Ten years ago I turned thirty. I celebrated with my then-boyfriend/now-husband by heading to Quebec City. We had a great time, except for the train derailment and the bodily aversion to the seafood we ate. This post is rescued from Livejournal, dated March 5th, 2005.
We made it. That sounds like it should have been a sure thing, but if you’ve known me long enough, you know that my ability to mess with machines of all kinds is something of a given.
So, the derailment of a cargo train on our track won’t surprise you.
One unexpected bus ride, massively quick switch at Montreal, and another train-ride later, we made it. On time, even. The Auberge de Saint-Antoine is beautiful, and I’ll do a meatier update at some point soon, but suffice it to say, you can still go ice-tobogganing at thirty.
7:45am: Wake up in Quebec City. Nifty birthday card from Mr. Dude (it’s a “Hey! You’re 3!” card, and he added a 0 to it). Rest of “wake up” proceedures censored.
9:20am: Finishing breakfast while Mr. Dude reads the newspaper and general contentedness abounds. Breakfast is in the hotel, and is continental, and is astoundingly good. Honey, croissants, tea, cheeses, muffins, breads (oh, the breads and cheeses!), yoghurt, freshly squeezed OJ. Mmm. Music in the lobby is Enya. Haven’t listened to Enya in a while.
Morning Hours: We took the first walking tour in the travel guide, and completely de-railed what we were supposed to do on it (see previous entries, re: Mr. Dude’s liking to be in charge of travel). We took a toboggan ride which was a blast (though it bumped my tailbone a little), I nabbed a cute Dragonfly stone as a souvenir, we wandered through some lovely stores, saw gorgeous buildings, and basically crunch-crunched our way through the snows of Quebec City. Many pictures pending. We did all 310 steps up (and then down) of the boardwalk. We couldn’t see the Citadel (closed for the season, unless you book ahead), and I went into a pretty Inuit Art Museum. Mmm. Art. We had a seafood wrap for lunch (where I made my entry quickly) and by this point, the seafood is seeming like a bad idea, digestive-wise.
2:50pm: We race back to hotel, Mr. Dude and I whimpering all the way. We hang out in the hotel till our tummies stop revolting, and I read my book and protest this is just fine a way to spend the rest of the afternoon by me. He feels bad. Poor guy.
6:15pm: For dinner, we decide upon the award-winning restaurant hotel, and after that, things get a little blurry, as I got smashingly drunk at this dinner. It had six (seven?) courses, and each course had a wine or port to go with it, and I was toast. I can’t handle a drink, let alone six (or seven?). Woo-yah.