It started, as most peculiar adventures do, with a questionable decision. In my case, the decision was to befriend a woman named Solange at a bookstore in Montreal. She was flipping through an anthology of Québécois poetry while wearing an enormous faux-fur hat that looked like it belonged to a Bond villain. Naturally, I thought, “This woman knows the kind of secrets that demand a martini, shaken not stirred.”

We struck up a conversation, one thing led to another, and two cappuccinos later, Solange had casually invited me to attend what she called a "soirée mystique" that weekend. Curious and perhaps slightly blinded by my love for spontaneous escapades, I said yes. As a writer who has built a modest career indulging in the weird, it seemed like an unmissable opportunity. Fast forward to Saturday night: I found myself barefoot, holding hands with a circle of strangers, chanting in unison as a bearded man in a velvet robe prepared to channel the returned spirit of a 17th-century French fur trader. You know, just a typical Saturday.

Let me back up a bit.

The Invitation: A Little Too Netflix Original Series

When Solange first described this soirée mystique, she made it sound like an underground salon for misfits and freethinkers, the kind of event where people discussed existential longing over wine and whispered their dreams into candlelight. Frankly, she made it sound like a lost scene from “Call Me by Your Name.” This, dear readers, is how I was lured into attending what I can only describe as the lovechild of a historical reenactment and an off-Broadway performance about French colonial settlers.

The playwright in me was intrigued. A gathering to ostensibly “commune with our ancestral Québécois spirits” could make a whimsical short story or, at the very least, a promising tweet. Besides, what’s life as a writer if not a never-ending pursuit of the bizarre? As it turns out, bizarre was an understatement.

The Setting: Candles, Queasy Cheese, and Questionable Choices

The "soirée" was hosted at a tiny third-floor walk-up in Mile End that reeked of sage, melted brie, and desperation. Was there wine? Of course. But it was overly tannic, the kind that makes your jaw seize after one sip. Also, there were so many candles. The apartment glowed like a young adult wizarding novel, but rather than magical, it felt vaguely cult-like. Think less Zola, more Midsommar.

There were about 15 people sitting cross-legged around an elaborately set coffee table covered in tarot cards, dried lavender, and low-effort charcuterie. Imagine an Instagram witch aesthetic but curated by someone who did their research via Pinterest at 1 a.m. While everyone else looked quietly at ease—Solange was in her element, weaving between small groups like she was auditioning for a role in Amélie 2: Quirks Gone Corporate—I quietly panicked about the evening’s trajectory.

And then, of course, Edgar arrived.

Edgar “The Medium”: A Velvet Robe and a Vibe

Let me introduce Edgar, self-proclaimed medium and master of ceremonies for this spiritual adventure. His hair was slicked back with what I can only assume was an unhealthy amount of pomade, and his crimson velvet robe swished as if he were both magician and matador. Edgar was here to help us summon our colonial ancestors because, as he put it, “They have wisdom that transcends time.”

Now, as someone who grew up devouring both Michel Tremblay novels and 90s sitcom reruns, I couldn’t help but appreciate the absurdity of a man trying to summon “wisdom” from a fur trader whose glory days involved haggling for beaver pelts. Transcend time? This sounded less like spiritual insight and more like a deleted subplot from History Channel programming.

Still, the group dove in with enthusiasm. Velvet Edgar passed around what he called a "spirit crystal" (it was quartz, a fact he loudly proclaimed as if we should all be impressed). Then, we were led in a circle chant designed to open “historic portals.”

The Séance: Chaos, Comedy, and a Moment of Clarity

The séance started harmlessly enough. Deep breaths, some chanting in both French and English (inclusion matters!), and a brief interlude where one woman wept openly for all the muskrats killed by colonists. It was when Edgar began channeling a supposed fur trader spirit named “Jacques-Daniel”—yes, like Jack Daniels—that I began to lose what little composure I’d been clinging to.

Jacques-Daniel, through Edgar, had a thick, theatrical accent and described his timeless advice as follows:
1. Always carry a musket.
2. Trust no one with your pelts.
3. Demand more for goods traded with Englishmen.

I can’t make this up. It was only once Solange nodded decisively at the wisdom of point #3 that I realized something important: writers are scavengers, not participants. This realization came as I stifled a laugh and earned a devastating glare from a woman with extraordinarily intricate henna on her feet.

Because here’s the thing—there’s a difference between chasing a story and becoming its main character. I’d crossed the line.

The Takeaway: Chasing the Strange to Stay Honest

By the time Edgar (and Jacques-Daniel) wrapped up their monologue, I was scribbling notes into my leather journal, planning how I’d frame this evening for publication. Diving into absurd situations is part of the writing process, but there comes a moment when you have to extract yourself and reflect. What had started as a potential modern-day salon went off the rails, but it still reminded me why as writers (and as people seeking connections), the strange often teaches us the most.

That night reminded me about the value of authenticity—not in fur traders, obviously, but in the people you surround yourself with and the stories you dive into. Every awkward soirée or strange first date helps you better understand yourself and your boundaries. Solange taught me that sometimes curiosity can lead you straight into the ridiculous, but even ridiculous moments have beauty. Edgar taught me…well, nothing. But hey, I have a great story to trade for a glass of wine when someone inevitably asks, “What’s the weirdest thing you’ve done for a story?”

In the end, the soirée mystique wasn’t a mistake—it was an immersion into Montreal’s eclectic charm, a reminder that every wild conversation or impulsive yes could lead to a sentence worth writing. It’s like dating, in a way: not everything leads to true love, but every connection—however strange or brief—has something to offer. Trust me on this.

Would I go back? Absolutely not.

But would I do it again for the sake of a story? Without hesitation.