Ten years ago, we spent a night in Asbestos, Quebec, on our way from Boston to Quebec City during a holiday weekend. Back then, I blogged about the entire weekend as I faithfully blogged about everything—every road trip, every odd stop, every mundane musing. And while many of those posts now make me cringe, they’re a snapshot of who I was: eager to be witty, often glib, and sometimes a little too quick to mock.
Recently, Asbestos crept back into my consciousness when nearly every news outlet I follow ran stories about the town’s decision to change its name to Val-des-Sources. That reminded me of our strange little detour and the blog post I wrote about it. Rereading that post, I winced at my own tone. Why did I take such cynical delight in the town’s plight? What did I really know about its “waning fortunes”? And who was I to pass judgment?
Still, I’m glad I documented the visit. That post pulls the memory into sharp focus: the signs, the mine, the golf club dinner with its surreal triple-carb sides. And the fact that the town eventually changed its name? Well, maybe my cynicism wasn’t entirely misplaced.
July 2010 – from this post:
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 But beneath its modest surface, there were whispers of a fading heyday: outdated motels, roaming clusters of teens, and of course, the yawning asbestos mine just on the edge of downtown—a stark monument to its namesake.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.
