I awoke last Saturday morning to winter in Montreal. It was not the biting sort of winter Chicago usually falls victim to, not the kind that says “boo” on one decisive day in late November when the day prior had been a balmy and unostentatious 65 degrees.

No, this was winter with poise.

But the trees, still dripping with yellow and orange leaves desperate to retain the season, claimed autumn had not yet left. We set out into the brisk morning, hungry for Montreal, but more importantly, hungry for the eminent Montreal bagels.

Enter St-Viateur, the iconic bagel venue renowned for its light, doughy, slightly sweet, still-warm bagels baked fresh onsite. You can watch as the hot rings are pulled from the giant wood-oven and placed almost directly into your brown paper bag. It’s magic.

While we are accustomed to slathering our bagels with butter or cream cheese, the Montreal bagel is most commonly eaten alone, torn apart straight from the bag, devoured in its purest form. Again, magic. I’m already a fan of eating plain old carbs on their own, but this was above and beyond. The bronzed outer crust of the bagel gives way to a pillowy interior, made more delicious when eaten warm during a stroll through the chilly streets of Mile End, a neighborhood of Montreal occupied by quirky restaurants and coffee shops and tree-lined residential streets.

A true gem of Montreal, in addition to its beloved bagel, is the simple charm of Old Montreal.

It is quaint like Europe, having extracted both architectural and lingual characteristics from its former colonizer, France. The waiters and store clerks, in both Old Montreal and modern Montreal, greet us with the customary “Bonjour hi,” testing the waters of communication before diving into a language potentially unfamiliar to the patron. On the streets, I hear snippets of conversations; all of them are in French.

Those streets, narrow, winding, and lined with charming cafes and boutiques, remind me of something I can’t quite recall, but it’s a familiar sentiment that loosens a tension in my chest I didn’t know had been there.

You see, my trip to Montreal was not recreational. It was intended for a college visit to McGill, the beautiful, top-notch school at the base of Mont Royal (which I will discuss more later). We toured it as soon as our plane landed, and it was hard not to be swept away, at least a little.

The autumn leaves dressed the driveway in brilliant, subdued greens and yellows. I pictured myself making this trek daily, sitting on the benches, waving hello to new friends. The thought made my heartbeat quicken. Could this be me? Could Montreal be home for the next four years?

I must not be the only one who is petrified by these thoughts. Walking the campus is a potent combination of exciting and terrifying, filling my mind with ambiguous fantasies about the person I’ll be a year from now, possibly strolling these avenues, possibly studying in these buildings, possibly sipping lattes at these cafes. (They call Starbucks “Cafe Starbucks” in Montreal. Something about keeping French alive in the city.)

So my mind was a bit restless during my stay in Montreal, quick to relate every experience back to a mental pro and con checklist regarding whether or not McGill and its surrounding city could be home. Naturally, the bagels were a huge pro. Huge.

Old Montreal was soothing and warm in spite of its brisk temperature. I was not troubled by the language barrier as much as I was enthralled by it, and the old style class of the area served as a reminder of how much I value antiquity. Perhaps that was what comforted me through my college-induced anxiety.

The day reached its peak when we visited the lookout at the top of Mont Royal. Picturesque as a movie set, sprinkled in fall hues and vibrating with the sound of leaves crunching underfoot and families strolling the wooded trails, this excursion stole my heart above all else.

After a peaceful walk through fall foliage, we arrived here. And let me tell you, it snatched the number one spot on the pro side of my checklist. Big time.

Ten year old Montreal native Maya shows me the ropes.

With my lovely little almost-cousin Maya, (she’s my cousins’ cousin, can’t we just call her mine?) who is most certainly an old soul, wise beyond her years, I marveled at the great vista sprawled out before me. I looked out over buildings filled with people I’d never meet, ones that scraped the sky and others that hugged the ground. I pictured pedestrians walking the streets below, speaking French, speaking English, speaking a hundred other languages. I pictured the restaurants below me, pictured the patrons drinking pinot noir, eating crepes or thin crust pizza or poutine. And then I came back to myself, and I breathed deep.

Cliche as it sounds, it is moments like these that remind me how insignificant my worries are. College will be sorted out without my additional anxiety to supplement it, and I’ll end up wherever I’m meant to end up. If I end up here, in Montreal, I’d be one hell of a lucky student.

But you never know. I could end up in Boston. Or Dublin. Or New York. Or London. And I’d be pretty lucky in any of those cities.

We descended the mountain with fuller hearts and fatigue. My pro list was exploding.

Our Montreal day wound to a close with dinner at the home of my cousins’ cousin, family nonetheless. I felt a rush of tenderness for Montreal, for its kindness, its chill in the air, and its sublime food.

I don’t know what the future holds for me. Hell, I don’t even really know what next week holds for me. I do know, however, that this city was well worth the visit, irrespective of where I’ll be waking up one year from now.