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Big Dipper "Reach high, for stars lie hidden
in your soul. Dream deep, for every dream precedes the goal." North America's only walled city awaited. Québec City, built on the north shore of the Saint Lawrence where the great river narrows to a mere kilometre ('Québec' comes from an Algonquian word meaning 'narrowing of the river'). Maurice assured us we would love the old city's history, architecture, and its culture. We could scarcely wait to visit. Ten kilometres from the old city we came across an official campground. Our plan was to pedal around Québec City unencumbered by heavy panniers. So, even though the camp fee was outrageous - and Maurice's motorhome break-in story did little to placate my fears of campgrounds being crime-free havens - we anted up and left our belongings while we explored. At the Plains of Abraham, under a cloudless blue sky, we sat in profound tranquility: the exact opposite I'd bet of that fateful day back in September 1759, when British Major-General Wolfe took on the troops of French Lieutenant-General Montcalm. It was a fierce battle that mortally wounded both men. As I drank a bottle of Clamato juice I tried not to think of the sea of blood that must have flowed on the field that terrible day. (In 1760, the French attempted - and failed - to retake the city. Later that year, British forces captured Montréal and New France fell. Back in Europe, France reportedly took the defeat rather lightly. One government official was said to have casually dismissed Canada as nothing more "than several acres of snow." And, at times, I find it difficult to disagree with his candid assessment.) We rode around the edge of the Citadel - a massive military fortification built between 1820 and 1831 - atop the Cap Diamant escarpment. The lofty location gave defenders of the city a commanding view of anyone approaching by way of the Saint Lawrence River or the Plains of Abraham. Across the river at Pointe-Lévis the British military, fearing attack during the American Civil War, had constructed three forts. None ever suffered assault (other than from tourists, that is). We rode through the historic Saint Louis gates and into Québec City's quaint old quarter. Historic buildings, cheek to jowl, lined the hilly streets. "This is like living Canadian history!" Sharon said as we wheeled about town, observing places we had previously only read about. Our favourite was romantic Chateau Frontenac with its impressive view of the Saint Lawrence River. "Too bad we can't afford to stay even one night," Sharon lamented. "At least we have showers to look forward to back at the campground," I reminded her. To assuage our lamentations we hit an upscale eatery. The French waiters were classic, standing off to one side - slightly aloof.
Having returned fashionably late from our Québec City reconnoitre we slept in, enjoying the serenity of not being discovered in a wild camping spot ... and trying to get value for our princely-summed plot of scabby ground. Sharon finally coaxed me into rising. "One night in a cottage and we're spoiled," she yawned. "Race you to the shower!" I said. We grabbed our towels and headed off in search of luscious showers. But, instead of finding a well-appointed bathroom, I stumbled down broken concrete steps into a moulded and mildewed cinder-block cubicle. A single low-wattage incandescent bulb hung from a chain, casting a yellowish pall over the drab and dismal scene. A mingy little grimace etched my lips. The distasteful place turned my stomach. It reminded me of a gulag where prisoners were taken to be hosed down after a delousing session. It was the sort of public shower so filthy and disgusting that one walks on his heels - while wearing Tevas. "Talk about the black hole of Calcutta," I muttered. Nauseous, but unwilling to pass up an opportunity to shower, I hastily disrobed and squeamishly waded in. Twisting on the taps, greyish water swirled about my ankles. The drain, somewhere beneath the murky depths, burbled portentously, then let out a gurgle, gasping like the Titanic headed straight for the bottom. Talk about my shortest shower ever. "I hope I didn't catch anything," I spluttered upon exiting. Sharon hadn't fared much better. We had a hard time believing that holidayers would tolerate such atrocious unsanitary conditions when even we hardened "my-kingdom-for-a-shower" cycle tourists found it abysmal beyond belief. Vowing to be more selective in the future, we abandoned the grungy campground to less fortunates.
Across the river in Lévis, a half-starved Sharon hustled into a grocery store. Emerging half an hour later, she strained under the weight of three bulging grocery sacks. "Where are we going to put all that?" I groaned, gawking at the chock full bags of milk, cheeses, baguettes, muffins, tomatoes, cucumbers, sub sandwiches, and assorted mini chocolate cakes filled with puffy cream. "Never send a hungry biker into a food store," Sharon said, grinning impishly. "Yeah," I agreed, "from now on you're going to have to have adult supervision." We cached as much of the horde as possible in our panniers, then strapped the remainder on top of our rear racks. Burdened like two pack mules, we wobbled off in search of the nearest picnic table. Thankfully, we found a park a short shuffle away. The picnic tables had flown south for the winter. We hunkered down on the grass and feasted amidst stunning autumn leaves of fiery tomato reds, ripe oranges, and bright egg yolk yellows. After an hour-long feeding frenzy, we progressed from starving Ethiopian dogs to overstuffed fat cats. We patted our bellies, and curled up together, grinning like Cheshires. Sharing a saffron sunbeam, we watched bloated clouds pussyfoot past overhead. "Look over there...," Sharon said, pointing, "that one looks like Garfield." "Yeah," I agreed. "Eating lasagna." "Ohhh," Sharon groaned. "Don't mention food." After an entertaining hour of cloud watching and guffawing over a sailboat crew's unsuccessful attempt to free themselves from a sandbar, we got back on our bikes and rode until dusk. At a rest area, as daylight faded, we slipped over a bank and concealed ourselves amongst shadows. Lounging back on the grass, we stargazed. The Big Dipper already shone low in the northwest. While we watched, the pale moon rose - a thin silvery crescent - and hung in the star-studded sky like a glittery brooch on a sequined black satin gown. As the vault of heaven wheeled overhead, a connectedness pervaded our beings. It felt as if we were two with the universe. A falling star suddenly streaked across the firmament, marbling a creamy path past the Big Dipper's rim. For an ever-so-brief moment it appeared as a cascading slip of milk. "See that?" I marvelled in hushed awe. "Amazing!" came Sharon's breathy response. "I wonder who else saw -?" "No one," Sharon purred. "That was just for us." "I'm glad we had the chance to share that," I murmured, holding her close. "Isn't this what life should be about?" Sharon said. "For dreaming ... for sharing ... for being with the ones we love?" I nodded, and hugged her closer. Spooned together, we drifted toward sleep beneath the stars; the Milky Way spread above us like an immense shining comforter. |
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