The mountain is not a mountain really, at least not from the perspective of a person from British Columbia, but in the minds of Montrealers it is indeed a mountain. Some even say it's an extinct volcano, an Angel having sprung from its left thigh, where people gather to smoke pot and play music. One looks up from the corner of Marie-Anne and Mentana say, and sees the mountain, one looks up from the corner of boulevard Saint Joseph and rue Chambord and sees the mountain. Not long after one is walking up. Or running. Running up the mountain is gentle, civilized really. There are cicadas, and languages, families, couples, old men in hats, and brothers in shorts and socks, there are cyclists and runners, and more than half way up a beautiful stone water fountain with cold, cold water to soothe. There is the cross, and there is the cemetery and Lac au Castors once you get to the top. People circulate, men clutching wallets and women with sweaters. All very civilized. Not at all the seawall crowd. Last night a 50-something woman in a formal white knit suit, very coiffed, cycling up, and one wonders where else in North America does fitness look quite so elegant?