Kendrick Lamar is Always in My Kitchen

I turn on the bathroom lights. One of the bulbs sputters and flickers, like someone gasping for their last breath of air. The sound is mildly unsettling, so I reach up and whap the fixture with my brush. Silence is regained, though only for a moment. Now a siren is squealing down 4th Avenue and my upstairs neighbor has turned on his television. I’m engulfed in uncontrollable noises once again.   

Nothingness is hard to find no matter where you live, but nothingness is nearly impossible to find in New York City. The whole island rumbles twenty-four hours a day, and if it stops we all ask, “What went wrong?” No one wants this town to pause and catch its breath—that’s why we live here. The buzz of the city is our fuel.

But people? People need rest.

We cannot function at the same pace of our fair city’s heartbeat. She is immortal and concrete; yet her inhabitants are simply human.

As an extroverted creature, it is against my nature to rest in silence. But often, when I’m quiet—and turn on my fan to block out the noises of this distracting town—I am more introspective. I am quick to pick up a pen, and process the current state of affairs.

Which, is what I’m doing right now.

It turns out there is much happening in my tiny brain. The most common narrative of my thoughts is that of change. There are obvious reasons for this: I’m about to get married, the agency I work for is closing its New York office, and the weather is (finally) turning warm.

But there are other forces at play that nod to the subtle movement of time.

I met Ben when I was going to church in the East Village. He was a part of my “small group”—a rag tag cluster of New Yorkers who were looking to connect with a community. We ate, laughed, read, played, and prayed together. To this day, a portion of that eclectic set of people are still some of my closest friends in the city. They will be in my wedding and part of whatever comes next.

Then, there's Micole. She and Ben met one Cinco De Mayo and starting dating soon after. I remember talking with her about relationships; she was wise, patient, and hilarious while sharing advice. Micole works in the fashion world and was briefly featured on a reality TV show (which, was short-lived because she’s not dramatic or petty in the slightest).

Ben and Micole got married, got a dog, and got pregnant. Now they are leaving the city for multiple intelligent reasons. They will have a much-needed season of rest, far away from New York City’s palpitations.  

But today is the first day that I feel sad about their quick exit. Suddenly, the movement of time does not seem so subtle. I’ve known Ben for nearly seven years. He asks good questions. He likes dumb country songs. He always implores me to show emotion. “It’s OK to be sad, Britney!” he’d say when I was covering up stress, while making $10 an hour in grad school. “Let it out! You can tell us.”

We non-married people were also lucky enough to watch Ben and Micole fall in love. And fight. And apologize. When they tied the knot at a beautiful loft in Greenpoint, it felt important—like a tangible chapter in time was closing. We were city kids becoming adults.

"Nobody pray for me
Even a day for me
Way (yeah, yeah!)"

All the windows in my apartment are closed, but Kendrick Lamar is suddenly projecting from someone’s car. Our walls are so thin, it's as if the rapper himself were standing in my kitchen with a megaphone. I wish I could say this is the first time the talented Mr. Lamar has showed up unexpectedly, but ever since his latest album dropped, I can't keep him out of this apartment. There is always someone on 4th Avenue blaring his hit tracks, so I just nod along. 

This is how close we city dwellers live to eight million other people.

Still, for a few hours, I was able to peacefully process—to find a nothingness even from within my uninsulated apartment. Ben would be proud that I unapologetically shed some tears over he and his wife’s departure.

Now New York rumbles on. Someone calls about brunch; someone else about job opportunities. A car alarm wails in the distance. As I consider going for a walk around Brooklyn, I feel a growing sense of excitement for my friends’ new adventures—where will they live next? What will they name the baby? Most importantly, when can we all visit? 

The not-so-subtle passage of time doesn’t seem as depressing. 
I cannot sit in the nothingness for long. 
There’s a time to pause.
There’s a time to prepare.

And then… there’s a time to get married, find a job, have babies, move across the country, travel the world, or simply run full speed ahead!

Best of luck, my friends, to where ever you may be in that process.
 

Ben + Micole

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“And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I’m still trying to figure out how that could be.”

— The Perks of Being a Wallflower

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What Was Your Biggest Culture Shock Visiting New York City?

Note: I was originally asked this question by someone on Quora, a Q&A website.  

I came to NYC seven years ago and never left. But I moved here from the South, which is a very different part of the United States—so, believe me, I was shocked 100x over. Here are some of the basics that threw me for a loop.

1. You don't ever hang out in Times Square. You see it in movies, pictures, and read about this iconic neighborhood in books. But in reality, unless you work there or frequent Broadway once a week, you will not spend anytime in this (very crowded) area. I don't know why, but I just assumed Times Square was the social hub of NYC. Wrong. When you're visiting, go downtown!

2. There's a reason no one smiles on the subway. I used to think, "These people look miserable. Why don't they ever smile?" It took me about 2 months to get the vibe. In the South, we greet everyone. You wave at neighbors when you drive by, or make conversation at the grocery store. But here? There's just too much. Too many signs, messages, noises—if you interact with every person you come across, you become overwhelmed. Mentally exhausted. This isn't an excuse to be rude, but it explains the blank stares and headphones on the subway. Everyone just needs a minute to themselves.

3. Bodega is not a word in Virginia. I never heard it until I moved here. Now, it is a life source.

4. Mom and pop shops/restaurants still reign supreme. This may be true for many cities, but if you're a child of the suburbs? This is news to you! When I go home now, I get panicky when we roll into Applebee's. That said, occasionally your errands can take forever in the city. To the Polish bakery, to the laundromat, to the organic juice guy, to Urban Outfitters, to the hardware store. There are not very many malls or "one stop shops."

5. Some buildings need a revamp. The grittiness of the city has never bothered me. I suppose I just expected it. But I'm always shocked at how outdated Port Authority and Penn Station are—WTF? 1970s NYC is alive and well!

6. There are many homeless and mentally ill people sleeping on the streets. Old men, families, and a slew of teens. It's totally heartbreaking and becomes such a common sight that you forget it's actually a huge problem.

7. This city moves fast. Everyone is going somewhere, everyone is fighting to be here, and everyone is walking 100 miles an hour, especially during the commute. I also walk an average of 5 miles a day—so if you're visiting, be prepared. Bring good walking shoes! (I’ve worn these tennis shoes, these nice boots, and these rain boots for years.)

8. You still need green space. This one surprised me, but my love for nature has actually increased while living in the city. Take an afternoon to go to Central Park or Prospect Park. Enjoy a booze cruise on the water. And, most importantly, you need to leave the city at least once a month. You'll come back refreshed, and in better shape to take over the world. Promise.

Have a question about living in or visiting NYC? Leave your thoughts in the comments section!

Related Posts:

• New York Tip #1: Become a Regular Somewhere

• What Are Some Underrated NYC Attractions?

What Are Some Underrated NYC Attractions?

When people visit NYC, they want to experience "the real deal"—not just the Empire State Building. So here's a pretty specific, localized list of underrated attractions in the East Village of Manhattan. Skip the hop-on, hop-off bus and do you own weird walking tour! 

1. Get some of the best coffee in the city at Abraco on 7th street and if you're hungry, sample their olive oil cakes. Then walk down 7th and pop your head into thrift stores like punk-themed Trash and Vaudeville, or AuH20.
2. Keep heading east on 7th, and walk around Tompkins Square Park. There's a lot of history here, including riots in both the 1870s and 1980s. But now visitors stroll through and people watch, listen to music, or check out the dog park on the far side of Tompkins.
3. If you're hungry, I would recommend Tompkins Square Bagels for the real hand-rolled, water-boiled experience. Or, stop in to Crif Dogs for a tasty hotdog with all the fixings. Note: There's a telephone both at the front of this restaurant, and a speakeasy rests on the other side of the wall. Please don't tell...
4. Head back west on St. Marks. The Museum of the American Gangster is usually open from 1-6pm, and is a fun little tour.

Other Things to See in the East Village

• Nuyorican Poets Cafe
• Community Gardens (my favorite is on 6th between Avenue B and C)
• The Museum of Reclaimed Urban Space
• Sidewalk Cafe, a hub for the Antifolk music scene
• STOMP's Off-Broadway show

Places to Eat and Drink

• McSorley's (the oldest "Irish" tavern in New York City)
• Ace bar (with arcade games)
• The Wayland (best garden margarita, tasty brunch)
• International Bar (total dive with outdoor space)
• ABC Beer (outdoor space, craft beer)
• Lois Wine Bar (good snacks, wine on tap)
• Ten Degrees (good happy hour)
• Mudspot on 9th (yummy brunch)
• The Smith (brunch spot that takes reservations)
• Death and Co. ("speakeasy" that's easier to get into before 8pm)
• The Mermaid Inn (more expensive, but amazing seafood)
• Van Leeuwen Ice Cream
• Big Gay Ice Cream

Walkable Attractions + Neighborhoods

• Union Square
• The Strand Book Store
• Soho and Lower East Side
• Washington Square Park

Have a question about other underrated attractions? Leave a note in the comments section below! 

Family brunch at Mudspot.

What is the Climate in NYC by Season?

So you want to visit NYC, but you don't know the best time of year to schedule your visit. Here are some facts to consider: The Big Apple has all four seasons (though our spring is quite fickle!). This image from Weather.com is a helpful visual of our average temperatures by month. Note that July is typically the warmest, and January is the coldest.  

Other Considerations

• In the summer (June - mid September) NYC has some major humidity, like much of the East Coast. We don't have “dry heat” like you might experience in Arizona or parts of California. So you need to stay hydrated because you’re going to sweat—quite a bit! Also, please wear deodorant, especially if you are taking public transportation. 
• Many large department stores and restaurants blast the AC in the summertime, so if you’re one of those people who gets cold indoors easily, pack a light sweater in your backpack for the day. 
• In winter, wear layers! I repeat, wear lots of layers. I invested in a knee-length down coat as soon as I moved to NYC, and it was probably one of my best purchases. I wear fleece-lined tights in winter. When it’s really unbearable outside, I also wear tights under my jeans. While New York is not the coldest city in America, it's important to remember walking is one of our main forms of transposition. Be prepared for snow if you’re visiting in December - February.
• In my opinion, New York was made for fall. Summer is my favorite time of year, but I think autumn is a lovely time to visit. You can see the leaves changing in Central Park, wear a light jacket, and worry less about rain than in the springtime. But honestly, every season has its perks :)

Me and my #1 Dude in Brooklyn during fall. 

Have a question about a certain season in NYC? Leave your thoughts below in the comments section!

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Double Decker Bus Tour of Downtown Manhattan See the best sights in lower Manhattan with a pass valid for 24 hours. This New York tour includes stops to Greenwich Village, Times Square, Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center, SoHo, Chinatown, Little Italy and more!

In Local's Guide to NYC, New York City Tags new york city, new york city climate, new york city seasons, local's guide to NYC, brooklyn seasons, average nyc temperatures

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The Full Circle Black Dress

I slip on a black dress. 

This particular type of garment always reminds me of Bloomingdale's. The dress code for a salesgirl was black from head to toe. My shoes, dresses, headbands, and even my tights were a vibrant black. Washing your clothes led to fading, which, in turn led to being called out by management. So we all washed our laundry in cold water and talked about the benefits of air drying.  

The department store that I worked for was, and is still, located on Broadway in the fashionable Soho neighborhood of New York. At one point during the 1980s, this stretch of street was a graffiti-covered eyesore complete with squatters and dingy bars. Now, Michael Kors, Longchamp, and Apple are just a few of the profitable high-end retail shops that call Soho home. I always struggle to decide if pre- or post-gentrification is truly better for the middle class residents of New York City—but the Soho I know is the second one, and from here on out that is how we shall picture it: tenements converted into luxury lofts, with retail shops on the first floor and cafés or national banks on the corners. 

Bloomingdales' building was six floors with a basement or three. At the very top was the employee lounge, complete with couches, lockers, and a kitchen. I spent several lunches up there attempting to finish homework for grad school while eating a PB&J and a bag of chips. But for me, the worst part about working at Bloomingdale's was the exceedingly long amount of time I was expected to stay indoors under fluorescent lights. Therefore, most of my breaks consisted of 20 to 30 minute walks and a stop for food somewhere along the way. As long as I could see the people of New York moving about like buzzing bees, and feel the warmth of the sun burning my scalp, I was at peace. Sometimes Kelley Rippa would walk past me toward her Crosby Street home, and I’d smile and think, “Hey, you’re really doing this.”

Me, circa 2010, working at Bloomingdales Soho.  

(I’m now zipping up my black dress, reflecting on past versions of myself.)

The bottom basement of Bloomingdale's housed the managers’ offices, some stock rooms, and a massive amount of Brown Bags. These were important marketing tools for Bloomies and came in “big,” “medium,” or “small.” Every item of clothing a customer purchased was wrapped in white tissue paper, and then placed in these iconic shopping bags—which, also reeked of mold when left in a damp NYC basement for too long. The stench made me depressed because I hated rounding up these moist containers from a basement that never saw the sunlight, but joyful because ungodly humans with grotesque bratty children valued them and trotted around the city boasting of their newly purchased treasures in a bag that was already rotting from the inside out.  

A strange pang of rage shoots up my neck as I look at myself in the floor-length mirror attached to my bathroom door. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized my anger at certain types of customers still lingered deep below the surface. But maybe I should have guessed. To this day, there is a small collection of acquaintances that I can’t stand accompanying to a shop or restaurant. Their blatant ambivalence—or worse, neediness—of the salesgirls and wait staff is so uncomfortable, I find myself acting overly smiley and apologetic to the person being mistreated by the entitled patron in my presence. No “please,” no “thank you,” and an authoritative tone make me want to shake whoever I’m with and scream, “you’re nothing special!”

The customer is not always right. But then again, neither is the employee. 

“Excuse me, where’s the restroom?” a woman with a fanny pack asked the sales associate closest to me. This particular member of the staff held the record for number of dresses sold, and had worked on the third floor since the opening of the Soho location. But when she didn’t sniff out a sale, she often acted like a cavewoman, complete with monosyllabic grunts and hand gestures. Today was no exception: She didn’t even look up as she pointed a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the direction of the toilets.  

This was the worst type of person to work with: aggressive about getting her number of sales, and completely useless for anything else. Counting the money? Straightening the racks at night? The cavewoman would halfheartedly do a little of this, or a little of that. But the second a sophisticated guest walked in, her posture changed and her vocabulary grew to include phrases like, “This is a completely new Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress, created for the spring line—it’s only been here a few days and selling out fast. I’m happy to leave one in the back for you, my dear.”

And now, seven years later, here I am working at an advertising agency, and wearing my own DVF dress. Vibrant black. Patton leather heels. A manicure.

But look closely…

There’s a chip in the nail polish on my left thumb. I’ve never been able to completely kill my nail biting habit.

And the attire? All of my name brand clothing is secondhand, including the Jimmy Choos on my feet. I’d rescued those poor stilettos from a dumpster while I was interning at a magazine in midtown. Like Cinderella and her glass slipper, they fit just right and they’ve been mine ever since.

And my job? Well, I didn’t know it yet—but I was about to lose it.
To be continued...

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“The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.”

— Jon Krakauer, Into the Wild

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New York Tip #5: Some Things Are Worth Paying For

I do not enjoy the repetition of seemingly insignificant tasks. Laundry is a prime example. I can’t think of a chore I loathe more.

In the city, “doing your laundry” typically means you have to lug a heavy pile of dirty underwear and dresses down the street. You don’t have a car, and your mesh hamper is always on the brink of ripping apart. (But that’s your own fault because you haven’t replaced it since college.)

Then, you start sorting your apparel in a dingy room, complete with soul-sucking florescent lights and other people’s dirty underwear. It’s usually stuffy and crowded on the weekends, so try to make your trips at random times, like a Tuesday night post-happy hour.

Once you’ve crammed all your laundry into one washer with both hands and maybe a foot, fish out 12 quarters and hope you’ve done your math appropriately. NO, I see you! Don’t bother sorting your colors from your whites, my dear. You’ll be here all day, and these industrial washers make your laundry sixty shades of gray anyway.

$1.75 for a 20-minute wash seems about right. So toss in the quarters—one will always get stuck—and then consider what other chores you can do for that odd period of allotted time. Going home is a waste of movement, as it takes five minutes to get there and five minutes to get back. Looks like it’s time for another coffee at the café nearby?

Ok! You’ve refueled and you’re feeling fine—this terrible process is halfway done. Now, wrangle one of those huge metal carts used for taking your clothes from the washer to the dryer. Scout out the territory and walk with confidence. Fight off the angry old bat who smells strongly of cat pee. Procure your wet laundry’s vehicle with authority!

As you pull your clothing out of the washer, one of your bras will inevitably fall to the floor.
Throw the old thing out?
Rewash it? (No.)
Just shrug and stick the now dusty garment into the cart with your clean clothes.
A little dirt never hurt.

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

Roll the cart across the aisle and examine the wall of endlessly tumbling dryers. Someone else has also just finished their wash cycle—you can hear the squeak of their cart approaching.

And then disaster strikes.
Full dryer, full dryer, full dryer…
All the machines are taken.
You will have to wait.
We don’t like to WAIT.

But what’s this… ah, do you see it? In the far-left corner there’s a perfectly empty machine, glimmering in the distance. It's the trophy your hard labor deserves.

Sq-sq-sq-squeak! Sq-sq-sq-squeak!

The other Washed Woman has also spotted the dryer. Move, my friend. Act fast! This is now a race you cannot lose! Being damned to the laundromat with a cart of wet clothing and waiting in dryer limbo is one of New York’s worst punishments. This, and being grazed by a rat. 

Your cart is slightly ahead of the other woman’s so lock in and push fast. Past the crying baby, past the women watching a soap opera. You roll over the forgotten towel on the floor—speed bump!—and squeak your way into first place. Washed Woman closes in behind you, but don’t turn around; don’t engage. Put your damp clothes in that dryer and mark your territory like a dog peeing on a mailbox.

Victory is yours! Yes, you might feel a little out of breath. You heart is racing and there’s sweat on your brow, but the extreme anxiety you’re feeling only makes you more successful in your pursuit for moderately clean clothing.  

Doing laundry in the city is its own specific type of hustle. I can only imagine what urban mothers must endure—those heaps of clothing I see on Instagram are panic-inducing.

This, my friends, is why I now utilize the drop off service. I still walk to the laundromat with my college hamper, but no longer do I engage in cart competitions. Some other kind soul washes and folds my wardrobe. I am a seasoned New Yorker, therefore, I know the extra $8 is worth my mental stability. The same rules apply for $10 late-night Ubers. 

And if I had a psychiatrist, I’m sure she’d advise the same.

I haul my laundry to this little street in Brooklyn. 

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“New York is an ugly city, a dirty city. Its climate is a scandal, its politics are used to frighten children, its traffic is madness, its competition is murderous. But there is one thing about it: Once you have lived in New York and it has become your home, no place else is good enough. ”

— John Steinbeck

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Editor's Note: This is real life. 

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A Piece of the Narrative

We were packed together, our toes to their heels.

Thousands of people surrounded me. Pick any ethnicity, gender, and age combination; I promise you they were there. The buildings of 42nd Street bowed before us as a wave of protesters walked on into the distance, first turning blurry, and then into tiny dots. Society marched across Manhattan for as far as my eye could see.

I stood with Clare and Bryan. I’d met Clare in grad school, and she’d married Bryan several years later. As old city friends, we’d done an incredible amount of growing up together. We’d also all grown uncomfortable as the election raged on, and felt the need to do something besides lament about the current state of affairs over a cocktail.

It seemed as though much of the country felt the same way. The Women’s March had gained quick momentum in the weeks before the event. “Are you going?” “Which one are you attending?” My social media channels were full of both those planning their protest, and those admonishing against it.

In the end, we wanted to be in our city and we wanted our sentiments to be known. After discussing our reasons for marching, understanding the logistics, and making signs for the event, we met up at 1:00pm on Saturday January 21, 2017 and headed toward the protest's holding area.

For two hours, we only moved a couple of city blocks. We walked more like penguins, packed together, our toes to their heels.  But now we marched further west on 42nd Street toward Grand Central Station. Though tightly packed into barricaded lanes, the crowd was now able to walk at a consistently slow pace.

I looked at my city. It’s been mine for nearly seven years. The buildings we passed were like acquaintances I hadn’t seen in some time. There, in the blue and silver skyscraper on Lexington—that was the old office for Parents magazine, my second internship in the city. The park to the east was where I used to eat a PB&J on sunny days. If I squinted, I could see myself sitting on a worn bench wearing a red dress and a gray pea coat.

What little girls we were.
What big girls we’d become.
I grabbed Clare’s hand and squeezed it to make sure we were in the present and not the past.

Then I looked at the people. All around me, they held signs and chanted. Angry people. Sad people. The terrified. The political. And, of course, the exhilarated. Our sidewalks were lined with those hoping to support any cause you could imagine, including the march itself. The one aligning factor to everyone’s presence was general dissatisfaction.

There is an ornate overpass in front of Grand Central called the Park Avenue Viaduct. It was closed to traffic and packed with supporters strapped with cameras, signs, or megaphones. They began to shout down to the marchers on the street beneath them.

“What does democracy look like?”
One, then two, then five joined in.
“What does democracy look like?”

The marchers around me began to shout back. At first I couldn’t hear what they were saying; it sounded like a large grumble 30 times over. From the overpass, our resilient small crowd asked us again: “What does democracy look like?”

And then the boom of the people echoed off of the buildings in a glass shattering roar.
It was as though our response had been choreographed.
One, then two, then 400 joined in.

We marchers responded in perfect unison: “This is what democracy looks like.”

“What does democracy look like?”
“This is what democracy looks like.”

As the back-and-forth chant thundered on, Clare and I stood with chills in the middle of street, in the middle of Manhattan, in the middle of a 400,000-person crowd. We smiled, and closed our eyes.  

In a rare moment, we felt history move around us. It slithered through the crowd, and reverberated off the towering buildings. It boomed down the avenues of New York City. It slipped through my hair. Its presence demanded to be known.

I’ve never felt something quite like that before. No government class or historical documentary could illustrate more clearly what America is, and what it has always been. How lucky we are to be able to flood our streets and freely speak against or in favor of the government. How lucky some are to remain apathetic, with no true consequence. We’ve studied the Civil Rights movement, we’ve memorized the big court cases, and we’ve celebrated the Revolutionary War. Clare’s family immigrated to California from Northern Ireland to flee the Troubles. My line of family, too, has labored through its share of poverty and success. We’ve tasted others’ narratives—but this march was our own piece of a larger story.

History, for once, felt tangible—like a gentle breeze that whispers something hopeful in your ear. You breathe it in; it’s yours. And yet, history in the making is felt by thousands that notice that same unexplainable movement of time.

Editor’s Note: It is important to know I was  singing Les Miserables’ “Do You Hear the People Sing” and Hamilton’s “Yorktown” both to Clare and to myself throughout the entire day. Also, I was not the only one doing so, because this is New York City after all.    

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Three Day Guide to Montreal: What to Do + Where to Eat

I went on a quick trip to Montreal, Canada with my fiancé over the New Year’s break. We enjoyed three solid days of tasty regional food, quaint French accents, and gorgeous city vistas. Thinking of taking a little holiday? Here’s a quick Montreal bucket list, plus a few tips for first timers.  

Six Things to Do

Biodome: Located at Olympic Park, the Montreal Biodome is an indoor-zoo that allows visitors to walk through replicas of four distinct ecosystems found in the Americas: tropical forests, North American forests, the Saint Lawrence Marine Eco-system, and a polar area. The penguins and roaming monkeys definitely entertained.

Mont Royal: This large volcanic-related hill gave the city of Montreal its name. We hiked from the 144 bus stop near the McGill Hospital up to a lookout near Chalet Du Mont-Royal and snapped some beautiful photos of the city. Visitors can also rent cross country skis, bicycles, and ice skates.

Bota Bota: When an old river ferry is turned into an upscale "floating spa" and restaurant, you get Nordic-inspired Bota Bota. Known for its water circuit and Instagram-worthy hot tubs, this was a highlight of our trip. Tip: If you go before 11am or on a weekday, you’ll receive a discount.

Old Montreal: As the name would suggest, this is the oldest neighborhood in Montreal. Some of the buildings and landmarks date back to New France, and most of the area was dubbed a historic landmark in the 1960s. Shops, pubs, and hotels line the quaint cobbled streets.

Jean-Talon Market: This open-air market is comprised of local vendors selling produce, meats, cheeses, fish, maple syrup, and more. It’s one of the largest public markets in North America, and still buzzes during the cold months. Sample a piece of something tasty and then wander around the surrounding neighborhood of Little Italy.

Notre-Dame Basilica: Located in Old Montreal, the beautifully ornate interior of this Roman Catholic site is worth viewing. Fun facts: Celine Dion married René Angélil here on December 17, 1994, and the stained-glass windows depict scenes from Montreal’s religious history.

Six Things to Eat

I wrote a longer post about exactly which restaurants we enjoyed while visiting, but here’s a short list of regional food that Montreal does right.

The Great Bagel Debate: Both St. Viateur and Fairmount are famous for their Montreal-style bagels. The dough is boiled in honey-infused water and then baked in a wood-fire oven, giving the bread a totally different taste than New York City’s rival product.  

Poutine: This Canadian classic originated in the Quebec region, and is typically comprised of French fries, brown gravy, and cheese curds. Diners, pubs, and even some fast-food restaurants sell poutine, but 24-hour La Banquise is famous for their 30+ variations of the dish—including one topped with hot dogs and bacon.

Unpasteurized cheese: In short, Canada does not have the same laws in place when it comes to raw dairy. Be sure to try a slice at one of the open markets, and enjoy the fact that you’re chewing on a food that would be completely illegal in the United States.

Maple syrup: While Quebec’s maple syrup season typically begins in March, you can still find plenty of fresh canned or bottled syrup throughout the year. At Jean-Talon Market, we sampled both light and dark varieties from a local distributor. A small container of real maple syrup also makes for a fabulous souvenir.

French-inspired cuisine: Be sure to find an authentic French bistro for at least one of your meals. Sip a red Bordeaux and enjoy a steak tartare stuffed with capers, or duck confit and a side of potatoes. Bon appétit!

Smoked meat: New York is to Katz’s, as Montreal is to Schwartz’s. You’ll find this famous Jewish delicatessen on historic Saint Laurent Boulevard. The order of choice: a smoked meat sandwich on rye with mustard, a side of pickles, and a black cherry soda.

Getting There

The drive from New York City was dotted with small upstate towns and rolling hills. We ran into minimal traffic—until the border crossing. For whatever reason (the holiday? Friday night?) we waited in long lines of red brake lights for 2 ½ hours at the St-Bernard-de-Lacolle Customs Office. To avoid our mistake, check this website ahead of time and be aware of other crossing sites.

If you are flying into Montréal–Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport, you can catch a cab or the 747 Montreal-Trudeau/Downtown bus. It operates 24/7 and connects to eight downtown stops.

Tip: The 3-day unlimited L'Occasionnelle card is well worth the $18 if you plan on using the metro or bus at least five times during your stay. There are also weekly, monthly, and unlimited weekend passes available. Each single fare is $3.50.

Lodging

Our Airbnb was located close to the Sherbrook Metro station in the Plateau/Mont Royal neighborhood, and averaged us about $71 per night. The location was ideal: two stops south and we were in beautiful Old Montreal; a five-minute walk northwest and we were surrounded by the cafes of St. Denis and shops of Saint Laurent.

The apartment was on the second floor of a stone building from the 1800s. Big beautiful windows let in streams of natural light every morning. Double-pane glass kept out most of the street noise. Our host was very thoughtful and left us fruit, coffee, milk, and chocolates. The only drawback was for my fiancé: At 6’2’’, his feet hung over the edge of the bed! But overall, our stay was enjoyable. If I was going back sans beau, I’d book this place again.

Language

Most people speak French first and English second. This was a bit of a surprise to us, and we definitely had a few we’re-not-in-Kansas-anymore moments. But it was enjoyable to travel somewhere so close to the United States with such a distinct culture of its own.

Some people who worked in the service industry greeted us by saying, “Bonjour, hi.” We would say the same back and then continue in English. If you’re asking someone a question on the street, it’s polite to ask if they speak English first with the phrase, “Parlez-vous anglais?” Rule of thumb: Better to butcher the phrase than offend the residents.

We only met one person who didn’t speak much English, but knowing some basic terminology was helpful throughout the trip. And yes, highway signs are en Français so know Est from Ouest!

Happy travels. 

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