Since returning from Montréal, I had hoped for recuperating sooner rather than later. But, oddly enough, I felt worse. Sleep quality was wretched and a low fever persisted in the morning. On the second day, I awoke to tremendous eye pain and an overall sense of congestion. In addition, the entire left side of my face was aching - a symptom I had never experienced before.

​When the world reopened on the 27th, I succeeded in securing a slot for medical attention. I'd be informed that the flu had permeated my sinuses, consequently leading to sinus infection. Pressure in the sinuses would then cause pain in the face, specifically under the eyes and near the temple. Antibiotics and nasal spray were prescribed accordingly.

​My cough persisted, so I was directed to take cough syrup wherever necessary. The same would apply to Tylenol, though most of the headaches were now unrelated to fever and concentrated at the temples instead.
Near-immediate relief was experienced in terms of pain level, though phlegm production and cough frequency posed another separate challenge.

​By the halfway point of my antibiotic-ingesting period, I was, arguably, well enough to embark on unassisted outings within the neighbourhood.

​My former carpooling partner had extended an invitation - or solicited company, rather - for a viewing of The Boy and The Heron. The original appointment dated back to pre-Montréal days, though my unexpected decline in health and sluggish recovery had postponed the event two instances more.

Since learning to strategically schedule medication intake periods, restful slumber could be attained. In fact, I was rewarded on the last night of our stay with the fewest interruptions. Alas, periods of inactivity would cease once the alleviating effects of the drugs had subsided.

Breakfast would comprise of Nespresso again. Incorporated into the morning meal was the Pistachio and Cranberry Brioche from Première Moisson.

Pistachio bits were concentrated on the top of the pastry, while dried cranberry bits sheathed within its coils. The round was surprisingly moist - damp even - but offered minimal flavour payout. The cross-section was dense, yet not overly satiating. Generally speaking, the purchase was strictly passable.

​My visit to W would not be complete without slipping into the soft, terry logo-embellished robe. While I'd be maintaining a safe distance from alcohol during the trip, it was impossible to resist flaunting the acclaimed vials of vin and vodka and gleaming snakeskin accomodations.

​Christmas Day was readied me for a city-wide closure of shops and eateries. However, I decided to try my luck anyway by exploring the streets surrounding Victoria Square before our scheduled departure.

For the first time in four days, my soujourn was blessed with sunshine and blue skies.

Obtaining cheese curds assumed the final mission of the trip. Google Maps informed of two plausible grocery sources, the first being Le Beau Marché on Rue Notre-Dame. Rounding the corner of McGill Street, I soon learned of the drastic difference of tourist-ready brick laneways and downtown side streets.

In sharp contrast to the streets previously perused, Rue Notre-Dame was positively filthy. This section appeared to be utilized primarily by locals, either those who had just completed an exercise class or were walking their dogs before lunch. The standard local was a dark-haired Caucasian, and one that spoke French fluidly. Besides the obvious residents, the only other demographic roaming the district were minorities - vacationers in the city.

Le Beau Marché was discovered closed upon arrival. I decided to continue roaming, though there wasn't much in operation.

My steps was halted when a customer exited from Couche-Tard, a 24-hour convenience store with a red owl logo. I stumbled into the store out of curiosity, finding beer, a coffee station, and even hot snacks of pretzels and chicken burgers.

​Equipped with the awareness that Ubers may arrive well in advance of one's readiness, we made sure to position ourselves accordingly by the entrance before placing any in-app calls.
The wait time was longer than anticipated, but we still managed a response within five minutes.

​Our driver pulled up in a spotless Sedan. He grimaced slightly towards the amount of baggage at the curb, but managed the task with minimal gripes with the assistance of hotel staff. Save my periodic coughing, the ride into Dorval was basically silent. English did not appear to be the driver's preferred language of communication. Only upon arriving at the terminal did we witness his altercation with airport security regarding drop-off at a depressed curb.

​The vast portion of my Downtown Montréal observations did not extend to Pierre Elliot Trudeau Airport. Even upon entering, it was evident that the facility was inept in terms of queue management and passenger flow organization. After baggage drop off, we were required to navigate to the opposite end of the airport to go through security screening.

The lineups were managed exceptionally poorly, with passengers gestured left and right through. The airport itself was smaller than expected, possibly the tiniest of all the domestic airports I've ever set foot within. The security screening setup appeared very primitive: line separators positioned at random, feeding people towards the security bins at 90-degree angled turns. Moreover, the area between the after-security shops and screening was delineated by just another row of those line separators.

But, beyond its compact scale, the utterly abominable attitude of the screening staff left the most memorable impression. There was one metal detector gate and one full-body scanner. Upon approaching the two, one of the staff gestured to wait for the scanner. Known as the tardier choice of the two, I swiftly slid through the adjacent metal detector instead as it opened up.
The action was met with despicable attitude from the screening staff, a young male with long, curly strands. "Miss, didn't I tell you to wait over there?"
I looked at him in surprise, taken back by his unwarranted haughty attitude. "So can I go now?" noting that the gate did not beep.
But he decided to press further. "Did I tell you or not?"
"I'll just walk through again."
This time, the machine beeped. The staff insisted I remove my scarf for inspection, as "my neck was covered".  But sheer removal of the scarf wasn't sufficient. He wanted to touch the scarf with evidently filthy gloves. A female member of staff noticed my concern and offered to inspect the scarf with new gloves. I wasn't willing, for I saw no issue with aversion towards others touching my personal belongings without valid reason.

At this point, another member of staff decided to intervene. The second male aggressively pulled aside the plastic barriers and pointed to the snaking lineup from which I had come. He threatened, "You can go back outside and line up and come back when you want to cooperate."
The words being spouted were pure nonsense to me, as if I was being targeted for no reason. I simply couldn't comprehend it, and felt even less inclined to oblige.
When I walked through the gate a second time, a manager - male, of course - asked for the scarf. I handed it over to the female staff, who inspected it and handed it back without issues. "Oh, now you want to give it" screeched the aggressive one, like an immature high schooler.

Next came the issue of boots. Technically, I had no issues removing the boots and passing them through the gates. But the manager and his possé had other plans in mind. "Hand him the boots! Give them to him!" The manager directed.
The boots were repositioned from the near the gate to in front of the staff, who ultimately declared that he "wasn't going to bend down to get (my) boots".
"No matter." I thought, and swung the boots onto a nearby table at waist height. The men did not budge. I wasn't going to oblige. This game of nerves and time-wasting wouldn't be ending with disrespect on my part.

The female staff took the boots, conducted her check and handed them back to me. Putting them back on, I glared at the trio of imbeciles and spat, in my croaky voice, "What's your problem?!".
"There's no problem." assured the manager. Though there clearly was.

I departed the scene with rage swelling in my eyes, my overall airport and Montréal flying experience tainted. Similar to Ottawa, the racism was just was too apparent to deny. Dare I say that I experienced patriarchy firsthand as well.​

YUL was concluded not only smaller than any of the domestic airports I had visited in my numerous instances of national travel, but a lowly, despicable one with poorly designed elements. Even setting the security screening incident aside, I couldn't comprehend that absence of an open lounge/rest area, the positioning of washroom facilities at odd ends of the corridor, and the reason for U.S. connections to be situated after domestic screening procedures.

Customer service levels witnessed at the in-airport eateries were also noticeably crude. I opted against the overpriced fare, taking to the corridor with disposable chopsticks to munch on leftovers accumulated over the past few days.

Our return flight was scheduled for 5 PM, just as our inbound trip had been. By the 4:15 PM mark, we had boarded the aircraft and comfortably assumed our seats. That said, a delayed departure would cause us to remain on the tarmac for at least fifty minutes more.

Read Part 2 HERE !

The conception of a European city is one brimming with first-world pleasures: bread and bakeries, freshly-brewed coffee and intricate pastries, spacious pedestrian pathways, and streets upon streets of shopping galore.

​Montréal had answered to most of these indicators, with the exception of retail therapy.

A handful of souvenir shops surrounded Notre-Dame, but only one stood out from the rest. Kurosity featured kitschy magnets of baguettes in paper bags as well as spinoffs of popular characters such as Minions and Dr. Seuss.

​Within the five-minute radius were at least four other gift shops, but their offerings on the tacky end of Canadiana and not exactly pertinent to the French-speaking city.

Rue Saint-Paul west of St Laurent Blvd was paved in asphalt, facilitating the movement of vehicles. East of the intersection, leading towards Place Jacques-Cartier, were relatively level brick walkways utilized equally by pedestrians and vehicles.

Christmas Eve in foreign territory was an interesting experience. Year-end holidays often make for unpredictable exploration in local neighbourhoods, and Montréal, while situated in the outlier province of Québec, ultimately still resided in Canada. I had expected similar business operations given the national culture.

​This would mean waking earlier to maximize limited store hours. A good night's rest and a morning cup of joe were critical elements in facilitating the self-led journey.

​Breakfast would adopt the forms of a Coffee Bun from Pâtisserie Harmonie and Nespresso's Colombia brew. The former, being the last unit adorning the display case, had been procured on the basis of curiosity. Althought its somewhat indented surface wasn't entirely reminiscent of the plump, uniform coating of traditional Malaysia Coffee Roti, I had been eager to sample the specimen nonetheless.
Each subsequent bite entailed more palatable revelations: a toasty, slightly bitter coffee-flavoured casing to start, then a spongy, gratifying interior, and, lastly, a wonderfully aromatic and indulgent centre of salted butter.

The pleasurable primer of sustenance readied me for the day's upcoming activities. Bracing congestion, cough, and a terribly hoarse throat, I geared up in ahgase attire and headed towards the Metro.

My objective of the trip was none other than trying St-Viateur's Montréal-style bagels. Of the bakery's Mile End and Mont-Royal locations, the latter was found more accessible by transit. As such, I boarded the Orange Line from Victoria Square once more, this time disembarking at Mont-Royal station instead.

The neighbourhood was undoubtedly less affluent compared to the downtown district. Homelessness within the station was prominent from the moment of exit, where the train doors opened to reveal a man curled up next to a waste disposal bin on the ground.

​Hunched citizens hovered about as well - an indication of displacement.

​Heading eastward towards the pinned location, I passed a number of BIA banners. The setting reminded me of Yonge-Eglinton and Uptown Yonge: the wider sidewalks, mixture of franchises and local vendors, plethora of locals, and obviously irregular wanderers of the street.

The buildings weren't very tall, however. (Toronto persists as the leader in high-rise developments, it appears.) The at-grade level of most buildings appeared to be allocated towards retail, while stairs led upwards towards residential units occupying the upper floors; most of these dwellings spanned three storeys or less.

​An interesting observation was the prevalence of bubble tea shops in a seemingly non-Asian community. A Gong Cha was spotted within seconds of striding upon Avenue Mont-Royal.

​Coming into view fairly quickly was St-Viateur Bagel.

​Similar to Schwartz's Deli, there were designated lineups for dine-in versus takeout customers. Again, these were unsigned queues, managed entirely by word of mouth of patrons and the occasional appearance from a member of staff.

I was hardly perched beyond the doors of the bakery-café for ten minutes when the same member of staff, a middle-aged man with bilingual capabilities, ushered myself, as well as the couple behind, inwards.

​Occupying one section was a bustling dining area. It wasn't very large, though sufficed in seating and serving guests quickly. Branded merchandise lined the perimeter of the facility and several counters leading towards the utensil stand and dine-in cashier. At the very back was the store was an open preparation area: a substantial brick oven and flour-dusted work station.

While inching towards the takeout cashier, it dawned upon me that St-Viateur strictly accepted payment in "Canadian cash or debit". Reluctant to leave the line in search of an ATM, I resorted to using debit, only to be questioned by the elderly man in a heavy French accent. The deafening interior of the space drowned out my already-croaking voice, contributing additional communication difficulties to the language barrier.

​Sweatshirts, canvas totes, seasonings, spreads, and even kitchen gadgets like cutting boards and knives could be found on offer. None were distinct nor economic enough to warrant purchase, thus I merely resolved to a purchase of three bagels: Plain, Rosemary & Salt, and Maple Apple.

​The trio set me back four dollars. They were inserted into a brown paper bag and handed to me as is. Known not to be without a carrying device, I summoned my black fabric tote for their storage as I continued to explore establishments in the vicinity.

Continuing eastward revealed no further points of interest. While I prodded forward contemplating my next course of action, a bus appeared at the following intersection. Sundays and holidays are known low-frequency instances of public transit sightings; consequently, I dashed forwards with minimal hesitation.

The vehicle brought back familiar faces encountered during my St-Viateur excursion. It also instilled awareness of USB charging ports near the single-seaters.

​Within minutes, I was back at Mont-Royal station, this time headed in the direction of the west terminus of Côte-Vertu.

The wait was admittedly grueling, for it was constantly accompanied by homeless trekking up and down the platform, some engaging in conversation with innocent commuters - in French, of course.

Also noted was the distant positioning the next train signage. Its contents were hardly legible to the naked eye unless zooming in for clarity. While I struggle to admit, TTC has always done signage better.

​Returning to the hotel, I unveiled my haul of carby circlets.

Even at first glance, they were thinner than the typically uniform, dense rounds familiar to me.

Their surface was textured, twisted at their connection points, and bore a unique sheen on both sides. The Rosemary & Salt variation was distinguished by its light layer of herby spears, while Maple Apple flecked with cinnamon and bite-sized pieces of dried apple flesh.

​Proceeding with the next item on the itinerary, I led the way to the underground access for Victoria Square.

​Place d'Armes was one subway stop away, or seven-ish minutes on foot. The station was larger than Victoria Square, offering street-level access points in all cardinal directions as well as internal connections to the adjacent commercial buildings.

​Appending to my previous observation regarding bubble tea spots, the intersection of Rue Saint-Antoine and Côte de la Place-d'Armes offered another friendly name: Don't Yell At Me. But the hip, colourful ambience of Yonge and Finch had been replaced with a classic exterior of stone architecture, a Stainless steel plaque, and, as expected, French descriptions.

Generally speaking, prices are steeper than back home though, no matter Don't Yell At Me or the plethora of other chains spotted, such as Kung Fu, Chatime, Shuyi, CoCo, Presotea, and Real Fruit.

​Atop the uphill, interlock-paved walkway towards Place d'Armes was the festive art installation we had explored on our night of arrival. Continuing in that direction would lead us towards Notre-Dame Basilica of Montreal and the shops in the immediate proximity.

​Camouflaged within stone-tinted storefronts of the historic district was SSENSE, a high-fashion boutique that I had only ever invested from a virtual platform.

​Characterized by exposed concrete walls, tall glass windows, spotless metallic surfaces, and an impossibly lofty ceiling, the SSENSE store embodied five floors of one-of-a-kind apparel, footwear, and home décor displays.

Positioned on the first and fifth floors were showrooms: designer attire, luxury beauty, handbags, and more. The second, third, and fourth floors were dedicated as fitting rooms, accessed only on a by-appointment basis by customers that had ordered products beforehand and visited for in-person try-on.

Navigation between the floors was provided via a sluggish elevator or pristine stairwell with smooth railings and lacquered steps.

​The location of the boutique was admittedly odd, though was confirmed to draw the attention of numerous international (non-French-speaking) visitors.

​On the topmost floor of the building was a north-facing window offering a partially obstructed view of Notre Dame and the courtyard below.

Read Part 2 HERE !

Read Part 1 HERE !

​While the shops along Rue Saint-Paul swayed in the direction of further investigation, our visting window for Notre-Dame Basilica of Montréal was gradually diminishing.

​Without dallying too much on the cobblestone laneways, we arrived at Chez Suzette around the 2:20 PM mark for a late lunch.

​Initially, I had been concerned about wait times, given the level of tourist foot traffic in the area. Though, once within the space, it was learned that seating was ample, for it spanned not one floor but the second and third levels above as well.

Unaware of the existence of the upper floors, we had pointed in favour of a cozy spot near the entrance. In hindsight, the other dining quarters would have proved more comfortable, for gusts of chilly air would grace our presence with every swing of the door.

From the low-key laminated menus to the smooth, lacquered table and woven chairs, the homey ambience was undeniably reminiscent of The Apricot Tree Café. That said, the assortment of offerings at Chez Suzette was far beyond what was capable of the suburban spot back home.

​Besides their signature selection of sweet and savoury crêpes, the establishment was also home to fondue sets and bistro fare such as salads and quiches.

Of course, we hadn't specified the eatery for items outside their realm of expertise. The French Onion Soup had been noted in countless reviews, making it a no-brainer aspect of our order.

​In place of wines, coffee, and even hot chocolate, we opted for water. Cold fluids were presented in plastic cups (à la BR), while hot in lightbulb-shaped glasses like those used by Terroni. The choice was likely to promote steeping of lemon wedges - citrusy additions that were regrettably discarded with our request for cleaner, stain-free ceramic mugs.

​Approximately fifteen minutes would pass before the glorious arrival of the French Onion Soup. Beautifully golden all over with a torched surface, the starter already garnered extensive appeal from its visuals alone. The eatery hadn't skimped on cheese one bit! The stoneware vessel was wholly covered in the stringy, delectable goodness.

But beyond its enticing appearance was the most scrumptious French Onion Soup to grace our tastebuds. Amazingly complex, the concoction offered heartiness in an unbelievably delectable broth. Undetectable was the excessive briny-ness of other similarly classified soups. Instead, Chez Suzette's rendition leaned towards the acidic side with two nicely submerged slices of baguette and softened bits of onion at the bottom of the ramekin. The abundance of quality cheese was also greatly appreciated, for the higher fat content (and lower percentage of starch-based stabilizer) enabled the topping to preserve its marvelously malleable consistency throughout the consumption process.

​Shared between us was the Suprême de Poulet Crêpe, a sizable envelope of chicken and sliced mushroom in a creamy Béchamel sauce.

For the average person, half a crêpe may not have sufficed. Though, the single portion was more than adequate for those with small appetites. The wispy wrapper retained a certain degree of elasticity, contributing to its overall palatability. It was also fragrant, in sheer contrast to the doughy, flour-heavy sheets I had grown accustomed towards in the less European side of the country.

​We, or rather I, managed to deplete the spread before venturing off to our next stop.

With various Christmas Mass sessions scheduled, Notre-Dame Basilica of Montréal had anticipated to be busy leading up to Christmas day. To facilitate entry into the space, tickets were secured online in advance of our visit.

​When we finally received acknowledgement from the staff, we were gestured through the white tent separating the doors of the church to its street-level access. Within a few footsteps, we came face to face with the landmark's brass and royal blue interior.

Frankly, I wasn't sure what I had expected when entering the facility at a price of fifteen dollars per person. There was, in essence, a scarcity of points of interest beyond admiring the structural elements of the church interior.

After marvelling at the spiraled stairwell and stately organs directly beneath the roof, I began to explore the perimeter of the space. Candles were positioned throughout, usually on tables before stained glass murals. It should be noted that these candles weren't merely for display, but served as potential charitable offerings priced between five and ten dollars.

​Pamphlets positioned near the entrance were also not complimentary. Prayers were labelled at two dollars a sheet and pamphlets in various languages at five.

Notre-Dame was beautiful to behold, yet not in the remarkable or thought-provoking sense like art. During times of external frigidity, the bounty of benches would assume a solid respite from the cold. But, alas, there simply wasn't much else to do.

Perhaps the destination would have assumed a highlight destination for those more appreciative of architecture, or even those in search of a serene space for reciting prayers. For me, it constituted a historical landmark for perusal, with little significance beyond tourism.

Read Part 3 HERE !

Sleeping in a foreign environment is never easy for me. The ability to enter a realm of sound slumber is often challenging at home, but the condition usually worsens with jet lag in conjunction with a mediocre hotel like the Executive or the excruciating dryness of Executive Residency. The tranquil, pristine environment of W Montréal soothed with its clean, cloud-like blankets, yet not all stressors could be managed from the get-go.

I mustered together a combined 5-6 hours of rest while coughing fitfully throughout the night. While still quite irritable at the 9 AM mark, it was deemed illogical to wriggle about unproductively. Swinging my feet onto the floor, I reached for the toothbrush, then the Tylenol.

​Breakfast would be consumed in the suite prior to departing for the day's adventures. The Nespresso machine offered a total of four complimentary pods: Italiano, Tokyo, Colombia, and Decaf.

The shimmery sapphire packing of Tokyo was summoned for a mild awakening.

The tongue-scalding formula would be paired with the Maple Almond Financier procured from Le Petit Dep late last evening. Our apprehension towards the café's remaining inventory persisted, and I bit into the pastry bracing myself for crumbly disappointment. Alas, the result was utterly unlike my prediction! The cake was beautifully moist and delicious - not overly sweet but brimming with prominent notes of maple. Naturally, it was devoured in no time, leaving much of my coffee behind.

Our second purchase, the Lemon Muffin, boasted a golden top. The surface was made crunchy with the inclusion of coarse sugar granules, while the interior contained citrus peel for visual and gustatory contrast. That said, the specimen was decidedly coarse in texture, hardly citrusy, and not nearly as appealing as the Tigre-shaped Financier.

Read Part 1 HERE !

"When are we going to eat the smoked meat?"
The reminder came in a timely manner. "Oh right." I thought, "Now would be great."

Departing from Jean-Talon to the bus stop specified on Google Maps, we embarked on the short trek under my lead. While the walk spanned no more than ten minutes, my travel companion constantly questioned my navigation abilities:
"Where are we even walking?"
"Where are you going?"
"When can we sit down?"
and more filled the air. Combined with slowed footsteps of uncertainty, the ceaseless complaints put an immediate damper on my once-explorative journey.

Similar to solo saunters about Toronto and Vancouver, there hadn't been a set itinerary. The disclaimer had been voiced on numerous occasions prior to the trip, intending to set the tone of travel. But alas, seemingly nothing could have relieved me from this grievance.

A full-blown argument would unfold at the Clark/Mozart bus stop, depleting what remained of my already strained vocal cords. Not until the bus neared the stop did the endless ringing in my ears come to a temporary halt.

Beyond boarding the Metro, I was also determined to attempt a trip on one of stm's bus routes. Connectivity and reliability of the overall transit network was of great interest to me, after all.

​​The bus would prove no different than that of a standard municipally-operated passenger vehicle. It was grimy, featured patterned cloth seating, and had stop ("Arrêt") buttons situated throughout. At the front of the bus was the fare payment tap platform. This platform was not observed by the rear door, differentiating between the all-door boarding option of the GTA and Metro Vancouver.
But perhaps the most obvious distinction was the announcement of upcoming stops in French, with not a lick of English to be heard at any point during the trip.

Despite having never Googled its storefront, Scwartz's Deli was easily identified by the swarm of down jacket-clad supporters huddled outside. Even at the late hour of 2 PM, the renowned eatery boasted a lineup of about thirty people.

Read Part 2 HERE !

Disagreements continued on into the evening hours, when my curiosity towards Montréal's Eaton Centre conflicted with another's reluctance to walk any further. Pointless banter would ensue, eventually realizing the alternate solution of parting ways until dinnertime.

​The cries of the protest rang out onto the streets, overwhelming whatever upbeat holiday tracks had attempted to be played at the outdoor market.

​Le Grande Marché bore similarities to The Distillery Winter Village in its usage of cabin vendors and overpriced fare - think $12 European Hot Dogs and $13 eggnog and hot chocolate - however paled in terms of illumination. The lights were sparse and quite dim, while the Christmas tree stout and barren.

Nevertheless, the event had summoned a substantial crowd. Navigating through the grounds demanded CNE-like patience.

The market conveniently exited onto Saint-Catherine St., from which Eaton Centre could be accessed in a straightforward fashion.

Along the way, I encountered The Bay - not Hudson Bay, but merely just "la Baie" - as well as a French-speaking couple who opted to ram their stroller into my calves after a cursory "pardon" instead of waiting for confirmation of communication or simply going around.
Alas, the constant invasion of personal space was an aspect I couldn't comprehend!

​Soon I was met with the sight of Decathlon and "Eaton" in vertically-aligned block letters.

​I presumed the stores within to be similar, if not identical, to those of Toronto's Eaton Centre. For the most part, they were. The shopping centre spanned four floors in total, with three levels of at- and above-grade retail and a food court located at basement level.

A notable difference was the reduction of mall décor elements. The pillars retained their polished, unaltered appearance, casting garlands and bulb lights aside. In place of a lofty tree in the central court was a ceiling-height cascade of string lights and bulb ornaments.

​Mievic, the supposed Montréal rendition of Miniso, was perhaps the only boutique of interest. The merchandise selection comprised of accessories, skincare and beauty items, imported snacks, miscellaneous household goods, and random knickknacks.

My hasty mall tour concluded in under fifteen minutes, permitting just enough time to navigate in the direction of Neotokyo for a 5:30 PM arrival. Passing by Christ Church Cathedral and then through Phillips Square, the path would coincide with the Olympic Torch landmark at René-Lévesque Blvd and Beaver Hall Hill.

Neotokyo was a name I had frequently seen on my social media feed over the course of the year. The concept had spurred little interest in spite of repetitive sightings, for themed eateries - in Toronto, anyway - are often mediocre in more ways than one. But ramen, while not my meal of preference, emerged as a hearty solution to a day spent marching outdoors.

A lineup had assembled beyond the entrance, an undeniable indication of the spot's popularity. At 5:30 PM sharp, the doors opened and we were ushered within.

​From the soy sauce fish light fixture to plastic curtains before the bathrooms, each corner of the facility contributed a strange sense of allure. Stepping into the space was akin to maneuvering a 2D world as a game character or finding oneself in a neo-cyber escape room - complete with bathroom doors reading "001" and bubble gum pink lighting!

​The menus, on the other hand, were rather basic in stark contrast. Double-sided and laminated in a Chinese diner-esque clear frame, the picture-less presentation was probably the blandest component of the experience.

First to arrive was a small, teal ceramic bowl. The soy-marinated eggplant was brimming with umami, and unstoppably fragrant with the inclusions of sesame and scallion. Greatly appreciated was the intactness of the sliced segments, for too often is eggplant cooked till the point of disintegration. Of course, for sanity's sake, the chili pepper threads were plucked away and set aside, though they'd likely add a mild kick for those capable of tolerating its fiery properties.

The Tonkotsu ramen was a generous portion, priced at a reasonable twenty-one dollars. Toppings included two buttery strips of chashu, spinach, menma (fermented bamboo), a naruto fish cake, crunchy nori, and my must-have ajitama egg. Submerged in its pork and chicken broth were springy noodles that balanced the magnificent, complex flavours residing on its surface. Perfectly golden and gooey was the egg. Meanwhile, the chashu was supple, fleshy, and sumptuous. Unthinkable it was to have been bestowed such a vast assortment of toppings without extra charge.

​Concluding the meal was a large scoop of Shiso ice cream for five dollars. The server had described the formula as being lemony and "acidic", which was affirmed throughout the sampling process. However, it would also present a peculiar bitter aftertaste, one that persist in pungency with subsequent spoonfuls and linger about the mouth cavity, ultimately yielding a slight tingly sensation in the throat.
The consistency was a bit sticky, like gelato, whereas as its creaminess (or lack thereof) was comparable to sorbet.

Upon returning to the hotel, it seemed only fitting to check out the gym properly.

​Descending onto the second-level basement floor, the carpet was noticed to have been swapped from "Bonjour" to "Bonsoir" - a small but thoughtful addition to the customer experience.

​The facilities were vacant at my time of visit, enabling absolute liberation within the space.

​In search of bathroom facilities, I headed towards the upper Detox Fit level. Beyond a private washroom stall was a combined shower/rest area. Supplies such as toilet paper, tissue, and extra towels were stocked nearby, should they be of need.

​Also located on the upper floor was a communal lounge area, lockers, and a multitude of water bottles. Disposable earbuds and towels were also available, the former likely to be used for the cardio equipment.
The corridor led the way to private workout rooms with various cardio machines. Two of these rooms included sinks and mirrors for freshening up.

​During my stay, the primary focus resided with conditioning. The nearby exercise mat was observed to be peeling, thus encouraging my adoption of standing pilates routines instead. The spacious matwork area enabled me to move about freely, while the plethora of mirrors installed about made regular form check effortless.

​A stable, hotel-wide Wi-Fi network also assisted me in quickly locating free weight-based routines without delay.

Though guests were free to exit from the upper level of the gym (basement level 1), entry was only permitted through the lower level (basement level 2). This floor was chillier than the rest, for it provided a direct connection to the partially enclosed underground pathway joining the Montréal Convention Centre to the Victoria Square Metro station.

​The discovery delivered a distinct elation, for it was essentially the city's own version of the PATH.

The concept of Montréal travel had originated back in the summer months, when I had reached the halfway point of probation and was experiencing major wanderlust. (Admittedly, there was also substantial regret from not booking a one-week getaway to Vancouver prior to commencing the new position.)

Originally intended as a duo vacation with the sleepy polar bear, I can solemnly swear that the trip was not only far more enjoyable in the absence of the aforementioned entity, but also executed with greater finesse and freedom. Some people are truly best omitted from our lives; regrettably, it had taken too long for me to arrive at that realization.
Following the now-permanent season finale, I pitched the travel plan idea to the Thai ahgase, who responded that she had plans of her own. Ultimately, the trip adopted the form of a family getaway - fitting for the holidays, frankly.

Somehow managing a miracle recovery and rapid luggage assembly, I readied myself for flight the following afternoon.
The Uber was called too early in advance, for the driver was less than one minute away when the app refreshed. With knowledge of Wait Time charges, we scrambled to propel our carriers out the door and onto street level without incurring unwarranted charges. A mental note was made to ready ourselves in advance of any future Uber calls.

Our ride emerged with a stuffy and somewhat filthy interior. Similar to my dreaded shared ride from the AGO, the driver flew on the 401 without a worry in the world, causing much instability to be felt in the back.

We arrived at Pearson in record time. While expecting to witness a disarray of holiday travellers, the scene was comparatively calm versus the mid-pandemic travel of last May.

​​The check-in counters were relatively empty, as was the baggage drop-off, enabling the staff to joke merrily in the absence of travellers.

Security screening procedures also proceeded with extreme ease. With neither my DSLR nor laptop in tow this time, I breezed through without a moment's hesitation.

​​After gathering our down coats and boots, which we had been asked to remove for screening, we maneuvered over to the doors of Plaza Premium Lounge.

​The brightly illuminated space was located on the same level as security screening, at the opposite end of the floor from the elevators leading up towards Air Canada's Maple Leaf Lounge.

​Boarding passes would be verified near the front counter prior to entry. Guests were either permitted access based on possession of passes or on-site purchase of timed access periods.