Cruisin' 2019: Day 1: Qu'est-ce que c'est? and Bon Voyage.

Other than it being ‘very French,’ I didn’t really know what to expect from QC. We had arrived late at night and taken an UBER to our Air BnB, so I hadn’t really seen any of it while incoming. But after a breakfast of fresh bread (surprisingly NOT stale) and salted butter, my brother, his son and I headed out the door and walked the 2 miles into downtown.

Wait – I guess I have to confess about my trip to the supermarket to buy essentials (bread, butter, Monster and Cheetos). The morning was bright and sunny, but cold. I left the Air BnB and started walking toward the store. I was dressed in my ‘vacation clothes’ (sneakers, white socks, cargo shorts, a hoodie and a baseball cap), but might as well have been wearing a red, white and blue bandanna, an ‘America, FUCK YEAH!’ t-shirt emblazoned with a screaming bald eagle on the back, stars and stripes swim trunks and cowboy boots – I could not have looked more like a very specifically AMERICAN tourist. 

'Oh well,’ I thought.Wait until I dazzle them with my French. The days of me asking for a ‘cravate’ instead of a carafe of water (and the predictable scorn from the waiter who corrected me with no small degree of smugness) were long gone. I’d brushed up; I was ready.  Or so I thought. I managed a few proficient ‘Bonjour’s to passers-by, and a polite ‘Ça va?’ to the greeter lady as I entered the store. And that’s as good as it gets. I went to the bakery, hoping to find a good sourdough loaf for our morning toast. ‘Avez-vous du pain’… was a good start, but just saying ‘sourdough’ with a BAD French accent didn’t seem to work. At least she smiled kindly, and just said ‘No.’ I went to look around some more, and she returned with someone who claimed to speak a little English. But he looked even more confused (and a little scared) than she did. UNBELIEVABLY, no amount of probably inappropriate hand gestures or slowing down ‘S-O-U-R-D-O-U-G-H’ worked either. And although my competently expressed ‘C'est un autre type de pain,’ appeared not to solve the issue, it at least comforted them in knowing that I was trying to buy a kind of the thing they were selling. After a few more minutes and more than a few more mutual apologies, we agreed on a still-warm ‘Pain du Campagne’ that looked lovely.  Needless to say, the venture into the adjacent pharmacy for sensitive-teeth mouthwash passed in silence.  Upon getting back to the flat to slice the bread up, I discovered, 'pain du campagne' is French sourdough.  La victoire!

When I got back, my brother and nephew were up. Drew was enjoying some coffee and Owen was enjoying not being in school. We sliced, toasted and devoured the loaf, and packed up. At precisely 11am, a knock on the door informed us that our time was up – we headed into town.

It was a gloriously autumnal day: clear, chilly but not cold, and crisp. We had a little over a mile to get into town, where we were meeting the rest of the party for lunch (more on that later). We set out, and the first comment that passed between us was that none of us could believe how CLEAN the city was. It was spotless. And we didn’t stay in a ‘nice’ part of town – it was just normal. But there was no rubbish to be seen. The sides of the main road were still wet from the road-sweeper that had clearly been through. It was a great first impression.

About 15 minutes into our walk, we heard a whistle. Not a policeman's whistle or referee’s whistle, but the unmistakable whistle of a father who had spent far too many hours trying to herd unruly kids through unfathomable crowds. For some reason, even though my brother and I were in a town about 3000 miles from our homes, we both turned because OF COURSE someone was whistling for us (I do this everywhere. Worst. Narcissist. Ever.) Turns out, they were. And if I thought that I stuck out like a touristy sore thumb, in my backpack white socks and carry-on wheely bag, that was nothing compared to the sight of my dad hanging out the window of his massive rented mini-van, waving and whistling to get our attention (thus proving how conspicuous I was afraid that we were). He pulled over. We met, hugged and said hello to the rest of the party: my dad, stepmother, younger sister, her husband, their 16-month-old son, and my younger brother and his wife. After a quick round of more hugs and hellos, we agreed that the party wagon would take our bags, but that my brother, his son and I would continue to walk into town. I’d already made a reservation for lunch at a place called Poutineville so that we could sample what I was told was the ‘must eat’ fare of Quebec: poutine.

Not knowing what makes good poutine (or really, what exactly poutine was), I looked to TripAdvisor and to Yelp for direction. BOTH places had Poutineville as the #1 place to get poutine in Quebec City. That, coupled with the fact that poutine, as a dish, had been sold to me by a Canadian friend as a life-changing culinary event equal to street tacos in Mexico, gyros in Greece or donner kebabs in Aber – meant that I was pumped to get some in me; I’d been proselytising about the power of poutine for months and we were going to have it as our first foray into the cruise experience as a complete unit. What could possibly go wrong? Look how happy we are. Look at the care-free expressions on our faces. We are about to be AMAZED. Oh, merde.

I can’t exactly fault Poutineville: the service was great, and the wait staff were very accommodating of a large group of people who spoke little or terrible French and were about American as it gets. The food came quickly, in large portions, and looked exactly like what the menu said it would. I got the ‘Zeus’, which was potato, cheese curd, gravy, gyro meat, tomatoes, onion and feta. I snapped a photo of the food and sent it to the Canadian friend who insisted that we must have poutine. This is what we arrived at my table:

We all got variations of the classic poutine which is (apparently) fires, gravy and cheese. There were a lot of polite comments about the food, and everyone (including me) expressed how ‘heavy’ and ‘filling’ it was; no one finished their dish. As I pushed my plate away, my phone dinged. It was my Canadian friend. Her reply came in two parts: 1. What the hell? That looks like stew. 2. How was it? When I replied that it was ‘OK’, and questioned whether this was authentic-looking. She replied ‘Na. Usually fries, gravy and cheese.’ And sent this, with the disclaimer ‘But hey, Quebec.’ 

I guess Quebec does things a little differently? Maybe it was just ‘Quebec being Quebecky’, or maybe Poutineville (a chain, apparently) isn’t the place go for local authentic fare. Either way, I’m 0 for 1 on the recommendations – this was hot garage. Or ‘ordures chaudes,’ as one might say in Quebec. Obviously, I can't blame my Canadian friend, either. She suggested that we try poutine, and we clearly did NOT try poutine. We got soggy, bland, stodgey muck, and - about three hours later - an unexpected second course. Mon dieu, sacre vache and pamplemousse.

Luckily, the rest of the city is magnificent. After ‘lunch’ we headed to Old Quebec, and just wandered through its narrow streets and steep drops from the Cathedral to the St. Lawrence River. We popped into a few shops, and I bought the first of what I expect to be many souvenirs for the girls: maple lollipops in the shape of maple leaves. I know, right? I also bought a postcard, as I’d like to send one from each port. I couldn’t find any stamps, though, so will have to try in the next port and send two at once. I’ll probably be home before they are, but it’s the thought that counts.

We’ve just got on the ship, and first impressions are: how the fuck does this thing float? OK, I get it. I’m the guy that can’t believe that planes fly, either. Engineering AMAZES me. Well, I guess buoyancy and aerodynamics are physics, not engineering, but still… HOW ON EARTH AM I NOT AT THE BOTTOM OF THE RIVER? This ship is 11 stories high, and has a casino, two pools, marble statues and a shit-load of really heavy things on it. They must be cutting corner somewhere. Rubber rivets? Styrofoam lifeboats? I don't want to know. Which brings me to my second first impression: there are a lot of old, unhealthy people on this thing. I mean, I knew that cruises in general are normally the playgrounds of the old and infirm – but GOD ALMIGHTY, this thing has more walkers on it than the Battle of Endor. I haven’t yet seen anyone remotely the age of the ‘kids’ in our group, never mind the age of our kids. I have seen a kids’ club – reckon Owen will have the run of that place to himself.  We did find an outdoor basketball court, shuffleboard and soccer area. I’m guessing that over the next 11 days, you’ll either find me there or in the hot tub. Check the hot tub first.