The leaves change color again,
The colors so bright,
They fall one more journey to their rest.

It is said Toronto is the economic capital of Canada. Calgary is the oil money. Vancouver is linked to Asia.

And Montréal is the least understood.

For the rest of North Americans and Canadians, it’s the home of poutine and so-called “racist” French Québecers.

For the rest of Québec, it’s the home of immigrants and english Québecers. Too much english, pas assez de français.

Despite the critics, Montréal attracts a lot of newcomers every year. Many are students, musicians, aspiring filmmakers, travellers, poets, coders or scientists. They find rent an order of magnitude cheaper than you would find in Toronto, New York city or Paris.

It is true that you could work hard for a summer and then able to afford living in Montréal for a year without working.

This is perhaps why Montréal one of the best cities in the world for art & creativity. Art needs time to digest, re-evolve, re-mixed, in its own rhythm. It dies once, and the artist with it.

And perhaps it revives stronger… months later. It finds life in new seasons, friends, in the community, and in the general open attitudes in the city. No hustle like New York but smiles and taps on the back.

When the Montréaler finds success in many parts of the world, like Xavier Dolan, Arcade Fire or Cirque du Soleil, he knows he couldn’t have succeeded without these periods of low rent and generosity.

I have died many times too in Montréal. Often you lose direction only to revive stronger than ever. I am grateful for that, Montréal. I hope you will be good for future generations as you have been to me.

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Revival was originally published in Chronicles of Montréal on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The Koreans outdrink everyone, the Japanese were slightly crazy, and the Mexican girl knew how to party. And the French — except one — were an exercise in frustration.

One thing led to another and I was tasked to introduce Montréal to a couchsurfer’s friend.

We went to “L’Avenue”. The restaurant attracts a large crowd, even on a freezing -35C morning or hot summer days. I recognized a filmmaker, a local DJ, Chinese tourists as well as a group from Toronto all lining up for brunch.

Like many north American cities, brunch is deeply rooted in the rhythmic patterns of activity. It’s a celebration of a week well-spent or overdue time with friends.

Interestingly, the concept of brunch appeared only in the late 30s and was reserved to affluent Americans. Most workers followed strict meal times cadenced to factory or workshop times, and Sunday morning was for mass. Being able to eat at 11 am on a Sunday demonstrated wealth, further evidenced by the richness and diversity of the food.

“L’Avenue” is not a stranger to these roots. It’s as a matter of fact a temple for brunch. Page after page, the choice is staggering and far away from the typical servings found in other places.

This is called Bobby berbere, reinvented with ample servings of cheese, eggs and meat:

We talked about the dazzling decoration of the bathroom and were amazed by the little details.

Somehow, somewhere, it added up and we connected.

I told stories about the ruthlessness of the weather. I mentioned what made Montréal special. I shared the life of a programmer and software entrepreneur. There were kind smiles and pauses. Not those awkward pauses where you realize the distance, but the reflection of a deep sense of one-ness.

Later that day, I remember gentle walks up the mountain.

And in the following hours, we had to part ways, back to our respective cities.

I never saw her again, and until this day, I thank “L’Avenue” for having help create that unique moment, frozen in time.

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In front, a Hasidic mother stepped down, along with five children.

The trolley with two babies is huge.

I offer help, but she avoids eye contact. I do not know if she heard what I said.

In the early 90s, I remember playing “Another World”, a beautiful adventure game with a young scientist transported to an alternative universe. Suddenly, everything except himself was different. Next, the player had to survive, forgoing the earthly soft drink he was enjoying a moment ago.

Most players dive into the action, but few think of the broken space-time continuum. Did the character travel back in time? Was he gone to a distant world? Or is it a dimension parallel to Earth?

A few decades later, “Another World” still boggles my mind.

More recently, a traveler friend showed me Ingress. The mobile game imagines factions fighting for virtual portals located in real physical places. By walking around town, you could discover portals and get them from other factions. A city like Montréal has dozens of virtual portals around as landmarks or cultural locations, and hundreds of Montréalers hooked on their screens.

I did not play the game but the idea of a parallel world is fascinating. It’s seeing the unseen, or touching the untouchable.

At this moment, I thought of this possibility between me and this Hasidic mother. Like Ingress in or “Another World”, her worldview, language and values were radically different, one where gentiles were other-worldly.

I used to wonder about the men with full beards and long black coats strolling their way to kosher eateries. Was there an ideal length for their magnificent sideburns? What did they think of the Montréal weather? Where did they find their hip large black hat? Do they smile when they see Rabbi Jacob’s epic dance?

I see her one last time and I understood those would be questions left unanswered.

And I let it go, yielding to peace. There was more for now on St-Viateur.

A few steps away is Bagel St-Viateur. I have been here many times, and it has not changed.

The same wood oven, baking crunchy and sweet bagels twenty-four hours a day. The same jolly team happy to serve delicious sesame bagels. The same press mentions on the walls. And the old TV broadcasting a hockey game.

The same scene could have happened five, ten, twenty years ago. Little by little, it transformed an Eastern European specialty into a Montréal staple food.

A few years ago, I trained in traditional kung-fu on the other side of the street, to the late hours of the night. The thought of a hot and delicious bagel made me kick harder.

I bite into one, and I remember all the Qi-Gong training, the hand locks, and our goofy yet generous kung-fu teacher. A crunchy souvenir with all its colors and fragrances.

Thanks, St-Viateur Bagel.

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Crossing St-Viateur street was originally published in Chronicles of Montréal on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

When you live in the tropics, life is easy. I am not thinking about economic development or politics, but the sweet weather all year long. Be it December or June, it’s easy to wake up, pick a t-shirt and only worry if it’s rainy or hot.

Those are my memories from Antananarivo, Madagascar or Nairobi, Kenya. Of course, there were chilly nights, rain that would last throughout the day, or a hot sun that would darken your skin for a few days. That was all though. When I think about it, the weather didn’t matter.

Even in France, I only made the difference between winter and summer. In December, you’d take your fashionable jacket from the closet, with occasional leather gloves. Friends would also get a scarf. When it snowed, it always made the news, but you learn that snow never lasts more than a few hours in a country like France.

What did spring mean back then? It’s mentioned in literature to recall love and renewal. Fall was for horror movies or memories of past life.

For cities like New York city, Tokyo or Berlin, I am sure the sentiment is the same towards the weather.

In Québec and in Canada, weather regulates people’s mind. It’s everyone’s boss and has deep impacts in business, economics of love or work & play patterns.

Winter brings in Québec the tragedy of extreme cold and mountains of snow. Temperatures as low as -35C come often each year. You can see your own breath, you feel the inside of your nose and throat freeze, and it’s an exercise to walk on dark ice. Fortunately, days around -15C are more common.

Consequences are vast. You can’t just stroll around or take your time to discuss in the streets. Winter is the season where Montrealers work and try to be efficient at what they are doing. If you want to go outside for fresh air, it’s a deliberate and well-planned outing, with proper equipment and timing. Cars have winter tires. People have real winter coats, a tuque, winter boots and other layers of warm clothing. And when not outside, a Montrealer is a refugee in his office or home, with heaters at full capacity, and all the comforts of modern 21st technology.

Summer brings heat waves. It’s around 30C, and sometimes humidity raises through the roof. If you’ve been to a tropical forest near the equator, such as central America or Congo, it’s the same sensation. A shower is welcomed every 3 hours.

What does 30C weather bring to the city? Montrealers have learned that you have to make the most of good weather, so music & art festivals are lined-up during the summer. The respectable Montrealer learns how be nonchalant on a Mont-Royal terrace. Friends mention sailing in a lake nearby while American and Chinese tourists flock streets. It’s an atmosphere like a popular Brazilian destination.

And between the two, we have the beautiful seasons of spring and fall.

It's definitively #spring in #montreal

Spring extends the days and melts the snow that was covering the ground, bushes and trees. It’s a slow revival that brings the sometimes foul but often beautiful smell of the nature coming back to life. With temperatures bouncing back between -5C to 15C, you see for the first time young girls in skirts or students chanting in the streets. There are couples with new love or animals like squirrels which have been hiding for most of the winter. A true revival.

Winter and Fall, together

Fall signals the end of the party. Days are shorter, and the color palette turns to shades of grey and brown. It’s also the time where students go back to school, or workers come back from holidays.

With its four distinct seasons, one begins to appreciate the season cycle. Birth. Life. Decline. Death. It brings raw emotions and makes you feel alive, either as a survivor in winter or as a hedonist in summer.

And ladies and gentlemen, that’s why I love the Montreal weather, any time of the year.

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How the Québec weather made me appreciate life was originally published in Chronicles of Montréal on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

At the edge of the St-Henri neighborhood, I find an old industrial building.

By the looks, it could host a rave party.

Upstairs is a cooperative run by artists.

And the end of a corridor, marked by a red blinking arrow is Foulab, Montréal’s historically first hackerspace.

Members join the Foulab hackerspace to imagine, design and work on maker projects.

It’s also a social space for geeks in its own right.

Fiercely independent, Foulab is not affiliated with an institution or corporation. Nor does it want to.

The space is currently maintained by a dozen members. Many more join in its open doors Tuesday nights.

Foulab also hosts public events, such as electronic workshops.

Here is Foulab’s logo.

Foulab has been 100% financially independent for the past 4 years, through members contributions and workshops. In the long term, they hope to get more machines (such as large 3D printers), similar to other hackerspaces in other Canadian cities.

Alex helps manage the space:

Electronics new and old are stocked, donated by members and friends:

There are servers, other exotic computers, and even mechanical teletypewriters!

Here’s an old Apple II computer:

Foulab also has advanced tools like oscilloscopes, small and large 3D printers or heavy-duty machinery too expensive for an individual to own or rent.

As you can see, Foulab is not short of equipment. At its core, the real value however is a quiet space free from judgement or from prying eyes.

I have met a member working on a geo-locating mechanism for his rocketry hobby:

Foulab has of course dozens of different electronic parts, to repair electronics, build new ones, or just have fun:

Here’s a musical instrument done at a public maker event. There are wooden keys as well as a paper score to let the air (and music) go through:

The Foulab members like also to work on fun projects, such as LED displays or this amplifier creatively made with off-the-shelf transistors costing about $3

Brands typically use transistors costing 20 times more. I like the ingenuity!

The crowd at Foulab is an eclectic mix of programmers, techies, travelers or artists. A few have PhDs, a few have hacked systems, others are outcasts and all are free-thinkers and innovators.

On the open doors Tuesday nights, you can talk to members and visitors, or head to one of the workspace and do a soldering job. That night, I saw one dutch woman as well as another group of French students working on a laptop add-on.

The members travel also to various science and maker conferences, and are in a way, part of an international network. And in between, there are hardware hackathons.

Foulab is also a coworking space — at $75/month, you’ve got a space to work on your project.

As a playground for freethinkers and makers, it certainly is not for everyone, yet I see Foulab as one of Montréal’s hidden gems.

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Foulab, Montréal’s first hackerspace was originally published in Chronicles of Montréal on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

His work invites a reflection on the politics of fear. It also puts in music the spring streets, the spirituality of struggles and collective evenings at La Sala Rossa.

Here is the Duets for Abdelrazik album:

This is not the result of mechanized or digital printing, able to reproduce exact copies for cents.

Local artists design a silk screen. Each handstroke inks an album cover.

It is then cut, folded and assembled.

The result is limited numbers of beautiful handcrafted albums.

In a way, every album is a creation with all its small imperfections.

In the same manner, Les rumeurs de la montagne rouge is a cassette wrapped in a hand stamped card-stock cover.

Why cassettes and handcrafted music albums in 2015?

I have followed the growth of Spotify and now Apple Music. These are digital empires, designed to conquer billions. The same bits optimized for an identic and quantified experience, with no breathing room.

For musicians opting in, what is the real value of each track?

For a few dollars, a customer gets access to millions of tracks. Do the mathematics. The business model of unlimited music suggests each track’s value is zero on those platforms.

A few bands will get millions of plays and painted as heroes by tech media. Many other musicians will get cents and forced on to minimal wage jobs.

The same tension is unfolding in the streets of Montreal.

Once one of the busiest, St-Denis street has now closed shops, lined back-to-back. “Closed”. “À Louer”. “Espace Commercial”. “For Sale”. Those are the signs haunting the street on its Mont-Royal intersection.

It is the same on popular Montréal streets such as St-Laurent or Prince-Arthur. Libraries, retailers, restaurants, dépanneurs, offices now gone.

Those are signs of weaknesses of the Montréal economy.

Those are the late consequences of the 2009 financial crisis, hurting now small businesses.

And those also reflect their poor foundations against the global impact of technology businesses.

Software is eating the world, they say. With its automated robots and big data, Amazon sells more than the cheapest librarian. Yelp guides you to the best restaurants and closes down the other food places. B&HPhotoVideo closes the local camera shop used to high markups, for no other reason than fancy service. ThemeForest and elance close bland web agencies. And with mega container ships and lean shipping, AliExpress is now closing Montréal gift shops.

Now, every day, I walk up to dozens of closed businesses. Many more will close, not able to demonstrate added value. More repetitive jobs will be replaced by machine and software. More bland products will be transferred to online platforms.

What will be left are the ones providing handcrafted products and services, like the creations at L’Avenue or coffee at La Distributrice. Every item unique and a tale in itself. Handcrafted by passionate artisans who really care about what they are doing, day by day.

Simply, Handcrafting is the Future.

And automated platforms operated by drones and robots will provide the rest, in your local street or online.

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Handcrafting the future was originally published in Chronicles of Montréal on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The snow melts. It’s spring in Montréal.

I can hear the street. The youth are chanting for social justice, freedom and rights.

What is their manifesto? Do they hope to topple power? If yes, what do they propose?

I meet a young student from UQAM — a bastion of militancy. She is fierce, her hair free in the wind like Marianne.

The world outside her tells compromise is necessary. That the world is not black and white. That there are all-too-powerful entities who use us like flies for their sport. That sometimes you have to close your eyes for corruption to make the world go round.

But her eyes stay open and tells me about a world where Truth reigns and shines. I stop for a moment and dream of such a world.

She is one of the many faces in the roaring streets of Montréal.

The second is an artist who resents the police oppression of young immigrants in Montréal Nord. He sings about police brutality and racism. His words flow about colonizing forces keeping blacks in poverty. Stand up, free from the chains of oppression!

In Montréal, those words are strong yet frank.

They make me think.

So foolish to protest the agenda set by white men, so wise to know what to stand for.

I meet another fool; a colorful fool in the otherwise gray streets of Montréal. He basks in the sun and drums on Lady Spring in good terms.

A few months ago, this young Québecois was doing odd jobs, from cooking to trading in markets to online businesses, always with a fresh smile and boldness. He dreams of a francophone Montréal, as dynamic as New York city or Shanghai.

Like many other young French Canadians “pure laine”, he believes the government sacrifices the younger generation. Yet he won’t fold in the mold.

And there he goes, drumming to inspire the troops, even late into the night.

Later protesters in black attire come, chanting and denouncing capitalism. Their eyes tell of battles with the police. Take action, they say.

I like to think these activists were once the young dreamers of social justice — only to find the hard batons of law enforcement.

I see police lining up, ready to charge.

The last face in these roaring streets is angry.

He comes from the West of Montréal. His car is stuck in the traffic jam and has missed his business meeting. He despises the sights of signs and young people chanting their dreams. They are spoiled, he says. It’s from the unions, he says. He makes it a personal affair and thinks about moving this time to Toronto.

Two years later, the streets are roaring again. Youth is full of sport, nimble like the wind, inspiring in their bold revendications. Such is Spring in Montréal.

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The spring street roars was originally published in Chronicles of Montréal on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

That was my engineering school. Tall and proud on its peninsula.

In France, engineering schools or “grandes écoles” groom students to be at the top of the pyramid and rise above the fray. It does not really work with everyone but it does get you in the head.

With that in mind, a youth community center invited me to teach. Teenagers needed guidance after school in mathematics and french.

I wanted to give my best in the first thirty minutes.

No one was listening. A group of kids were around a Nintendo Gameboy. A couple of girls had absent eyes. The rest were loudly making fun of each other.

My heart sank, going from brash confidence to zero.

Later, I learned parents sent the kids. Mostly poor, hard-working immigrants, they could not afford babysitters or toys to keep kids at bay. The local community center was the getaway. But all the kids could learn there was gray misery.

That was strike 1.

Strike 2 was on a suburban train to Paris. A group of kids jumped at the last minute in the wagon. I looked at one of them. The eyes were dark. Like sword slashes, aggressive words came out: “What the f*ck are you looking at!!”

Strike 3 was a racket by a young Algerian with a knife.

In France, and especially Evry, immigration does not give you freedom but the weight of the French society. Refusal is nasty and leads to petty crime, burnt cars and conflicts with militarized police.

I had those images in mind when going to a youth community center on the other side of the Atlantic. The “Maison des Jeunes de Côte-de-Neiges” is rooted in a popular immigrant Montréal neighborhood.

I did not find gray misery. “No Bad Sound”, the center’s music studio had a painting performance, Brazilian drinks, a spoken word and hip-hop show, and colorful youth let loose.

That night, “No Bad Sound” was the beacon of hip-hop, street art, and self-expression. A group of MCs and beatboxers were improvising and rapping on the mic about street life. I liked the smooth flow and the diversity of faces in the spring night.

Later, the center invited me to teach photography, along with other artists.

I remembered the teenagers at Évry’s youth community center. What would happen?

This time, I met interested boys and girls who had something to say: experience from the street, dreams, immigration experience, fears, identity quests and questions about Montréal. It was fresh and raw. The Maison des Jeunes encouraged and supported their creativity. What’s not to love?

It’s from this street art incubation that Montreal hip-hop collectives like Nomadic Massive are born. The group has colors of Haiti, Algeria, Brazil, Québec, France and Cuba.

More recently, Strange Froots is a fresh and cool group born from the same roots. And they are good!

And this success does not go unnoticed. Here is the No Bad Sound studio featured en français on the Outre-mer 1ère TV:

I believe many more talented youth come from this studio.

It’s a beacon of street art that inspires well beyond the Côte-des-Neiges neighborhood.

And I now able to understand the different outlook in immigration with these two youth community centers.

The French imposes a system and rigid values upon new kids and families. Montréal welcomes you with optimism different perspectives, with a laid-back francophile vibe. The infrastructure might not be world-class, but living, loving — or raising a family — in Montréal is indeed sweet. The only casus belli is language — but we would learn that in a later story.

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The Beacon of Street Art was originally published in Chronicles of Montréal on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

North America had many surprises. Straight streets. Old French. Businessmen dressing in suits with sports shoes. Tattoos. Or coffee served in elephant-esque recipients.

I made peace with those ideas, along with other oddities.

It was not simple for everything however.

In my first week, at HEC Montréal, a university teacher stated psychology could be used to classify people: extroverted vs introverted, thinking and “feeling”, judging and perceiving, and so on. Such classification would be handy to optimize work environments.

I could not help remembering my biology classes a decade ago. Felinae such as cats are solitary while canids are more prone to bonding. You can predict their behavior, and even put numbers. Did North Americans manage to model humans in a similar manner? What a novel and practical idea. The world wouldn't be so messy!

In my naïveté, I told the teacher and the class I did not believe in such a notion. Humanity has spent thousands of years showcasing its infinitesimal diversity, from works of art to the fist of implacable wars. Can her theory put on a graph genocidal tyrants? Or predict the outcome of a conversation between Hemingway and Proust?

She smiled and mentioned the practicality.

The usefulness in business situations.

Getting things done.

Being able to explain your environment. Did I get it yet?

To be honest, I didn’t.

She would be the first of many.

North American journalists and columnists write for example about millennials, the generation X and Z in catchy titles. If you are born one year after 1979, you would be in the millennial generation. You inherit various attributes, such as multi-tasking skills, an “instant gratification” mindset or the lack of stable jobs. They say such traits are intrinsic and intrinsically perceptible. The theories are far-reaching and would explain the success of commercial products, the downfall of others and changing trends. And politicians are happy to follow along.

“Race” is another attribute, especially in America. Official surveys require you to choose between native American, Asian, African American, latino or white. Cross carefully: various socio-economico-psychological traits are attributed. For example, you are expected to feel the weight of oppression if you are “black”. Displaying traits from other groups are labeled as transgressions. Such is the case of Rachel Dolezal who pretended to be “black”, although both of her parents are “white”.

There are many other ways to classify. IQ, suburban vs urbanites etc.

Many years later, I still do not understand how people are classified in different groups. Isn’t the concept of “race” a social and historical construct? It evokes the simplicity of the European views in the 30s or the apartheid system, without the lessons learned from history. Yet my 60-year old neighbor can be remarkably closer than a 25-year old brother somewhere in Baltimore.

At the Atlanta international airport, I discussed once with a representative of the US government. I said inhabitants of Madagascar are a mix of ancient Southeast Asia immigration and Africa. What box to cross? The officer was practical and said: “Move along, sir”.

I moved along this North American oddity. I smile when someone mentions a millennial group or yet another simplifying trait. Si fueris Romae, Romano vivito more. Yet inside, I believe in the infinite possibilities of the human spirit, the individuality of experiences, and that one can become the new Einstein or Leonardo Da Vinci regardless of the color of the skin or the age.

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Odd perceptions of age and race was originally published in Chronicles of Montréal on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.