29~Conflicted in Quebec: Baseball Caps and Berets

                                  ~~~~~~~~~~~~Leaving Novia Scotia~~~~~~~~~~~

Whiffs of the wholesome and simple life seemed to be spirited away; I landed with a plonk back in the city of Halifax. Bid farewell to my vehicle and trudged around the city for two days. Fog encompassed the city and reflected my mood. I felt ripped from the wondrous open spaces of Nova Scotia and wished to head back down to Lunenberg, to Woodville or right back to Pleasant Bay. So the opaque veil seemed symbolic and although inhibited my sight, I felt I could see clearly- cities were not were I wanted to be. I wandered with an indifference tolerance towards my new surroundings. Nature, the wide open spaces and lands of Canada is what my heart yearned for. With a little time I warmed up to Halifax. My airbnb gals were great and they directed me to a yoga studio, awesome thai food and a park shortcut where I marvelled at the outdoorsy nature of these Nova Scotians. I meandered through the park in the hazy evening. American football, soccer, baseball, runners, circuits, horse-riders, skateboarders, bladers all came forth through the fog, revealed like a strange montage, dreamy advertisements of the Canadian love of sports and the outdoors. 

No shortage of activity here in Halifax. Once I had condescended to be civil, I realised there is a very happening scene here; I sit and write in a cafe that has recently popped up in the area I am situated in. It is adorned with local goodies and produce, a gorgeous fresh menu and scattered with good looking alternative types (muscles and friendly Canadian demeanours). Beside this gem I discover a vegan cafe, where another beefy gent prepares me a lush juice and a kale salad to take on my train journey from Halifax to Quebec City. Will it last till tomorrow I query? "There would be something wrong in the world if your kale won't last till tomorrow," he says, flashing his pearly whites, as he packages up my dressing and coconut bits (toasted goodness to replace the bacon bits in a salad) separately to prolong the life of this locally sourced yummy-ness. I reckon I could get to like it here. People seem so active, healthy and interested. I dip in and out of interesting conversations (a recurrent theme seems to be about olive oil and the questionable quality of certain types; I want to butt in, telling them I know someone that gets his olive oil from a family grove just outside of Athens but hold my tongue) and am helped along my way each time I contemplate my map or look a bit lost. I have an early morning train. It is the overnighter in which I typed into the night, catching up on all the blogging I had got so behind on (story of my blogging life!). The rain never stopped and I took this as a parting sorrow on behalf of myself and my Nova Scotia. The kale salad was a success and I managed to snooze through the night, if a little uncomfortably on my reclining chair. 5:30am, Saturday I arrive to glorious sunshine in Quebec City. A promise of new adventures offered in the early morning rays of golden upon my face and a very pretty, European style train station.

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Immediately enamoured with the pretty station but at the same time disconcerted with the lack of movement and public transport at this early hour, I also began to feel the pain of my baggage as I negotiated with my pack. No longer a boot to chuck it into or live from was taking its toll. That feeling of not wanting to appear lost, reminiscent of the start of my travels, crept back in. I made a school girl error due to my fatigue, my extremely early arrival and fear of all things French; instead of holding out for the bus, I hopped in a taxi with a somewhat unprincipled creature. Needless to say, I felt ripped off. As promising as the city appeared and so French in appearance, my first coffee was repugnant. The taxi driver (doffing what I initially thought to be a beret but was more of a flat cap type of business) said he could take mademoiselle for a cafe, he knew somewhere open. The gas station he took me to get a coffee from was quite inferior to the European style cafe I had envisaged. I imagined mademoiselle arriving at a little back street cafe, blue shutters just opening, with poppy red geraniums in window boxes welcoming me in. This was a little bit of a ropey neighbourhood with unsavoury characters lurking in the early morning sun (one with a beer in hand); the shift worker heavy lidded, grunting and unimpressed as I negotiated the crappy coffee machine and attempted some pigeon French. The French they spoke sounded so odd. Very coarse and harsh. It lacked the prettiness, flourish or passion that I associate with the language. It felt odd. All things in French but paying with Canadian dollars. I was conflicted and curious... Ripped off or not, bad coffee or not, rough neighbourhood or not, I was where I needed to be so decided to shrug off the experience but not forget it; it was probably a vital lesson. I was not in my Nova Scotian nest anymore; I would need my wits about me here- hell, I didn't even speak the language here!! I had arranged to be let into my air bnb spot at 8:00am, so I sat in the sun, on the doorstep and settled in with my kindle for a good hour. Little did I know, here bathed in morning sun, immersed in the words of Lucy Maud Montgomery, that starting the 'Anne of Green Gables' stories would permeate and shape my time in Quebec City. 

I shed my belongings, chatting briefly with my host, Veronique. Wow, she was French. They really were not kidding when they say this is a French city. I decided to adorn my most European style garb and head out to explore, with my kindle in hand. I crossed paths with Veronique who had just had her haircut and she directed me to the best cafe. She was very surprised at how nice the weather was, letting me know I was very lucky as she hurried on her way. So although the neighbourhood appeared a little questionable, I began to realise that there was a lot of cool stuff round an about. I went for an awesome coffee (much more like it!), not letting my eyes linger too long at the pastry counter. The flakes, the sheen, the almonds and jams; that bespoke French patisserie appearance, so tempting and alluring. There was something a little different that I couldn't initially place. Oh yes, the archetypal North American portion size. These croissants were on steroids. Yikes, MUST NOT snaffle. 

If I thought that I was challenged in communicating with my pigeon French in Montreal, I was mistaken. Quebec City was seemingly more French than, well, France. I stopped to read Tourist Information signs, curious about the various points of interest and history that dotted this city. Hmmmmmm, I hate to say I expected English translation, but I did. Lots of the information was in French only. I struggled to decipher pretty much most of it. Quaint cafes, boulangeries, rickety record stores, grocers all snuggled in small streets, a layer of loveliness with a backdrop of block buildings and a modern Canadian city scape. It was quite curious and disparate. 

I stumbled across so much lovely street music and performance. Some top quality stuff.

The very night I arrived there was some performances that Veronique said I must not miss out on. It started at 9:00pm but I got there at 8:15 and there was a line that had started that grew astonishingly fast.  Carrefour International Theatre, "Ou tu was quand tu dors en marchant?" was taking over four locations in my neighbourhood and creating a performance area out of a spiralling car park, waste land, derelict buildings and a court of houses. It was all free and I stood, alone, in the long queue of congregating groups of Quebecians. I waited to be allowed entry into some very magical, curious performances. The balmy evening beautiful, the sunset over the city striking; empurpling dye staining the sky, transitioning slowly to a midnight blue. Suddenly present was my old friend-the moon, casting silvery sheen and radiance all around! I drunk deep the enchantment of dusk.

Le Foret was the first. Although it was all in French, I think the general gist was that this forest was disturbed, conflicted. These ladies were the pinnacle of creepy, quite the opposite of the flower fairies I anticipated.

The spiralling car park was entitled 'Insomnia'. Acrobats shot from a trampoline device, fought with pillows, feathers cascading all around and a very tall piano was surmounted by a dancer:

Quebec City was full of creativity. It was so strange- such beauty and artistry in car parks and wasteland. This was a city of such contrasts in more ways than one. Certainly in in terms of the different areas; old upper town, old lower town, the new old and upper, Latin Quarter, inside the walls, outside the walls, inside the walls, Battlefields Park, Plains of Abraham, boardwalk, city wall walk...

The bohemian/touristy area of St Jean Baptiste was great, very pretty and very French. As 'The lonely Planet' says: " it offers a taste of everyday Quebec, a depressurization chamber after the onslaught of historical tourism in the Old Town".

My stomping ground of St Roch was included in this description- 'the taste of everyday Quebec'. Although, St Roch area and that of St Jean Baptiste were seeped in differences. So as I contemplated the discordance of all things French and Canadian, there was another element that added to the puzzling mix of worlds. I was staying in this rather diverse area. An area which is on the up and very trendy, St Roch was traditionally a working class district for factory and naval workers. Recent years has seen a gentrification of this particular spot and parts of the Rue Saint Joseph were pedestrianised. Cafes, restaurants, shops, yes, like St Jean Baptiste. But this neck of the woods was adorned with punk rockers, tattoos everywhere I looked and a lot of skateboarders.  

The Sunday saw a street festival in the St Roch area. I discovered lots of tattoos and a had a closer inspection of some interesting graffiti.  

There seemed to be a massive drinking and eating culture here and I passed a bar with people spilling onto the patio, eating French foods, speaking the french lingo. I noted that they were also watching ice hockey, a sea baseball caps interspersed with the odd beret (or rather flat cap). Poutine on some of the tables too. Not so sure this is authentcally French...I realised I, in conflict with the cuisine on offer, succumbed to my predilection for Asian food and sought out Thai options. Not so sure this is so French...I enjoyed the church that was bang smack in the middle of this mixed bag street. A piano had been placed just on the perimeter and passer byes with a musical disposition provided gorgeous and varied soundtracks, enjoyed by all around. 

A topless dude next to me chowed down on a Subway sandwich (with all these great food spots??). I guess even these Quebec types can not enforce all things French. I tried to blot out his munching sounds as I read my book. Conflicted nature and opposing things all around me seemed to be an ever present theme. As this bloke masticated this sub, I read a description in my book that is polar opposite. Anne observes a friend who 'dined with such exquisite grace that she conveyed the impression of dining on ambrosia and honeydew'. I can safely say, that after watching this gent wipe the mayo and turkey off his tattooed leg, shreds of meat dropping to the ground, I was not privy to the same experience of my red haired comrade.

I realised that I had plonked myself right in the midst of folk that are regulars on these benches. Quite possibly where dodgy exchanges are made. I held my ground and decided to namaste right through the discomfort and the creeping awareness of being somewhere I may not be very welcome. In my bright spotty dress, reading, not smoking, with a lack of tattoos on show and being a girl, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I offered to move along the bench so a bloke did not have to talk over me to his mate I was perched beside. They clocked the English and proceeded to talk about me in French. I know they said 'jolie' which I accepted kindly in my head but have no idea what they proceeded to say. I ended up in conversation with this man, who I disarmed with a little French I had in my back pocket. He looked worried and questioned the amount of French I understood. I just raised my eyebrows. Yes, I know you were talking about me, buddy! He thought my kindle was a translating device, having not seen one before. Strange.

I was reluctant to fully engage, partly because Anne in the midst of some romantical happening and also he looked a tad unsavoury. He was actually a very sweet and interesting man. We spoke about where I was from and how much he loved the church that we were sat outside. He lives near the church, in some sort of sheltered housing from what I understood. He came here some years ago. His name is Roch. When he saw this church and discovered that it was called Roch, he knew he had to be here. Roch said he had never seen such a beautiful and old building. I had seen a wedding party leaving the previous day and I had admired it too:

This reveal made me warm to him. I can get on board with that. Signs that resonate and places gravitating. I talk about some of the churches that are very old in Europe and how much he would love those too. He tells me about his brother in California that had made a really amazing scientific discovery and kept coming back to this. His brother was in Science books and had won award. Have you visited him in California? It seemed Roch is perhaps estranged from his family and I felt sad that he had no contact with this brother that he was evidently so proud of. Roch is a little jittery and spoke in an intriguing manner; he revealed he had endured toxic levels through years of dry walling, suffers from scizophrenia and is on medication. I admired how upfront he was. Many men fail most lamentably to live up to requirements; for me honesty is imperative, and at least Roch that! He asked if I was spoken for and I could not lie but felt with this question that it was time to move on. He was no Gilbert (Anne's romantic counterpart); even my poetical stance could not put enough of a spin on this one. I willingly shared my sunscreen with him, wishing him well and hoping that one day he would make it to California or Europe to explore some churches. He had a very open heart and I did enjoy our conversation.

From the land of tattoos and alternative, to a more conservative and bourgeois area; I decided to leave my new friend and climbed the many stairs to reach the Upper Old town and hit Jean Baptiste. It was an entirely different atmosphere and I was drawn into a Maple Syrup Tasting:

Pumped from the sugar, I decided it was time to have something proper and settled down to a more French affair- a gorgeous crepe. I wrote some cards that I picked up in PEI, reflecting my Anne obsession:

I loved my days, wandering the city. Alone and whimsical, this demeanour propelled further by the pages and pages I devoured of  'Anne of Green Gables'. I lay by the 'Wolfe' statue, in Rue de Genevieve (the name of a childhood pal I would soon see in Vancouver), overlooking the boardwalk and the Victoria canopy (my birthplace), with picnic lunches. Munching thai affair, sushi and lapping up the gorgeous weather that I had lucked upon.

These days, happening upon new areas and revisiting my picnicing spot, my cafe haunt, reading and reading, I had became lost in a very poetical and romantical world. I realised I had put myself in a world of contrasts, echoing the conflicts that I noted from the off in this immersion of Canada and France. My romanticism was quite seperate to the reality of the city I was in. But oh, it was delicious to be in my bubble. I was in my element. I gazed adoringly at a dress I would pass and dream about purchasing it. I scolded myself- what a foolish, frivilous person I must be to be so exilirated by a dress. It seemed so befitting with the nautical theme (I heart Nova Scotia after all) but much too expensive. I resorted to oogling it in, what I thought, a rather romantical way. 

So all my ponderings and meanderings were also cut short with a massively different activity: daily Bikram. Instructed in aggressive, coarse French. It was my first experience of this yoga. I staggered out of the first class, having been in a haze of heat exhaustion. There is lack of poetry and romance one can find in lying in 10 second shavasanas (between a series of INTENSE asanas), in a pool of your sweat, upon a sodden towel, your heartbeat thudding disturbingly in your ear. I went back every day. Between romancing the city.

I felt amazing. Liberated. Happy, blissfully happy. It could have been the city, Anne, the crazy release of toxins from Bikram, the timing, perhaps a combination of it all. The conflicted nature of it all, helped me to recognise something incredible. I had been released from conflict that had resided deep inside myself for some time. I wish I was able to crystallise my experiences with witty little sentences and epigraphs but instead throw a lot of words and general jibber jabber at it all. So, I will just type exactly what I recorded in my journal:

Poetical thoughts pervaded and I began to tap into deep rooted emotions. Blissfully happy and I was not succumbing to my old pattern. Happiness would normally lead me to a conflicted state. The happier I became, the more afflicted I would become with the fear of loss. Loss in the form of death. Death of myself or anyone in my life. An insidious fear and at one point my head was so full of this that it seemed inescapable. Therapy would have probably been a good idea, but I knew where these trepidation was rooted. I look at myself happy in this moment. I see a calm, more accepting, in the moment type of girl. Possibly a world wide trip would be deemed expensive therapy (although I have heard therapy bills can be steeeeeep), but for me, it is already worth all the risk and every penny so far. For this moment. Knowing I have surpassed that conflict. Liberated from the shackles that had tainted and diseased the happy spells in my life. We all have burdens. We face troubles and demons, regrets and woes. Poor Roch. It is not always rational and comparing my strife to world crisis or others peril, problems may appear small. It is all relative. It is how we process, move forward, reach out, repair, become present and accepting. This moment. Here. A revelation and a release. 

Is it the conflicted nature of my time here? From poetic pondering to coarse French Bikram instructions barked at me in 40 degrees heat; from tattooed punks to a little European chic; from old town to new; from subway sandwiches to beautiful fresh baguettes; from baseball caps to berets... Merci, Quebec City, merci beaucoup- it really was quite a trip.