Voyage à trois
Three hard-working mothers escape for a shop ‘n’ spa weekend
By Elizabeth Shilts with photography
by Patrice Lamoureux
The snow is really coming down, but the fluffy flakes just add authenticity to the Currier
and Ives ambience. I’m walking through the narrow streets of Vieux- Montréal
with two of my closest friends, Mae Johnson and Gillian Burnett, and we’re trying to
keep up with Fiona Malins, a grandmotherly Montrealer who shepherds tourists around her city — though
not usually during one of the worst snowstorms of the season. She doesn’t seem to notice
the gusts, motoring through the accumulating snow like a plow, pointing out the neo-Renaissance
buildings along rue McGill and the gaslights on rue Sainte- Hélène. And she
rattles off the history behind these facades with striking detail and unbridled enthusiasm.
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“There were many beautiful large gardens behind the walls of these homes,” says
Malins, gesturing at the limestone edifices, many now converted into highend lofts and boutique
hotels. “The only one left is behind the Sulpician Seminary. It’s the oldest
garden in North America!”
It’s hard to contemplate gardens at this particular moment. Mae and Gillian are up
ahead with Malins — Gillian with her furlined hood and jeans dusted with snow; Mae
swaddled in a wool scarf so long and wide that it could keep her warm at night; and all three
of us in puffy down-filled coats that say Arctic expedition more than urban chic.
The storm picks up momentum, and my lips start to stiffen. “Let’s duck in here,” says
Malins, reading my mind.
We shake the snow off in the lobby of Pointe-à-Callière, an archaeological
museum that stands on the site where Father Barthélemy Vimont, a Jesuit priest, celebrated
the founding of Montréal with a Mass. “On May 17, 1642, just before noon,” says
Malins, “Montréal was born.” The building houses more than 1,000 years
of history and was raised directly over a dig site. “I think it’s the best museum
in the city,” she says, “because it’s like living archaeology.”
We pause by an excavated cemetery, lose ourselves in the intricately detailed dioramas showing
the evolution of Vieux-Montréal, and eventually prepare to head back outside.
Now we’re actually enjoying the snow. There are no noses to wipe, whining complaints
of cold feet to quell or tired bodies to haul up the toboggan hill. We are smiling, just
as Clara had predicted.
When we had picked up Mae on the way to the train station in Ottawa earlier in the day,
she relayed how her five-year-old, Clara, sat drawing that morning while the rest of the
family rushed around her. She finished and held up the picture for Mae: four small frowning
faces surrounded one giant one, beaming from ear to ear.
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