The hidden world bustling beneath Montreal’s Olympic Pyramids

This story originally appeared on July 30, 2021 in URBANIA, an online magazine based in Quebec focused on pop culture and society.

A year after the Parisian Olympic spotlight turned elsewhere, and far from the fleeting buzz of international games, it’s worth pausing to reflect on Montreal’s own Olympic legacy. Back in 1976, the city welcomed the five-ring spectacle with exuberant ambition and this athletes' residence. Roger Taillibert’s sweeping stadium and the pyramid-shaped Village by Roger D’Astous and Luc Durand echoed the bold spirit of Expo 67.

Under Mayor Jean Drapeau, Montreal envisioned itself stepping onto the world stage. What followed, of course, was a financial fiasco, highly public, and deeply embarrassing. For those who didn’t live through the 1976 fever, the pride has largely faded, replaced by the lingering weight of a white elephant. And yet, the Olympic Village still stands tall over Sherbrooke Street East. With the Games now a distant backdrop, I returned to this iconic complex to explore what remains and to meet the people who call it home.

"I remember watching the Games on TV. Looking at those buildings… I never would’ve thought I’d end up living there one day," Maurice tells me, a retired social worker. "I’ve spent my whole life in the east end. After passing by so many times, my curiosity got the better of me."

"It’s not as luxurious as the home I shared with my late wife, but as someone who walks a lot, I chose the place for its proximity to Maisonneuve Park, the Botanical Garden, the municipal golf course. From my balcony, it feels like I’m in the forest. It really makes you realize how green Montreal is," he says, gazing out from the ninth floor.

"It’s far from catastrophic, but it’s regrettable. This is beautiful architecture, a heritage jewel that deserves to be protected."

Since moving in a little over two years ago, Maurice has witnessed a clear decline. “There are concerns about the structure. It’s not exactly a new building. It’s nearly fifty years old. Some corners are in disrepair, the upkeep of common areas is lacking. Then there are the temperature issues with the water, emails that go unanswered... It’s far from catastrophic, but it’s regrettable. This is beautiful architecture, a heritage jewel that deserves to be protected.”

Added to that is the looming fear of renoviction in the midst of a housing crisis. “But a lot of units are sitting empty right now. I think they’re having trouble renting them out. The renovations will come later,” he says. The day of my visit, a by-appointment open house is taking place.

“During the pandemic, a lot of services were scaled back, and honestly, I think management used it as a chance to cut costs, even while rents kept going up. I’m not trying to complain for nothing, but the lack of upkeep is hard to ignore. Doors that don’t close properly, elevators that break down all the time, uneven tiles at the entrance — it’s a real tripping hazard for older folks. Anyway, I’ll stop there… I’m too old to lead a revolution!” he says with a grin, as he walks me to the door of his modest 4 1/2 apartment.

New residents since last October, Ghislain and Josée left behind their family triplex on the Plateau Mont-Royal. “We had a few doubts. Friends would say: it’s just a bunch of old folks, the building’s dated, past its prime. But hey… our old place was 103 years old!” Ghislain shrugs with a grin.

“When we found out a penthouse was becoming available, we jumped on the opportunity. The light here is incredible. So far, it’s been a really positive experience,” adds Josée. Their apartment boasts the luxury of being perched at the far end of Tower C, on the 19th and top floor, a prime location that gives them few immediate neighbors, thanks to the pyramid design, and a sprawling terrace overlooking the city’s east end.

"Life’s been easier since the move. We’re renters now. The village-like setup helps a lot. downstairs, there are restaurants, a pharmacy, grocery store, hair salon, pool, gym, even a library. At 75, shoveling snow wasn’t exactly fun anymore. No more battles over parking either. Now I tinker around, and I can play golf every day!" Ghislain explains with a smile.

"Living in a heritage building tied to Olympic history? I love it!" Josée says with a spark in her eye. “We often wonder if Nadia Comăneci might have stayed in our apartment. I think the architecture is stunning, though I get that all this concrete isn’t for everyone. But us? We adore it.”

"I think the architecture is stunning, though I get that all this concrete isn’t for everyone. But us? We adore it."

My friend Kevin Böczar, an architect, joins me for a second visit. I’d asked him to share his insight for an afternoon, hoping to better understand the space.

“The most striking feature,” he begins, “is clearly the emphasis on material—the concrete. You can safely say the style leans into brutalism: no decorative elements, just pure composition. You can see the guts of the place, the technical cores: elevators, stairwells, electrical rooms, mechanical systems. Yet despite that, there’s real architectural finesse in the way it all comes together."

"And the pyramid structure, its orientation is key. It maximizes sunlight on the terraces and encourages vegetation. Every unit has its own outdoor space and connects to shared walkways. It’s impressive. Not to mention the cellular composition over multiple extended levels—a kind of modernist horizontal sprawl, with a powerful sense of repetition throughout the construction,” he adds with candor as we complete the fifteen-minute loop around the complex.

At the foot of the pyramids, we see firsthand some of the issues Maurice had mentioned earlier. The paving tiles are indeed slightly damaged, but we learn that their heritage status makes any modification more complicated. A few signs of aging are visible.

“Some of the structural panels appear to be corroding beneath the walkways, likely due to salt spread during the winter,” Kevin explains. “There are scaffolds and straps in place to support certain frames—nothing too unusual,” he adds reassuringly.

“In terms of brutalist segmentation, there are similarities with the Louis-Colin parking structure in Côte-des-Neiges, but to really understand it, you need to look toward the international context. We’re close to the modernist ideas of Le Corbusier, or the Marina Baie des Anges by André Minangoy on the Côte d’Azur. It also echoes several social housing models from the 1970s in the UK, like Alexandra Road Park in London. More recently, Jean Nouvel’s Nemausus public housing project in Nîmes also features long communal walkways.”

I mention the Vele di Scampia, in the north of Naples: Massive sail-shaped social housing projects completed in 1975, long infamous as a hotbed of criminal activity, and only recently demolished by the Italian government. By contrast, Montreal’s Olympic Village, though equally emblematic of its era’s architectural vision, has followed a much more fortunate and singular path within Quebec’s urban landscape.

The door opens for us on the 17th floor. “I moved in three years ago, thanks to a pretty ordinary ad I found on Kijiji. The previous tenant didn’t want me to pay the extra two or three hundred bucks that often gets added between leases. He preferred to do a lease transfer. A good guy. I really like it here, but there aren’t many kids around for mine to play with,” says François, a single father of two young children.

“My relationship with management is cordial. It’s a group of shareholders, so there’s no real sense of closeness. An anonymous landlord, driven by profitability. They’ll never go overboard with spending. That said, they don’t neglect structural maintenance either. They do have a sense of responsibility. They wouldn’t risk a disaster happening. But the time it takes to process service requests could definitely be improved,” adds the former bike courier with a laugh. “The best part, honestly, about these huge labyrinthine pyramids is that they’re like one giant map for my kids to explore.”

Indeed, between visits, we realize that finding one’s way around is a real challenge. Despite coloured markers meant to help navigate the four pyramids—A, B, C, and D—it remains difficult to know where you are within the structure. A technician, busy with a gutted elevator, even asks us for directions to the exit. I can’t begin to imagine what delivery workers must go through.

"I even heard that, because of the Munich attacks in ’72, there’s supposedly a secret tunnel connecting the Village to the Olympic Stadium. With a hidden entrance. That’s the kind of urban legend that deserves an investigation."

We meet Sylvie on the grassy plains that run alongside the structure. “I’d been dreaming of living here for so long! I used to come by in the ’90s and was always charmed by the building. It reminded me of a kind of Soviet aesthetic. So when it was time to retire, it felt like the perfect fit. Living here was a dream come true. I’ve always lived in the east, and I still rarely go past St-Laurent. You can’t put a price on safety. I’ve had bad experiences at night, but everything feels secure here. We’re far from the noise and sirens of downtown. Plus, I have a garbage chute and no more door-to-door salespeople. What a joy!” says the charismatic woman.

“It’s a famous building in Montreal! I even heard that, because of the Munich attacks in ’72, there’s supposedly a secret tunnel connecting the Village to the Olympic Stadium. With a hidden entrance. That’s the kind of urban legend that deserves an investigation,” she adds, pointing at my notebook.

“It’s true, prices aren’t what they were back when this was social housing. But I have a great relationship with management. Everything’s clean, the gardens are blooming. There’s even a little basement thrift shop run by Thérèse and Gérard. The multi-use design is a big plus—rain, snow, hail, you can get around indoors and do your shopping while having a chat if you're up for it. And yes, there’s gossip! That’s where the nickname ‘Grand Hotel’ comes from, but it also comes with a few illegal Airbnbs!”

Renaud flicks away his cigarette after a walk with his dog, Pixel. “Like many others, I was drawn in by the dream this place seemed to promise, but it quickly turned into a mirage. They showed me an apartment with a view of the mountain; I ended up in a corner facing a hospital. It’s ugly. I fell for it. I’ve been living here for six years now. I wouldn’t say I’m at war with management, but it took four years to get an A/C unit that was supposedly included. Over a mix-up with a package, I ended up meeting the former tenant. She was paying $220 less than me. I felt screwed.”

“I created a Facebook group for the Village community, partly for my 93-year-old neighbour. A space to connect, talk, and sometimes voice frustrations. Seniors, who make up a third of the tenants, often get taken advantage of but don’t know how to express it. They accept rent hikes and service cuts without a word. The abuse of power over the most vulnerable really outrages me,” says the French-born businessman.

Listed on the Toronto Stock Exchange and owner of the Olympic Village since 2012, CAPREIT is a real estate investment trust specializing in apartment rentals. It’s the largest of its kind in Canada, with 60,000 housing units.

“After the Surfside disaster in Florida, residents got scared, but in my opinion, that fear isn’t really justified. Engineers come to inspect the structure’s integrity. There’s maintenance, but no follow-up. In the absence of communication, people start imagining the worst. You know, there’s not a lot of staff for a place this massive. And with rents ranging from $900 to $3000 a month, and those old mosaic parquet floors, the least they could do is be more present.”

"It’s not luxurious, it’s more of a historical fantasy."

Renaud gives us a tour of the property. He tries to show us the shared terrace on the 20th floor. “It was already closed before the pandemic. And look… they filled the pool just for the charm offensive during the open house.”

We walk past the offices of Quebec’s Administrative Housing Tribunal, and by L’Aide aux Villageois, run by a woman named Rita. “She makes sure the older residents are doing okay and have their meds.”

He takes us down to the basement, where there’s a massive parking garage. “In winter, it leaks like crazy, but what a space!” he says, pointing out the car wash.

“It’s not luxurious, it’s more of a historical fantasy. It depends on what people dream about. You have to watch out for the illusion of prestige. But lots of young people are moving in, so the vibe is slowly changing. I still enjoy living here, and the view at night is stunning.”

Beneath this uniquely charming Montreal Teotihuacan pulses a near-parallel world with its own politics, characters, and social dynamics. Tenants may be subject to the forces of capital, but life on Sherbrooke East feels gentle. A group of older women shuffle by with walkers, heading toward their smoke break. In the back, shirtless men play pétanque as a convoy of mobility scooters greets them.

We may be far from the chiseled abs of 1976, but the Olympic Village still casts its peculiar glow over the city’s east end.

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