Discovering a city is like stepping into a new story.
I’d like to tell you about this city I’ve only recently begun to explore. At
first glance, it may not appear much different from other major cities.
Montreal, with its wide boulevards, towering apartment blocks, bustling cafés
and streets echoing with various languages at every corner, is a typical
metropolis.
My first trip to Montreal dates back a year. At the
time, my boyfriend had travelled here several times due to the preliminary work
for a factory his company was setting up nearby. Each time, his schedule had
been confirmed at the last minute, so I hadn’t been able to join him. But last
September, I arranged a schedule that allowed me to work remotely in the
mornings and take the afternoons off, and I travelled here with him. That
eight-day visit was my first real contact with Montreal. Those days passed like
a dream. In the mornings, I’d work until noon, then once it was after 6pm in
Zurich, I’d go out, have lunch at a different restaurant each day, visit
museums and galleries, and sit in parks sketching. It was such a busy week that
we even managed to fit in a classical music concert and a weekend trip to
Quebec City. So when we moved here, the city wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to me.
Still, when my boyfriend received a permanent transfer
offer, we were hesitant about moving and deliberately made the process more
difficult by keeping our conditions high. But in the end, they came back with
an irresistible offer: a stunning apartment in our chosen location, a car,
insurance, and a very attractive salary. Slowly, we warmed to the idea of
moving — like frogs gradually adjusting to cold water heating up. Before we
knew it, days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and by March this year, we
found ourselves choosing our new flat in Montreal and setting a move-in date.
As someone who has lived in different countries and
often describes herself as a global citizen, I’m not sure why I hesitated so
much about coming to Montreal. Maybe it was the time difference, maybe the vast
ocean separating us from Europe, or perhaps the fear of being far from loved
ones. But ultimately, I clung to two narratives to convince myself: one was the
need to take a break from my career, the other was my long-standing desire to
improve my French, which I hadn’t had much chance to study properly.
And so our Montreal adventure began. As I write these
lines, I can see the statue of Mary atop Bonsecours Church from my window —
arms open towards the harbour and sailors. The dome of Bonsecours Market gleams
like silver in the sunlight. Down below, the streets are alive with movement.
From our home, I walk straight along Notre Dame Street
and reach my school in about ten minutes. On the way, I pass in front of the
constitutional court building, and when I arrive at Place Jacques-Cartier, the
pavement is already crowded with tourists. Some have arrived by massive cruise
ships docked at the port; others by coach — by this time of day, they’ve
already begun touring the city’s old town and popular sights. As I approach my
school, the sounds of construction grow louder and French, English, and
sometimes Spanish conversations echo around me. Along the route, cafés,
markets, and businesses line the street. In the mornings, bins wait to be
collected, traffic jams build up, and seemingly endless roadworks add to the
city’s rhythm.
Judges in their white collars and black robes,
businesswomen in heels, rush past in their own worlds. Others, however, haven’t
severed those subtle ties to their surroundings — they smile back at you, thank
you for holding a door, or simply wish you a good day.
There’s much to say about this city, but I’d like to
speak first about a reality that has struck me deeply — something I’ve never
seen in any other city before: the homeless. But I’m not referring to the ones
we might see in Paris or Washington D.C., curled up in a sheltered corner,
sleeping. These people often lie right in the middle of the pavement, not even
bothering to use their arms as pillows, their shirts rolled up to their backs,
lying there unconscious, as if they’ve simply collapsed. When they are awake,
especially on certain stretches of Saint Catherine Street, they wander the
streets shouting non-stop, delivering what sounds like speeches — but if you
listen closely, the words are completely nonsensical. The scenes resemble
something out of a science fiction film, like a scene from a futuristic
dystopia. They strangely remind me of the Netflix series Hot Skull.
I was so disturbed by it that my boyfriend decided to
look into it. Apparently, many of these individuals suffered brain damage (he
says they’re “burnt”) due to a drug that was once widely used in the area. Now,
they live in their own inner worlds, experiencing reality in a distorted,
parallel universe.
Of course, I’ve seen children in Istanbul rummaging
through bins, often due to poverty or addiction, but even so, they were still
clinging to life, still part of reality. The people here, though, seem like
beings from another planet — disconnected, wandering around stripped of the
basic qualities of humanity.
In time, I’ll also talk about Montreal’s many
beauties. But for now, in these first few days, what’s struck me most deeply
are these strange, surreal human images I’ve encountered in this beautiful and
wealthy country.
No comments:
Post a Comment