Evidently the Quebecois wanted so much to speak French a splinter group kidnapped Labour Minister Pierre Laporte and left him dead in the trunk of a car. That group was dismantled, but the act of violence showed how high passions ran in Montreal in 1970 for a francophone lifestyle. Voila, a french-speaking haven for artists and revolutionaries was born.
Montreal is a wonderful city full of grassy parks, sparkly bodies of water small and large, and people sporting tattoos and tiny skirts, and sometimes both. The people are fit, skinny, scruffy and extremely hip-ly dressed. After NY and LA, Montreal is a clothing design mecca. Folks here stay out late, frolic to electronica music, drink excellent coffee and even better beer. There's art everywhere -- even the Metro subway stations. Sidewalks are calked with alien symbols, and graffiti is technicolor and semi-abstract. The architecture is either very old or very new and there is some freaky shit in the skyline. The most endearing quality of Montreal-ians: their penchant for free pools, none of which I've managed to hit yet. (sniff.) But if I hurry, I'll catch the latern-lighting at the Jardin Botanique.
Au revoir!
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