Sam was reluctant to leave the “Pigeon Coop” and head for a new hotel on Day Two of the Road Trip. He’d unpacked his toys, learned the layout, enjoyed a late-night movie snuggled up with Daddy: he’d made a home of this “house that is not a house.” How could it get any better than a fleabag motel on the roadside of Farnham’s main strip? We, on the other hand, had high hopes for Hotel Ste.Anne in the old fort of Québec.
Vive la difference! Bumped up to a junior suite, it was even nicer than we expected. Mahogany furniture set off the double-
stuffed and triple-fluffed cream comforters and pillows of the high beds. And I could happily have lived out my days in the washroom: modern fixtures, slate tiles, nice lighting. Ahhhh! We all threw ourselves on the bed, feigning a willingness to sleep through the Québec stop, so happy we were to find the room comfy and clean.
But it was 5:00 and time to check out the city. We did a little touring of the European-style streets, Sam mostly riding high on Daddy’s shoulders. The showers had caught up with us by now and sent us sporadically into a few shops or under awnings, but it was a lovely night still. We happened on a busker performance about to start and took a seat in the bleachers to watch some great juggling tricks: fire, knives, the whole nine yards. Sam was enthusiastic in his applause and prolonged “Woooooo-woo-hooooo!!” Especially so when his tall and strapping father was called up out of the crowd to brace the towering unicycle for the final act.
Starving, we threaded our way back to the Frontenac and tucked into La Crêperie for some Québecois del
icacies of a different variety (having stuffed ourselves with poutine the night before). We sat on the enclosed patio, right up against one of the original walls of the fortress. Sam was nearly reverant as he pressed his hand against the stone: he and Jeremy had been talking about the chance to touch something a soldier may have touched hundreds of years ago. And Sam was even more fascinated with the folk singer who was entertaining diners with Francophone favourites on the acoustic guitar. At one point, he laid down his fork, closed his eyes and whispered earnestly, “I love this music.”
We were just finishing up our chocolate hazelnut dessert crepe when the darkened skies split open and dumped a pounding rain onto the city. The awnings shook from the force and rivers sluiced down the fortress walls in the few seconds it took to gather Sam and run into the restaurant. Somehow, the sun was still shining on the turret tops of the hotel—an oxymoronic sight given the ferocity of the downpour. Sam’s wide eyes kept searching ours for signs that everything would be okay. And it was, about 5 minutes later. A large rainbow hung over the St Lawrence as we sauntered, full-bellied and happily weary from the long day, back to those comfy beds.
Vive la difference! Bumped up to a junior suite, it was even nicer than we expected. Mahogany furniture set off the double-
stuffed and triple-fluffed cream comforters and pillows of the high beds. And I could happily have lived out my days in the washroom: modern fixtures, slate tiles, nice lighting. Ahhhh! We all threw ourselves on the bed, feigning a willingness to sleep through the Québec stop, so happy we were to find the room comfy and clean.But it was 5:00 and time to check out the city. We did a little touring of the European-style streets, Sam mostly riding high on Daddy’s shoulders. The showers had caught up with us by now and sent us sporadically into a few shops or under awnings, but it was a lovely night still. We happened on a busker performance about to start and took a seat in the bleachers to watch some great juggling tricks: fire, knives, the whole nine yards. Sam was enthusiastic in his applause and prolonged “Woooooo-woo-hooooo!!” Especially so when his tall and strapping father was called up out of the crowd to brace the towering unicycle for the final act.
Starving, we threaded our way back to the Frontenac and tucked into La Crêperie for some Québecois del
icacies of a different variety (having stuffed ourselves with poutine the night before). We sat on the enclosed patio, right up against one of the original walls of the fortress. Sam was nearly reverant as he pressed his hand against the stone: he and Jeremy had been talking about the chance to touch something a soldier may have touched hundreds of years ago. And Sam was even more fascinated with the folk singer who was entertaining diners with Francophone favourites on the acoustic guitar. At one point, he laid down his fork, closed his eyes and whispered earnestly, “I love this music.”We were just finishing up our chocolate hazelnut dessert crepe when the darkened skies split open and dumped a pounding rain onto the city. The awnings shook from the force and rivers sluiced down the fortress walls in the few seconds it took to gather Sam and run into the restaurant. Somehow, the sun was still shining on the turret tops of the hotel—an oxymoronic sight given the ferocity of the downpour. Sam’s wide eyes kept searching ours for signs that everything would be okay. And it was, about 5 minutes later. A large rainbow hung over the St Lawrence as we sauntered, full-bellied and happily weary from the long day, back to those comfy beds.
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