Do You See What I See?

Last Monday my husband had cataract surgery.  It's his second time around, so he knew what to expect and wasn't all that nervous.  Still, in medical situations more than anywhere else he points out to anyone within earshot that I'm his husband.  The results have run the gamut of a rude Yeah, I know and then pointedly ignoring me (in return we filed a complaint and nixed that nurse practioner from any further contact with us) to Together fifteen years?  You could show us straight folks a thing or two.

When the post-op nurse came to retrieve me from the waiting room, I could tell she was at ease with the relationship.  Still, she was a woman of a certain age and accustomed to the traditions of marriage---which apparently includes a similar age among the two parties involved.

We were walking down past the numerous patients recovering in their curtained surroundings when she asked me: "Have you had cataract surgery?

I glanced over at her, my gray-blue eyes surely flashing just a little.  "No."

"Oh."

It was, of course, only her way to make her small talk seem both professional and personal, but I considered what she saw in me---perhaps a sexy sixty-something, but the question merely made me feel a fugly forty-five. 

For once my husband looked his age and a bit groggy.  He lay there listening to the nurse delineate all the dos and don'ts---a list she surely mumbles in her sleep, although her delivery at that moment was again striking that balance between professional and personal.

"Okay, then," she announced.  "You're free to go."

We all held our breath for a moment, not quite knowing what to expect from one another.  My husband slipped from the gurney and though steady enough his body language expressed an uncertainty.  Subconsciously I heard something---was it the nurse, saying take his hand---and so I did.  Hand holding comes naturally to some couples, and it's certainly lauded between men and women, but since it's not publicly permitted for us, it isn't a habit of ours outside the gayest of ghettos.

So there I was, gently holding my husband's hand as we paraded past the patients.  From their blurry perspective I was merely a good son, holding Daddy's hand, while the nurse walked ahead us, casting glances back at the married men following her.  I was starting to have an identity crisis.

The nurse smiled up at me when we reached the door:  "Perhaps we'll soon see you too for cataract surgery."

My husband snorted and I gave her a bristly smile back.  "I don't think so.  My vision is still nearly twenty-twenty."

"Oh.  Well, aren't you lucky."

Somewhere in the back of my head I could hear myself screaming at her I'm only forty-five years old, but my tight, upturned lips kept my thoughts to myself.

"Then I guess we won't see you two again," she continued as she opened the door.

We thanked her and turned to our audience looking back at us from the waiting room.  I dropped my husband's hand.  With a soft slap it hit his jeans, a signal to move forward.

Snow and Sun in Quebec

Sunday, 14th April 2013

Map: Quebec City to Saint-Zotique, Quebec---246 miles

It had snowed again overnight in Quebec City, but since it was a couple of degrees Celsius it was not sticking to the pavement or sidewalks.  West southwest at Montreal it was already partly sunny, so we didn't expect to have problems driving in that direction.  And we didn't---although it was a bit dicey after we got of Autoroute Felix Leclerc and drove into Saint-Augustin on Quebec 138.  It was snowing heavily there, and had been doing so for quite some time, judging by the slushy highway---but Patsy slogged on through without mishap.  The snow soon stopped falling after that, and for a couple of hours thereafter it was merely a dreary winter's morning.  We drove in the opposite direction when Patsy was new some nine years ago, but since that was a late May day and the road was clogged with convertibles and motorcyclists enjoying a warm weekend it was hard to match up anything from that day.  The naked trees and flat gray light made it a different place.

I did recall at Donnacona that last time I had missed the turn for the old alignment through the heart of the city, so I made the point of taking it this time.  It was so dark that some of the street lights were on, and a few people moved about for coffee and donuts before church.  I didn't make it through the most interesting part of town though, as the bridge over the Jacques-Cartier River was closed for renovation.  We had to wander through tacky 1960s-70s residential streets to again connect to Quebec 138.  Donnacona was once a thriving pulp mill down, so these homes reflected the middle-class aspirations of the time with designs more often reserved in America for dentist offices or similar professions.  Think of wood siding on the diagonal and soaring roof lines with clerestory windows, or glittering panels of crushed white offset with pink or aqua siding.

Eglise de Saint-Francois-Xavier at Bastican, Quebec

Gradually the gray lifted over the fallow fields and murky Fleuve St-Laurent, rising higher and higher until the sun burned through from time to time.  I stopped to catch the silver sun shining off the typically silver steeple of the Église de Saint-François-Xavier at Bastican.  By the time we reached La Pointe-du-Lac, there were patches of blue to match a cheerfully purple Quebecois cottage.

Atypical color for a typical Quebecois cottage.

From La Pointe-du-Lac we could see a cold copper peak on the horizon along the St-Laurent, evidently a cathedral with a very broad skirt around it, like a witch's hat.  As we rolled into Cap-de-la-Madeleine we could see it peeking around houses and trees, so it was obviously a worthwhile detour.  Up close Sanctuaire Notre-Dame-du-Cap is a stupendous basilica in the round---and although officially Norman-Gothic in style, it also displays liberal applications of Gothic Moderne and Mid-Century Modern.  It's theatrical to the point of being campy---otherworldly enough to stand in, with appropriate props, as a Siamese temple.  When consecrated in 1964, it must have symbolized the advancement of the Catholic Church into the Brave New World---a world it has since retreated from.  Compared to the latter-day jail-like Our Lady of Angels in Los Angeles, Our Lady of the Cape is an exuberant celebration in trying something new.  Since Sunday mass was in progress, we didn't see the interior---which photographs as properly solemn yet grand.

Would Cecil B. DeMille approve? (Google Image)

It was all an escape from the gluey stench of pulp mills and chock-a-block brick tenements that more or less remain to this day.  We wandered through these, trying to connect to Autoroute Felix Leclec to make some time west through Trois-Rivières.  We continued for forty miles through more fallow fields and naked, stunted forest---all made duller by the lack of something humanly quaint or crappy to focus on.  Studying the motorists passing us by on the left and the sky were the only forms of entertainment---blue billowing gray and white.

We exited at Berthierville onto Quebec 158 and headed south and west across the prairie to Joliette.  Farms and their upturned bathtub shrines for Mary provided interest, as well as my perverse need to drive into the center of cities to see what there is to see.  At Saint-Lin–Laurentides I didn't even have to go astray, as there was no other way to proceed except through the heart of the scrappy old town.  We sat in post-church services traffic, witnessing some very unchristian like behavior.

A few miles before Saint-Lin–Laurentides we passed a syrup house restaurant Des Erablière Aux Rithmes (The Seasons of the Maples), also very popular with the church crowd despite a rather disreputable road house look.  We considered stopping for lunch, but it was so crowded we drove on and eventually settled for a pedestrian meal at Subway in St. Jerome.  My husband said he had a hard time recalling all the names for vegetables for the making of our vegetarian sandwiches---and the slightly slangy, indistinct French spoken by the teenagers was sometimes confusing.  In retrospect, I wish we had braved the crowd and had a more interesting dining experience.

The ProLite Eco twelve foot trailer.

St. Jerome appeared to be still under the affects of a hard winter, as mountains of dirty snow filled vacant corners on the gritty south side of town where we had stopped.  We drove through downtown, which was marginally nicer, and then out to the light industry area just west of the Autoroute des Laurentides to visit the Roulette's Pro-Lite trailer factory.  Their little showroom was packed with folk putting a down payment on springtime---it was not the quiet scene we were expecting.  We waited for the salesman my husband preferred---perhaps he was picking up on some homophobia from the other, but in a crowded room resonating with a different language I was pretty much shut down and just tried to stay out of the way.  We noted the improvements on our favorite 750 pound model over the one we saw last fall in Salmon Arm, British Columbia, mainly sleek frameless windows and LED lighting.  Eventually the preferred salesman was available---very pleasant and smooth, and segueing between French and English effortlessly.  Of course he complimented my husband's French, and without fuss jotted down the prices on their little glossy catalog and gave it to us.  Twelve thousand dollars, minus a couple hundred at the current exchange rate.  We could take five similar month long road trips like the one we were on at that moment for the same price. In spite of all the driving/travel we do, we'd be hard pressed to really get our money's worth out of a new trailer.  If we bought at all, we'd follow the suggestion of the salesman and go for the occasional trade in.

We spent the next hour and a half traversing the autoroutes in and out of Montreal sprawl and out towards Sallyberry-de-Valleyfield---only to hastily exit when we realized the freeway bridge over a section of the St. Laurent had a toll.  We made our way down to the old bridge and crossed directly into suburbia and Canada's greatest tourist attraction: Bulk Barn.  Long a cultural icon in Ontario, it has only recently moved into the Far West (British Columbia) and its closest neighbor, Quebec.  We have found that the stock varies from store to store---here they presumed Quebecois would not be interested in British Wine Gums, that delicious not too sweet confection akin to Gummi Bears.  Oh well, we'd just have to stop at the Bulk Barn in Cornwall, Ontario the next day.  Meanwhile there was quality bulk teas to stock up on, different cocoas---coconut flour, hmm---something interesting to bake with.  The cashier was a teenage girl with an OMG attitude and high-pitched voice my husband could not understand.  Being a new store and new on the job, she sent the store's pretty boy off  a couple of times to find the price code on several items.

We retraced our route, crossing back over the St. Laurent on Boulevard Monseigneur Langlois and then west on Quebec 338 to Saint-Zotique.  Our bargain basement Priceline room for the night was at the riverfront Motel Rive du Lac, a rather shabby looking midcentury modern building of glittering granite blocks.

"How did we get this room for fifty bucks?" I asked my husband as he directed me to drive right up to the water.

I opened the door to our once DeLuxe waterfront apartment and immediately saw why it was only fifty bucks.  The new goldenrod paint did not hide the fact that these were distressed accommodations furnished with thrift shop furniture.  At least it was reasonably clean and the mattress comfortable.  The battered kitchenette was overstocked with garage sale items, the bathroom sink had no mirror over it---one had to turn around to shave in front of a mirror on the opposite wall.  I turned the heat on and found the heater was hidden above the suspended ceiling, so we probably roasted the manager's apartment upstairs before we felt anything.  Best of all were the homemade drapes on homemade flat rods that made it nearly impossible to draw them back.  We tugged and yanked and propped them back with whatever was handy so we could reveal the picture windows and the million dollar view.

One of the views from our once-DeLuxe room at Motel Rive du Lac

There.  Just look outside.  The weather had cleared enough to offer beautiful skies and far views.  The water changed colors as the sun went down, and suddenly the light caught the windmills some fifteen miles across the water and up on the hills to the south.  For a few minutes I watched the long, undulating line of them spinning in the wind, and then the light sank into twilight and then night.  The windmills winked red---sometimes in waves, sometimes in florid disharmony.  We never drew the drapes.

Four Miles Afoot in Quebec City

Saturday, 13th April 2013

Where We Walked


The streets and sidewalks of Quebec City had been swept clean in our sleep---the hard white lines softening into a gray and black world as the morning passed in leisurely fashion.  My husband sat at the large window, recalling his New England past, and then as I continued to write he wandered down to the tiny dining room to find our little acrylic breakfast box.  The box contained things like cups of apple sauce and such, but there was toast to be made, bagels and cream cheese and cereal, apples and oranges.  He sat down there for awhile, having a rudimentary conversation with a German couple who spoke very little English or French.  They had been visiting their airline attendant daughter, who lives in Montreal.

At St. John's Gate.  Quebec City

After I finally finished and sent out a blog entry, we took the bus down to Parc de l'Esplande.  Initially my suburban mentality was surprised on how crowded the bus was, until I considered Saturday was the urbanite's day to shop and socialize.  We disembarked and crossed the park to Rue Saint-Jean, but away from the nominally gay neighborhood and east through St. John's Gate into Old Town.  It was about lunch time, and the restaurants were full of the young and the restless.  The blocks between the gate and the city hall seemed very hip but unpretentious---authentic, I'd say.  I kept my eye open for a particularly interesting place to eat, but my husband was indecisive---and feeling awkward about my minimal French, I wasn't going to drag him somewhere.

We continued down Rue de Buade, falling into the more touristy zones down near the ramparts.  Being out of season, the neighborhood was deadly quiet, and although the buildings were interesting I could not dismiss the superficiality of it all.  Without people going about their everyday affairs the history is reduced to a showcase.  About the only excitement under the bright gray sky was sheets of soft snow sliding off the roofs and exploding onto the sidewalks.

View of the Fleuve St. Laurent from Parc Montmorency

Of the very few tourists about I noticed a young man who was noticeably autistic or the like.  He liked the snow falls and studied the roofs that had heavy accumulations.  He decided to settle under one and within a minute he was rewarded with a dump of snow on his head.  The snow action always made pedestrians jump and than gawk at the source, so it wasn't until then that they seemed to notice him.  Perhaps some of the onlookers were his family---at any rate, everyone held their breath, waiting to see his reaction.  After the shocking rush of cold, he broke out into laughter and everyone else---not seeing that he set himself up---relaxed.  I paused to consider if he just made a lucky guess or, like many other people with a different outlook on life, had a sense of the impending that we're too busy to notice.

Funiculaire to Le Chateau Frontenac

Being cheap, we resisted the Funiculaire du Vieux Quebec and climbed back up and around to the copper-roofed palace-like Fairmont Le Chateau Frontenac.  We continued along Rue Saint Louis, lined with small expensive hotels that offer a rather dreary prospective off-season.  My husband commented that he was glad we didn't splurge for a stay in this part of town.

Instead of heading back to that exciting stretch of Rue Saint-Jean, we headed west back through the gate.  I suppose my husband was looking for some gaiety, but the guy out cleaning the sidewalk tables at Le Drague Cabaret Club said they were only a bar.  So we ended up at the Hobbit Bistro down on the next block, a nice little restaurant just coming off the lunch rush.  Our waiter, a most handsome dark blond, spoke both French and English, so we were often switching between the two.  I ordered buffalo ravioli and my husband ordered a seafood pasta---both excellent.  Behind us a large Quebecois family was finishing their meal, and in front of us, at the front window, a middle aged couple carried on a quiet conversation in English.  Eventually my husband commented that the man gave off interesting, pleasant energy---which was true, but hard to describe.  A sort of unobtrusive masculine strength.

We sat left of the topiary at Bistro Hobbit

Our next destination was Boulevard René-Lévesque and a bus stop, but I suggested that we just walk back to our Maison Roy.  It wasn't that far, and it was mostly flat to slightly downhill.  Actually, it was about two miles, quite a walk after already covering a couple of miles of hard pavement in cowboy boots.  But it was interesting to study the housing along the way---mostly duplexes and quadplexes.  Every ten blocks or so brought us into a new decade---the architectural styles segueing from Beaux Arts to Moderne to Streamline.  Most fun was watching the occasional pedestrian approach us in the opposite direction.  Often we were greeted with a friendly bonjour, but one young woman gave our quasi Western attire a look over and us a most bemused smile before her cheery greeting.