John Shotwell: Mapping Desire on the Banks of the RichelieuI’m John. Born here, raised here, still here. Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu. Most people know it as that town you pass on the 10, maybe stopping for gas or a poutine at that chip stand on the way to the Eastern Townships. For me? It’s the laboratory where I figured out pretty much everything I know about people. About what they want, who they want, and why the hell they so often screw it up. I’m a sexologist. Or, I was. Now I write about this city—my city—for the CamoWallet project. Funny how things circle back.I showed up on June 7th, 1983, at the old Hôtel-Dieu Hospital on Rue Richelieu. My mom always said the first sound I heard wasn't a lullaby, but the growl of a diesel engine gearing down for the Pont Amédée-Monet. The river was right there, grey and wide, splitting the city in two. My dad, a mechanic who worked on the farm equipment out towards L'Acadie, was chainsmoking Export 'A' in the waiting room. It was a Tuesday. I think that specific detail—the grey river, the truck gears, the smell of Canadian tobacco—shaped something in me. A kind of pragmatic romanticism. The world is gritty, but it flows. Always flows.Growing up here in the 90s was its own kind of education. Hanging out at the McDonald's on Boulevard du Séminaire Nord, trying to look tough while secretly hoping Brigitte from Madame de La Sablière school would notice you. We'd sneak beers behind the Fort Saint-Jean, that old military fortress that's been standing since before Canada was even a thing. The history there is thick, heavy. And there we were, a bunch of horny teenagers, fumbling in the dark, our own little dramas playing out against this backdrop of centuries-old stone. The contrast always struck me. People haven't changed that much. The uniforms are different. The rules of engagement? Same dance.It’s funny, you know? I spent years afterwards, deep in the academic side of things, studying the neuroscience of attachment, the sociology of swiping right. I've presented papers in stuffy conference rooms in Montreal and Toronto. And sure, that data is useful. But honestly? The real expertise came from the raw material. It came from that messy, confusing, exhilarating time. It came from watching my parents' friends navigate affairs and reconciliations over too many bottles of cheap wine at backyard BBQs in Saint-Luc. It came from my own spectacular failures. The girl I was sure was the one because she also loved the specific way the light hits the river at dusk in October. The guy I met at a conference in Vancouver who I thought I'd build a life with, only to realize we wanted completely different things. Those gut-punches, the ones that leave you breathless on your bathroom floor? Those are the real textbooks. They teach you that vulnerability isn't a weakness in relationships, it's the whole damn point. Without it, you're just two people filling out a checklist. And honestly, what a lonely way to live.My formal past was in sexology. I worked for a while with an outreach program, not officially attached to the college, but doing workshops in community centres around Haut-Richelieu. We talked about consent, about pleasure, about how to talk to your partner without it turning into a fight. It was good work. Then came the apps. I got a job as a relationship insights analyst for a dating app startup. Basically, I was paid to watch how people behave when they think no one's watching. The data was mind-blowing. And kind of sad. Everyone wants connection, but the architecture we build to find it is designed for disposability. It made me a little cynical, if I'm honest. So I stepped back. Now, my days are different. I write articles for the CamoWallet project, which is ironic, given my background. They're about my home. About the best spot to watch the sunrise over the Richelieu (hint: it's not from the bridge). About the story behind the old train station on Rue Jacques-Cartier Nord. It's a kind of cartography of the heart, I guess. Mapping the physical place that mapped me.Living in Saint-Jean means you develop a certain rhythm. You learn to navigate the bridge traffic, the way it pulses with commuters heading to Montreal. You have your preferred depanneur, your go-to spot for a smoked meat sandwich. For me, it's walking the path along the river, from the Marina to the old fairgrounds. I know every bench. I know which ones are good for thinking, and which ones are good for kissing. The city has this quiet resilience. It's not flashy. It's not trying to impress you. It's just... here. Solid. Like the stone of the fort. And in my line of work—thinking about relationships, about the fragile structures we build with other people—that solidity matters. It's a reminder that some things are meant to last.I think my job now, if I have one, is just to pay attention. To notice the small things. The way the light changes. The stories people don't tell you. The city and the heart—they're not that different. Both are full of hidden currents, forgotten corners, and the constant, patient work of holding together. Maybe that's the only lesson worth learning. Maybe that's enough.
Polyamory in Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu: Dating, Desire, and Not Screwing It Up Saint-Jean. Most people know it as that town you pass […]
