Winter Wonderland

Friday, 12th April 2013

Map: Burlington, Vermont to Quebec City---231 miles

As forecasted, Burlington was an island of relative mildness overnight.  Most of the precipitation fell as rain, and what little of otherwise did not stick.  It was a nice way to start the day, driving past the pedestrian activities of students of all ages bundled against the cold.  Many of the old mansions along South Willard Street have fantastically reused office space for both Champlain College and the University of Vermont.

We crossed over the Winooski River into Winooski, duly noting the old mills and the falls, and continued north out of town---opposite a steady line of commuters coming into work.  The landscape promptly turned white and US 7 occasionally slushy but never treacherous.  The scenery and little towns were a diversion from the prospect of the possibility of worse weather.

Taylor Park, St. Albans Vermont

Light sleet and snow started falling at Swanton, where we filled up on cheaper American gas before crossing the border into Canada.  We proceeding onto Interstate 89, having no other way to cross the border in that vicinity---besides, our previous experience has shown us to avoid the smaller crossings when larger ones are nearby.  Californians wandering into back road border crossings are regarded with suspicion.  The last time we attempted such with an Interstate crossing nearby we were held aside for over half an hour with no explanation.  I suppose they wanted to read all the snarky op-ed features I wrote twenty years ago before they'd let us through.

The Interstate was empty, and only one kiosk was open---fortunately staffed by a woman.  We find women handle the apparently official post 9/11 rude interrogation better than men.  They politely ask questions and never insult us with a variation of you drove all across America to spend three days in Quebec?  Or why are you driving there---everyone goes here.  Within three minutes she was satisfied we were legitimate if not normal tourists and let us through.

At St. Pierre du Veronne we went east on Quebec 202 through Bedford and Dunham---and then getting lost in Cowansville for our want of going into the heart of towns instead of around them.  It was snowing quite heavily now, which pretty much obscured any sense of direction, and Patsy's GPS is particularly negligent in Canada.  I pecked at her screen until I found the sweet spot where she could lead us east to Brome Lake.  This is a bit of a climb, and the snow was sticking in shady spots.  Fortunately it was well-driven over and thus a hard surface, so it posed no problems.

Lac Brome, Quebec

Lac Brome is an interesting little year around resort town, a nice mixture of old cottages and fancy vacation homes.  The lake still had a nearly solid surface of ice---the breath of Spring was still well to the south.

We now headed north by northeast on Quebec 243, dropping down through Waterloo and Lawrence and leaving the worst of the weather behind.  The landscape opened up to farmland rolling down and northwest to the Fleuve St- Laurent.  Eventually the overcast rose high enough to expose very far views across the river and to the mountains low on the horizon west of Trois Rivieres.

Quebec 116 took us directly to the cross-river suburbs of Quebec City.  Along the way, we drove over the Richelieu River on an ancient truss bridge and through the quaint town of Richmond, passed through the generic modern city of Victoriaville and the strangely remote village of Lyster.  Strange in that the traffic was effectively shuttled off west to the freeway (Route Transcanadienne) near Victoriaville, leaving us on a remote highway through a largely one street town strung out for a mile or so.  Geographically we were within thirty miles of bustling cities, but it felt like Lyster was in one of the most forgotten sections of northern Quebec.  Farms had given away to a patchwork of soggy pastures and stunted forests under again-lowering gray skies.

Suburbia was just a short way out from Saint-Redempteur, where we joined the Trans-Canadienne to cross the Riviere Chaudiere.  The river falls just south of the freeway, and it was near flood stage, making for a roaring beige wall of water.  We then joined the Autoroute Robert-Cliche and crossed the St-Laurent on the Pont Pierre Laporte into Quebec City.

Once on Boulevard Laurier, we were glad we didn't choose one of the dreary hotels in this typically sterile postwar Canadian business district.  There are advantages to being cheap---but only if one copies down the right address.  Or any address.  My husband did not.  We only had what was supposed to be cross streets---except one did not cross the other and perhaps did not even exist in that part of town.  So there was a lot of fuming and heated conversation to warm us up, with plenty of ventilation caused by the passenger door opening and my husband wandering off to ask for directions.  People claimed to know of the street, but were vague about its exact location.  After cruising up and down Boulevard Rene Levesque a couple of times I was turning around to try again when my husband cried out there, there!  Not the street we were looking for, but the hotel itself---its door canopy a green beacon on a gray day.

Auberge Maison Roy is not a hotel for large Americans.  One enters a small front hall, where guest's shoes greet you like the United Nations.  Then there's the small lobby/office to pass by the scrutiny of the proprietresses, then small stairs to squeeze by your temporary neighbors, and finally a small room with twin beds---where we could play horny college dorm mates.  I mean where twin beds allowed me a small desk to write at.  You get the picture.  Small attached bath, sans ventilation.  Sixty bucks.  Although the price suggests big city voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir, Masion Roy is a clean and comfortable small hotel.

The view from our room at Auberge Masion Roy

"Just like Paris," my husband sighed over the room, flinging back the curtains on its one big amenity: a large window looking out over the residential district.  Snow was just starting to fall.

The proprietress suggested that we keep Patsy parked in their driveway and get a three day bus pass.  I chose not to ask my husband how much that cost, but with the proprietress's warning about the parking police, it seemed the best and least expensive way to avoid unpleasant situations---especially with the snow starting to fall.  Besides, the last time we wandered into Old Quebec, my husband kept driving far beyond any unofficial or outsider's car was supposed to go---fording through tourists along a narrow cobblestone street until it came to a dead end.

We dressed for the weather.  To avoid being a near match, my husband kept his newsboy cap on, but I was Way Out West from head to toe: cowboy boots, oiled Sou'wester and a heavy felt hat that started smelling like a wet dog as the snowflakes melted on it.  My husband got more notice, though---if only for his age.  Everyone on the crowded bus was exceptionally courteous, always offering their seat to any new boarder that appeared older.  My husband preferred hanging on to a pole, being too short for one of the straps I swung around on.

"You handled that very well," he praised as we disembarked at Parc de l'Esplanade.  "I was afraid you'd get all uptight.  You'll be fine in Paris."

"I have been on public transportation before," I replied coolly.  "I rode the Washington DC subway alone at fifteen." 

Of course, not speaking the language with any intelligence was my major drawback.  Unable to understand what was going on around me, I just sorta zoned out and thought of 1920s Brooklyn strap hangers snapping gum and reading the latest tabloid sensation until some poor old lady shrilly exclaimed excuse-moi, excuse-moi! so I'd get out of her way before the bus launched off again.

On Rue St. Jean

Instead of walking into Old Town, we walked west onto Rue St. Jean---Quebec City's nominally gay neighborhood.  Although it's home to the provinces' oldest outwardly gay establishments, it never developed into a flaming gay ghetto.  There's a few bars and a bathhouse with hotel en attachement, but the street scene is merely metropolitan.  Being hungry, a gay little cafe would have been nice, but we had to fish for whatever the street had to offer.

My husband nabbed a young straight couple on the sidewalk, speaking to the handsome man in French, of course.  The woman, taller than he and almost as tall as me in boot heels, looked me over with pleasant appraisal and asked in perfectly unaccented English: "So, where are you from?"

"California," I grinned.  "We've been driving cross country, through the South and East."

"Oh, how wonderful!"  I wasn't sure what she thought was particularly wonderful, the road trip or being from California---which is very much larger than life to the Quebecois.

Her man suggested a creperie a block or two down Rue St. Jean, and she approved it.  However, my man's French is getting quite archaic, and he later admitted he wasn't quite registering the name.  It mattered not, for some idle window shopping brought us together again with the couple and she leaned down to point out the sign to my husband.  I too leaned down, and she smiled over at me: "See?" 
  
Crêperie-bistro Le Billig is a small eatery with a few tables and a nook kitchen.  The waiter, in rapid parlance, asked if we had reservations---but it was no problem, he had one table available.  He then suggested that we could hang our outerwear on the pegs next to the door, but it took a moment for it to sink into my husband's brain and he in turn to instruct me.  Once the waiter realized I spoke only English, he offered me an English menu, which I declined, and thereafter he went back and forth between French and English---always in rapid fire.

The crepes are huge and excellent, come with a side salad of the freshest greens and the prices are reasonable.  We started off by sharing a bowl of 'green soup'---pea soup with other greens pureed into it, which was delicious and very much an appetizer.  I ordered cider, to which he mused a dry one would be good with my crepe---and brought it to me in, curiously, a wide coffee cup.  The cider possessed interesting herbal notes, which unfortunately reminded me of Bactine.  Not that I didn't enjoy it, it just was an amusing idea that I couldn't get off my palate.  Having a big enough serving to get a buzz would have made it even more amusing.

After mincing back to the bus stop. St. John's Gate, Old Quebec.

The snow was starting to stick as we left Le Billig.  We continued walking up Rue St. Jean until it became relatively uninteresting at Rue Turnbull, and then returned down the south side of the street back to Parc de l'Esplanade---I mincing along like an Asian princess to avoid falling on my ass.  Here we passed a bakery somewhere mid block, its window full of dark and milk chocolate Easter bunnies at fifty percent off.  What a sad and delicious display, so we ventured inside to buy a couple of the smaller ones.  As the woman selected and weighed them, I gazed at all the pastries in the cases, as well as some wonderful looking pot pies and other savories---so otherworldly compared to most American bakeries.  The woman and my husband discussed the coinage, the bunnies were bought and enjoyed back at our room at Maison Roy.  Such delectable, melting hollow chocolate bunnies.