I <3 Mtl

Walking down a narrow, barely-lit street in the Plateau one evening I happened to look up and was rewarded by baring witness to the perfect Montreal moment. I don't know what drew my eyes to that window--this being a frosty winter night, the windows were sealed shut. Maybe it was the light flicker from the television set, maybe it was simply divine chance. Either way, for a short time, I was utterly engrossed. I stood in the middle of the sidewalk, dumbstruck, shoulders sagging from the weight of my grocery bags and numbing fingertips.

And there he was, framed perfectly in the large window. Four feet tall with brown shaggy hair falling in his eyes and a red Canadiens shirt, jumping in the glow of the TV, arms raised overhead in rejoice, small hands clutching a miniature hockey stick. I could almost hear the muffled thumping of his socked feet, his breathless squealing, the sheer joy through the glass pane.

And there I was, grinning stupidly, alone, on a dark street with ripping grocery bags, staring into a stranger's window.

It was a Thursday night. The scene, with players both young and old, repeats in countless living rooms across the city.