Suprême ombre, suprême aurore (5/24/2006)

"Oh Canada, we stand on God for thee."
- Best mis-heard song lyric ever. Really.

Thumbing through my high-school yearbook, I noticed that several classmates claimed "Montreal '98" as an extracurricular activity. This is hardly a surprise: to many New England teenagers, Maisonneuve's city is the promised land -- a Jericho that they storm each April in search of "milk" (beer) and "honey" (figure it out). Five hours from Boston, and voila, let the Molson flow.My memories of Montreal differed. Not one for underaged barhopping, I always looked upon the city with disdain -- you waste your money getting hammered, I'll go to Europe, thank you very much. Plus, my two previous trips had been in the dead of winter. Yeah, fun. So when my office decided to send me to an educators' conference, I was admittedly skeptical. But it's free, so no complaining.

Les Quebecois slapped me back to reality. Fresh off its mid-nineties obsession with separatism, the city has revived itself as a commercial and cultural hub -- Canada's second-largest city and the soul of French Canada (Quebec City is the heart. Sorry.). The Rue Sainte-Catherine has morphed from a pre-Giuliani Times Square to a quasi-Magnificent Mile. The locals are friendly and bubbly, and it doesn't hurt when you needn't fight through -30 temperatures to talk to them. Especially about hockey. Just don't mention Les Canadiens bowing out to a sub-Mason Dixon Line team, or Les Nordiques moving to Colorado.

Montreal's ironies amused me, though. Their Metro plasters advertisements for "Where's Waldo?" books under the moniker "Ou est Charlie?", perhaps a backhanded, Vietnam-era slap. On my first night there, I turned on the TV only to stumble on "South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut," which for the unindoctrinated, features a U.S. war on Canada (against whom, in real life, we are 0-2).

Quirks aside, most fascinating was the Quebecois identity -- French Canadian, damnit, and that's not quite French and not exactly Canadian (discuss.) The provincial flag - perhaps my favorite in the world - flies on masts even with the maple leaf (if the national flag shows up at all). The banner thrusts Quebecois roots right at you -- the cross (duh), a blue background (the Virgin Mary), and four white fleur-de-lis (which either harken back to the French kings or hint that all Quebecois are privy to the lost secrets of the Priory of Scion.)

The Quebecois joie de vivre also manifests itself in the few square blocks of old Montreal. Despite what tour books claim, you won't find Paris du Nord, but a centuries-old town that remained relatively untouched while a metropolis swelled around it. With no Louis Napoleon to build unbarricadable boulevards, perhaps the cobblestone streets harken are more indicative of Paris primeval than anything you'll find in the French capital herself. Hell, I wouldn't have been surprised if I found myself staring down Enjolras or Marius as I swung a wrong turn.

And so, Montreal, you're forgiven. You're far more than an enterprise that hoards cash from New England's juveniles, greater than a -30 hellhole where your citizens can't walk outside, and even better than other towns that have failed to keep their professional baseball teams.

Tres bien, mon ami. Tres bien.