Monday Mourning

Bit by bit, the nuns sold the land off, and Pointe St-Charles now covers most of the acreage, but Bourgeoys’s original school and parts of the farm are up ahead. Site’s now a museum.”

“Maison St-Gabriel?”

Ryan nodded.

Snow removal in the area had been sketchy at best. Sidewalks were mounded and parked cars jutted into the traffic lanes. Ryan drove slowly, pulling far to the right for oncoming traffic. As we moved deeper into the Point I assessed my surroundings.

The architecture was a jumble of nineteenth- and twentieth-century housing, most of which appeared to have been built for the working-class poor.

Many streets were lined with two-story redbrick row houses whose front doors opened right at the curb. Others streets tended toward rough-hewn limestone. While most residences were starkly plain, a few sported a cornice, a false mansard, or a carved wooden dormer.

Mixed in with the previous century’s efforts were three-story trior six-plexes built during the early years of this one. Their creators favored more generous setbacks allowing tiny front gardens, recessed entrances, yellow, chamois, or brown brick facing, and exterior staircases twisting to second-floor balconies.

Near the entrance to the Maison St-Gabriel, we passed several four-story postwar monstrosities with entrances canopied under concrete or plastic. The designers of these eyesores obviously placed efficiency well before style. So much for feng shui.

After several turns, Ryan made a right, and rue de Sébastopol stretched before us.

To our left sprawled the rail yards, half-hidden by six-foot fencing and evergreen shrubbery. Through the branches and chain-linking, I could see row after row of rusted tanker cars.

Snow crunched under our tires as Ryan rolled to a stop. Wordlessly, we each made a visual tour.

At midblock, a series of redbrick row houses elbowed up to the curb, the run-down little dwellings seeming to huddle together for support. Or warmth.

Beyond the row houses, I could see a gap, then a hodgepodge of cement structures with graffiti scarring their exterior walls.

To our right stood a seedy barn enclosed within a dilapidated fence. Inside the fence, a mongrel dog took issue with our presence.

Bare trees fingered up through the power lines. Previously plowed snow sat mounded and blackened with grime.

Rue de Sébastopol looked like many other streets in the Point.

Yet somehow more bleak.

More isolated.

To our left yawned the vast uninhabited rail yard.