Take Me To the River, Si Vous Plait

Canadian Nectar

Day 11

We are rested and ready to go. By 10 o'clock on this cool morning, we are speeding down the 1000 Islands Parkway, traveling along the St. Lawrence River. This is a segment of the trip that I've been really looking forward to. I want to see what the culture along the river is like. I get my wish nearly all morning.

The 1000 islands region is magical. The water glimmers like dark blue a jewel. Tiny islands hold tiny settlements with weathered houses, laundry hung between the island's 2 trees, a “garage” for their boat, a dock by the road where the family's cars are parked. Sailboats, motorboats and kayaks are scattered here and there, never crowding the water. We see a big, gray barge moving slowly straight down the center of the river. It's heaven.

This area is heavily “Anglo”, making no mistake what side they chose. Union Jacks hangs with pride and defiance, much like the rebel flag does in the south. The closer we get to the border of Quebec, the more Union Jacks we see. The towns along the river are defined by quaint main streets lined in turreted Victorian houses. There is also an esthetic of solid rock and ornate trim. The inns all boast tea rooms, and most of the towns have a genuine “pub”.

We are also beginning to see “chip trucks”; a food truck that specializes in not only chips (fries), but poutine. We stop at Gaetan's Chip Truck for our first taste of this legendary Quebecois treat. Poutine (pronouced poo-TIN, in this area at least) is traditionally made of 3 things: darkly fired thick cut chips, cheese curds and gravy. Good lord, how is this not also a southern dish? It's heart attack heaven. We tried the “traditional” poutine, but you can also get it with hot dog slices added, or chili, or salsa or whatever. It's wonderful, and I can see that if you had a Canadian winter ahead of you, the thought of steamy bowls of poutine awaiting would really make it do-able.

After lunch, it's the hour of reckoning. We are headed to Quebec. This province has a major reputation. I, unfortunately don't know much about the history, but I do know that the people of Quebec are defiantly French. They are (either literally or practically) a sovereign, francophilic entity; and neither of us speak a lick of French.

We have decided to skip Montreal. It's disappointing, but we are still worn out from Toronto. We are interested in the countryside, and good riding. The Girl doesn't like being parked out on city street all by herself either. Plus, we spent too much money fixing her, and ultimately we can just fly in to Montreal whenever we want. So, that's that.

With in 10 minutes of being in Quebec, we see a lady with a baguette in the basket of her bicycle, no joke. We also have to ask directions. I walk in to a gas station, and it's on. The girl working there speaks no English. None. We are only about 10 miles from the United States, and we night as well have flown to France. Everything is in French, the road signs, the billboards, the signs on the side of the road advertising farm fresh eggs, everything. Luckily, some friendly folks who did happen to speak English (barely) got us headed in the right direction. We spent the rest of our afternoon riding past apple orchards and vineyards on the route-des-vines. Motorcycles rule the roads today with the weather being so wonderful; it's like spring, bright blue skies with sunshine and cool crisp air all day long.

We ride parallel to the U.S. border all afternoon. We pass New York, then New Hampshire, then Vermont. We skirt the northern border of Lac Champlain in Venise-de-Quebec. It's been a day of riding by beautiful water.

We are in another campground tonight. It will be our second night of reading aloud. It turns out the Pirate likes to be read to, and I like to read. We settled on Snow Falling on Cedars. As the lightning bugs come out and the dark settles in, we snuggle up in our little tent and read before drifting off to sleep.