A Oui Holiday
I have come to associate snowfall with magic. Growing up in the South, a good heavy snow only came every few years, and is now fewer and farther between than ever before. After a snowfall, I experience anew how silent and still the world becomes under a blanket of it. Traffic sounds are gone, animals are silent, almost like being in sound-proof chamber. There is a sense of safety, a sense that things are being put right. My birthday is in the middle of winter, but I cannot recall even one of my 48 birthdays being a snowy day.
I decided to change that this year and traveled solo to Quebec City to celebrate with a hunt for winter. I couldn’t have picked a better place. Oddly, the locals informed me that it was a warm week for a winter in Quebec. Standing at a bus stop in 7 degrees, I wasn’t so sure, but the typical 40 below sounds truly unpleasant.
There were, as per usual, dozens of unglamorous moments. I was told in Nashville that I must gate check my backpack because the plane had run out of room for carry on items. I reluctantly surrendered my bag and was assured that it would be waiting for me at baggage claim in Quebec City, after connections in Chicago and Montreal. My inner Fox Mulder was staring me down. “I SAID, ‘TRUST NO ONE,’ DAMMIT!”
I was unexpectedly required to go through customs in Montreal, not in Quebec City. The plane was already an hour late due to long de-icing in Chicago, the scanner was not reading my passport, and I was ushered into a long line. And while I’m deep into this tale, I have to say something about the no nonsense of Canadians. A customs agent in Montreal told me I had to pick up my bag before I made my connection, so I protested, “But, they told me my bag would be ready in Quebec City!”
“Your bag will stay in Montreal.” Polite smile.
Second long line. Everyone is holding a white piece of paper and getting through faster. I ask an officer, “Why is my paper yellow?” He gave me an answer that was fraught with nuggets of government-run wisdom, so I sheepishly questioned him again.
“You asked me a question, I gave you an answer.” Polite smile.
Well, okay.
Once in Quebec City, I made my way to ground transportation to buy a bus ticket. The kiosk was hard to find, and then would not accept my credit card. The downtown bus drove away during my crisis, so I had to ante up for a taxi.
My airbnb in Old Town Quebec had very subtly included the street number in a long message, NOT in the reservation, so directions to the place were not coming up on my phone for my French-speaking taxi driver. I had only cryptic photos of a tunnel and a keypad to direct me. After an hour of his generous help, many Google translate attempts, a conversation with a convenience store clerk and the dispatch office, I tipped my driver and set out on foot to find my accommodations. I stopped at a boutique hotel, afraid I would have to shell out serious money for a bed, but another kind man behind the counter looked at my airbnb address that was not an address, and drew a map for me of how to get to the right block, at least. My taxi driver, sweet human that he is, popped his head into the hotel to check on me. Then, I started hoofing it in the snow at midnight. I’m telling you, if you have to be lost on a city street at midnight in the snow, make it Quebec City. It feels like the safest place in the universe.
The next four days were nothing short of enchantment. The snow fell as I wandered the Citadel and the Plains of Abraham, the food was amazing (La Buche on Rue de St. Louis gives you all the vintage Canadian vibes and flavors,) the museums and galleries were an aesthetic feast, and the churches were havens for my many prayers. Once, I was caught in a sleet shower as I walked over a mile back to my flat from the Musée National des Beaux Artes, but I chalk that up to a good life experience that my beloved South will never deliver. In all, this city is a treasure, and I look forward to enjoying snowy birthdays there for as many years as I can make the journey.