The Night I Fell in Love with Montreal (It Involved a Drum Circle and a Smoked Meat Sandwich)
I flew to Montreal for a long weekend because the flights were cheap ($180 round trip from New York) and a friend had said, with unusual emphasis: "You have to go. Like, you specifically have to go."
She was right. Not because Montreal is objectively the greatest city in the world. But because it's the city I didn't know I needed — a place where joy is treated as a serious pursuit and everyone seems to have agreed, collectively, that life should include more music, more food, and more time sitting in parks.
The Arrival
The 747 Express Bus from Trudeau Airport ($11 CAD) dropped me at Berri-UQAM Metro station in about 50 minutes. Checked into a small hotel on Rue Saint-Denis in the Plateau ($130 CAD/night) and walked out onto the street.
The first thing I noticed was the murals. Not small, tasteful accent murals. Entire building facades covered in art — a whale swimming up a 5-story wall, a woman's face spanning two buildings, abstract geometric explosions of color. This was Block 1 of my walk. The street art didn't stop for the rest of the trip.
The Bagel Expedition
Within 30 minutes of arriving, I was standing inside Fairmount Bagel at the counter. The place has been open 24/7 since 1919. Wood-fired ovens roar behind the counter. The bagels come out in batches — smaller and denser than New York bagels, with a honey sweetness from the boiling water.
I bought a dozen ($8 CAD) and ate two while standing there, hot, with nothing on them. The cashier didn't blink. This is apparently normal.
Then I walked five blocks to St-Viateur Bagel. Also open 24/7. Also wood-fired. Slightly different flavor — a bit less sweet, a bit more char. I bought another dozen.
I now had 24 bagels. I was alone. I regret nothing.
The correct answer to "Fairmount or St-Viateur?" is: try both, hot from the oven, and fight about it with someone over drinks later. That argument IS the experience.
The Drum Circle That Changed My Sunday
Sunday morning. I took the Metro to Mont-Royal station and walked up to the park. Frederick Law Olmsted designed this — the same mind behind Central Park — and the Kondiaronk Belvedere lookout at the top has the best panoramic view of Downtown and the St. Lawrence River. Free.
But that's not why people go on Sundays.
At the George-Etienne Cartier monument, near the base of the park, there's a weekly gathering that defies easy description. The tam-tam drum circles. Hundreds of people sitting on the grass around a central area where drummers — djembes, congas, bongos, shakers — play a rhythm that builds and evolves over hours.
People dance. Not choreographed dancing. Not performance. Just bodies moving because the drums make standing still feel wrong. Families with toddlers. University students. An elderly man in a Hawaiian shirt moving with the precision of someone who's been coming here for decades.
I sat on the grass, ate a bagel (I still had them), and watched for two hours. Then someone handed me a tambourine and I played along, badly, for 20 minutes, and nobody cared.
This happens every Sunday from May through October. It's free. It's not organized by anyone in particular. It's just a thing that Montreal does.
Schwartz's Line and the Smoked Meat Question
Schwartz's Deli on Boulevard Saint-Laurent has been serving smoked meat since 1928. The line moves faster than it looks — 15 minutes on a Sunday afternoon.
Smoked meat sandwich: $12 CAD. It arrives on rye bread with mustard. The meat is hand-sliced, piled high, with a pink center and a seasoned bark. The fat-to-lean ratio is perfect. I ate it standing at the counter (seating is communal and tight) next to a family from France who were taking photos of each bite.
Is it better than pastrami from Katz's in New York? Different. Less peppery, more herbal, smokier. I prefer it. I understand this is a controversial position.
Saturday Night and Poutine at 1AM
Montreal's nightlife starts late and runs until 3AM (bars close at 3, not 2 like most of North America). The drinking age is 18, which contributes to a youthful energy that Toronto and US cities can't replicate.
I ended up at a bar on Rue Rachel with a friend-of-a-friend named Jean-Marc, who taught me two things:
Always start by saying "Bonjour" — even if your French stops there.
The best bar snack in Montreal is a plate of frites (fries) from the bar kitchen, which somehow tastes better at midnight with a Boreal beer.
At 1AM, we walked to La Banquise on the Plateau. Open 24/7. Thirty varieties of poutine. I ordered the classic ($10 CAD): fries, cheese curds, brown gravy. The curds squeaked against my teeth — this is how you know they're fresh.
Jean-Marc ordered La T-Rex ($16 CAD): ground beef, pepperoni, bacon, hot dogs, and cheese curds. It was absurd. It was magnificent.
"Never order poutine with shredded cheese," he said, pointing his fork at me. "That is not poutine. That is an insult."
I believed him.
Old Montreal on the Last Morning
Monday morning. Cobblestoned streets. Horse-drawn carriages (touristy but atmospheric). The Notre-Dame Basilica ($18 CAD entry) has a Gothic Revival interior so blue and gold that it makes you gasp when you walk in. The AURA light show ($30 CAD) adds projected light and music — it's genuinely spectacular, not cheesy.
Walked Place Jacques-Cartier — street performers, cafe terraces, the old City Hall. Then along the St. Lawrence River, where cruise ships dock and cyclists ride past on the waterfront path.
Last coffee at a Mile End cafe. Last bagel (Fairmount, by this point I'd declared loyalty). 747 bus back to the airport.
The Math
Flights: $180 round trip
Hotel (2 nights): $260
Food: $95 (Montreal is cheap)
Transport: $30 (Metro + BIXI)
Activities: $18 (basilica)
Bagels consumed: 11
Total: $583
For a weekend that fundamentally changed my relationship with Canadian cities, bagels, and spontaneous drum circles — that's a bargain.
I'm going back for Jazz Fest. Jean-Marc promised to save me a spot at La Banquise.
