Katie Sehl seeks fresh meat.
Montreal is a city of cats. Most get let out the door on Moving Day, never to find home again.
Maija Kappler revisits her hometown.
Deborah Ostrovsky on how in addition to being the city of love, Montreal is also the city of broken hearts.
Looking at Montreal from the perspective of a skateboarder.
Hélène Bauer dines with ghosts in Old Montreal.
Montreal's Plateau, or “La petite France,” is overrun with elegant, polite French children.
Once, my grandmother and I got lost. We stood under a willow, the sunlight tickling its long strands, the light flickering.
As the sun crept downwards, we rushed around Stone Town’s maze-like alleys, gathering supplies before the shops closed for evening prayers.
It was a November afternoon when I first saw confetti falling from the sky.
The night I moved into my apartment, I heard my roommates planning to cleanse the house of evil spirits.
Fragments of my parents’ past are strewn all over Montreal's Chinatown.
He looked at me as if there had never been anyone else. Until he didn’t.
Playing Quebec's VLTs feels casual. That’s a big part of the reason people pour their paychecks into them.
Only four snippets of text remain, part of a lengthier phrase broken up by time and neglect.
The role of the body in Christian worship has historically inhabited an ambiguous space between sacred and sinful.
I’d just moved, and newcomer logic dictates that you never say no to anything.
When the Parisian leans against me on the bleachers, I feel like I am winning by 250 points.