This morning we had a decision to make:
stay another day at this campground and explore the route-des-vines
more thoroughly, or head to Quebec City. It's a beautiful morning,
the same sun shiny springlike weather, and it's a good day for a
ride, whether it's to local vineyards or 200 miles north. We decide
to head north, but not on the quaint country back roads. We're
getting on the interstate.
This part of Quebec reminds us very
much of Wyoming. The skies have become “big”, and the clouds are
singular and fluffy. The air is dry and cool, like October in
Asheville. The roadsides are lined with conifers, tall grasses and
wildflowers.
After a picnic lunch along the highway,
we roll in to Quebec City. All of my apprehension leftover from the
craziness of Toronto is for nothing. The roads are easy to follow and
hardly congested; zero sprawl. We even get to ride over a big
beautiful bridge. We locate our hotel on the first try, and the staff
is extra friendly. We're able to park the Girl in her own little
covered alleyway for only $20; she's happy, and we're happy that we
don't need to completely unload her.
We're early for our check-in, so we
stroll around the neighborhood. We are downtown, but not in the
Walled City. Even so, it's charming. We walk along the rue Saint
Joseph, popping in to shops, and sitting on a park bench to watch the
local scene. It's relaxed; lots of different styles, hip and not-hip,
all without pretension.
Once our hotel is ready, we settle in
and have a Wiser's with ice, a treat we've been looking forward to.
Then, we hit the town. What this means is a nose bleed assent up a
huge stair case at the edge of a gray, fortress of a wall that
surrounds the second oldest part of this city. We are walking among
throngs of people in the black heavy metal t-shirts, fanny packs, and
matching plastic wrist bands that suggest a music festival. A few
more steep hills and narrow, old roads later, we are in what feels
like the center of the Walled City.
Our plan is to hoof it to “Quebecois”
restaurant recommended by the concierge at our hotel, but during our
walk we pass a little cafe that we can't resist. It's called Le
Hobbit, and it is a tiny restaurant with the tiniest, sweetest
outdoor seating. We snag a table that sits right along the sidewalk,
separated by a tasteful railing that offers some privacy and also
somewhere to rest your arm, and settle in for what will be a three
hour feast.
We begin with a plate of Venison
carpaccio with shaved parmigiano and arugula. We also get a ¼ litre
of some local Quebec wine; it sucks, but I like the option the the ¼
litre. Next, we have sweetbreads and switch to a Bordeaux, which we
like a lot better. Then we have a duck confit, and finally a dessert
with maple syrup, fruit and cookie. It is maybe the most wonderful
meal the Pirate and I have ever shared. The weather is wonderful, and
we get to watch the evening settle in and all of the lights of the
street come on; baristas roll in their many awnings with tall cranks.
The people watching is spectacular with the music festival in town.
It's not obnoxious, like Asheville's Bele Chere, or terribly
predictable, like most concert crowds. It's diverse, and interesting.
With our dinner finally, and
reluctantly, over, we decide to check out the festival. While
strolling through all the people, some “kids” came up and swarmed
around us, telling us what a beautiful couple we are, how in love we
look, and how nice it is to see a couple walking with their arms
around each other through the city. We have finally found our groove
on this trip, and after such a lovely meal, it's now clear that our
happiness is spilling over and we're glowing.
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