I approached Montréal with skepticism; here was a population of Caucasian North Americans who spoke English but preferred French, and what’s more, the Queen of England’s face was all over their money. The very proposition of such a city seemed contradictory, at best, and schizophrenic, at worst. But as soon as the temperate air of a Montréal summer evening hit me, I was in a more open mood for having escaped the New York swelter, at least. It’s a pleasant, clean city, exceedingly moderate in everything I could see, from architecture to debauchery, though of course I only saw downtown. I had a good time, I’d go back and take in some more sights, listen to some more Canadian French, spend some more American dollars. But right now I am exhausted.
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