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Transi de Froid "Everybody talks about the weather,
but nobody does anything about it." Uncle Dennis and Aunt Rolande, who lived in nearby Orleans, invited us for supper (a cyclist's favourite meal ... followed closely by breakfast or lunch). Sharon and I cycled a meandering path along the Ottawa River. People were out bike riding, fishing, or roaming hand in hand, viewing fall colours, and enjoying the uncommon warm day. A few were even taking advantage of the late summer-like temperatures, lazing on the riverbank in sunshine as sweet as golden honey. We arrived at Dennis and Rolande's too early for supper (but hungry, of course). When my stomach roared like a distempered lion, Rolande flew into action, throwing together garden tomato and crisp lettuce sandwiches to tide us over. After catching up on family news, Dennis, revealing his and Rolande's love of travel, said, "If we didn't have other commitments, we'd join you in a moment." "It probably won't be long before we load up our VW van and hit the road again," Rolande concurred. Using a recipe acquired from their five-month Mexico trip, Dennis began supper. He constructed massive tacos - our favourite kind!
The following morning, Sharon and I waved goodbye to our relatives. We cruised a quiet byway as it flowed along the curving Ottawa River. Although we were still in Ontario, the towns we came upon struck us as being more French than English. The prevalence of the French language surprised us. Even business signs were in French. And everyone we overheard was speaking French. Anyone who spoke to us used French first. (When we responded, they quickly switched to English.) We weren't even out of Ontario, but already it felt as if we were in a foreign country. A very French man, animated in both gestures and language, supplied us with route directions (though not before telling us we were "crazy" and that we were going to "freeze to death"). A north wind funnelled Arctic air into the area. His advice? "Get a motel room." That wasn't his only advice for us. "Don't ride on the sidewalk. The police will fine you." Then - rather darkly I thought - he cautioned: "There's a lot of crazy drivers around here. Make sure you wear your reflective vests." "Yeah," I responded. "That way if they hit us I'll know they were aiming." Down the road in L'Original we arrived at a gas station - cold, but unscathed. The attendant filled our water bottles while confirming the earlier weather report. "You'll be risking pneumonia by camping in this weather," he said. "The forecast is for one degree." He shivered. "That's too cold to sleep outside!" We found an abandoned ball field and, fingers and toes like ice cubes, set our tent in a dugout. "That forecast temperature may have been a tad on the optimistic side," I shivered. "The good news," Sharon said, "no mosquitoes." "You always look for the silver lining," I said, my teeth chattering in an attempt to smile. Sharon wore her newly acquired fleece hat to bed. And still she was unhappy that it was taking "forever" before she was sufficiently warm enough to fall asleep. (Swathed in a near-identical conglomeration of nighttime wear: double layers of socks, shirts, pants, jackets, mittens, and hats - neither of us were too warm.) Perhaps that fellow had been right: it was too transi de froid to sleep outside; I was crazy; and we were going to freeze to death. |
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