Many people I know visit Montreal every year, hell every day. Often I find myself on the receiving end of questions such as “Where are the best spots to eat poutine?” or “Can you send me a list of your favorite terrasses?” My personal favorite of course is, “What are the best hidden gems?”
I pride myself on being an earnest person, but not always. If I was always earnest, I would tell them the truth. The best place to visit off the beaten path. That I couldn’t imagine coming to Montreal and not stopping by the most beautiful hidden gem, one which sets us apart. The reason this city is unparalleled, the reason it is the best city on the planet.
If I was as earnest as I claim to be, I would tell you that there is in fact one spot you can not miss. There are no reservations, no guestlists or VIP back entrances. It’s invite only. Tucked away on a busy street home to one of the city’s university libraries, there is an inconspicuous building. You would walk right by it if you didn’t know to look. Sandwiched between two restaurants and perpetually saturated with the stench of burgers from the neighboring Patty Slaps.
On any given day you can punch in one code three separate times and make your way up to the eighth floor. You will note a suspect painting decorating the hallway, one of a collection I imagine is displayed on the Epstein Island. Pay this vaguely pedophilic painting no mind, it’s not what we’re here for. But you can already hear it I think. Laughter.
If I was a bad liar I’d say it was laughter like the tinkling giggles of fairies, like the jingling of silver bells. But that lie is too easy to catch me in and as I already mentioned I’m not a bad liar. As you walk to the door you can hear it already echoing through the otherwise empty building. It calls to mind the squawking seagulls thieving chips from children at the beach, or the cackling of witches as they stir their cauldrons, their victims woefully unaware. Or maybe it’s more like the braying of wild horses as their hooves pound the moors, their manes flying in the wind.
Or, no, I know, it’s the satisfied, maniacal laughter of mermaids, brushing their hair while they sunbathe and discuss the foolish men they drowned last weekend. I mean who follows a strange woman off a boat in the middle of the night? They were practically asking for it.
This laughter is often accompanied by one of three things. The incomprehensible exchange of various quotes from internet clips, vines, TikToks, movie scenes, and other obscurities. The distinct audio of the same movie they’ve been watching for years, in which they somehow always find something new to discuss. Or the same story they have been dissecting for years, with the same set of characters and details. Apparently, there is nothing quite as funny as beating a dead horse until even a necromancer would be concerned.
Really this hidden gem is a revolving door of beautiful girls, occasionally their flavors of the month, and always fantastic outfits. Wardrobes are shared with no misgivings, lattes are brewed to perfection three, four, times a day, and someone has always done a bit of shopping and is ready to give a haul. Macbooks litter the living space, someone is always working on something, or ordering something, or studying for something. One has to wonder how these girls get anything done at all, what with the constant conversations and the drone of the TV in the background. Compliments are flying around, as are loving insults, and someone is probably on the phone with their mom. Fragrant hair oils, expensive perfumes, and the unmistakable stench of Patty Slaps linger in the air long after everyone has gone to bed with smiles on their faces.
At any given moment you can find at least one girl on the couch, whether she lives there or not is of no concern to anyone. Every now and again the front door will open and before there is even an exchange of hellos there is a loud “Girls you will NEVER believe what happened to me.” Because even if it was just a simple grocery trip, or a package delivery, or a night out, there is always, always a story to tell. Maybe someone saw their evil ex, or a closeted ex-roommate whose refusal to come out makes him rather nasty, or maybe a new beau who has a tendency for nose bleeds. Maybe a new restaurant opened that we just have to try, or perhaps a promoter messaged with an invitation to a boozy brunch. In any case, the stories never run out here, they flow endlessly like rivers from a glacier, and are always told with a dramatic flair.
So it all sounds pretty magical right? Beautiful girls and their beautiful, extravagant lives. That they all found each other and get along so well is a miracle right? Well, some call it a miracle, I call it the result of one girl. Nikola. She is the common denominator in all of it. Throughout her crazy, bustling life she has managed to pick up some of the most interesting and wild friends. I say pick up and I really mean it. They just kind of find her, or she finds them, randomly and by chance. Like when dogs go for a walk and come back covered in those prickly thistles that are literally impossible to remove. That’s us, and the dog is Nikola. But not like a mangy mutt, no, think of the most glamorous, smooth-coated, perfumed and manicured diva dog. That’s more like it.
I say it all the time but no one, truly I mean no one, has ever been so beautiful. And that she is so beautiful is actually the least interesting thing about her. But still no one so beautiful should be so humble. And no one so humble should be so funny. And no one so funny, is ever that smart! But guys, I promise you, she is all that and more. The reason she is so enchantingly beautiful, I think, is because of her heart. Such kindness I’ve only ever read about, or watched on screen, until I met her. Gracious and graceful, elegant and deeply intuitive, these qualities radiate from her soul and illuminate her shining face and her halo of hair (which is always somehow perfectly styled and flowing down her back, I’ve given up on figuring out how).
She is the girl who will outdrink you and go to work at 8 in the morning. The girl who will get everyone into VIP without blinking and not accept any praise. The one who will cancel a night out if you even hint at the fact that you’d rather watch a crime show and eat sushi in the hot tub. She is the epitome of the girls girl, without losing herself she bolsters every woman in her circle. Whether it’s styling them, or giving them skincare advice, or haircare tips, or sitting with you while you study, or actively listening to your presentation a million times before you present. She’ll be dancing in the DJ booth one second, and the next she is reading your high school diary entries (full of angst and self loathing) and crying for you. Yes! Crying! Real tears, because this tiny girl feels so deeply, so entirely, she will cry for the past version of you. And in the next breath they’re cackling again about something called shifting? They will read each other’s notes apps religiously, after all a girl’s notes app is sort of like her Bible, but cooler because a woman wrote it.
So yes, N sur Mackay is a hidden gem indeed. But it’s not the apartment which makes it so, or the location. No, it’s the girl. The revolving door of whirlwind stories and rooftop pool plans, of overflowing suitcases and nail polish, it’s all a result of her love. Everyone who calls to say hello, everyone who comes by for a coffee, it’s all love here. I can say with confidence, that ten, twenty, thirty, forty years from now, there will be a kitchen table, and two girls.
Both blonde and tanned, sitting with coffee, tea, or wine. Their heads are leaned close together, and they’re dying laughing, of course. And some people might peek through a window to get a better look, and maybe a laugh themselves. They’ll lean in and, after listening for a while, certain that there will be some witty jokes exchanged, or intelligent books being discussed, they’ll look at each other, puzzled, and ask “Who on Earth is Bunny?”
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