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| (Jim singing 'Oh Canada' with gusto as we left Hatfield in the drizzling rain) |
Saturday
Thanks for joining us on our adventure! Left Hatfield at 8AM in a dark blue RAV4 rental. It was raining but soon stopped for cloudy but pretty fall patterns in the sky. The farther north we drove, the more the leaves were turning to oranges, yellows and reds.
We were so distracted by our adventure and battling the radio for viable stations, we nearly ran out of gas and had to loop back from NY into NJ on the highway about six miles each way to fuel up. Literal fumes left in the tank when we rolled in.
Snacked on cold leftover cheesesteaks and peanut M&Ms not because we were hungry, but because we were bored.
Detoured to Saratoga Springs in NY which was a fun old town chock full of pastel houses, many of which were well-cared for and Victorian in style. Bought four kinds of local apples at a Farmers Market and stopped for a little walk and bathroom break in a picturesque park by beautiful Lake Saratoga, which lapped gently against the shaded shoreline and calmed our road-tense spirits. The only other folks at the park were two florists who were artistically creating a backdrop for a wedding from a long row of colorful buckets spilling with flowers.
We got back in the car with destination Keevesville in our sites, drawn by small-town touristy promises.
Peppered Jim with a deck of conversation-starter questions he was foolish enough to tuck into my Christmas stocking one year. (That’ll teach him….)
Off of Route 87 it became rather clear that save the turning of the leaves, there was almost nothing going on in the post-lake-sport season Adirondacks. Very few populated areas. Not many open restaurants. Hotels were few and far between. We followed a generic hotel sign (you know the type, the simple bed icon that lures weary travelers off highways) for seven miles into a quiet town of almost nothing, named Willsboro, NY.
I don’t fly convincingly by the seat of my pants and generally go nowhere without a detailed timed itinerary in hand, so this notion of “we’ll just stop and find a place to stay while we’re traveling,” was not a comfortable stretch for me. I was starting to fret and sweat. Due to my discouragement, visions of sleeping in the car, and mounting anxiety at being “spontaneous,” Jim had to pull over in a barren parking lot and take control of the poor-cell service lodging search, where he found us the least expensive but still exorbitantly priced room in a Wyndham-owned property about 35 miles away.
We got back on 87 and continued north, stopping for a nostalgic peek at Ausable Chasm, where in the late 60s (maybe early 70s), a small boat containing herself, my father and her three children careened between cavern walls on its journey into family lore, permanently scarring my mother’s memory. It was second only to the terrifying ski lift on Whiteface Mountain for frightening my otherwise unflappable Mom, but I digress.
We found our hotel on the second pass, only by its address. The bright yellow Super 8 sign threw us off. (Side note, Wyndham should not be allowed to purchase rundown Super 8s and snag business using name association.) At least the bed was comfortable and the sheets smelled like bleach.
We ventured into downtown Plattsburgh for dinner just as the descending sun was turning the skies pink. Had a delicious Al fresco dinner at a Greek restaurant where it was chilly enough that even Jim had to go back to the car for a jacket.
Stopped at Lake Champlain to watch the huge sailboats bobbing ever-so-gently in their slips, their white and blue lights dancing on the surface of the water.
Three lightning rounds of Parcheesi on the hotel bed (yes, of COURSE we brought our board), an episode of Breaking Bad on Jim’s iPad, and our first night of vacation is in the books.
Sunday
Went downtown to Chapter One Coffeehouse and started the day with the best chai latte I’ve ever sipped and a maple, egg and cheese breakfast wrap. I’m not a fan of maple syrup but being only a mile from the ferry to Vermont, I pretended to be. It’s a clear and crisp fall day and the 20 mile drive between breakfast and the border of Canada was gorgeous with vibrant color and blue sky.
French was clearly the Hemmingsford border guard’s first language and it was immediately apparent the man was “no nonsense.” A little intimidating, to be honest. His accented query, “Are you bringing anything?” actually made us squirm, our minds darting, taking an unnecessary mental inventory of the contents of our luggage.
And just like that, all the traffic signs were in French and the voices on the radio were speaking French. Navigation abruptly ended on both of our phones so we called our tech-savvy son to tell us how to access international coverage. Should have thought of that earlier….
In no time we were connected again, and so began the furious pace of math calculations (for mph vs kilometers per hour) and the practicing of the phrase “je ne parle pas Français.” It suddenly felt like a real possibility that we could starve, knowing the words for no food items save “frites,” and being all too aware the French eat things like escargot. We also noted that we only learned the word “Bonjour” by watching Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. As Jim wisely says, “No wonder people hate Americans.”
Channeling our inner Pepe Le’Pew, we decided on a side trek over the Samuel De Champlain Bridge to Montreal. Thankfully our cell phone GPS apps were speaking in English, because the road signs didn’t help at all.
Street parking wasn’t too difficult in Old City, Montreal. We walked down the first cobblestone street we found and our soundtrack was the 11 o’clock bells of the Notre-Dame Basilica. Found an ATM, supplying us with our first stack of colorful bills still honoring the Queen.
Our first purchase was the most beautiful chocolate croissant we’d ever seen from a depanneur established in 1822. Strolled along port center to rue Saint Paul and admired the old architecture, including the historic Bonsecours Market building.
In just under two hours we were back in the car, heading north (or in this case, Nord) for about a three hour drive to Quebec City. Restaurant advertising on many of the billboards on 20 East (Est) used tempting poutine photos as tourist bait, but we bravely chose apples from yesterday’s Farmer’s Market for our drive. Passed our first Moose Crossing sign on the highway about an hour from Quebec City, but sadly, no actual moose were spotted.
A travel note for you, turning the corner in a city on a four-lane street can be surprisingly unnerving. Choose an outside lane so as not to experience a free-for-all. (That life lesson is brought to us all by the street(rue), Honorie Mercier.) Driving in Quebec City is incredibly stressful, but what a fabulous place to be once freed from your vehicle!
We felt much better after we’d parked the car in a parking garage (likely for most of the week because driving in stressful situations inspires us to speak to each other in non-anniversary-friendly tones.) I’m grateful we can just rely on our feet to navigate through these quaint streets.
The narrow feel is very much like towns in the UK, particularly York, England or Looe, Cornwall. Our hotel is just lovely (see link here if you are curious- https://www.hotelste-anne.com/) We are within walking distance to so much. Jim is already enjoying greeting the restaurant hostess outside our hotel with “Bonjour” as we go by. 😂
We had a delicious dinner at Mordus de Vous (a great seafood and wine spot), ending with a lemon posset topped with strawberry basil coulis and edged with a fabulous fish-shaped sugar cookie. Holy cats. Healthy eating begins next week.
Monday
Sleep eluded me last night because I need a pitch black room and the gorgeous potted garden outside our hotel room window is lit with a lamp which rivals the surface of the sun. The long room darkening drapes did nothing to alleviate the sneaky lamplight projected onto the ceiling, casting literal shadows on my pillow at 2AM. We’ll need to figure that out….
We’ve got a freeze warning in Quebec City tonight and the brisk morning air has pretty much shut down the notion that any restaurants are serving breakfast outside. Breakfast at La Buche was like walking into a French-Canadian hunting cabin with entirely too many hunters. The jaunty music conjured images of dancing lumberjacks but all I could think about was COVID-exposure. We masked while we waited for my Gruau du Grand-Pere. Snowshoes and old wooden sleds were affixed to the ceiling and the decor was otherwise redolent of Gaston’s residence, “using antlers in all of their decorating.” (2nd Disney movie reference for those keeping track….) Jim enjoyed positioning his camera to capture some antlers on my head. Breakfast was delicious, my gallon of fruited oatmeal arriving in an unexpected sauce pot.
We burned off the calories by climbing up to the Citadelle de Quebec and hiking along the walking path while enjoying vistas of the city. Walked for miles in the city over the next several hours, taking in the architecture and finding fun things to purchase, like a French Cinderella picture book, a microplaner (professional zester for the rest of us), and some pistachio nougat in a pleasing but unnatural pastel green hue.
Have I mentioned my husband loves maps? I mean…LOVES maps. Unfolds and refolds them. Carries them in his pockets and tucks them under his arm. Refers to them. Plans with them. Wants me to look at maps with him all day long. He points at them with pens and butter knives, trying to draw my attention. My attention is not easily drawn. I cannot abide maps. Map Skills was a subject in school in the late 60s and early 70s. I disliked that too. Just go where you want and I’ll mostly follow you.
So many people have joined us in QC this first week of October. The tour buses are PARTICULARLY annoying. We impatiently waited for about ten of them to roll by, sputtering their diesel fumes, before we could cross the street to see La Fontaine De Tourny. This is a gorgeous fountain with spitting frogs and chubby children, their adults partitioned off on a lower tier, clearly not keeping a close enough eye on their damp progeny. The children are allegedly figures depicting fishing and navigation. I don't buy it. To me, they're just some sneaky fun-loving kids hiding from the adults in their upper tazza.
The fountain won the gold medal at the Paris World Fair in 1855. It was moved to Quebec less than two decades ago, a gift for the 400th anniversary of the city. It sits and spits right across the street from the Parliament building, which is a pleasantly imposing structure with 26 bronze carvings of famous Quebecois built into the structure in the late 1800s and a stocky (decidedly not bronze) uniformed blonde woman with her right hand resting on her gun holster. She didn’t appear to be amused, making me question how close I really wanted to get when admiring the seat of provincial government. On a less guarded area of the grounds, Jim snapped a photo of me, looking like the runt of the litter next to huge iron bronze women, depicting famous Canadian feminists/political figures/reformers.
It’s not easy for a person who dislikes coffee to remain appropriately caffeinated while traveling. I soon discovered how difficult it is to find a stiff cup of black tea in Quebec. Jim suggests that the very word “Quebec” likely translates most accurately to “no tea for you.” If you want espresso, sortilege, wine, Yukon Jack, or cider, the French-Canadians have you covered. English tea? You’re on your own.
We rested on a park bench and wondered why the local skate rats were not in school while we ate a sandwich purchased from roughly the 15th effortlessly bilingual young clerk of the day. Serious show-offs.
Found an old church with gorgeous stained-glass windows which had been turned into a public library. It was lovely yet incredibly sad. “Librarie” means bookshop. “Bibliotheque” means library. (They’re just messing with me.)
Exchanged some US dollars and headed back toward the hotel because my feet were beginning to feel sorry for themselves and we wanted to stop lugging our shopping bag. Spied a colorful 5x7 painting of a Quebec City street on rue du Tresor. That painting may well go home with me later in the week unless one of the assertive tour bus enthusiasts snatches it up.
After a power nap, my knight in shining armor, Jim coerced a wonderful young man from the hotel to turn off that blasted spotlight, so there’s a much better chance I will sleep tonight. There was great rejoicing (and the noble young fellow refused a tip).
We had another delicious dinner at the Bistro 1640, just down the street from our hotel and across the circle from Chateau Frontenac. After dinner we walked along the boards behind the Chateau and watched the huge cruise ships in the St Lawrence River. It was a little magical when they greeted one another, their voices like enormous bassoons echoing across the harbor.
Tuesday
I slept SO much better!
Had breakfast at Le Cafe Buade, where I found a cup of English Breakfast tea (thank goodness) and Jim started his day with a meat pie. The jam caddy offered selections I’m not used to seeing, including caramel and tartinade au Miel (a honey spread). Also…beurre d’arichide sounds much more romantic than peanut butter, no?
Walked down a very long hill (des Remparts) past oodles of cannons, landing at the bottom inside a little cafe. The owner made me a chocolat chaud with a pewter steamer of milk whisked with a ball of chocolate while she spoke in impossibly-rapid French to her boyfriend, who happened to stop by. She handed that hot chocolate to me with a flourish and a “voila!” The beverage (honestly the whole experience) was delicious.
Picked up a gift for someone at home in an antique shop and realized the date on the object made it just one year older than Jim. (He did not appreciate my calling attention to that detail, but I’m not that far behind him.)
Window-shopped countless art galleries, antique shops and restaurants, tucked into buildings with history dating back to the 1600s. Tasted some “ice cider” brewed across the St. Lawrence River and pressed upon us by a rather pushy sales associate…The flavor reminded us of the white paste we shouldn’t have eaten in elementary school. In fact, we agreed the white paste was better.
Boarded the ferry to Levis and wished immediately for Dramamine. Departing the ferry we climbed just shy of 200 steps, up, up, up into the residential area of Levis. The orange wooded staircase zigged and zagged over the edge of the cliff, lifting us way above the level of the river. The most interesting things we spied (other than the lovely QC skyline on the far bank) were the several old buildings (a church from 1850 and a couple of ornate old schools with shiny silver roofs. The tinplate looks like polished stainless steel (or about a zillion rolls of painstakingly applied Reynolds foil).
After the ferry back to QC, we opted to mask up and take the Funiculaire du Vieux back up to our street level rather than climbing up the cliff the way we’d come down in the morning. It ascends about 64 meters at a 45 degree angle and has unbelievably been in operation since 1879. Walking by the sign multiple times has been a hazard as each time I see the entrance, I succumb to another round of the ‘Funiculì, Funiculà’ song which has been persistently stuck in my head since Sunday evening. Jim and I have sung it repeatedly…and not as well as Pavarotti.
We returned to artist’s alley for the painting I’ve been coveting. Despite my throbbing feet, we set off on foot again, immediately searching for the buildings which inspired the artist’s rendering. Jacques Brousseau’s inspiration was apparently not in our immediate neighborhood. A little defeated, we returned to the hotel to recharge (aka collapse) for a little while.
Took a quick tour through the extravagant lobby and lower historical floor of the Château Frontenac Hotel, stopped by the Canada Post to hand off a moose postcard to the young mailman, and walked down Rue Saint Jean for an outdoor dinner and live music at the Pub St-Patrick. It feels a bit warmer outside tonight. We’ve been very fortunate with the weather so far. Not a raindrop since we left Hatfield. Ended the day just like every evening at home. Parcheesi and Netflix.
Wednesday
Jim is definitely enjoying the espresso machine in our room. Every morning he positions his hotel ceramic cup for that first morning punch of caffeine.
Walked down the street for a sidewalk breakfast of chai latte and a chocolate almond croissant at Cafe La Maison Smith, Boutique Gourmande. I’d do it again, too. The creamy almond paste and chocolate layer is okay by me. While we were perched at our little table sipping our warm drinks on the bustling corner of du Palais and Rue St Jean, a homeless man with shockingly bright orangish-magenta hair (and the two sled dogs we’d seen tethered to his three-wheel bike yesterday) reappeared. He was screaming loud phrases in French to no one in particular. Where one might be tempted to assume lots of uncomfortable possibilities, the scene took a heartwarming turn when a local car rolled up to the curb and through the window, handed the flame-crested orator a sensible bag of dog food. Kind people. They’re all over if you look for them. I challenge myself to keep looking.
Soooo- let’s talk about the exchange rate. It feels a bit sneaky to give the clerk a dollar and receive just under $1.30 back. We were looking to trade some US dollars and/or hit an ATM when I thought I’d found a viable machine in a walkthrough. Good thing we evaluated the situation little further, as I was poised to purchase $100-worth of restroom tokens from that handy dandy machine. 🤪 French words are tricky! Case in point: Poisson de Moment = Fish of the Day. That means at McD’s (they have them here) you can order a “Filet de Poisson.” ☠️☠️ Cravings to die for.
We ransomed the car from the parking garage, departed the city and took the long bridge over the river to the island of lle deOrleans. Put 32 litres of petro in the car. There was a main road around the island, which we followed in a counterclockwise fashion past vineyards, cideries, picturesque farms along the riverfront (selling apples, onions, the most unbelievably sweet strawberries and mushrooms), and village streets dotted with what looked like gingerbread houses. I’d be thrilled to retire to one of those adorable little homes and live on this idyllic island except we have children/a granddaughter I’d desperately miss, and there is a woeful lack of necessities like grocery stores nearby. One can only live on gorgeous fruits, cheeses, wine and edible fungus for so long….
Visited Notre Dame dOrleans, a peaceful and remote retreat center along the river until we realized it felt like private property (which it well could have been since we couldn’t actually read the signs).
The striking color of the mustard fields against the changing leaves as we circled the island looked like living art. Stopped in Saint-Laurent at a park which was a trip back in time to the era of wooden boatbuilding, with an authentic 19th-century chalouperie where rowboats were built. We bought an audio tour from a pair of French-Canadians who were kind enough to give us the English version. We were tethered together by the recorder and the headphones on our ears so it was a forced couples event. In years gone by, schooners wintered at that place because it was a cove protected from the wind. The rails and slips had to be thawed in April with picks, shovels and steam hoses. Dynamite was used to break up the ice on the shore. It took several weeks of work. I’m guessing the Canadian fish disliked the process, too. I mean, they don’t have ears but they can still hear. Or COULD hear prior to the process. Explosives in the water must be considerably more annoying than tapping on a fish tank, and we all learned from Disney’s dental office villain, Darla of Finding Nemo, how rude THAT is. We continued our trip, skirting the island and taking in the almost dreamlike scenery. Every new village was more lovely than the last.
We noted how it’s possible to reach a maximum saturation when seeing beautiful things for days, one after the other. Humans are weird like that. We take things for granted when there’s more than just a small dose of anything remarkable. The same thing happens to me in an art museum. I start out studying the intricacies of each painting and two hours later I’m barely nodding at an entire room filled with masterpieces because I’m saturated and trying to find my way to the nearest exit.
That’s not to say I’m not grateful for every experience on this journey. I just wish I could save some of it in a bottle to pull it out when the mundane inevitably overcomes the exhilarating. It would be wonderful if we could pepper some ordinary weeks with travel seasoning. Onward!
We stopped at a fromagerie where we sat on a bench overlooking the river and ate some impossibly creamy chocolate ice cream, paired oddly with a marvelous French baguette. The inside of the bread was pillowy soft but the outside was so crusty. It was a good thing we were tearing off and devouring hunks when NOT in the car. Without even trying, we left plenty of crust remnants for the lle deOrleans birds.
Google Translate has been SUCH a helpful app. We looked up the phrase for pick-your-own (auto cueiellette) and found out quickly we also needed the word “ouverte” (open) on the orchard sign. “Ferme” can be very disappointing when you’ve discovered a good spot but they are closed. We found an orchard on the hillside with the right combination of words but it also came with a woman who ran up the incline after our car shouting an aggressive “BONJOUR!!!” because we parked in the wrong lot before purchasing our apple sack. (The stupid tourists who can only read three of the words on the sign were probably fodder for dinnertime venting.)
Jim loves picking fruit and the experience of plucking mixed apples from a small orchard on perfect fall day while on an island overlooking the St. Lawrence River is not a memory which will be soon forgotten. We bought some melt-in-your-mouth strawberries at the aggressive farmer’s stand, as well.
A little farther down the road was “Cabane a Sucre.” (Sugar Shack) The tour bus in the parking area (the only one we’d seen on the island) should have been a clue to keep driving, but we soon discovered the tourists from the bus were upstairs in the restaurant, dancing…conga-line style, to live accordion music. (I have video evidence shot from the entrance, should you require it….)
Back across the bridge and on to Parc de la Chute Montmorency we went. We strolled across the suspension bridge which took us right over the top of the majestic and powerful falls. The waterfall is just under the length of a football field high. 30 meters taller than Niagara Falls, but as Jim says, less volume.
Back in the car, we continued north to Sainte Anne de Beaupre, a shrine which has been credited by the Catholic Church with curing the sick. Saint Anne is the patron saint of sailors. The original chapel on that site was built all the way back around 1660 and the first reported miracle was said to have occurred during construction. About half a million pilgrims per year venture to the basilica. In the back of the sanctuary are two pillars of crutches, canes and braces, allegedly left by devotees who received healing favors at the site.
After driving back to QC and taking a short break, we went back to the river to watch the boats at sunset and then had dinner at a great restaurant just down the street where we could sit right in the window, facing out toward the street.
Oh, how I loved it! Jim had poutine and I had the most incredible salad with homemade lemon dressing topped with local shaved cheddar, pickled onions and a delicious homemade veggie patty. It was maybe my favorite meal of the week, and it’s got lots of competition. It’s going to be hard to go back to feeding ourselves. 😂
Thursday
We have not missed waking to our alarm clocks this week. This morning I attempted to switch out the hiking boots Aubrey insisted I bring (thanks, Aubrey) for my favorite comfortable sneakers my friend coerced me to buy (thanks, Donna) but it felt like I’d crossed the line over to the “frumpy American tourist” look. “Do I look like a dweeb?” Jim confirmed my suspicion. “Brenda, we ARE dweebs from Pennsylvania.” So I wore the boots again.
We walked down the hill to the Casse Crepe Breton for some morning crepes. For our savory start, I chose a buckwheat crepe with turkey, egg, fresh spinach with Swiss cheese. Jim had smoked ham and egg with Swiss and strategized with his map while he waited for breakfast. The crepes were enormous. Halfway into our savory ones, in a moment of weakness (or clarity), Jim asked if I thought we should call off the strawberry one. (His mouth was moving but his words made no logical sense.) We shared the sweet crepe, which was a beautiful white flour crepe rolled around a heavenly concoction of strawberries and chocolate and topped with cocoa-powdered whipped cream. I only regret not ordering custard in it, too. Our adorable waitress need not have advised “Bon Appetit!” as it was a no-brainer. Wow. How are the French so thin?
Side note: milkshake translates to milkshake in French, an even trade. I was pretty pleased with myself, correctly discerning 7 of the 8 milkshake flavors on the French menu. Marrons tripped me up. (Who would choose chestnut, anyway?)
We walked and walked again after breakfast, retracing our steps to buy more of the cookies Jim discovered he loves. We were passed by an elegant silver-haired woman in her 80s or 90s. She wore a pink fluorescent helmet and a neatly-pressed moss green pencil skirt which looked like fine satin. She sped by us on an electric scooter, descending the cobblestoned rue like a boss. I sorta want to be her when I grow up.
I found a lovely rust and navy top for myself on a sidewalk rack outside a boutique I would never have otherwise entered.
We headed through the Parc-de-l’Artillerie, a historic site which celebrates the ways Canada has fortified its cities in the heart of Quebec. Over 14,000 employees worked for the Dominion Arsenal during WW II. It was QC’s main employer. The foundry is inside the park, along with more cannons, the old barracks buildings, and a quaint, hidden, grassy knoll. St. Patrick’s Church of 1832 was undergoing renovations, like so much of the city. Scaffolding and construction are everywhere. The sea port of Quebec welcomed and cared for thousands of Irish immigrants and many stayed to live in the city. There is a blue limestone Celtic cross monument at the foot of the park, a gift from Ireland to the City of Quebec for kindnesses shown to the Irish people during the great famine. Many orphaned children were adopted.
We strolled through some beautiful old residential streets with enviable doors and car parks hidden inside their walls.
Then, it was on to the Notre-Dame de Quebec Basilica-Cathedral. Jim unloaded a pocketful of the Canadian dollars and other coins (which were weighing down his pants) to the man with the outstretched palm in the vestibule of the cathedral. The embellishments were extreme inside the cathedral, the nave of which was ornamented in almost too much gold to take in. It was a lot. I did love the blue sky and clouds on the ceiling. Despite the “soyez silencieux” signage, any Québécois who were wishing for a peaceful moment of solitude today were out of luck at the basilica. Tourists were swarming, the organist was practicing, and overall it was a compelling but much less impactful experience than yesterday’s more rural cathedral.
Found the street the artist used to create my painting. It is at the intersection of rue de Jardins and ru Donnacona. Took photos. Of course.
Stopped at the Galerie Brousseau which houses the most extensive collection of fine Inuit sculptures in Canada. The knowledgeable and stylish older woman who showed us around the gallery wanted very much for me to walk 25 minutes up the street to the Art History Museum of Quebec to see Canadian Inuit Sculptor, Manasie Atzpaliopik’s work. He had a large carving in the Galerie Brousseau- two faces etched into the vertebrae of an unfortunate whale. I must have looked interested because the gallery host became animated, telling me about the creator of the piece. With great hope and enthusiasm, the silk-scarved woman in Burberry glasses handed me a French pamphlet, upon which she had written the artist’s name. I’m a little ashamed to admit I did not go. I was (in that moment) too saturated to absorb any more information.
We walked (rather numbly) another two hours up and down all the side streets, admiring great wooden doors, assisting elderly lost tourists who couldn’t find their hotel, scouring restaurant menus for onion soup, and realizing that at 4:30PM, we still had almost zero appetite, post-crepes. Also, it’s safe to say that with the notable exception of the Art History Museum, we pretty much covered every inch of the old city over the last four days.
Our walk back to the hotel was even lovelier than daytime hours with fewer people on the streets and the colorful lights accenting many of our favorite buildings.
And now it’s time to pack. Thanks for traveling with me! I won’t bore you with the dreary details of a drive back to reality. 😉
