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.