Voyage à trois (page 3)
Is it possible to be overpampered, I wonder while sitting in the lounge of Rainspa, the
in-house spa at Le Place d’Armes Hôtel, in nothing but a robe, sipping herbal
tea. When I catch sight of Gillian wobbling up the stairs, I conclude that, indeed, it is.
Her short hair wet and spiked, face reddened, eyes glazed, she plops her slender frame down
next to me and proceeds to chug two bottles of water without stopping. I think she left her
spine downstairs. After explaining that her treatment involved an hour of simultaneous hot
shower and deep body massage, I realize why she looks so puffy — she’s waterlogged.
“Gillian, are you ready for your pedicure?” a soft-spoken brunette asks a few
minutes later. She gets a slow blink from the amoeba, which somehow manages to pull herself
up and shuffle reluctantly along behind the woman.
MAMANS À MONTRÉAL
Getting there Montréal is an easy two-hour drive from Ottawa, but in the winter,
opt for Via Rail, where you ride in comfort and arrive in the heart of downtown.
Staying there
Boutique hotels are popping up throughout Vieux-Montréal. Recently
renovated, Le Place d’Armes Hôtel & Suites is one of the most popular, with
luxurious rooms, studios and suites. At week’s end, join Montrealers at the hotel’s
chic bar, Suite 701 – Lounge, or get pampered at its Rainspa (oldmontrealhotels.com).
Take advantage of Tourisme Montréal’s “Sweet Deal” package, where
hotels offer a second night at half price.
Playing there
Shopping abounds along boulevard St-Laurent and rue St-Denis, but don’t
miss the great stores concentrated along the downtown stretch of rue Ste- Catherine. In Vieux-Montréal,
visit Pointe-à-Callière,
the boutiques and galleries of the Bonsecours
Market, the Montréal Science Centre
and Notre-Dame Basilica. Vieux-Montréal is
full of great restaurants, including Holder, a brasserie on rue McGill. Or head up to Restaurant
Europea, on rue de la Montagne, for the contemporary cuisine of Jérôme Ferrer,
one of Quebec’s best chefs, or to L’Express, on rue St-Denis, for an authentic
French bistro experience.
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I remain seated, waiting for my rosepetal butter massage, having already undergone an exfoliation
treatment in the Rainspa’s hammam, a modern version of a Turkish steam bath. “Just
lie down and relax,” the masseuse had said, leaving me with what amounted to a tea
towel. I had strategically placed it over myself and closed my eyes.
When the nozzles in the wall had begun to spit out their steam, I felt as if I were lying
on the tracks back in Central Station. In minutes, I was enveloped in a dense fog. The masseuse
had then scrubbed every inch of my body with what felt like a scouring pad from my kitchen
sink. It hurt like hell at first but became remarkably soothing. I felt new.
But by the end of my hour-long rosepetal treatment, I feel more like a wet noodle. I move
in a stupor back to the room, where Mae and Gillian are already dressed and ready to go.
We have a halfhour to get to Théâtre St-Denis, one of the city’s premier
concert venues and home to the famed Just for Laughs Festival, where Blue Rodeo is playing
tonight.
The moment the band emerges onstage to start with an acoustic set, we are transported back
to a time before kids. When it breaks into the first chorus of “Hasn’t Hit Me
Yet” (Watching the snow fall on this cooold December night …), faux snow starts
falling onto the stage from the rafters (we can’t seem to get away from the stuff!),
and the crowd roars.
Mae suddenly darts into the aisle and motions for us to follow. “Come on!” she
screams. “Let’s go to the front!” Gillian and I look at each other and
hesitate just long enough that Mae gives up and takes off on her own, completely carefree.
I can see her head bopping up and down, arms clapping above her head with the mass by the
stage. When I eventually join her, she’s lit up like the spotlights overhead.
After the encore, we reluctantly spill out of the theatre with the rest of the crowd. “Can
you believe how good that was?!” exclaims Mae, still wide-eyed. “That was the
best concert ever!” Hungry but energized, we practically run up the street to L’Express,
a popular après-show eatery.
As we enter, I feel as though I’m in a strange land where there are no children. The
place is packed, and everyone is eating full meals — at midnight. We remark at how,
if we were at home, we’d have been in bed for hours by now. Drinks are flying across
the mahogany bar, brass fixtures are gleaming, and chairs are scraping along the black and
white linoleum.
We are seated by the window next to a flamboyant couple sipping champagne and middle-aged
lovers leaning over their table holding hands and whispering. In the back, a table of twentysomethings
is buzzing with conversation; hands are flying, faces aglow, the occasional shriek.
When our meals arrive, I realize that there has not been one mention of the kids. We’re
laughing about the weekend, talking about ourselves. I don’t mention my epiphany, scared
to disrupt the flow.
We sleep in past 9 a.m., but the relaxed sentiment doesn’t last long. Knowing most
stores don’t open before 11 on Sunday, we have time to shoehorn our purchases into
our already full suitcases, read the paper over breakfast and get our luggage to the storage
area at Central Station. Rue Ste-Catherine seems to beckon us — Quebec department stores
Les Ailes de la Mode and Simons draw us through their revolving doors. We decide to split
up, knowing we’ll be more efficient getting the last few things on our lists if we’re
solo, and rendezvous back at the station for the ride home.
It’s almost as if we need madness in these last few hours to get geared back up for
our regular hectic lives. We’ve recharged, and we’re ready to report back for
Mommy duty.
Former Canadian Geographic senior editor Elizabeth Shilts lives in Ottawa.
Photographer Patrice Lamoureux is based in Montréal.
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