Quebec City, Part 2

Bev slept in and I didn’t want to sit around watching her sleep, so I showered and dressed and followed a walking tour laid out in my Ulysses travel guide. The city was still asleep, for the most part. The morning was grey, with hardly a soul to be seen. Still cool, the mornings were the time to walk, now that we’d left the precipitation behind and the sun had come out in earnest.

Once Bev was up and mobile, we headed to the Citadel to watch the changing of the guard, the last public performance of 2008. Batisse, the mascot goat, 10th of his line, was in attendance, gleaming white, blanketed in blue. He played his part well, like he’d done this hundreds of times.

The Citadel is still an active military base, home of the Van Doos, the Royal 22^nd Regiment. Built later (1820s) than the Citadel in Halifax (1749), it is much larger, its purpose to defeat an American invasion, one that never came.

I was distracted. There were other soldiers about, watching the show, much as we were, but they were in fatigues and not dress like those soldiers performing the ritual. I was reminded that they’d just returned from Afghanistan. I had to swallow a lump that rose to my throat, thinking what horrors they must have seen there, knowing that they’d soon be going back again.

We left Old Quebec to lunch at St. Hubert. It’s fast food, not much better than Swiss Chalet, but it’s a Quebec staple and it had to be done.

We walked the Plains of Abraham, afterwards. There were displays everywhere, it being the 400th, regiments of Red Coats and Blue Coats about, lecturing on this and that, one saying that Montcalm was the worst general in the history of France, what with his leaving the Citadel to face the British, when he could have weathered the siege instead; and that, children, is why we Quebecoise live under the rule of the hated Anglaise. So sayeth the separatist.

We walked further to Rue du Cartier for what the guidebook said is a European style shopping experience, but most shops were closed. Our walk back to Vieux Quebec was baked under an ardent sun and Bev retreated to the room for rest and air-conditioning. I did not. I headed to D’Orsey Pub and a cold beer, relishing their own eponymous brew.

Dinner at the Café du Paris. I had lapin for supper, my first time ever. More walking afterwards, the late evening stroll devoid of other walkers. We capped the day off at D’Orsey’s before calling it a night.
I continued my walking tours the next morning before having lemon crepes at the Creperie, a little breakfast nook attached to the exterior wall of the Frontenac.

We toured the Chateau St. Louis excavations at the foot of the Frontenac.

We had our best lunch ever. It was cheap too. We bought sandwiches and carbonated drinks at an Épicerie a couple blocks from our hotel and found a bench in the Parc des Gouverneurs across from our hotel. We weren’t the only ones, either. A few couples, a young family or two. All relaxing, dappled by the canopy, light breeze.

We engaged in some souvenir shopping, then ice cream on the Terrace Dufferin, then lazing on a bench in the park with a book. It had grown hot, too hot to linger in the sun. Minutes under it sapped our strength. Later on, we took in some festivities at the St. Louis Gate, retreating before too long. What crowds there were close and clammy, and to be honest, we just weren’t that interested. There were buskers galore and we could have our fill of buskers in the Place d’ Armes, which we had; they were all very impressive, all very talented, some comic, some acrobatic. Had the sun been not so intense, I’d have loved to remain at the Gate, what with the stage and the sound system being stitched together. But we waited beyond what Bev’s patience allowed, what with the heat and the sun and the crowds.
Supper at Café du Paix, drinks at Le Feu Sacre, bed at Bellevue.

I followed another walking tour in Lower Quebec, where Champlain founded his colony. It was the most densely populated place in North America for some time, so said the guide. I can understand why, it being nestled between the cliff and the St. Lawrence. I suspect no one wanted to lug supplies up that cliff, leaving that special task to the army and their lofty view of the land and sea. Fisherman and merchants are too pragmatic for such things; best to be down by the water, close to the piers and the sea where all the action is.

Crepes again at the Creperie, this time with Bev. You gotta try this place, I said, noting that this was her last chance, considering we were leaving the next day.

Lunch at St. Patricks Pub, escaping the heat and humidity, then hanging out in the park again for a time. I know, that sounds boring, but there comes a time on each and every vacation where one grows tired of lines and walking and spending money.

We had supper where we first dined, at the Auberge du Tresor.

I indulged myself the final morning. I breakfasted at the Frontenac. It was expectedly posh and pricey, but there was an enormous variety of perfectly cooked and expertly presented food, far more choice than anyone could sample in one or even a week of seatings. No smock was blemished. No table remained un-bussed for long. The linen was crisp and clean, the silverware gleamed. No china without emblem. No yolk out of place. I wondered how much food was put to waste to maintain that picture-perfect perfection.

But what’s a dinner without a show? As I approached the Chateau, I saw an older woman collapse outside the restaurant. She’d grown dizzy while eating and voiced the need for air. But no sooner had she stepped outside did she grow weaker still. She stumbled and fell, slowly, her hand reaching out to catch her fall. I began to bolt forward but she was set upon by a cluster of Good Samaritans, Aussies all, they having stepped out for a smoke and only feet from her when she reeled and fell. They too were brushed aside by a flock of waiters and an officious maître-d’, he taking charge as he was want to do, ordering his charges for this and that, they used to his commands and jumping to do his bidding.

Moment’s later, she was seated, cushioned and cold compressed, the house doctor resolving from within.

She was coming around, so I took my leave to partake of my thirty-dollar eggs.

I should have gone back to the Creperie.

I could have eggs anytime.