Thanks to cultural perks like The Wire, the NFL, and grocery-store sheet cake, Mr. P’s assimilation to America becomes a little more seamless each day. But he still requires regular exposure to the French language, lest the constant drone of English start to grate at his inner joie de vivre. So we decided to abscond to a Francophone country for some Franco-fueling.
I’ve remained haunted by an advertising campaign for Quebec City that ran in various upscale liberal publications some time ago, which marketed QC as “Europe, only closer.” It featured a photo of the famous Chateau Frontenac Hotel (here), all lit up at night like a fairytale castle, and some inset shots of the cramped, flower-lined streets of the old city. Although Mr. P had lived in Montreal for five years, he had not spent significant time in QC save for some vague nightclub excursions with his fellow bachelor friends, so he was game for spending Fourth of July weekend in QC… but when he tried to book a room at the Chateau Frontenac, the least expensive room was $250/night and had no windows. Whatever. Much more economical and relaxing to stay at a quaint B&B across the Saint Lawrence River in Levis.
We took the day off on Friday and plowed through New Hampshire in mid-morning, stopping in Vermont to stretch our legs and hike Mount Pisgah, one of the minor mountains that flanks endearing Lake Willougby (here).
In late afternoon, we got back in the car and pushed north into Canada, passing over the border with little fanfare or government interference. Within the first mile of Canada, the landscape opened up into an endless vista of farmland. Welcome to Quebec! Need milk?
We were in search of a hotel that would keep us en route to Quebec City but offer a bit more character than your typical highway pit stop. Scanning the map for bold-faced towns that might likely offer services, one name jumped out.
“Let’s go to the lovely town of Asbestos!” I said, half-joking. But as we followed signs for a hotel off the main road, it became clear that we’d end up in the very heart of Asbestos, Quebec. Every sign we passed—the Asbestos Golf Club, the Asbestos Baptist Church—amused me to no end.
The town itself was outwardly tidy, with well-cared-for homes and little sign of trouble spilling onto the streets. But beneath its modest surface, there were whispers of a fading heyday: outdated motels, roaming clusters of teens, and of course, the yawning asbestos mine just on the edge of downtown—a stark monument to its namesake.
After dinner at the golf club (Mr. P’s fish came with rice, pasta, and potatoes, because why not?), we strolled through the town center and stumbled upon an adult softball game between two teams of burly laborers. It was oddly riveting. Later, we tried to check out a karaoke nightclub but balked at the $10 cover charge, retreating instead to our hotel.
Laugh as we did at the town’s ill-fated branding, I will say this: I had one of the best nights of sleep I’ve ever had in a hotel. Perhaps it was the quiet charm of Asbestos. Or perhaps I was merely sedated by the airborne particles of its infamous past.
The next morning, we completed our journey to QC, arriving mid-morning at our quaint B&B on the banks of the mighty St. Lawrence River. We said “Bonjour” to the innkeepers and then hastened to the nearby ferry that would deliver us into the heart of QC in only 15 minutes. Here’s a view of the Chateau from the ferry deck…
We set off for a leisurely walk through the major tourist attractions of QC amid scores of other tourists. A persistent breeze off of the water kept us from getting too heated in the hot sunshine.
We stopped in a cafe at around 2pm for some refreshment. QC felt very European to me, but Mr. P found the Euro-qualities to be degraded, almost farcical, like a Disney-fied version of a Parisian neighborhood. I can only imagine that it’s a tad surreal to visit a city where the people look sorta like you, talk a bastardized version of your language, and treat you with cheery patronization that the locals reserve for tourists. I can only imagine it’s like visiting Texas.
Les moutons!
Some massive public singalong weirdness…
Couple dancing salsa to the tune of a street vendor’s radio…
Promenade…
Tourists taunting the unmoving guard’s regiment outside of the QC citadel…
After a full afternoon that included an elating stop in a bar to watch Spain prevail over Paraguay with a group of rowdy, erudite young men who could have only been American liberal arts college kids on vacation, we boarded the ferry back to Levis, eager to escape the increasing crush of the congested old city as it came alive with nightlife. Besides, it’s much better to view QC at night from across the river — just like the advertisement.
We awoke the next morning in our delicately-decorated room and breakfasted on a three-course meal (I was curious if the breakfast would be American-style or French-style, and it turns out they were both, at the same time) after which we wanted to go back to sleep (Bed and Breakfast and Bed). But we decided to fulfill our vacation’s history requirement by walking to a nearby fort in Levis erected in the 1860s by the British, who were paranoid that the Americans were plotting to attack Quebec via a railroad. The fort, which cost the British taxpayers $1 million, was constructed using cutting edge fort technology such as rolling drawbridges, reinforced powder rooms, and angled sniper holes. It was never used, as the Americans were too busy with that whole Civil War thing to think of invading Quebec.
From the disused Levis fort, we drove over to a state park to see a dam/waterfall area (Canada thrives on hydroelectric power) that boasted 4km of pedestrian trials — mostly stairs and the world’s bounciest pedestrian bridge, which I could only cross with my eyes fixed to the sky. The battery in Mr. P’s camera died after this photo, right when he tried to capture the waterfall (making me feel guilty about all the gratuitous photos I took in Asbestos).
The rest of the vacation was a relaxing blur of food, drink, and meandering. We accomplished nothing except ridding ourselves of all the Canadian coins that we’ve collected over the years. I almost died when a bartender gave me 3 American quarters as change.
The 3 weirdest things that I saw in Canada:
1 – A highway weigh station that was actually open.
2 – A young woman carrying a parrot in a backpack cage and strolling around a park with her family.
3 – “Attention, Chien Bizarre” (strange dog).
