MyWestworld

French Immersion (part 1)

Posted on 09. Jul, 2008 by Kerry Banks in Writing from the road

Ah, the life of a travel writer. I leave Vancouver on a spectacular day, the city bathed in brilliant sunshine and nary a cloud in the sky. I’m catching a plane to the La Belle Province to take a tour of the Quebec Maritime region and to attend a tourism conference in Quebec City, which is celebrating its 400th anniversary. My guide for the regional tour has emailed me a lengthy list of items to bring along. The agenda includes a windbreaker, fleece, sweater, gloves and an umbrella. Since I’m arriving at the beginning of July, I dismiss these suggestions as overly pessimistic. My mistake becomes all too evident after we land in Quebec City and I find myself sprinting across the tarmac from the plane to the airport terminal through a violent, bone-chilling rainstorm.

Amazingly, some of the other passengers have umbrellas. How they were able to get an umbrella through security when my nail clippers are routinely confiscated is a mystery to me. Splattered with rain, I enter the baggage zone and stare in dismay into the waiting area. Every single person is decked out in winter gear. Mon Dieu! Luggage in hand, I stagger outside into a mini-hurricane. The rain is coming down like machine-gun fire. The airport employee who summons a cab for me is dressed in what appears to be a hazmat suit. Enroute to my hotel, the taxi driver tells me that it has rained 25 of the last 30 days. The weather forecast for the next few days is “bad,” he says. “Very bad.” With my mood sinking fast, we churn through the storm, geysers of water spraying from our wheels and the windshield wipers pounding out a ferocious rhythm.

After checking to my room, I put on most of the clothes I own, a hooded slicker and a baseball cap and then boldly head out into the deluge. The hotel restaurant is closed and I really need a drink. Around the corner I find a cobblestone street with some funky bars. I enter the first one I find that is still open–The Casbah. The place is deserted, save for a few young people. I walk up to a gorgeous blonde waitress and ask her if she speaks English. “Of course,” she says, looking at me strangely.

“Can I get a glass of wine?” I ask.

“What kind?” she says.

“Something dry,” I tell her.

Settling in at the bar with a glass of Italian red, I take stock of the situation. On the positive side, the weather can’t get any worse, I tell myself. 

Staring around the room at the French lettering, I am reminded of my only other two trips to Quebec, both occurring many years before. The first was in 1967, when our family drove to Expo from our home in Toronto. I can remember very little from that haphazard expedition. What stands out is the perception that my parents were edgy, even close to fearful, simply because they spoke no French. Neither of them had ever been overseas, so in a sense it was their first trip to a foreign country. My father had trouble deciphering the street signs and drove the wrong way down a one-way street one night, and my mother yelled at him a lot. As for myself, I recall being extremely impressed with the Quebecois girls. I was too young to articulate why, but they seemed different–more stylish and awfully sexy.

The other trip was to Quebec City for the Winter Carnival during my university days. I was travelling with my girlfriend on that occasion, so the French girls were not an option. I remember it was very cold and slushy, and that my halting French left much to be desired. We went out to a restaurant one evening and I gamely tried to order in French, but the scowling waitress kept answering me in English. Another diner leaned over and chastised her, saying, “He is trying to speak French. You are being very rude.”

The fact that my French is even worse now initially made me wonder if I made a wise choice by opting to take a tour in Quebec. The language barrier can be intimidating for English-speaking tourists, especially if you are convinced that French-Canadians dislike English-Canadians. However, over the years I have gotten used to being unable to communicate in the language of the place I am visiting. In fact, quite a few people, my own family included, often have trouble understanding me in English. 

The next morning I meet my travelling companions in the hotel dining room–Suzie Loiselle, who will be our guide for the journey, and three other journalists: Richard Pevny from Perpignan, France, Joanne Sasvari from Vancouver and Cinda Chavich from Calgary. I commit my first language gaffe by using the English form of Richard. “No,” he frowns. “It’s Richaaard.”

“You have the same name as a very famous Quebecer,” I say. “Maurice Richaaard. They called him the Rocket.” That statement draws a quizzical look, but Suzie quickly fills him in.

Suzie, who possesses an infectious laugh and a sharp sense of humour, wears a golden pin on her blouse–a figure holding two flags in a semaphore version of the letter Q. It’s the logo of her home region–Le Quebec Maritime. I immediately dub her “Suzie Q,” just like in the Credence Clearwater Revival song. I will cleverly use the nickname continuously throughout our trip, only to later discover that the word “cue” is French slang for ass. 

(To be continued …)