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Unsurprisingly the joint’s an industry hub, so you’ll invariably find a friendly posse of liquor pros posted up there, eager to buy you a drink, chat you up and help you bid your troubles adieu.
-- You need to heal, dear friend, so you should be somewhere soothing.
-- No one in your apartment building wants to hear your breakup playlist on repeat.
So throw some snacks and a spare charger in a tote and turn up the volume on some stretch of infinite asphault that begins with I-.
If you’re ready to mingle, and a bit of a boozehound, there’s no better place to ball out than the birthplace of Henny, Remy, and the rest of the boys.
A four-hour train ride from Paris, this hamlet is saturated in the aged eaux-de-vie we know and love.
You can’t walk two steps without bumping into a delicious bottle.
Wander through the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, take in a concert at Le Belmont or sidle up to one of the many bars along Boulevard Saint-Laurent, where the locals are reasonably friendly, especially if you attempt to chat them up in broken French.
Virtually everyone here can speak some English, but many also hold a 260-year grudge for the English hijacking Quebec from the French and would just as soon not. The real answer to any post-relationship sadness though is carbs: Chow down on the perfectly doughy sesame bagels from St-Viateur or indulge in the poutine at Greenspot, an old-school diner that supposedly serves up the best local version of Canada’s greatest hangover preventer.
In the summertime Parc Jean-Drapeau hosts an annual fireworks competition, with two displays a week (befriend someone with a roof deck, but if not the Jacques‑Carter Bridge is a solid vantage).