Meta
Place: A table in the Mount Royal Chalet facing southeast, Belvédère Kondiaronk, Tiohtià:ke Date: 2026-10-09, 08:54 EDT Conditions: 8°C, light rain. Damp cotton on skin. Classical music and conversations echo off the marble floors and wood ceilings.
Another early wake. Face washed, teeth brushed, boots laced. A left down Sainte-Catherine. An oat latte at Olimpico on Robert-Bourassa before wandering through the Roddick Gates onto McGill’s empty campus. It wasn’t until I got to the Y intersection that I clocked the circuit: the same morning pull, the same need to leave the house before settling in.
An intentional, directionless turn to the left, followed by a right up McTavish, the final section of the Promenade Fleuve-Montagne. The city gifted itself this pedestrian link for its 375th anniversary, leading from the river’s edge at de la Commune and ending at what the website calls the “mountain threshold” at the corner of Peel and des Pins: a manicured walkway meant to situate this island in its geography, winding from its lowest point to its highest. Had it not been for those matching turquoise and yellow-green path markers the city put up to help you find your way, I might not have noticed it at all.
The grade steepens as I climb Peel, and my calves register it before my mind does. The latte, the boots, the Y intersection… The same loop my body has been running since my eyes fluttered open at their now habitual six o’clock. Then the noticing, and then nothing to do with that noticing but keep climbing. My hoodie has been pulling moisture from the air and my body both since I started.
Getting off Instagram has changed my body, and almost immediately: no more doomscrolling, no more compulsive checking of messages, no more tweaks to the app meant to push me toward Meta’s AI. Still, my thumb drifts to the corner of the screen where the icon used to be a bit more often than I expected.
Good timing, as it turned out. Not long after I temporarily deactivated my account, Meta’s new AI “assistant,” Muse, was in the news. A columnist said it synced his private iMessages after he declined access, and a YouTuber said it handed his home address to a stranger. Both stories were fed to me by another algorithm, my thumb still moving on its own. I don’t know that I’d call it the “last straw” exactly, but I still logged back in to turn my deactivation into a permanent deletion request. My data should be deleted by the end of the month, at least in theory.
I pull my phone out at the foot of the stairs, mostly out of habit. My thumb reaches for the corner again before realizing there’s nothing to reach for. I slide it back into my pocket. The easier path to the summit, the one that meanders up a constant slope past Lac aux Castors and Maison Smith, is still closed for another few days. Levelling and resurfacing, it would seem, but standing in front of that bright orange detour sign, it feels like a condemnation. What my body had been craving was a relaxing morning walk up the Olmsted trail, a slope that lets you forget you're climbing. What it got instead was another choice asked of the listless: resign myself and head toward the park’s southeastern edge at Parc and Prince-Arthur, or take the 250-odd stairs that make you count. I double back a few feet to the mouth of them. We’re breaking routines, supposedly.
I lose count at about 45, then start again. Counting is something to do with the noticing. I can see the skyline through the trees if I squint, and I stop for a minute to catch my breath. The sky is pewter and shallow, the air thick without being wet. I keep my eyes on my boots and my focus on the next landing. Then on nothing in particular; just calves and breath.
The stairs give way to a gravel path, which itself gives way to Belvédère Kondiaronk and the city in all its splendour. Sumac burns red below the balustrade, a plant that moves into any ground that has been broken open. The city sits on top of it, set down gingerly on something that keeps coming back anyway.
Every street is where it’s supposed to be, and I can name most of them from up here. I know them like I know the structures that arranged them: their histories, mechanisms, footnotes. Knowing the city from above hasn’t opened a door; they’re the same streets on the way down.
I stick around for longer than I expected to. There’s something liberating about nobody knowing I’m here: a few weeks ago, I would have posted this view before the coffee cooled. Someone would have seen it, and that seeing would have told me something about where I stood. This one’s just for me, at least until I write it down.
The first drops land on the stone of the courtyard. The skies told me what was coming, but not when. I pull my hood up and wander toward the chalet. The marble floors throw every footstep back at me. A song I almost recognize—something classical, with strings—echoes off the windows and the wooden roof joists. I take my spot at a table by the window, pull out my notebook and pen, and jot down the place, date, and conditions. Rain ticks against the glass; another orchestral piece swells through the speakers. I order a tea and settle in.