I was born in Montréal, within walking distance of the very best bagels in the country, but I must’ve been nine, on a long bus trip home from New York, before I saw my first Hasidic Jew. For all I know, back in the ’60s, Mount Royal Protestants didn’t even eat bagels and probably never mixed with the Outremont Jews, and I was already scared of the French, so when confronted with two boys—my age, even—with their little beanies and those odd curly sideburns, I chose instead to spend the trip playing cards with a couple of . . . girls!
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