Wandering along a narrow back alley behind Saint-Urbain Street, peering over the rusty fences, it is surprisingly easy to slip back a century -- to hear the clang of feet racing up and down the spiral metal staircases between cold-water flats that once housed a dozen people rather than two or three McGill students; to feel the bite of winter seeping into the unheated rooms; to imag-ine the pungent aroma of condensed humanity, frying garlic, and... well... what is that smell, anyway?
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