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

Ah, Montreal. The city of Leonard Cohen and that girl from UQAM. Home to one of the best hockey teams—and the Canadians. You’ve barely set foot in our fair city and already you’re chasing your first poutine, trying to pet a grey squirrel, and flooding your Instagram with shots from your stroll through Old Montreal.

That’s all well and good. But to keep you from getting banned from our little island that smells kinda like smoked meat and piss, here’s a quick guide to help you blend in so well people will wonder if you’ve starred in a play by Michel Tremblay (and that you’ll get that reference if you don’t already).

Because there’s only one thing we hate more in Montreal than Laval, traffic, metro breakdowns, orange cones, and Denis Coderre: people who stand on the wrong side of the escalator in the metro.

Use your damn feet

No, I don’t know where you can park your SUV, your flashy Corvette, or your fragile ego when you visit the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, shop at Simons, or swim with the dolphins at the Biodôme (wait, can you even do that?). In Montreal, no matter how far you’re going, you walk. Or you bike—if you’ve got a taste for adrenaline and a high tolerance for road rash.

In the metro, try acting like you were raised right

You’re probably thinking, “Ugh, another cliché Montreal piece about lineups!” as you perform an Olympic-level eyeroll. But if it’s such a cliché, why does it bear repeating? We’re not asking for the moon and stars: just that you wait for people on the sides of the doors to get off the train before you get on, stand in line, take off your backpack, and save your hot gossip or funeral planning on speakerphone for when you’re back out on the street—ideally near a construction site. In the metro, the goal is to be as unmemorable as a winner on The Voice.

Appreciate the culture—you’re a guest, not the main character

Back when I still believed doing a master’s in literature was a good idea, I worked at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts. For years, I had the pleasure of chatting with French tourists asking for directions to the Picassos—only to have them cut me off with “we’re not interested in savage art” when I suggested they check out Riopelle, Leduc, Ferron, or Barbeau along the way. Don’t be one of those esties de Français who make us mutter ‘in your face!’’ every time Quebec artists sweep literary or film awards.

Apologies are free—hand them out like it’s Tam-Tams on a long weekend

Guilt sits at the core of Montreal life—it’s a relic of the city’s Catholic past. The second the metro doors open, one side’s apologizing for getting off while the other’s apologizing for getting on. We say sorry to the barista or bartender just for ordering something good, and we apologize to the Bixi rider we collided with—even though it was our turn to go. No, the apologies aren’t sincere, but we like to think we’ve made it through another day without making baby Jesus frown.

Thou shalt not feed the squirrels

Yes, the city is full of mischievous tree rats that seem charming just because they’re fluffy. But let’s be real: squirrels are our local pickpockets, and they’re after your granola bar, your eyeballs, and your cute little bee-shaped balcony lights (don’t ask—all we’ll say is that this is based on a true story). As much as we hate to crush your Studio Ghibli fantasy, please don’t feed these demon creatures. They firmly believe that your platter of crudités you just laid out belongs to them, because technically, you’re on their turf: Parc Wilfred Laurier.

Respect the accent, respect the slang

“Du coup, chez nous, on dit plutôt…” In this town, we don’t give a câlisse. It’s not broken French, it’s Montreal in full colour.

Keep your opinions to yourself

Montrealers and their city are like me and my sister: no one’s allowed to talk shit—except us. Yes, the metro’s always broken, the city reeks on garbage day, and finding free parking is about as likely as meeting a moderate right-wing politician. But complaining is a sacred right, handed down to us by none other than William Shatner himself (yep, Captain Kirk was born here—and fully entitled to curse when he’s stuck in our never-ending traffic).

Thou shalt enjoy thy beverage on a terrasse

Every April, when the first rays of sun brush our pothole-riddled streets, a strange ritual begins: thirsty and alone, Montrealers strip down to a single thin layer of clothing and migrate from their living rooms to the nearest terrasse. Parked between a snowbank shimmering in shades of grey and yellow and a herd of orange cones, they sip hoppy nectar and loudly proclaim their hatred of winter—and their eagerness to get to their in-laws’ chalet. Once the rite is complete, they close their eyes and take in the sweet scent of exhaust fumes and thawing dog shit. This is the ritual of the warrior who made it through February. Don’t tell us there’s still snow on the ground or that it’s not that warm—this is tradition. From the grandfathers who survived the Normandy landings to Guillaume, who survived February without his car after it disappeared under an unmarked snowbank.

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Audrey Boutin @ URBANIA

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