I notice how much of a particular culture Montreal has, and how much of a Montrealer I am, whenever I’m away from it. Getting home to my own life, bed and timezone on Friday night was absolute rapture, and I wanted to take it in all weekend.

So Saturday night, Z and I shared a Mont-Royal street triple-play, namely the Barraca, the Boudoir and Plan B. Over mojitos, she regaled me with her recent tales of singles woe. In the crowded ladies room of the Barraca, as we shuffled and turned to let each other squeeze through to the paper towels, one girl hummed the theme to Tetris. It always makes me warm and fuzzy when the mainstream geeks out. Minutes later, when one of the barroom Romeos decided to make his move and approach Z, I hummed the theme to Jaws and she caught the reference. Another small victory.

Sunday, I met A at the doggie café, and over lattés, he regaled me with his recent tales of singles woe. Then, as I’d promised my ex, I worked up the courage to ask the girl at the counter if she was single. I had good news for him on the way out, and he’s now borrowing Comet next weekend to go to the doggie café and chat her up. Are we modern or what.

That night I met K for dinner, and over tapas, he regaled me with his tales of singles woe.

My favorite weekends are the ones when the city feels like a cozy village filled with friends; the days when you just walk down the street confident you’ll see many familiar faces. It’s a complete mystery to me how Montreal manages to be familiar but never feel parochial, but it’s one I’m happy to live with.