Quebec City

Wandering the streets of old Quebec City, inside the walls, I felt like everyone else does when there: that I had left Canada and suddenly found myself on a little holiday in Europe.

It is the only walled city in North America, defining its role in North American history. Quebec City was where it all came down to whether or not Canada would be British or French; according to Wikipedia, a 20 minute battle on the Plains of Abraham, just outside the walls that still stand and mark this part of the city as an outdoor museum, decided the fate of the newly found and highly sought after colony to turn to British rule.

This was in the 1700s, and it was then called Nouvelle France, a region that extended across what is now Eastern Canada and south to Louisiana. The Queen (this would have been Victoria) spent a nice chunk of money on a military citadel carved into the hill overlooking the St. Lawrence River to defend against the possibility of American invasions. In the end, the US took the southern part, Quebec remained French in culture while the British (but not only the British) set themselves to spreading across the rest of Canada, until Canada became Canada in the year of Confederation. The citadel now hosts the residence of the Canadian Governor General, the Queen's representative in the Canadian government, since apparently we no longer need it to fight off the Americans.

Having a chance to see and feel this sense of Canada's past that extends beyond the most recent 150 years while wandering through Quebec's walled streets helped me to understand (in a different way than reading about it in a book or on Wikipedia) that we do have a history here in Canada. While admittedly still a toddler compared to some of the world's nations, Canada”s history is rooted in Quebec.

Mom and I spent two days walking through Quebec's quaint old streets, but just couldn't drag ourselves away from this historical part into the more modern and less touristy sections of the city. We ate crepes for breakfast at cafes that could very easily exist in any city in France, revitalized after hours of walking over Martinis named after Rene Levesque and Trudeau – some of Quebec's political heroes – at the Farimount Hotel Frontenac, and dined on typical French Canadian cuisine at the Restaurant des Anciens Canadians in what was one of the oldest houses in the city dating back to the 1600s. We were distracted by artsy little shops, taking lots of pictures, and stopping into pubs offering local beer.

Tres civilized, and I am glad that I could experience this city with my mom oohing and ahhing beside me through this gorgeous part of Quebec.

Quebec City

Montreal, Part Two

It was suggested that leaving the Jamboree parked on Montreal's streets for over a week meant it could be a prime target for thieves, so I found a safe place to park it in the neighbouring community of St. Eustache while there.

The safe place is actually a hardwood flooring and granite counter top business. It happens to have a large lot attached, where the owner will allow people to park and store truck trailers or RVs. 50 dollars allowed me to leave the Jamboree on in the locked yard, guarded by a German Shepherd, for up to a month. So there the Jamboree sat for 10 days while I invaded my friends Fran and Dan's apartment in the centre of town.

While when leaving the Jamboree I initially felt a touch of apprehension akin to leaving my cat alone for a week, this week has been a welcome chance to stay put; a little holiday in its own right away from life on the road.

There were a few parties to occupy my nights, which included one night of Fran and her friend, Amy and I youtubing our favourites from the 80s and serenading the neighbourhood until 6am (which, of course, we were under the deluded impression that we gave extremely talented renditions until we woke to the foggy memory of it the next afternoon); once we got over that hangover, we induced another by dancing to 50s/60s soul/funk music spun my another of Fran's Montreal friends on a dance floor packed with university students.

We also attended a few possibly more acceptable cultural activities. One of these included a thought-provoking, absorbingly cool, and gratis exhibition by the artist Michal Rovner; if you get a chance to see her stuff, wherever in the world the exhibition is, GO! You'll not regret it. Another was the World Press Photo, which originates in my beautiful Amsterdam and then tours to major cities around the world. Same advice to offer as Michal's work.

Since I was taking advantage of Fran and Dan's generous hospitality for over a week, I also had a chance to do more everyday things, like hang out in a cafe sipping au soyas and reading, exercising at the Y, and making dinners and baking muffins in the kitchen. I met up with Melanie for a day, a friend from Tokyo who I hadn't seen since we both left 9 years ago. I spent several afternoons walking around, one in which I had planned to spend behind the lens of my camera but, of course, once I got a good enough distance away from home to not want to turn around again and I finally took the camera out, the batteries died. Luckily, I had another afternoon to try again.

Chinatown was closeby, so we ate a few dinners there. One was at the Little Sheep, a Mongolian “Hot Pot” restaurant where you have your own electric stovetop burner on the table in front of you. The waitress puts down a pot of broth - your choice of regular, spicy, or a half and half mix. The flavours are floating in the broth- many forms of unidentifiable balls, some which looked like nutmeg, chilis, garlic slivers. You fill your plate at the buffet with an array of veggies, tofus, noodles, fish, and, if you aren't a vegetarian like me, meat. Plop it at your leisure into the soup, let it cook, eat it, top it off with sauces such as soya or sesame. Mmm.

That wasn't the only culinary delight I experienced in Montreal. I also gorged on poutine while everyone else tried to get their mouths around Montreal smoked meat sandwiches one evening.

I returned to the wood and granite shop in St. Eustache to retrieve the Jamboree, and when I saw it parked quietly as I had left it ten days earlier, I mistakenly, fondly, thought that it was waiting patiently for me to return. When I got into it, unpacked, and lovingly found my way behind the wheel again, I turned the key in the ignition, expecting to hear its familiar rumble to life. Sadly, I discovered that, while when I left I had emptied it, I had irresponsibly left the fridge turned on the whole time, drawing on propane and battery power, and so was confronted with a very silent and unmoving Jamboree.

My mom has flown into Montreal to join me for a week to explore Quebec a bit more. There are so many reasons why I'm happy to have my mom with me for a week here in Quebec. And not least of all, because she was the one who finally got out of the passenger seat of the Jamboree after ten minutes of watching the boys from the shop try to boost the Jamboree's battery without even a hint of a twitch, to inform them that they had it hooked up incorrectly; thirty seconds later, the Jamboree roared back to life, the boys smiled somewhat embarrasedly and thanked her for showing them how to boost an engine. And mom and I were on our way.

To Fran's mom's place in Lachute. A small town about half an hour north of Montreal where Fran grew up, I (and mom) were once again treated to outstanding hospitality at the hands of almost strangers. Who quickly became, not strangers.

And so mom and I go to find the colours of Quebec in September.

Montreal Pics:

Montreal

Montreal, Part One

Sat in a corner of a colourful little lunch cafe in the heart of the Plateau district of Montreal, I attempt to put my finger on the unique atmosphere that envelopes this city. The obvious answer to reach for first is the French aspect. The architecture is frencher, the food is frencher, the people even somehow dress a bit frencher than the rest of (English-speaking) Canada. You hear a lot more French than English on the streets, and have the opportunity to dig back into the recesses of your memory, find that file labelled “Middle School French lessons”, dust it off and try to order your cafe au lait - mais pas au lait, avec soya, s'il vous plait - en francais.

And if your pronunciation blocks your communication, you can easily switch to English. Its still widely used here, thankfully. Equally gratefully, these aren't the only two cultures evidenced in the city; multiculturalism is as tangible as a strong bass thumping through the streets.

But there's more to the beat of Montreal than that.

Tourists love to walk through the city, exclaiming that its “just like Europe!”. Um. Well. Ok. Sort of. Except that its not. It is a very, thoroughly, Canadian city.

There's the usual mess of cars, bikes, and pedestrians on the streets; variety of shopping options; bars and restaurants and cafes offering everything for any taste. A chinatown that offers cheap and filling bowls of noodle soup, and the vieux Montreal to browse through quaint shops, cheesy souvenir stands, and sip a glass of wine on a terrase. There are the homeless, begging on busy shopping streets with their dogs and old, mangled coffee cups; young students bursting with fashion and loud opinions and heavy backpacks laden with books; noisy streets at all hours of the day, waking you up with a drunken shriek or a battered muffler in the wee hours of the morning.

The smells of the streets - fresh bread, smoked meat, and sewers - mingle with the sights and sounds, a cacaphony of humanity living in close proximity.

The streets are slightly more pockmarked than other Canadian cities; older, with deep potholes badly in need of repair. Dirtier. Brick and stone buildings lining streets, crammed up together with colourful doors and stairways to mark their individuality from one another. An older city, more lived in and comfortable like your favourite pair of jeans. Well worn, well washed, fit for all occasions.

Everywhere exudes culture: art, theatre, film, exhibitions, music. Its the hub for much of what is currently cool in Canada. And historically cool as well; when I was informed that I had just walked passed Leonard Cohen's house, I admit that I very briefly entertained a fantasy that perhaps I'd catch a glimpse of him sitting at a table in the window, having his morning tea.

Happening. Easy. Friendly, of course. Et bien sur, with an Edge.