Vive la Montréal

MONTREAL -- Imagine Boston translated into French, with an attitude straight out of San Francisco. That's Montréal, our little pocket of Old Europe right here in North America.

I'm making what should be my last trip up here for a while. The project is just about wrapped up. It took longer than it normally would partly because of its size and scope, and partly because of the language thing. They're serious about speaking French up here. It's the law.

But, even if you don't parler, you can get around just fine. This is the city where everything's pretty much OK. One of the main downtown streets, Rue Ste.-Catherine, cuts through the campus of a major university and is home to a large mall and several beautiful 17th-century cathedrals. Also, strip clubs. And not subtle strip clubs, but big, huge, flashing-signs-with-neon-naked-women strip clubs. Mall, cathedral, strip club. Restaurant, electronics store, strip club. That's Rue Ste.-Catherine.

I found myself walking Ste.-Catherine on Wednesday night, because that's where I emerged when I got off the subway. Two young women walked by, smiling, laughing, holding hands. A couple of blocks away, the homeless guy sat with his bucket and his cardboard sign. The sign read, in English, "I need to smoke a JOINT -- Please Help." At least he's honest. I didn't contribute to his stash, but he was good for a laugh.

I found myself oddly surprised at how many of the homeless people have dogs. I saw four or five, bundling up in their makeshift quarters in storefronts, getting ready to call it a night. Nobody seemed to mind.

I turned the corner and fell in behind three large young men, who were smoking and talking hockey. My nose quickly picked up the fact that one of the men, shall we say, was not smoking a Camel. That smell is just as illegal up here as it is in the U.S., but hey, it's Montréal, everything's OK here.

I stopped into an Asian restaurant, where the Hispanic waitress greeted me in French. I ordered my poulet avec riz and was, as always, very pleased with the meal. Food is plentiful here, and all of it is good. Even the fast food seems to be better. Not sure why; it might have something to do with the French thing. Something about a "McPoulet Croustillant" makes it so much better than the typical crispy chicken sandwich.

The architecture is old, but everybody here is young. Even the older people look young, stylish, quick to smile. Billboards for pop stars and new movies and iPods are everywhere. Global warming and "America's war" are big topics of conversation here, especially because so many Canadians are dying fighting our battle in Afghanistan. There are three major political parties in Québec: Liberals, Conservatives, and the Bloc Québecois, which advocates the secession of Québec from Canada, among other things. Most real Québecois are torn on the issue, it seems; they're protective of their culture, but they also think of themselves as Canadian. And the conversation always turns to the laughter of concession when somebody utters the phrase "the Québec military."

I'll fly south tomorrow, leaving behind the predicted ice storm and the 4:30 p.m. sunset. I'll miss it, but I feel better knowing that a place like Montréal exists.