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.
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 shimmery sapphire packing of Tokyo was summoned for a mild awakening.
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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.
Slowly but surely, I geared up in city-roaming attire, feeling increasingly more alive as both caffeine and acetaminophen were activated in the system.
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Since check-in had taken place after sundown, we hadn't been able to observe the exterior of the hotel properly until the arrival of morning.
Overcast climate enabled an unaltered perception of the hotel's cool-toned entryway and sleek, minimalist façade.
Entering the Metro from street level was an experience not unfamiliar to me. The stairwell had been decorated in a manner evoking Hotel Transylvania sentiments, but the Sans-Serif lettering and aluminum-coated doors were simply too reminiscent of TTC back home. At the very least, the stairwell had been free of litter, free of splatters, and free of homeless residents crouched in a corner.
Worth noting was the handle-less swivel design of the doors. Two were fixed along an axis and free to rotate in the counter-clockwise direction.
Victoria Square station was, indubitably, one revealing high levels of usage. However, this shouldn't automatically be confused with degree of griminess. The station was maintained exceptionally well: there was not a single piece of rubbish in sight!
The fare gates adopted an old-fashioned turnstile format, fitted with a coloured platform for tapping OPUS and L'Occassionelle cards before entry. I passed through the gates without any issues whatsoever. My travelling companion, on the other hand, neglected the platform entirely and attempted to feed the chip-embossed paper card through one of the machine's slots, interpreting the crevice as a reader.
When the unsuccessful attempt/first-time user confusion was brought to the attention of the gate staff, we were informed, in French, that "One card permitted entry for one person only.". The short-haired, bespectacled lady had misunderstood our concern, but settled for opening the gate manually while unable to understand our English. Thinking back to the airport stm staff, I heaved a sigh of relief that we had secured our cards at a bilingual outpost before venturing into local neighbourhoods.
When the unsuccessful attempt/first-time user confusion was brought to the attention of the gate staff, we were informed, in French, that "One card permitted entry for one person only.". The short-haired, bespectacled lady had misunderstood our concern, but settled for opening the gate manually while unable to understand our English. Thinking back to the airport stm staff, I heaved a sigh of relief that we had secured our cards at a bilingual outpost before venturing into local neighbourhoods.
As with all subway lines, one required knowledge of two names: the desired station and the terminus in the direction of the desired station. The Orange Line, otherwise labelled as Line 2, formed a U-shape, intersecting the other three lines at least once in our direction of travel. From Square-Victoria-OACI, we would first travel east, then north towards the Montmorency terminus.
An overpass would permit commuters to head in the opposite direction: west, then north towards the Côte-Vertu terminus.
An overpass would permit commuters to head in the opposite direction: west, then north towards the Côte-Vertu terminus.
While we had missed the first train amidst the turnstile ordeal, the next train pulled into the station within minutes. The Metro was a blue-and-silver vehicle with streetcar-like double doors, a narrow interior, and plastic seats. It was fairly reminiscent of the Canada Line trains, albeit even narrower and offering fewer seats.
However, its speed was unparalleled: swifter and steadier than the likes of any Canadian transit system experienced thus far. Our ride spanned nine stops and barely ten minutes on the train.
However, its speed was unparalleled: swifter and steadier than the likes of any Canadian transit system experienced thus far. Our ride spanned nine stops and barely ten minutes on the train.
A digital display replaced the typical paperback advertisements while simultaneously notifying riders of the distance between the current and upcoming station and any connecting bus routes.
As expected, the greatest influx of riders occurred at the transfer stops of Berri-UQAM, which offered connections to the nearby university via the Yellow Line (Line 4), and Jean-Talon, which intersected with the Blue Line (Line 5). Victoria Square had proven itself rather tidy, but glimpses of stations past the 90-degree bend revealed the trademark of all urban cities: residents of the streets.
We disembarked at Jean-Talon, then hovered about a pillar until I could grasp the meaning of posted signage. Letters (and arrows) were spotted at each corner, yet none of them had been used to form English words. At the very least, my high school-level French vocabulary and broad interpretation/extrapolation skills did not fail me. I picked out "Sud" as "South" and "Marché" as "Market", then adhered to the arrows accordingly.
Again, the same signage scenario awaited us at street level. By this point, wayfinding wasn't nearly as difficult as icons such as people and "P" for parking had been included.
Spotted across the station was Jean Coutu, a name that had frequently emerged in my tween reading days of LOULOU magazine.
The interior was not so different from the standard Rexall: a dingy drug store featuring prices on par to those back home.
Following in the footsteps of the market-goers around us, we continued along the south side of Rue Jean-Talon, passing a Thai produce market and dessert parlour by the name of NANANA.
Jean-Talon Market had been claimed a "must-visit" attraction of the city, further earning itself a spot on my itinerary with a supposed 1 PM performance exclusive to December 23rd.
Source: Marchés Publics de Montréal (November 20, 2023)
The Marché was essentially a reduced-scale hybrid of St. Lawrence and St. Jacobs: an indoor farmer's market surrounded by a handful of standalone vendor buildings. One wing of the market offered produce, while other branches pastries, meats, cheeses, teas, and flowers.
Smaller than any market in the GTA, the corridors seemed comparatively narrow and congested. Moreover, locals would merely push past us than interject with "Excuse me"s and wait until we had shifted out of the area. The shoving never lessened: my backpack was brought closer to me, yet stroller wheels jabbed at my feet and eco bags swung against my legs. There was an odd consistency about the bruteness of the market's patrons.
European sausages had caught our eye initially, but the incredulous line and lack of staff attention sent us in the opposite direction.
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At the east end of the market, by Henri Julien Avenue, was a compact dining area and retailers of pies and pastries.
Samples of Maple Tarts were provided near the cashier - an open invitation for sampling.
Unable to resist the complimentary portion, I grabbed one of the ketchup containers, then regretted the overwhelming sugary decision.
Produce aisles were situated at the west end, retailing anything from overpriced kale to even pricier, off-season Ontario strawberries.
Immediately beyond the market building was Première Moisson, a cozy bakehouse with an enclosed dining area. Behind the snaking queue were shelves lined with packaged cookies, various bread loaves, viennoiseries, cakes, and even deli sandwiches and salads.
We joined the lineup without so much an objective, inching forward to peruse the selection available to us.
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After much trouble in flagging a member of English-speaking staff, our transaction was made. The order comprised of an Almond Croissant, Pistachio and Cranberry Brioche, and Cheese Straws, packaged and secured with a satiny black ribbon.
My travelling companion grew irritable in the absence of seating and an area of warm respite, sparking grief on my part as well. Though, there is little that can be said and done with regard to pre-Christmas customer volumes in a marketplace.
My travelling companion grew irritable in the absence of seating and an area of warm respite, sparking grief on my part as well. Though, there is little that can be said and done with regard to pre-Christmas customer volumes in a marketplace.
Devoured immediately in a corner of the shop was the Almond Croissant (not me) and two gritty, room temperature Cheese Straws, or Pailles au Fromage. In spite of the evident layers and uniformly cheesy topping, the vibrant cheesy sections were a cold letdown. Another one was stuffed into my mouth while I grimaced at its $8.18 price tag. (Mind you, it wasn't until much, much later that I learned of being doubly charged for the package...)
Meanwhile, the Brioche was tucked away for later consumption.
Continued perusal of the grounds led me to wooden reindeer, a pine tree market, and Quebec's edition of a national liquor store: SAQ, Société des alcools du Québec.
Slowly navigating the perimeter of the market, the vicinity exposed interlock pedestrian clearways, red pillars for streetscaping, and produce-stamped asphalt at the parking lot entrance.
Without much else of interest, I returned to the market building for indoor plumbing facilities. Unlike St. Lawrence, or any Ontario market really, the stalls were remarkably clean. The scene was definitely illustrative of the decent habits of locals, which contrasted against the sloppiness of public washrooms in Toronto.
That said, I still, for the life of me, could not comprehend the incessant intrusion of personal space and supposedly commonplace shoving/bumping actions of locals. Even when perched against the wall of the ostensibly wide washroom corridor, passerbys had still somehow managed to graze my compact being one way or another.
That said, I still, for the life of me, could not comprehend the incessant intrusion of personal space and supposedly commonplace shoving/bumping actions of locals. Even when perched against the wall of the ostensibly wide washroom corridor, passerbys had still somehow managed to graze my compact being one way or another.
Jean-Talon Marché posed the greatest communication challenge of the trip, being based out of a relatively residential area and with most vendors speaking French exclusively. Without the familiarity of language, shop owners weren't nearly as friendly as districts featuring frequent tourist sightings. It also assumed the least gratifying stop of the adventure, for its offerings were staggering in price but lacked any memorable elements.
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Read Part 2 HERE !
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