Spring is the dirtiest time of the year in Montreal. Newspapers, garbage and dog shit, lost in the winter snow, are left behind to thaw in the spring melt. The dry streets are covered in dirt and gravel, once used to provide traction on the snow. The puddles have evaporated, leaving behind salt-lined rims, mere ghosts of their former presence.

The biting chill of the winter wind has been replaced by the softer warmth of a spring breeze. Gusts of warm air pick up the garbage, the papers, the candy wrappers, the plastic bags, lifting them high into the air and spinning them around in a whirling dance, through the traffic, past second story apartment windows, only to be halted under the tire of a bus or in the bare, skeleton branches of a winter tree.

The warmer air carries more smells than the winter winds that freeze nasal passages shut before even the barest hint of a scent could enter. Montreal in the spring smells of traffic. Of diesl and gasoline fuel. Of garbage and rotting vegetation recently exposed. Of cigarette smoke. Grey, wafting cigarette smoke is everywhere. On the streets, in the malls, on the buses, in the airport.

The large highways in Montreal pass either around town, or under it, underneath even the underground city and the metro lines. But on the outskirts of town, the highways loom above ground as large, looping overpasses. Underneath these overpasses, the water drips constantly, and the mud is slick beneath you feet. The air here is thick and leaves a metallic, sweet taste on the tip of your tongue and the in the back of your throat.

The metro has its own special smell. Hot and dry, it smells of steel rails, trains and rubber tires. It smells of old buildings and stale air. The underground network of tunnels and stations has its own unique climate. Down below it is warm year round. Winds strong enough to knock an unaware person off their feet blow in the entranceways. Walking through an underground mall, you always know when you're near a metro station by the steady strong wind that blows warm, dry air through your hair, lifting the tails of your jacket, rustling your shopping bags. The trains themselves create their own gusts as well, accompanied by a rumbling thunder as they plow past.

Metro stations are full of the sounds of buskers playing keyboards, interupted periodically by the thunder of a train and the unique, four-tone sound, do-doo doo doo, increasing in pitch, as the trains engage their engines and pull out of the station.

Up on Saint Catherine's street, things are a little different. This, the main street in town, has been swept clean. Sidewalks, which for months were barely wide enough for two people to squeeze past each other, have now lost their snowy boundaries and quadrupled in size. The people walking on the street are milling about, taking advantage of the space, zipping around each other with an almost child-like enthusiasm, very different from winter when they trudged in single-file, heads bent against the winter winds.

The air is warm enough now, in the early spring, that many shops chose to leave their doors open, airing out the stagnation of winter. Music pours out into the streets, pop and dance tunes, all English, that the rest of the country would count down in its Top Twenties. The snatches of music intermingle with the common noises of the city, the honking horns and rumbling traffic. Fresh vegetables are displayed on the street. Smells, trapped too long indoors, waft out of the open doorways. Smells of food mostly, from the Patisserie, the Croisanterie and the Noodelry. The smells of fresh baked bread, Chinese noodles, and Big Macs and fries from the McDonald's on the corner.

Spring in Montreal is a time of awakenings. The energy of the city is beginning to build. There is a fever just starting in the air, and walking down the streets you can feel it as a humming, vibrating up through the sidewalks, through the soles of your shoes and into your body. You know that within a few months the baked summer pavement will be bustling with people.

I'm sad to be leaving. I can feel this excitement building, and I know that I'm going to miss the peak of it. But I must admit, I won't miss the cigarette smoke. Or the smell of the dog shit, preserved frozen for months, now lying bare on the sidewalks.

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