Three Day Guide to Montreal: What to Do + Where to Eat

I went on a quick trip to Montreal, Canada with my fiancé over the New Year’s break. We enjoyed three solid days of tasty regional food, quaint French accents, and gorgeous city vistas. Thinking of taking a little holiday? Here’s a quick Montreal bucket list, plus a few tips for first timers.  

Six Things to Do

Biodome: Located at Olympic Park, the Montreal Biodome is an indoor-zoo that allows visitors to walk through replicas of four distinct ecosystems found in the Americas: tropical forests, North American forests, the Saint Lawrence Marine Eco-system, and a polar area. The penguins and roaming monkeys definitely entertained.

Mont Royal: This large volcanic-related hill gave the city of Montreal its name. We hiked from the 144 bus stop near the McGill Hospital up to a lookout near Chalet Du Mont-Royal and snapped some beautiful photos of the city. Visitors can also rent cross country skis, bicycles, and ice skates.

Bota Bota: When an old river ferry is turned into an upscale "floating spa" and restaurant, you get Nordic-inspired Bota Bota. Known for its water circuit and Instagram-worthy hot tubs, this was a highlight of our trip. Tip: If you go before 11am or on a weekday, you’ll receive a discount.

Old Montreal: As the name would suggest, this is the oldest neighborhood in Montreal. Some of the buildings and landmarks date back to New France, and most of the area was dubbed a historic landmark in the 1960s. Shops, pubs, and hotels line the quaint cobbled streets.

Jean-Talon Market: This open-air market is comprised of local vendors selling produce, meats, cheeses, fish, maple syrup, and more. It’s one of the largest public markets in North America, and still buzzes during the cold months. Sample a piece of something tasty and then wander around the surrounding neighborhood of Little Italy.

Notre-Dame Basilica: Located in Old Montreal, the beautifully ornate interior of this Roman Catholic site is worth viewing. Fun facts: Celine Dion married René Angélil here on December 17, 1994, and the stained-glass windows depict scenes from Montreal’s religious history.

Six Things to Eat

I wrote a longer post about exactly which restaurants we enjoyed while visiting, but here’s a short list of regional food that Montreal does right.

The Great Bagel Debate: Both St. Viateur and Fairmount are famous for their Montreal-style bagels. The dough is boiled in honey-infused water and then baked in a wood-fire oven, giving the bread a totally different taste than New York City’s rival product.  

Poutine: This Canadian classic originated in the Quebec region, and is typically comprised of French fries, brown gravy, and cheese curds. Diners, pubs, and even some fast-food restaurants sell poutine, but 24-hour La Banquise is famous for their 30+ variations of the dish—including one topped with hot dogs and bacon.

Unpasteurized cheese: In short, Canada does not have the same laws in place when it comes to raw dairy. Be sure to try a slice at one of the open markets, and enjoy the fact that you’re chewing on a food that would be completely illegal in the United States.

Maple syrup: While Quebec’s maple syrup season typically begins in March, you can still find plenty of fresh canned or bottled syrup throughout the year. At Jean-Talon Market, we sampled both light and dark varieties from a local distributor. A small container of real maple syrup also makes for a fabulous souvenir.

French-inspired cuisine: Be sure to find an authentic French bistro for at least one of your meals. Sip a red Bordeaux and enjoy a steak tartare stuffed with capers, or duck confit and a side of potatoes. Bon appétit!

Smoked meat: New York is to Katz’s, as Montreal is to Schwartz’s. You’ll find this famous Jewish delicatessen on historic Saint Laurent Boulevard. The order of choice: a smoked meat sandwich on rye with mustard, a side of pickles, and a black cherry soda.

Getting There

The drive from New York City was dotted with small upstate towns and rolling hills. We ran into minimal traffic—until the border crossing. For whatever reason (the holiday? Friday night?) we waited in long lines of red brake lights for 2 ½ hours at the St-Bernard-de-Lacolle Customs Office. To avoid our mistake, check this website ahead of time and be aware of other crossing sites.

If you are flying into Montréal–Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport, you can catch a cab or the 747 Montreal-Trudeau/Downtown bus. It operates 24/7 and connects to eight downtown stops.

Tip: The 3-day unlimited L'Occasionnelle card is well worth the $18 if you plan on using the metro or bus at least five times during your stay. There are also weekly, monthly, and unlimited weekend passes available. Each single fare is $3.50.

Lodging

Our Airbnb was located close to the Sherbrook Metro station in the Plateau/Mont Royal neighborhood, and averaged us about $71 per night. The location was ideal: two stops south and we were in beautiful Old Montreal; a five-minute walk northwest and we were surrounded by the cafes of St. Denis and shops of Saint Laurent.

The apartment was on the second floor of a stone building from the 1800s. Big beautiful windows let in streams of natural light every morning. Double-pane glass kept out most of the street noise. Our host was very thoughtful and left us fruit, coffee, milk, and chocolates. The only drawback was for my fiancé: At 6’2’’, his feet hung over the edge of the bed! But overall, our stay was enjoyable. If I was going back sans beau, I’d book this place again.

Language

Most people speak French first and English second. This was a bit of a surprise to us, and we definitely had a few we’re-not-in-Kansas-anymore moments. But it was enjoyable to travel somewhere so close to the United States with such a distinct culture of its own.

Some people who worked in the service industry greeted us by saying, “Bonjour, hi.” We would say the same back and then continue in English. If you’re asking someone a question on the street, it’s polite to ask if they speak English first with the phrase, “Parlez-vous anglais?” Rule of thumb: Better to butcher the phrase than offend the residents.

We only met one person who didn’t speak much English, but knowing some basic terminology was helpful throughout the trip. And yes, highway signs are en Français so know Est from Ouest!

Happy travels. 

---

Where to Eat in Montreal: 5 Restaurants to Try

Montreal is a food city. Between the French cuisine, Canadian favorites, and city specialties, there’s tons of flavorful calories to consume. Don’t know where to start? Here's a list of a few restaurants not to miss.   

Manitoba

We drove to an industrial section of the Mile X neighborhood for a late dinner at Manitoba. This restaurant is known for its locally-sourced ingredients, organic wines, and trendy cocktails. Our waiter was knowledgeable about each dish on the menu, but not snooty. The hipster vibe plus heavy French accents had us thinking we’d found the East Village of Quebec.

 I ordered the deer steak served with a generous helping of beets, mushrooms, and other well-prepared vegetables. My only regret from the whole experience was that I didn’t snap a picture.

L’Express

Get back to Montreal’s roots by sampling some more traditional French cuisine. We made a reservation at L’Express, a Parisian-style bistro that opened in 1980. With its black and white tiled floors, glass ceiling, and warm lighting, you certainly feel as though you’ve traveled farther than Canada.  

We bought a bottle of wine and leafed through the menu. If you don’t speak a lick of French, pas de problème. There’s a guide in English (and other languages) that will help walk you through the dishes. We opted for a bone marrow appetizer, steak tartare entrees, and crème brûléeto to share. Magnifique! 

The Great Bagel Debate:

Montreal has two famous bagel shops, both of which are located in the Mile End neighborhood. St. Viateur opened in 1957 and operates 24/7, making over 1,000 bagels a day. Fairmount Bagel began its legacy in 1919 and is the oldest bagel bakery in the city. But which is best? We New Yorkers were quite determined to find out.

Unlike the Big Apple’s bagels, these noshes are smaller, denser, and traditionally topped with sesame or poppy seeds. The dough is boiled in honey-infused water, giving the bagels a sweeter flavor, and then cooked in a wood-fired oven. There’s also less focus on the cream cheese component. In fact, it seemed most bakeries didn't made their own spreads.

Our takeaway: Nothing beats a plump, cream cheese filled New York bagel from a legit bakery. But these Montreal eats were tasty. A steaming hot sesame bagel from Fairmont was my personal favorite. Without much cream cheese and only one topping, you can taste the sweet dough and better understand what Montreal bagels are all about.   

Schwartz’s

As one of the oldest delis in Canada, Schwartz’s truly knows how to make a smoked meat sandwich. They’ve been serving Montreal and all of its hungry tourists since 1928, so expect about a 15 to 20-minute wait.

Schwartz’s beef brisket is marinated for 10 days in a secret blend of spices. Their signature dish is a smoked meat sandwich served on rye bread with a bit of mustard. You can opt for a lean, medium, medium-fat, or fat cut. We chose medium sandwiches, with a side of pickles, poutine, and black cherry sodas.

The best part: It was super cheap, especially with the current exchange rate. New York’s Katz’s deli will cost you $20 per sandwich—in Montreal you’ll pay about $7.25 USD. It’s a different cut of meat, but the similarities are apparent. Remember to bring cash and to arrive with an empty stomach.

Bonus: The Keg Steakhouse + Bar

While wondering around the quaint streets of Old Montreal, we stumbled into one of the only open restaurants on New Year’s Day. Our “cheap meal” accidentally turned into delicious seafood dishes and a round of Boulevardier cocktails—c’est la vie. While The Keg was by no means on our food bucket list (yes, it's a chain), the Pistachio Crusted Salmon with garlic mashed potatoes was a delightful way to start 2017. 

We never made it to these joints, but here are a few other highly-rated Montreal restaurants. Enjoy your trip!

Maison Publique  
Bouillon Bilk
Le Bremner
Joe Beef
Olive et Gourmando
La Banquise
Au Pied du Cochon

---

“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.”

— Virginia Woolf

---

Salty Eyelashes

“Bye, love you.”

I had just left my youngest sister a voicemail while walking from the Astor Place subway to my apartment in the East Village. I was wearing my summer uniform, which consisted of a floral dress and a beige backpack. My hair was pulled into a ponytail with two bobby pins. It was a warm June night, and I rejoiced in the perfection that is New York City on the cusp of summer.

I turned left onto 7th Street and walked by my old church. Next, I passed McSorley's, an ancient Irish pub where you only order “dark or light” beer. Their motto until the 1970s was, "Good Ale, Raw Onions and No Ladies." You can still order half a raw onion and a sleeve of saltines with the cheese platter.

As I walked down the street, I felt something poke my rear. I was passing a group of well-manicured bushes and assumed a twig had gotten caught on my dress. I took a few more steps, and then felt a human finger very precisely poke me once again. This time I turned around, expecting to see my roommate or another friend who lived on the block.

Whoosh.
His outstretched arms tightly encircled me.
We were face to face, breathing the same air. 
For a brief second I could see his eyes.
And then I understood.

“HELP, HELP, HELP, HELP.”

I was screaming like I’d been stabbed—but maybe I was about to be? Over and over and over again I said the words, “Help! Help me!” My vocal chords strained into a sound I’d never heard before. I was having an out-of-body experience, focusing on the frantic tone of my own voice. It seemed so animalistic. Was this little girl having a panic attack? I could tell she couldn’t breathe very well. Her arms were flailing, but it all seemed useless. Bruises were forming on her upper arms. Our protagonist in the floral dress was being crushed like a butterfly in a closing fist.

“You know what I want.”

I flew back into my body the moment he spoke, and this is what I saw: There was a man in a blue polo shirt, a dark jacket, and jeans now holding both my arms with one hand. They were bent in a painfully awkward position.

His other hand was on my knee.
Now on my lower thigh.
Now on my upper thigh.
His hand was on a place no stranger’s hand should be.

As he groped for more, I blessed the bicycle shorts I wear under all my dresses. The assaulter’s hand reached the most intimate part of my body, but he became confused—the bicycle shorts were not part of his ill-conceived plan.

In second one of his hesitation, I remembered what my mother used to say when we were children: “Never go anywhere with someone, no matter what. You won’t come back.” In second two of his hesitation, I remembered what a college friend named Kaitlin Mahoney once said in regards to getting assaulted: “Go limp; fall to the floor. Relax every muscle.”

I slowly maneuvered the groper and myself into the street, knowing that I’d have a better chance of being spotted. As he attempted to finish what he’d started, I shut down every muscle in my body and collapsed toward the pavement. I stared at the ground, mentally visualizing myself melting into the cool black asphalt. I pictured magnets attached to my arms and legs, pulling me down, down, down.  Oddly, I felt a death-like peace.  

He held my body for a moment, but my weight made him stagger. As he began to drop me, he squeezed my arms tighter. I played dead. My left cheek was now pressed into the gravel. But I peered down the road, and there in the distance were shadowy legs walking hesitantly toward me. If I could just make it to those people…

Because I was facedown, the attacker now had to readjust his hold—there was no other option. As he pivoted, I pounced up and took off running. I turned around, tears flying from my face, and saw two men. One was my attacker. Another was a homeless man who, from what I could tell, was on my side. He waved his arms frantically, as if to say, “Go from this place!” 

I reached a group of men at the bottom of the street and called the cops. Two born and bred Brooklyn gents were immediately ready to fight the attacker who, strangely enough, was walking toward us.

“Don’t fight him, don’t fight him,” you can hear me saying on the police tape. “We’re on 2nd Ave and 7th,” I then respond to the dispatcher. “He’s still here. We need someone here.” I am crying. “I know the precinct is right around the corner. 2nd and 7th. I’m on 2nd and 7th! Are they coming?”

Casey Holloway strolled by our ragtag group, which now included myself, the homeless man who tried to assist me, and two aggressive Brooklynites. He spit in my direction and mumbled something unintelligible. Then he walked south down 2nd Avenue toward Houston Street. 

An unimaginable rage burst through the center of my chest, like acidic fire.

“We gonna follow em, c’mon. We gonna get this asshole. Miss, you wanna get this guy?” The man’s thick Brooklyn accent made me internally chuckle. “Yes, let’s follow him,” I said with mock assurance. I was shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone, but walking felt good. Walking felt powerful.

Holloway went down one sidewalk, while we paralleled him on another sidewalk across the road. With only the street between us, I commenced my journey and prayed for safety. He stopped, started, and stared but he never deviated off 2nd Avenue.

6th Street… 4th Street… 2nd Street…

“Don’t approach him—what if he has a weapon?” I screamed at the men, and frantically bit my lip. Where were the cops? It had been nearly 15 minutes since my initial call. Just when the tension was about to bleed into violence, patrol cars roared down the street. Two cops jumped out and pinned Holloway to the ground. Another one motioned for me. “Is this the man?” They pulled his head up and we looked each other in the eye for the second time that evening.

“Yes.”

I watched as he was placed in the back of a cop car, cuffed and apathetic. I hated his dead, dark eyes. But the toxic rage, which had spread to every cell in my body, was now slowly subsiding.  

That night was a whirlwind of police questioning and Coca-Cola. As my body went from shock to a drug-like exhaustion, I sipped sugary soda in the waiting room and washed the mascara from my face with a napkin.

My then-boyfriend, now-fiancé Ryan arrived at the police station. He was solemn but steady. I held his pinky finger as the detectives questioned me in a cold room with two-way glass. “Where did he touch you?” “Was it here or here?” “How did he grab you?”

I finally fell into my bed at 5am, cold and bruised—but unmistakably alive. The next morning, I woke up with salty eyelashes and a phone call from the ADA. I’d need to come in and share my testimony as soon as possible. And so, the yearlong court process began.

***

I have a quiet rage.

It’s most likely been resting inside of me since I was a little girl, but I first remember releasing it in college when I was told I “could not” while knowing that I certainly “could.”

That same rage builds up inside of me when society discusses topics like Roger Ailes, unequal pay, or how one might like to “grab her by the p*ssy.”  Every time—every time—that phrase is uttered, the events of this terrible night pop into my head.  I can smell him. I can taste my sweat.

This story is nothing special.
In fact, many women have experienced this and much worse.
So, let’s not weep over it.
I was even blessed with a “happy” ending.

I’m telling you this so that you can grasp the dark shadow hanging over my head today—and occasionally, other days. It is my hope that you might understand why this morning I again woke up with salty eyelashes.

But tomorrow?
Tomorrow, I'll wake up with a heart full of hope, and a spirit of determined joy that, I pray, will always overcome my humanistic need to hate. 

---

“Can you see the sunset real good on the West side? You can see it on the East side too.”

— S.E. Hinton, "The Outsiders"

---

New York Tip #4: Never Enter An Empty Subway Car

Our city is beautiful during “Golden Hour.” At the conclusion of a busy day, rays of sunlight dance amongst the skyscrapers, freckling the sidewalks with honey-colored light. I watched this phenomenon from a subway platform in Woodside, Queens. My glass world glowed.

Click, click, click.

The 7 train was rounding a bend into the 52 Street Station, full of people commuting every which way. In Queens the majority of subway rails are located above ground on raised platforms. As one might imagine, this has extreme pros and cons—such as cell service and snow.

I spotted an empty-ish car and quickly began waking toward it. In summer, I had already learned that an unpopulated section of the train typically means one of two things: Either the AC isn’t working and you will sweat until you can’t see straight, or there is a very unpleasant smell waiting to attack your gag reflexes. But it was currently the dead of winter, so I took my chances.

Upon entering the subway car, I spotted about six other people. One was an intoxicated man who was mumbling to himself. This is a sad, yet common occurrence. But nothing smelled and no one was getting murdered, so I happily plopped into a seat.

But oh, how innocent I was.
“La de mo. Shit. To fippp. Oo.”

As the train began to move, I realized the disturbed man in question was becoming quite vocal. He stood and wobbled to one remote corner of the train, then continued speaking nonsense as we rolled into the next station. When the train began moving again, he loosened his belt. I looked away and tried to catch eyes with the older woman sitting across from me, but she was doing a crossword puzzle. The man slouched to my left was lost in thought, and everyone else was on the opposite end of the car.

I stared at my fingernails and tried to appear as blasé as possible.
Ah, how interesting… my nails.
The man began taking his clothes off.
My nails! They are… well, they are my nails.
The man is wearing no pants.
Maybe I should stop biting my nails?
The man is making strange noises...

Curiosity got the best of me, and I peeked back over at the belt-less man whose pants were now down to his ankles. But his posture is what stood out to me the most—why was he crouching, his bum hovering over the orange plastic seat?

No.
No, no, NO.
That man was pooping on the subway.
That man was pooping on the subway! 

“Er, espa. Din deeen!!”

And with that loud statement, I became a witness to one of the more grotesque things a human can do in an enclosed public space.

“Ewww,” I said audibly, moving to the farthest corner of the train along with the silent but annoyed crossword woman. Also please note: When one defecates on a moving train, one's waste does not remain in a singular location.

There was literally sh*t sliding all over the place.  

At this point, we were arriving at the next station—my station, praise Jesus—so I pulled a wool scarf over my mouth and held my breath. A part of me felt terrible for the overly intoxicated human; the other part felt queasy. I closed my eyes as a strong stench crept toward us.

Then the doors suddenly opened and the six of us fled Poop Train. But before leaving the scene, I saw one couple enter the now deserted car, grabbing those highly-coveted empty seats. I didn’t have time to warn them—and that is a deep regret of mine.

But the train doors closed, sealing their smelly fates. And unfortunately for them, this was the last stop before Manhattan so they would be locked in Poop Train for a longer period of time than your average subway ride. 

Friends, I tell you this story for a reason: 
Whether it’s winter,
or summer...
Whether it's rush hour,
or quiet...
Never enter an empty subway car.
You could get pooped on.

And now you know! 

5 Subway Tips for Travelers:

• Consider getting a paper map of the subway system before your trip. While cell phones are helpful, you will loose service underground for periods of time. Here’s my map recommendation.

• New Yorkers might always be “on the go,” but I guarantee you can find someone to assist you—don’t be afraid to ask for directions!

• New York rush hour is from approximately 7am - 9am and 4pm - 6pm. The subways will be more packed than usual during these times.

• If you’re traveling alone or have sensitivities to sounds, consider getting some noise canceling headphones. It will make for a much more peaceful journey! Here’s what I pop in my ears while commuting. There’s tons of options out there.

• Quick subway etiquette:

  • Let people off the train before trying to enter the train car.

  • Do not block the subway doors—move into the middle of the subway car when possible.

  • The left side of the escalator is for walking, and the right side of the escalator is for standing. Don’t block the lefthand side (or someone might snap at you—perhaps, me!).

New York City Tip #3: Learn to Live Seasonally

Some people are more deeply in tune with seasonality than others. I’m not sure if that personality trait is a pro or con, just merely a fact. Another point worth observing: To live in New York City you must be able to cope with the weather—like a farmer during the Dust Bowl, like Noah and his flood. The elements will dictate your comfort level and you are bequeathed no amount of control.

I am summer.

I am the pesky ray of light that creeps through your blinds each morning. I am the sticky, humid air that affixes to your every pore. I am the burst of excitement or despair that can command your mood—as bright as a blue morning and as gray as a stormy afternoon. My summer fairies and I are full of undying energy come June, likely to buzz fiercely through October without a moment of true rest. We are addicting, we are quick-thinking, fast-footed creatures who pound, pound, pound the pavement all day and play all night, drinking in the warm weather like some life-giving elixir.

And then it stops.

Like the leaves on fall’s vibrant trees, we wilt away into a self-inflicted hibernation. And a new group takes the lead, with their love of all things autumn: the calmer pace, the cinnamon-filled serene days, the crisp air. Of course these traits can be enjoyable—but as a celebrator of summer, they're only a reminder that winter is soon to come.

Now as someone with such an acute bias, it's important for me to take a step back in my description of seasons. I have two arguments to make: The most important point I can present is that each group of months bestows something attractive, be it bathing suit-clad strolls by the lake or fireside chats with Manhattans and marshmallows. But my second argument is that city dwellers (in this case, New Yorkers) have another level of appreciation and resentment for Mother Nature’s iron fist. When I moved to this bustling metropolis, I wish someone had explained to my bewildered and ambitious little soul that what I understood of snow and stifling heat was simply not enough. 

*** 

“It’s only 3 flights up,” I told my father and mother. They were carrying a wooden bookcase through the entrance of a pre-war building in Queens. The August humidity had us wilting into pools of our own sweat. It was over 100 degrees, and only a small fan in the corner of the apartment produced any semblance of a slight breeze. My body had not yet adapted to a life without central AC and I remember plopping onto the couch, dehydrated to the point of seeing spots.  

I slept on top of my sheets that night, bought cockroach traps five days later, and learned to appreciate cold showers three weeks into my new adventure.  

*** 
“I won’t be able to get into the city tomorrow.” I sent this message to my editor at the Huffington Post. It was October of 2012 and Superstorm Sandy was making her way up the East Coast, seemingly headed straight for New York. The city was shutting down the entire subway system so I'd need to work from home—unless I wanted to sleep at the office, which, people did do. But those people were making more than $10 an hour.

Autumn had been (and typically is) quite mild. Most were not prepared for the intense flooding that would accompany Halloween. The storm overtook our little island, and I watched from my rooftop in Queens as the lights of lower Manhattan suddenly went out. Nature was reminding us who was in control.

***
“I’m wa-wa-walking to work. I’ll call you later,” I said through chattering teeth to my mother. It was too cold to have a pleasant conversation outside. My weather defense system consisted of a down jacket to my knees, boots, two pairs of socks, tights under my jeans, a t-shirt under my sweater, gloves, a wool scarf, and a fur-trimmed hood. Only my eyes peeked out from this strange uniform. At the time I was interning for Martha Stewart Living. Her pristine all-white offices were located 15 minutes from the train, on the edge of the Hudson River. Three mornings a week, I walked into the biting wind with a PB&J in my hand and broken blood vessels sprinkled across my cheeks. I was given a $25 lunch stipend each Monday; no pay.  

***
Up to this point I’ve neglected to mention evasive spring, with its fickle spirit of rebirth. All I can remember about this season in New York is the immense amount of rain, the hot days that turn into freezing nights, and then, finally, the two weeks of tulips. For a period of about 14 days our city is sunny perfection. Fifth Avenue and Central Park are filled with thousands of bright flowers. Tulips are placed on every plausible patch of green, and the cherry blossoms burst all over Brooklyn.

Then suddenly summer is back.
And we’ve made it another year.

“I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”

— Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass

Never Change, Just Always

A wave of humidity settled over New York this summer, and it seemed to shake everything up.

A friend of mine asked me six months ago, “Are you dying to be engaged?” I told her that yes; I was ready to marry Ryan. Something about last August solidified our relationship and that deep assurance bled into fall. By Christmas, I knew without a doubt that I'd selected my partner in crime. It was an oddly undeniable feeling.

But was I dying to be engaged? No, not entirely. I rarely crave modifications in The Big Three: housing, significant others, and jobs. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy a little switch up. I just don’t ever pine for change—mostly because it has always woken up, and smacked me in the face.

I was very content with life for the last year and that’s how I knew change was on the hunt, sniffing around for an ideal time to appear. I probably created the catalyst by taking a two-week trip; that deviation from the norm seemed to wake the beast. February was for planning, March was for Scotland, and April was for Iceland. Then I was in a best friend’s wedding, I gleefully got engaged, I moved to Brooklyn, babies were born, sisters lost their jobs, and Ryan’s eye decided it no longer wanted to function.

This is why one should not crave change. It’s my opinion change will find you.

(I’m sitting in a coffee shop typing this, and I feel very safe in front of my computer with a cup of caffeine seeping into my blood stream. The wheels are starting to turn in my dusty Sunday morning brain. I could sit here forever, the breeze blowing in from an open window while Bob Dylan plays at a low volume…  

Ah, but I couldn’t.
I take back everything I just told you.
I’m already bored and I've had too much coffee.
Plus, I’d be terribly irritable if the world didn’t keep spinning madly round.)

Maybe I’d like to rephrase if you’d allow me that, dear reader?

I adore change just as I adore being content in certain seasons. My anxiety was speaking out, and she is a much worse monster than change. She is the evil queen of stagnant motions. She gets her cheap thrills from repetition and fear. She doesn’t like success because it’s too much of a gamble, and her favorite pastime is chewing brains into dull submission.  

No, no we shall not feed that beast.
It's true; this has been a terrible summer—isolating and humid.  
But just like every season, it is not infinite.

So I’ll sit
And I’ll wait.
And then I’ll plan out the next steps.

Where shall Ryan and I travel? What should I write next? Will I finally do my laundry today? Will Ryan’s fourth eye surgery actually work? I don’t know the answers to these questions.

This I do know: With one hundred percent certainty, many of our delicately constructed plans will be altered. But the joke’s on life—because we don’t know what we want, either.

We just hope to keep progressing forward.
And, luckily, we have the ability to do that. 

“Would you like an adventure now, or would like to have your tea first?”

— J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Reykjadalur Hike in Southern Iceland

If you’re seeking a simple day trip from Reykjavik or road tripping through the south of Iceland, here’s a hot spring-filled hike worth taking. After walking an hour through winding hills and valleys, you’ll be rewarded with a steamy stream to relax in—plus, catch some wild views of this otherworldly island. 

Directions from Reykjavik

Hop onto Road 1 heading southeast toward Hveragerði. After about 40 minutes, you’ll come to a roundabout. Take the exit for Breiðamörk north, toward the Reykjadalur valley. This will lead you through Hveragerði’s main street and then down a gravel road—don’t worry, you’re still going the right way!

There’s a car park at the foot of the valley, as well as a café that’s open during peak travel season. Cross the small bridge by foot to reach the beginning of the trail. It’s well marked, and you will most likely see other travelers en route.  

Hike Length

It took us about one hour to walk to the hot springs (with plenty of picture taking), and about 40 minutes to get back to the parking lot. It’s safe to give yourself at least 2.5 hours if you plan on swimming. 

What to Bring

Since our hike took place in April, everyone wore layers to keep warm. We slipped bathing suits on under our shirts and packed a change of clothes, as well as small microfiber towels. There are no changing rooms—so our long coats doubled as one! Hiking boots are a must, considering the amount of mud in certain areas of the trail. Lastly: Don’t forget your camera, a snack, and a water bottle.

Don’t have a car?

There are several tours that will take you to Reykjadalur, though we found renting a car for our 6-day trip to be less expensive that taking individual tours.

Here's one of the earlier views during the hike. You can see the car park in the distance.

You'll find pockets of bubbling earth along your journey to the hot springs. Look, don't touch.

Here's what the Reykjadalur hike looks like in Spring—a coffee-colored mix of earth and snow.

The word "Reykjadalur" is translated to "steam valley." You can see why it was named that.

Even in April, you need a bathing suit in Iceland.

Hope you enjoy the hike! Have questions? Leave a comment below. 

---

Ice Apartments Reykjavik Located in Reykjavk 101, this apartment is within a 10-minute walk of National Theatre of Iceland, Hallgrimskirkja, and Reykjavik City Hall. National Museum of Iceland and Perlan are also within 2 mi (3 km). High-speed Internet

The Waiting Game

I'm a writer without a pen. 

There's lots of chaos happening around me at the moment. I'm perched in a random chair near a highly coveted outlet in the Barnes & Noble on 86th Street. A duo of Upper East children are screaming for "more cookies!" to their nanny, who try as she might, cannot keep them at bay. Someone in a tennis skirt just tripped in the Fiction section, and a man is talking loudly on his cell phone while searching through the car lovers' magazines.

 I have 18 unanswered texts, 36 new emails, 2 missed calls, and a handful of Slack notifications. There's a gunman in a movie theater in Germany. Trump's ex-campaign manager is speaking out! Someone nearby is coughing in the most disturbing way. 

Ryan sends me a text.
"Ok I'm next. I love you, see you in a bit."  

During book club one night prior, my typically social fiancé didn't feel inclined to participate. I found this odd considering he was hosting the event and seemed to enjoy our novel, though I didn't press. Long day, work problems, city living stress—it could have been a cocktail of frustrations.  

But as people trickled out of his apartment, I discovered that Ryan's lifelong annoyance was behind his sudden shift in mood. He could no longer see out of a portion of his right eye, and we needed to go to emergency room. Immediately. He packed a Amaretto Sour to-go, while I hailed the Uber. 

Hours later we learned what we already expected: There was a tear in his retina and if it completely detached he would be blind in one eye. Surgery was needed as soon as possible. 

"Love you, too. Cya in a few!" I texted him and ignored everything else on my phone. The woman with the perpetual cough now popped her dentures in and out. Time to move.

As I collect my scattered belongings, my mind races in circles like a Ferris wheel of doom: Two of my close friends just got laid off. I'm supposed to move out of my apartment Sunday, and I haven't packed a thing. In fact, I may have laundry at the cleaners? My best friend has a doctor digging around in his eyeball. Our next book club novel (“The Count of Monte Cristo,” unabridged) is so dense that it won’t fit in my purse and, therefore, I cannot purchase it today.

Oddly enough, that last problem sends me over the edge.
I have no book!
I have no pen.  

I tear up as I place “Monte Cristo” back on the shelf.
Idle hands, idle mind.
Ah, let’s walk. 

Now I'm on the street, the first breath of summer caressing the back of my neck. It's not too humid today so I meander and wait for the call to come fetch Ryan from the grips of localized anesthesia.  

Walking around New York has always given me a sense of peace. The buzzing of our brick and metal world is revitalizing to an extrovert who doesn't want to communicate, yet desperately needs to steal other's energy. As I pace the streets, I rejoice in the fact that I can see with my two healthy eyes. The wind picks up. It might rain; the smell of a thunderstorm is lingering. I take it all in.  

I pass an orchid shop on 80th Street, which makes me think of Ryan. He'd sent me a text earlier in the day saying he was, "strolling down Lexington looking at the flowers." I thought it was an odd message at the time—but now I wondered: Was he worried that he’d never again be able to see a flower’s bright petals?

This thought made me sad so I kept walking, this time thanking God we have two eyes instead of one. You wouldn't have a lot of chances as a Cyclops. 

And then it happens.
I find a pen.

It's dirty because it’s been dropped on the sidewalk, but this fact has never bothered me. I discover lovely garbage on the street all the time—candleholders, ancient books, etc.—and sometimes they come home with me. So without much thought, I reach down and scoop up my forgotten friend. Waves of anxiety seem to physically lift off my overactive brain. 

Now, I can write everything down. 

[Editor’s Note: After all this nonsense, Ryan wakes up from surgery and tells me there was a pen in his bag the whole time—oy! He goes back under the knife today. Thank you again for everyone’s prayers and support.]