I’ve been to Montreal several times now. The first was in the summer of 2010. I had just finished middle school and my family was moving from the suburbs of New York to something like a suburb of Victoria, BC. We’d traveled up New York to Cooperstown, across the border to Ottawa, and finally to Montreal. On the other side of the world, in South Africa, the World Cup was underway. We watched most games but we missed the infamous quarterfinal between Ghana and Uruguay because we were driving in some sunny Canadian countryside. We listened to the drama unfold over the radio.

On our last day in Montreal, before flying to the West Coast, we watched the World Cup Final in our hotel rooms. I had been rooting for the Netherlands all tournament and they made it all the way to the final but lost to Spain in extra time. I remember the ball reaching Iniesta in the box desperately beyond all Dutch defenders and my heart sinking as he volleyed it past the keeper and then my dad cheering from the adjoining room more with gloating than with joy.

Six years later in the summer I turned twenty I visited Montreal again, this time without family but with two friends. We took a redeye flight and dallied in sleepy stupor while we waited for our Airbnb apartment in the Plateau to be ready for checkin. We spent ten days in Montreal exploring the city and drinking beer on the apartment balcony in the muggy heat of August and hearing the electricity crackle on the cables hanging over the street. Frank Ocean had just dropped Blonde and it seemed like every boutique we visited was playing it.

Another eight years later in 2022 I visited Montreal again, this time to visit my sister who’d moved there to study law at McGill. It was November but the World Cup was happening again because it was in Qatar, where summers are very hot. My sister was recovering from a cold or a flu of some sort and soon I caught it. Ever since that trip I get a yearly flu shot in hope of never getting sick like that again. But I remember that visit fondly. My sister brought me coffee and medicine and let me stay in the loft, in the only bedroom of the Airbnb. She had recently moved out of her apartment following uncomfortable altercations with her flatmate. I lay mostly bedridden for days aching and sweating and watching the World Cup on my laptop. Luis Chávez scored one of the best free kicks I’ve ever seen.

Today is July 9 2026 and tomorrow my wife and I will fly to Montreal while Spain duel Belgium in the World Cup quarterfinals. This World Cup I’ve followed more closely than most others. I’ve watched most of the games and even attended one in Seattle. The last time I watched so many World Cup games was sixteen years ago, in 2010, when my parents were organizing our move from the American East Coast to the Canadian West. Now I’m in charge of planning my travels and somehow managed to book our return flight on the day of the final. If the game goes to penalties like it did last year, I might have to watch it on my phone while we board the plane.