Faith Trip - Montreal

Go Montreal

I took the VIA train from Toronto to Montreal, the scenery outside the window flowing by like a moving painting—pine forests whisking past, the tracks stretching east like a silent gray line connecting Vancouver to Halifax. My mind drifted to those Chinese workers from a century ago, bundled in tattered cotton jackets, their faces chapped by the northern wind, leaving war-torn homes to build railways and bridges in this icy wilderness. Their sweat froze into tiny beads in the snow, swept away by the wind without a trace. Now, as the train rumbles along, who still remembers those frail silhouettes?

Cathedral-Basilica of Mary

I reached Montreal with just a day to spare, like a fleeting dream. Stepping off the train, I headed straight to the Cathedral-Basilica of Mary, Queen of the World. The place stands there like a quiet giant, its stone walls etched with the marks of time, the statues by the entrance weathered and blurred. Inside, light spills through stained-glass windows—red like a sunset, blue like a lake—scattering across the floor in patches. The organ hums low, a murmur from afar, and the air carries the faint sweetness of burning candles, worth snapping a few pics for keeps.

Streets of Old Montreal

Outside, the sky had dimmed, so I wandered along the cobblestone streets of Old Montreal. The houses lining the way are peeling with red and yellow paint, like forgotten canvases. Vendors hawk wool hats and maple sugar blocks, coffee shops waft the rich scent of roasted beans, and the crisp jingle of horse-drawn carriages fills the air—snap a photo anywhere and you’ve got vintage vibes. Hungry? There are plenty of spots to grab a bite. Try a classic Montreal smoked meat sandwich—juicy and hearty with a side of pickles—or hit up a dessert place for a maple waffle, sweet but not cloying, perfect with a hot coffee to warm your hands.

Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours Chapel

Midway, I ducked into Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours Chapel, tucked away in the old streets like a hidden gem. The doorframe’s painted a dark green, weathered by the river breeze. Inside, it’s cozy—the Virgin Mary statue draped in a blue robe, clutching rosary beads, while ship models hang on the walls, left by sailors praying for safe voyages. Candlelight flickers, casting a soft glow on the wooden floor, creating a warm, peaceful vibe that’s perfect for a few quiet shots. If you’re tired from strolling, Old Montreal’s got souvenir shops worth checking out. Maple syrup’s a must—those glass bottles look classy and practical. You’ll also find handmade soaps, maple leaf keychains, or Quebec-style wool scarves—great quality, good for gifting or keeping.

Notre-Dame Basilica

Then it’s on to Notre-Dame Basilica. The doors swing open to a flood of golden light, the walls adorned with intricate carvings that shimmer under candlelight. The ceiling towers high, sunlight filtering through stained glass like scattered jewels. It’s bustling with tourists, the sound of carriage bells drifting in from outside—snap a pic here and it’s got instant wow-factor. The statues of saints line the space, gazing down blankly, hands clutching crosses. I thought of those Chinese workers again—their hands laid the tracks but never touched these church steps. Their lives were gasps in the snow, no time to marvel at these glowing walls. Sitting on a pew, footsteps echoing off the stone, I felt a strange emptiness.

Night fell, and the sky unleashed a torrential downpour, rain hammering the cobblestones until they turned into streams, the river’s briny scent rising thick in the air. People dashed for cover, and I huddled under an umbrella, shoes soaked through, before ducking into a youth hostel. The wooden floors creaked underfoot, rain pounded the windows like a frantic drumbeat, and the dim light cast swaying shadows on the walls. Montreal lingered in my mind, cool and fleeting. The next morning, the rain had stopped, the sky pale at the edges. I slung my bag over my shoulder and hopped a train to Quebec City. This stopover? Like the rustle of wind through the trees—audible, but impossible to hold.