My Trans-Canada Rail Journey – Part 3

It’s morning, and I awake to find clear skies and a splash of yellow sunlight on the forward wall of my compartment. The Ocean has made its loop over the top of Maine during the night and now, with the St. Lawrence Seaway off to the right, is heading southwest toward Montreal. We’re still in farming country, but these farms are much bigger than the ones we saw yesterday east of here.

As we travel father into Quebec province, I see fewer and fewer signs in English. It’s almost all French now … and no wonder, because Montreal is, in fact, the second largest French-speaking city in the world.

There’s a road running parallel to the tracks and we pass a sign indicating that Montreal is 52 kilometers ahead. I organize my belongings, shave at the small sink in the lavatory (which provides instant hot water), and settle back into my seat to contemplate the build-up of traffic that is occurring outside my window – morning rush hour, Montreal style. After a long sweeping curve, the Ocean swings up onto a bridge and crosses the broad St. Lawrence River. The city is dead ahead.

Ten minutes later, the Ocean has come to a stop in the Montreal station. There are six or eight entrances to the station: from the street, directly from the adjacent Queen Elizabeth Hotel, and from the underground shopping areas that interconnect and lie beneath many of the surface streets – testimony to the frigid Montreal winters.

The station teems with people bustling to and from trains or just passing through. Many pause to browse the myriad of shops and kiosks or to stop at one of the many restaurants, including those featuring Italian, German, Thai and Chinese food in addition to the more standard fare.

And – Oh, my! – there is a patisserie with a bountiful selection of baked goods, from still-warm loaves of bread to delectable deserts, all laid out in a display case that must be 50 feet long.

I’m only in this amazing city for the balance of this day, so I spend it walking around the old town and along the river bank with a stop for lunch at Schwartz’s Delicatessen, enthusiastically recommended as a “must” by Veronica, my dinner companion in the dining car last evening. Schwartz’s has been here for 75 years and is a Montreal institution. It’s small, noisy and, even well before the noon hour, there is a long line of customers waiting to get in. Twenty minutes later, I finally get to bite into Schwartz’s famous beef brisket sandwich. The experience is nothing short of euphoric which must have registered on my face because a young man next to me at the counter nods solemnly and says, “Extraordinaire, n’est-ce pas?”

I’m spending my one night in Montreal at the Queen Elizabeth and my culinary experience continues that evening with a superb dinner at the Montrealais Bistro-Restaurant, one of three in the hotel.

Tomorrow it’s off to Quebec City.