The last time I was in Montreal, I was nine years old. My parents took me there in 1981, and the only thing I really remember, besides a few fuzzy flashes of a bus tour and unfamiliar street signs, was their insistence that the people were rude if you didn’t speak French. That stuck with me. Maybe that’s why, despite several trips to Canada over the years, including Ottawa this past March, I never went back. Montreal stayed locked in the attic of my childhood memories, somewhere between Intellivision cartridges and Mets heartbreaks.
Fast forward forty-four years. The New York Rangers were playing the Canadiens on a Saturday night in October, and this time, I wasn’t a passenger in the backseat of my parents’ Mercury Monarch. I was the one planning the trip, with my family in tow. And what a trip it was.
We did all the tourist walking you could imagine, Notre Dame, the Underground City, the cobblestone streets that look like a movie set built for hockey fans and pastry lovers. We even made time for not one, but two Montreal Costcos. (Because let’s be honest—no Rosenbaum trip is complete without a Costco stop.) And yes, we all know the rumors are true: Canadian Cadbury chocolate is better than the Hershey-made stuff we get here. It’s smoother, creamier, and somehow tastes more like a memory than candy.
The main event, though, was the Rangers game. The Bell Centre is still the cathedral of hockey, bright, loud, electric. And for once, the Rangers remembered to score goals in that building. Sitting there, surrounded by my family, I realized something: I was rewriting the story my parents told me.
You see, part of growing up, really growing up, is realizing that your parents’ version of the world isn’t necessarily yours. That’s been a recurring theme in Full Circle, my ongoing journey to understand how our parents’ voices echo in our heads long after they’re gone (book available on Kindle and paperback on Amazon.com). My parents weren’t bad people, but their spin on things often leaned toward the negative. Montreal, to them, was cold and unfriendly. To me, this time, it was warm and welcoming.
The people were kind, and they spoke English with a smile, thankfully, because I haven’t taken French since 1987. What struck me most was how different everything felt compared to that first trip. Maybe it wasn’t Montreal that changed. Maybe it was me.
I’m lucky. I’m financially better off than my parents were, and I get to share experiences with my family that mine couldn’t afford or enjoy the same way. But what I value most is the chance to revisit the places that shaped me, and to see them for what they really are, not through the fog of someone else’s perception.
Montreal reminded me that life has a way of giving you another look at things you thought you already knew. Sometimes, all it takes is a hockey game, a long walk, and a bar of Canadian chocolate to bring it full circle.
