Warning Signs
There's a story often repeated in science fiction programs like "Twilight Zone" and "Star Trek": the hero or heroes arrive in a city of happy hospitable people. Though charmed by idyllic village they notice inexplicably impractical quirks in their otherwise normal daily life: huge walls around the city, giant steel doors on all the houses, energy fields to "repel undesired guests", the cave in the hills that no one goes near or talk about, etc. Of course by the final commercial break a monster appears to teach the newcomers and audience a lesson in trusting your suspicions and keeping your powder dry.
Montréal reminds me a lot of one of these episodes: the city is clean and pleasant. The weather is a little chilly but comfortable, and I can walk around comfortably in a light jacket. But there are troubling signs around me: doors to all public buildings are ridiculously sturdy double-walled airlocks with drains in the floors. Most outdoor and many indoor horizontal surfaces are coated with heavy no-skid surfaces and fitted with durable stainless steel guardrails to withstand salt, sand, and water. Parking meters are built on the inside of the sidewalk rather than near the curb where they'll be demolished by the plows. New-ish cars have such massive rust damage some appear eaten by super-termites. Everyone keeps the heat cranked up and wears parkas at all times, even inside subways where it could easily be T-shirt weather. The old building in which I'm working is decorated with a rustic "cast iron radiators growing like ivy all over the ceiling and walls" motif. Houses have high peaked roofs to shed mountains of snow, and tall buildings have stern red signs permanently bolted to their exterior year-round which say something to the effect of "If you can read this step back or you're going to be impaled by three-meter-long falling icicles".
Montréal is comfortable and charming, but subtle clues and the clichéd plotlines of old TV serials tell me what's coming in the second act: something serious is on its way to kick the crap out of anyone in its path, especially unprepared red-shirt visitors.
Montréal reminds me a lot of one of these episodes: the city is clean and pleasant. The weather is a little chilly but comfortable, and I can walk around comfortably in a light jacket. But there are troubling signs around me: doors to all public buildings are ridiculously sturdy double-walled airlocks with drains in the floors. Most outdoor and many indoor horizontal surfaces are coated with heavy no-skid surfaces and fitted with durable stainless steel guardrails to withstand salt, sand, and water. Parking meters are built on the inside of the sidewalk rather than near the curb where they'll be demolished by the plows. New-ish cars have such massive rust damage some appear eaten by super-termites. Everyone keeps the heat cranked up and wears parkas at all times, even inside subways where it could easily be T-shirt weather. The old building in which I'm working is decorated with a rustic "cast iron radiators growing like ivy all over the ceiling and walls" motif. Houses have high peaked roofs to shed mountains of snow, and tall buildings have stern red signs permanently bolted to their exterior year-round which say something to the effect of "If you can read this step back or you're going to be impaled by three-meter-long falling icicles".
Montréal is comfortable and charming, but subtle clues and the clichéd plotlines of old TV serials tell me what's coming in the second act: something serious is on its way to kick the crap out of anyone in its path, especially unprepared red-shirt visitors.