In defence of a Montreal bachelorette

Sure, Nashville has Diplo remixes of country songs you already hated. Miami has beach clubs, bottle service, and a hangover you'll be financially recovering from until Christmas. Paris is Paris, but convincing ten women to spend their annual leave and half their savings on a long weekend in Europe? Come on.

And Charleston? Darling, it's charming. But did you really book a flight just to have brunch somewhere that looks like a prettier version of home?

Now, can I interest you in something a little more interesting?

Montreal has a habit of making ordinary things feel like you've been let in on a very good secret.

It's the kind of city where the guy sketching in the café hasn't paid rent in three months but is wearing a coat that costs more than your flight. Where you stop for a coffee, notice a little terrace tucked between two old buildings, and somehow find yourself ordering a glass of wine before noon.

You came here for a bachelorette. Already, the weekend has other ideas.

Saturday, 10 a.m.

Maybe you spend Saturday morning in a private yoga class, the room warm and fragrant with eucalyptus, your instructor speaking so softly you almost forgive her for making you hold that pose. An hour later, you're wrapped in a robe at Bota Bota, a floating spa on a converted ferry, watching the St. Lawrence drift past as you clink glasses of bubbly with your favourite women.

8 p.m.

And then there's dinner.

A candlelit table in a Victorian mansion, walls crowded with art, and lighting so flattering it ought to be illegal. The waiter recommends a bottle you've never heard of. You order it, obviously. Not that his jawline had anything to do with it.

Three hours later, the candles have burned down, nobody remembers what time the reservation was, and the question of the evening presents itself.

11:30 p.m.

But the night isn't over. Not remotely.

There's a door you would have walked past a hundred times without noticing. Behind it, a cocktail bar where the rather attractive bartender asks what kind of mood you're in rather than what you'd like to drink. You tell him something vague and mildly concerning. He nods like he's heard worse.

Ten minutes later, he places something in front of you that tastes like trouble, with a twist of citrus.

Nobody says it, but everyone knows you're staying out.

3 a.m.

You can have your sophisticated dinner and your slightly less sophisticated 3 a.m. ending. You can spend Saturday at an art gallery and Saturday night on a dance floor you stumbled upon by accident. You can book a chalet in the Laurentians, disappear into wine country in the Eastern Townships, or stay in the city and let the weekend unfold.

Montreal doesn't need to manufacture a good time for a group of women wearing matching outfits. She's been entertaining people long before bachelorette weekends became an industry.

And she doesn't particularly care whether you're celebrating an engagement, a promotion, a divorce, or absolutely nothing at all.

There's something rather attractive about that, isn't there?

And whatever you do, leave a little room for the unexpected.

Because you might arrive in Montreal for the bride. But I suspect you'll leave a little in love with the city.