Choo Choo had opted not to wear her outer coat, despite all my repeated warnings to her and her sister than wet cold is much worse than our dry cold, and was freezing, so we ducked into Desjardins Centre, a two-level mall tucked under the French financial’s headquarters. Discovering that it had restaurants, we passed on the Italian (Alex “cannot read” Italian menus and doesn’t trust that everything isn’t loaded with wheat), ending up at Bâton Rouge, a small chain restaurant.
Our server, Jason, reminded me of a contract developer I recently had, and was delightfully sarcastic and funny, the manager (who visited the table), even more so. I was reminded quickly that Montreal is not the “rest of Quebec” where Anglos are frowned upon (if you can’t speak French, you’re going to have a hard time); people in Montreal are amazing and wonderful and helpful and I really want to come back when it’s not minus friggin’ twenty.
The kids couldn’t sleep. The bunk beds, though sturdy, wigged them both out, and the mattresses are four-inch foam, resting on board, so not very comfy. Not to mention the room was quite warm.
Eggspectation was breakfast. Our server, almost certainly a McGill student (along with several of the nearby tables, one of whom complained about his 91 year-old professor), and not really clear on the idea that Alex couldn’t eat wheat, and couldn’t get past the idea that swapping potatoes for pancakes was acceptable for her, because the menu didn’t directly state it.
Montreal smoked meat benny on bagels with fried potatoes. My gods, this place eats my language.
The we were off for the Metro. The plan of the day was Biodôme, which Alex very much wanted to see. So we hopped the green line, changed to the yellow, got off at Jean-Drapeau and walked towards Biosphere.
Sphere? Dome? What’s the difference? The former is a geodesic Dyson sphere built by the USA for Expo 67. The latter is the former ‘76 Olympics velodrome. They’re a dozen kilometers apart. And dumbass (that’s me) keeps getting them confused.
In my (very) lame defense, I think the same thing happened 30 years ago when I’d come out to Montreal for a weekend to visit with Eddie, and he took us to the wrong place by mistake. Figures that it somehow remains as the “correct” decision after so many years. So, mea culpa, we get back on the Metro, back to Berri-UQAM station, and back on the green line to Viau.
It’s weird that there are two things that I remember about Biodôme, neither of which are where it is (which, to be clear, is right next to the Olympic Stadium, aka the Big O): that there’s a tropical section that’s really warm, and that it has capybaras. (Biodôme was the first place that I’d ever seen one, the first time I ended up at the wrong Biocurvedstructure.)
The Big O is undergoing construction and surrounded by various barricades, topped with cranes. Some time ago, and I can’t remember when, the roof had collapsed. I made an effort to at least get a couple of photos before we went in.
The wonderful clerks very kindly assisted us in English to get a family pass with one elder tacked on, and in we went. Just before entering the first of the three habitats, Alex spotted a kid’s activity: a sticker passport — you get a book with some stickers, you put the sticker on when you spot the animal. Childish, maybe, but it exactly tickles her fancy.
The first domain as the tropical rainforest, easily 15C warmer and a million percent more humid than the outside. We shed jackets and Alex suggested they go in a locker, which Megan handily found on the map. I gathered the coats and trucked my way back out to the entrance, found the stairs into the lower level, and discovered that the lockers were coin operated … and guess who hasn’t carried change since COVID?
As I went to break $20 (no coins, but I am carrying bills again), the same clerk who’d sold us the tickets warned me that while tropical was hot, the other environs were much cooler and to hang onto the jackets. So back I went, arms still full. Choo Choo very graciously took the coats from me and more-or-less refused to give them back. I think it’s the first time that I’ve been out-sherpa’d.
The capybaras are still there. We saw golden lion tamarins. “Red” (pink, really) ibises that I first thought were flamingoes. There was a sloth high in a tree. We nearly froze exiting back into the rest of the building, but Kate was glad to give up the outerwear.
Next was the Canadian wilderness and St. Lawrence estuary. Hilariously, it felt more like home, despite the plethora of deciduous. Not as many animals as the otters were sleeping, as was the lynx, and the beavers were content in their den. It looked like late fall in the area, it makes me wonder if it snows in there.
The St. Lawrence estuary is a massive tank filled with various fish, including sturgeon (no whales), along with various aquatic birds (notably gulls). You enter the space from “underwater” (a huge transparent wall, standard of an aquarium) before you wrap around to the proverbial surface.
The third and smallest environment first sends you down a literal ice tunnel. Monkey kept disbelieving that it was ice and not just some cold, wet, plastic wall. If you kept your hand there, you’d melt a dent. Why an ice tunnel? Penguins and puffins, from the extreme south of South America and Antarctica, and from the rocky, barren shores of Labrador, respectively.
Then it was snack and coffee time, after which it was gift shop and “quickly run around outside to take pictures before we leave” time. I’ll let you decide whom was doing what.
Wanting to get some geocaches in on her birthday, Alex wanted to walk down to the next station, Pie-IX (“pee neuf”, which is apparently a reference to Pope Pius IX, but I have zero idea why it’s important in Montreal), so we tagged along. A miscommunication had us waiting at the station, rather than heading back to the hotel to get ready for the evening.
In any case, we were ready on time to go to L’Auberge Saint-Gabriel for dinner. I walked ahead (a mere 10 minutes) as I doubted a 5-person Uber would arrive timely enough, so gave them flexibility, which gave me a few moments to get sidetracked along the way, taking pictures just outside City Hall.
L’Auberge Saint-Gabriel is a restaurant occupying a 337 year-old building about two blocks from the St. Lawrence River in the Old Port District. (Allen would later declare his ulterior motive was to be where the First Presbytery had been founded in Canada. Given the age of the building, Choo Choo suspected the church was actually next door, where there is now a parking lot.)
The restaurant is easily one of the coolest I’ve ever been in. Just inside the shrouded doorway was the (presumably fake) backbone of a whale that disappeared up into the darkened and unused top floor. To our right was a lounge of deep red leather, beyond which was a hall of sorts, with a large bar. A smaller bar surrounded by circular fixed stools, also clad in red leather, lay to the left, beyond which was the dining room. It was dark, candle-lit, with shadows lurking everywhere, welcoming us into the deep history. Choo Choo immediately exclaimed that she wanted to live there, followed later with a definitive belief that vampires much frequent the establishment.
We were seated in the far corner booth, against the ancient stone wall, beneath dark, axe-cut beams from a tree that had probably started growing a thousand years ago. My back was unfortunately to the rest of the room, hiding the two stone fireplaces that had heated the place in times past.
I pressured the girls into trying mocktails, which were hit and miss — Monkey’s was too sour. Allen went for the beef bourgenon, I had the crispy cod, while Alex and the girls all had cornish hen with aligot (basically a thinner mashed potato with cheese). And as one could expect from such a higher end restaurant, it was fantastic. We ate, watching the snow blustering around outside.
Another Uber, this one a Lincoln SUV that could hold thirty, took us to Place des Artes, which took longer than I expected (I could have walked there faster), arriving with a scant 10 minutes before showtime.
I was amazed by the number in attendance, not to mention the size of the concert hall, easily twice that of the Jubilee in Calgary. We plopped in Row K, almost centre, mere minutes before the lights dimmed.
If you’ve seen the movie, you know how it goes; if you haven’t, I do recommend it, if just for F. Murray Abraham’s stellar performance. Adding a full orchestra and choir only makes it that much better, and I do frown on the CPO for not taking advantage of it themselves.
Following the movie, we exited hastily to Rue Saint Catherine, as Alex wanted the flourless chocolate cake for her birthday. But the show ended too late and we arrived to locked doors. Dairy Queen would have to suffice. Choo Choo ended up being the victim of the only rude person we encountered on the trip, and didn’t end up getting ice cream; I helped make sure Allen got back to the hotel without injury — unlike Calgary, Montreal isn’t religious about cleaning snow of the sidewalks, preferring salt and stone.
I headed back out again, this time with my tripod, in hopes of recapturing some pictures I took back in 2002, in hopes of getting better images with a markedly better camera. The mission was simple: head down to Notre Dame.
The only problems with the mission were construction blocking some sight lines, some new traffic lights getting in the way, the northeast tower of the cathedral was completely shrouded, and someone had left the massive multi-pointed glowing stars on in the square, getting in the way. Sometimes, you just have to make the most of what you have.
Alex was up and gone by 8:00 the next morning, going to church with her dad where he had been preaching 49 years earlier in Pointe Claire.
The girls and I, almost two hours later, went for dim sum. Finding no actual restaurant (though Google said there was), we went with giant BBQ beef and pork buns, which seemed to do the trick. We then went in search of what Choo Choo had really wanted on the trip: bagels. (Yes, I have brought my kids up right, knowing a good bagel.)
This took us back to Rue Saint Catherine again, heading west all the watt down to the Underground City, passing by several sights along the way, including the gorgeous architecture of 19th Century Montreal, still visible in many places, including the Bay building and glimpses of McGill (which caused Monkey to declare that she wanted “to go to university in a castle” despite her previous refusal to consider it).
La Fabrique du Bagel Montreal is a small place under the Cineplex that makes their own bagels on-site. Choo Choo went with a cranberry and white chocolate with blueberry cream cheese that nearly brought her to tears. The bagel, somewhat jokingly made it worth the trip to Montreal for her, mostly as she had found the movie too confusing.
We wandered our way back to our room to catch up with Alex, so we could go for a late lunch to see Kathryn and her family. Kathryn was one of the Onazine and has been a dear friend for … well, too many years for us to really want to think about (thought we grudgingly realized that the last time we’d seen each other was at her wedding to Andrea in 2007). She and her wife were there, along with their daughter, Ivy.
We met at Le Central, a collection of restaurants with common seating, on Rue Saint Laurent, barely 5 minutes’ walk from our room. Of course, we were late. The food there is excellent, apparently most of it is ex-food trucks, and the conversation amazing. Kathryn was exactly as I remembered her, frustratingly not looking a day older than in my memory. We all chatted, the girls being very talkative, until our arch-nemesis — time — tapped us on the shoulder and declared its demands. It was hard to say goodbye, leaving a hollow I hate.
We crashed in the room for a short while before going back out, wanting to look around the Old Port and finding dinner. Choo Choo wasn’t interested and stayed behind.
Following an aborted cache just down Rue Rene Levesque, Monkey and I headed down to the Port while Alex opted to head back to the room. I had my tripod, and a mission: the ferris wheel.
The Port was just starting its revitalization when I’d visited in 2002, and we’d gone nowhere near it in 2006, so the ferris wheel was new to me. And after shooting both the London Eye and the Liverpool Wheel in the last couple of years, I’ve come to like the effect of a long exposure. We stopped through Place Jacques Cartier along the way, returning to it on the way back, heading down Rue Saint-Paul largely because it looked nice. It was around then Alex declared that she hadn’t returned to the room and was hunting around Notre Dame for souvenirs and caches. After some wandering, we met up with her just after six, as the bells pealed in the darkness.
Kate was definitely not hungry when we returned. We gathered Allen and went back to Le Central for dinner. I finally had poutine (I should have had the small one). Then it was over to Bâton Rouge for Alex’s cake; I was denied a “poud de something”, which sounded like a Quebecois sticky toffee pudding, made with maple syrup.
Alex and I tend went to the Pharmaprix to get Choo Choo some gravol. She has some motion sickness and we wanted to be prepared for the trip back the following morning. Weirdly, Quebec not only keeps gravol behind the counter, but also has to open a file for records. We do that in Alberta for Sudafed because it can be used to cook meth, but gravol??
When we got back, Choo Choo was sitting next to the toilet. Ladies and gentlemen, this is where the story takes another turn.
Alex is deeply emetophobic and working in the medical industry is keenly aware of the viruses that cause vomiting and diarrhea; she actively avoids these things at work, and she wanted no part of being in a tiny room with someone potentially in for a bad night. She took one of the bunk bed mattresses and disappeared up to Allen’s room. Not five minutes later, it began.
Poor Choo Choo hadn’t thrown up in years. And it was everything she’d eaten that day. She shook as I cleaned her up, traumatized by the experience. Poor Monkey could only witness this, unable to escape it. It came fast and furious at first, trailing off to every hour or so throughout the night. I went to the local (and heavily fortified) Couche Tard for ginger ale. Choo Choo barely slept, I didn’t get much more, wanting to be with her went things started up again.
Alex returned in the morning to finish packing, collect Monkey, and depart quickly. They were headed to the airport to return home; Choo Choo and I would attempt to follow later, once she seemed better. Ironically, she would not throw up again, but she was definitely not in a state to travel. I let her sleep and went to the hotel’s dining area for a hard-boiled egg, a croissant, and some coffee. I had a nap afterwards.
We made the mistake of letting her eat a single-serving container yogurt, which nearly brought her back to vomiting shortly after. That put an end to our attempt to return that day. I went to extend our stay, then to the local IGA for Gatorade, apple juice, an apple, plain potato chips, and a ham sandwich.
Choo Choo was, unsurprisingly, not hungry, thought was going through the ginger ale, a good sign. She went back to sleep, so I went for lunch.
Back at Le Central (again), I had fish and chips and chatted with the cook, who had moved to Montreal from southern France, via Vancouver. He told me that the viruses had been running rampant and that we were lucky that we didn’t all catch it.
Stopping to check on Choo Choo, I gathered my camera and headed all the way down Rue Saint Laurent, down to the Port. Pictures of buildings, an asphalt carrier, Habitat (I’m still not sure where I took the picture in 2002), the long-abandoned grain elevators on the Lachine Canal, then headed up Rue McGill briefly before ducking in and around some of the side streets, finding museums, the old pumping station, the buildings that once housed Canada’s first saint, then wound past Notre Dame (again), took some “urban” pictures around Palace de Congress, then discovered that Choo Choo was awake. I headed back and didn’t leave the room again. I ate the ham sandwich for dinner. We watched the dregs of cable TV before packing it in.
I woke up a half hour before the alarm. I decided it was time to get Choo Choo up, as well, so we could attempt to get home. The taxi to the airport was painfully slow, making the Uber driver we’d had seem like Denis Villeneuve.
The only plan I had was “talk to Porter”. That was it. Getting home was the need and we’d do what it took to pull it off. I didn’t even know if our tickets were forfeit for being no-shows the day before. I had various ideas — including taking a VIA train to Toronto and hoping to get a late flight out of Pearson — but it all had to start with Porter.
Well, folks, here is where I declare that Porter is my first and only choice when flying in Canada. There wasn’t even a pause from the clerks — “how do we get these people to Calgary today” was the only business.
The flight Alex, Monkey, and Allen had taken the day before was either not flying or was full, and we’d missed the early connector by a half hour. But with some finagling, they found a way. It would require an airport transfer, but we’d get home at NO EXTRA COST (other than the taxi and the extra night in the hotel, anyway).
Ninety minutes later (a third of which was getting through security), we were waiting at Gate 8 for our Dash 8 flight to Billy Bishop. And while I was very happy to get a flight out of Montreal, let me tell you that you don’t want to fly too far in a Dash 8 – they’re utilitarian bordering on basic, with the seats looking little more than structural aluminium with a canvas seat and a bit of padding slung between the bars.
The last time I’d landed at Toronto Island’s airport, I was in Grade 5 or 6, my dad having taken Cathy and I out of school for the day. He took us up in a Cessna and flew around downtown, even (briefly) taking control to jostle us in our seats. The Billy Bishop terminal was entirely new to me.
Choo Choo and I disembarked, hucked through the building, out into the atrium, down the escalator into the tunnel under the West Entrance, up the elevator, and out into downtown Toronto. The first taxi whisked us off (at a decidedly more urgent pace than his Montreal counterparts) to Pearson. We were there 20 minutes later, through security barely 5 minutes after that.
Lunch was overpriced and blasé, the Tim Hortons even slower than the one in Salmon Arm. The flight was stable, thought neither of us could sleep We’re now landing in Calgary and the weekend is (thankfully) over.
Hopefully Choo Choo returns to Montreal one day and has such a good time that she forgets how awful this ended up being for her. Because Montreal really is a beautiful city, filled with beautiful people. I will encourage her to get a nicer room, though … y’know, just in case.
