Regrets, I Have a Few; Leaving Montreal Is a Major One.

It was a snowy November day 11+ years ago when my family and I made that fateful move. [I am reposting this, since I had only a handful of subsribers when I published this on Feb. 19.]

“The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.”
—L.P. Hartley, The Go-Between (1953)

The Toronto Stock Exchange (TSE) at 130 King Street West, First Canadian Place, places the city as the financial and economic capital of Canada, an appropriate symbol. Photo by Jonathan Gong on Unsplash

I have a good recollection of this period of time, even though it was more than 11 years ago, for reasons that will soon become apparent. So, we left Montreal on a snowy day, Thursday November 29, 2012, at approximately 1:45 pm; we being myself, my wife and my two boys, one ten years old, the other four-and-a-half. My wife did all the driving, which was fine with me, as I was tired. We would be staying the night at a hotel, the InterContinental on Yonge Street, in North York, about a 10-minute drive from our new place. A place that would be home for two years; two very difficult years. (More on that later.)

I remember leaving the city of my birth, the city of my schooling, the city of my memories and many friendships, with a mixture of sadness and anticipation (bittersweet) of a fresh start as the moving truck left the driveway of our three-bedroom house in the west island suburb of Dollard-des-Ormeaux. The moving truck filled with our possessions and in a figurative way, with our memories and life experience in the only city that was home. All contained in that 24-foot long rectangular box. They were three Russian movers; they were quick, efficient and experienced. It was just another job for them. The moving truck was packed tight. It was strange; it was bittersweet. We were heading into the unknown, and this became more true, more evident, a day later.

I remember that our car was also loaded up with all the stuff that we thought should not go into the moving truck, which we would meet at our new apartment building, the next day. In the trunk of the car, a 2000 Nissan Sentra, were our computers, our personal papers, our IDs, and other things that I cannot recollect, but they must have been important at the time. Some books and my writing journals were with me, nearby, tucked safely inside a briefcase on the floor, by my feet. Much in the same way as you do when flying, except there is no passenger seat in front. We took Highway 40 Ouest (40 West) and then the 401 West.

We briefly stopped at a gas station just outside Toronto to fill up; we also grabbed some snacks and some soft drinks and ate in the car. in 45 minutes we were on Yonge Street. It was a little after 6:45 pm. My wife is a fast driver, much faster than me. We made the 540 kilometres (335 miles) trip in five hours; I slept in the car a good part of the way.

I started to have an uneasy feeling when we drove up Yonge Street, driving north off the exit to the hotel. It was a short drive, maybe 10 minutes I am not sure what it was that gave me this feeling, but I did not like it. I now know that a good part of it was the architecture, its blandness, its sameness, its sadness and, more to the point, its lack of any originality. I could not understand what I was feeling then, so I pushed it away, considering it as mere nerves, chronic tiredness of the last two months of packing, of leaving the old and familiar and of being in a new and strange city.

All this was likely true, to some degree, no doubt, but my instincts, my premonitions, my feelings turned out to be true. In so many instances and ways, both big and small, some so baffling that I thought that I was living in a parallel world. In some ways, I was and continue to do so. The only difference between then and now, is that I now have the awareness, which I sorely lacked then.

We unloaded our luggage and our laptops and checked in for the night. We were too tired to find a restaurant nearby, so we decided to eat at the hotel’s restaurant. I do not remember what we ate, but the meal was not memorable, except, perhaps, what we paid for it. This would come up time and again as we adjusted to our new economic life in Canada’s economic and business capital. I soon learned that in Toronto, it is chiefly about commerce, about transactions, including in relationships, and that functionality always supersedes any thoughts or aesthetics of beauty. Beauty rarely, if ever, enters into the equation or, for that matter, the discussion of urban planning. Beauty is not a consideration, perhaps a reflection of Toronto’s past. The past, my past in Montreal, is a foreign country. I would add that the same can be said for the present; that Toronto is a foreign country.

Simply put, Toronto was and has been nothing like Montreal. Of course, every city is different and has its charms. But I found it difficult to find this in Toronto. Perhaps there are hidden charms. Very well hidden. Not what I had expected, which proves beyond a reasonable doubt, that living in a city is never the same as visiting it. It is true that before the Big Move, I had last visited Toronto in June 2006, six years previously, to attend the wedding of one of my wife’s relatives. Or maybe it changed, grew too big too fast, without much thought or planning.

Whatever happened in the six intervening years, my views of Canada’s largest city altered, becoming less favourable. Another relevant and apparent factor is that Toronto is built for business, while Montreal remains a place for people, much more humane. Although Montrealers, Les Montréalais, might rant and complain about their city (i.e., construction, orange cones, taxes, etc.), if they would live here, they would be more grateful for living in such a beautiful and wonderful city as Montréal. C'est vrai; tu manques toujours quelque chose quand il n'est plus en ta présence. One city has soul; another has business. The differences are huge and not at all reconcilable. For sentimental reasons, and more, I often think and play the famous song by Robert Charlebois, “Je reviendrai à Montréal” (1976).

In my next article, for next Monday, I will give my recollection and a recounting of moving in to our new apartment and what a horror show that was. In so many ways. It truly gave truth to the saying, “It was a hard landing.”

Merci et à bientôt
Born at 315 ppm
Now at 425 ppm