I moved to Montreal to live in 1975. An old-stock francophone from Ottawa, I felt at home the moment I arrived. Despite being a stranger to the city—I spent hours walking up and down Saint Laurent Boulevard, the city’s dividing line between east and west, English and French, rich and poor—I knew this was where I belonged. I didn’t recognize the names of the streets or the exotic smells, but there was an undeniable connection with the people I passed, a sense of belonging that was both comforting and exhilarating. Today, as immigrant-wary nationalism slowly poisons Quebec politics, I...