Two weeks ago, I went skiing (in Aspen!) with my wife and another couple. I’m not going to write up the whole thing now, because I’ll never get this post finished if I try. Instead, I’ll share a few thoughts I jotted down on the plane ride home.

• Why do your kids always get sick right before you leave them with their grandparents?

• I should have learned this lesson from previous ski trips: skiing and romance don’t mix as well as you’d think. Unless maybe there’s a jacuzzi on the premises. Which there wasn’t. (We also got stuck with the kids’ room in the condo, which didn’t help either.)

• il Poggio at Snowmass is one of the best restaurants I have ever been to, anywhere. The atmosphere was amazing, the food spectacular, and the staff genuinely friendly. The mood infected everyone in the place; there was a lot of conversation between tables. The couple next to us had eaten there every night of their trip. The family on our other side were regulars, and gave us a free box of Girl Scout cookies just because.

• My arms are too sore from snowboarding to write much. Yes, it was my first attempt. Snowboarding was a lot easier on the first day — while the instructor was holding me back, and I was trying to do more, faster — than on the second, as I stared alone down a long, icy, decidedly non-bunny slope.

• Holcombe (the other guy on the trip) noted that the town of Aspen had no flavor. I wondered if it was because places like Aspen (and Hollywood) are where America’s consumer culture begins.

• Holcombe may also be the most natural schmoozer I’ve ever met. He’d strike up a conversation with the shrubbery if there was no one standing next to him. Who does he look up to the most? “My brother. He never pays for anything. People he knows just give him stuff.”

For those of you confused by the posts with funny French names, this is Day 5 of my Quebec travel journal. It was originally written on Wednesday, June 8.

When I woke up this morning, I felt like a car wreck. Joshua was awake half the night. We gave him cough medicine with pseudoephedrine in it by accident.

Yesterday, we took him up to the historic (read: tourist) district and had poutine. Ah, if only I could get cheese curds back home. It started to rain the instant we sat down at our nice little sidewalk table on the Grande Allee. Afterwards, we drove down to the riverfront to park and walk around the Vieux Port, the oldest section of the city. This is a collection of cobblestone streets and 1700s-era buildings huddled between the St. Lawrence River and the 200-foot ridge that supports the rest of the city. In the manner of old cities, the history, architecture, and geography are intertwined. The riverfront was settled first, in the 17th century. Later, in the 18th and 19th centuries, things moved uphill. Quebec City’s location is a military strategist’s dream: the St. Lawrence River is the main waterway from the Atlantic to the continental interior, and narrows to about a mile across at the city. Cape Diamond, the aforementioned 200-foot ridge, looms out over the river and sports a fortress (aptly named the Citadelle) at its peak. This was the setting for the major battle of the French and Indian War, prequel to the American Revolution. George Washington cut his military teeth (not the wooden ones) in the battle here.

So, we have 17th and 18th century architecture by the river, 19th century architecture (government buildings, houses, fortress) on the hilltop, and modern sprawl on the other side of the ridge. Our apartment is in the latter section, but if you’re a serious walker and don’t mind climbing a hundred steps, you could make it to downtown (which is up!) from where we’re staying in about twenty minutes. There are sets of stairs all over town to get you up and down. We poked around the Vieux Port for awhile, enduring the drizzle, stroller bouncing on the cobblestones. Most of the old buildings contain fancy tourist restaurants, art shops, or souvenir dives. Gluttons that we are, we decided to walk up the hill. In the rain. In flip-flops. Pushing a stroller. We stuck our heads in a couple more souvenir shops, used the facilities at the Chateau Frontenac (the most famous city landmark, a hotel that resembles a German castle), went back down the hill, and drove home.

We read for awhile (I really like not having cable TV this week!), and the women did more shopping. The family came over and we had a hit-and-miss catered dinner of sandwiches and other finger foods. The tuna sandwiches were awful. We put up the swing, which (if you’ll recall yesterday’s entry) turned out not to be so long-departed after all; it was, in fact, hiding in the basement. I finally broke the ice with cousin Olivier by getting him to feed Joshua his evening bottle. His cold has progressed to the coughing stage, so we went with Olivier to the drugstore to pick up cough medicine. Which (if you’ll recall the first paragraph) turned out to be a bad idea.

So, back to today. Lack of sleep notwithstanding, we went running up on the Plains of Abraham. This is a nice park of grassy rolling hills flanking downtown, up on top of the ridge. The battle I mentioned earlier took place here, and the park features the usual array of cannon, powder magazines, and interpretive placards. While jogging up and down the hills, we debated what to do today and the rest of the week. We agreed that this vacation has been a lot of work, but somehow, we sound like we’re arguing even when we agree.

I lobby for a visit to the museum. There’s a Russian history exhibit going on. Stephanie wants to go (where else) shopping. I think we’ve reached a compromise.

(to be continued)

Sitting on the porch, trying to describe the lawn:

On the far left, a crooked chain-link fence leans over an overgrown gravel drive. The drive hasn’t seen a car in years — they all park on the street. A man-sized dead sapling, fallen who knows how long ago, hunches on the drive by the gate.

Next to the drive, a fir tree stretches to roof height and bends over the lawn. Bread crumbs are scattered about its trunk and picked over by small gray-brown twittering birds. The frame of a long-departed swing watches over the other end of the yard, ten paces or so from the tree. In the space between, a swath of ankle-high grass competes for dominance with clover and dandelions.

On this side of the lawn, an uneven path of gray brick flanks our small two-story apartment building, from the drive on one side to a little shed on the other. It’s briefly interrupted by a pair of old-style basement doors that could have been imported from Kansas.

The weather has been sullen all week. Overhead, past the tops of brick tenements, past the high ridge that rears up beside the river, rain clouds sail downstream like frigates.

I tagged along for more shopping today — gifts for all the aunts and uncles. We have the exact same stores back home. I should have stayed home with Joshua. The poor little guy was not enjoying himself at all, and is definitely catching a cold. Repeat once more: this is a family visit, not a sightseeing trip. Stephanie’s grandmother is pushing ninety and has had health problems, so this may be her (and her mother’s) last opportunity to spend time with her. My job is to make sure that this visit is smooth and enjoyable. Repeat once more, etc.

The family came over in the evening for dinner. We ate quickly and escaped to the English movie theater to see Cinderella Man. It wasn’t bad, although its treatment of the Great Depression was heavy-handed to the point of annoyance. Life sucked. Everyone was broke. Boxing made for great escapist entertainment. We get it.

Boxing movies basically write themselves: Boxer wins some. Boxer loses some. Boxer is down on his luck. Boxer gets comeback shot against thug. Boxer wins it all. Is there a more obvious, or more visceral, conflict metaphor than a fistfight? Art imitates sport imitates life.

What I Learned Today

• Vendes-vous des timbres? = “Do you sell stamps?”

• I had a pretty good Canadian lager, by the name of Belle Gueule. It means, literally, something like “nice jowls”. It’s a colloquialism used to describe a pretty girl.

Yes, I know, I’m hopelessly behind in posting my travel journal. I’ve spent most of the last two weeks buying a house, selling another house, pushing (small) piles of money around, and making sure everyone involved is talking to everyone else involved. Oh yeah, and working. Somewhere in the mix is also an eight-month-old boy who has just learned how to crawl around the house at roughly the speed of sound. I feel like a one-armed cat herder.

So, better late than never, here’s the first full Quebec day.

Ate snails today!

As Paul Harvey would say, that may be this day’s news of most lasting significance. More on that later.

We cleaned up the apartment some this morning, and went grocery shopping. I can see why some people (who shall remain nameless) really get into cleaning. It’s a way to exert control over your environment, to make it your own. I’ve had head knowledge of that before now, but today I really experienced it. I’m in a strange place in a strange town, and as I clean it up and put things into their proper places, it becomes more my own.

We went to lunch at a crepe place in the mall. Yes, it’s our first full day here, and we go straight to the mall. I know Stephanie’s mom grew up here and Stephanie’s been here dozens of times, but I’m a tourist, man. I want to do tourist stuff. I have a feeling that I will be repeating “this is their family visit, not my sightseeing trip” to myself a few times this week.

I’m starting to get over my French-speaking shyness a little. Just because I could, I asked the server if the crepes had buckwheat in them. Stephanie’s allergic, and found that out the hard way the last time we were in town. Spending an afternoon in a foreign-language ER is no one’s idea of a good time. Anyway, no buckwheat in these particular crepes. She actually took a few bites, which was a major step in facing her fears.

Joshua’s not in a great mood. He might be getting a cold, and he’s in a strange environment. We brought along an iBook to play DVDs for him, and a CD full of pink noise to drown out the traffic at night. That’s working out great. But he’s woken up sobbing a few times this evening. That sound breaks my heart. I’ve found that having a child of your own really sensitizes you to that sort of thing. On the bright side, he’s now able to crawl a few steps at a time! He put on a show at Uncle Reggie’s place tonight.

Speaking of Uncle Reggie’s place, we had a family dinner there this evening. Which is where the snails come in, but I’m getting ahead of myself. First came chips and dip in the living room. The dip consisted of cream cheese, salsa, barbecue sauce and shrimp — very nice. The chips consisted of Tostitos Scoops and Pringles. Apparently Pringles are an essential part of a Quebec gourmet dinner; we encountered them more than once over the course of the week. Next we moved to the dining room, where the cousins (us, Olivier, Elena, and Elena’s non-English-speaking boyfriend Pierre) were assigned to the kids’ table. We’re all over 21, I have a kid of my own, and yet here I sit at the kids’ table. Nice.

The first dish arrived in pretty little crockery pots, puff pastry ballooning out over the top, with what appeared to be marsala sauce and mushrooms. Cousin Elena opted out of this course, and Stephanie asked her what was in it. Quick quiz: what does escargot mean in English? Anyone? OK, so those weren’t mushrooms after all. Stephanie was definitely not interested. The other guys at the table were digging in, though, so I had a choice: follow suit or be an ugly American. Besides, if they looked like mushrooms, could they taste all that different?

The dish turned out to be excellent. I’m happy to report that snails do indeed taste like mushrooms in this context, only richer and, well, meatier. Or like clams, but less fishy and less chewy. It’s interesting that Americans have no cultural bias against eating shellfish, which are essentially aquatic snails (you biology majors can flame away if you like). And what’s a lobster, anyway, but a giant swimming cockroach? Nevertheless, I finished my snail pie and had most of Stephanie’s as well. The rest of dinner was more conventional, but the snails were actually the best part.

The family conversational dynamic is still the same as I remember it from our last trip. I try not to think them rude for chattering away in French in front of us, without including us in the conversation. It’s their country, after all. The Southern gentleman in me, though, expects guests to be made the center of attention and waited on hand and foot. Aunt Lise usually does a good job of addressing us in English every so often, asking if we understand anything, and gently coaxing some French out of us. She wasn’t sitting at our table, though, and the cousins were a little shy. Attempts at small talk didn’t get very far. But it’s only our first full day here, and the ice hasn’t really been broken yet.

What I Learned Today

• Plaisir de vous rencontrer = “nice to meet you”
• dormer = to sleep
• on va = “let’s go” or “we’re going”. Not sure how this differs from allons-y.
• je vous en prie = “I insist”

This bed is made of bricks.

…was the first thought committed to my Quebec travel journal. I never sleep well in a strange bed — not for the first few nights, anyway — and this particular model isn’t going to make my nights any easier. Air conditioning this far north is about as rare as ice skates back home in South Carolina, so ventilation could be a problem if it doesn’t cool down enough at night. The window opens onto a busy city street, and the blinds won’t close all the way. My prospects for a decent night’s sleep are bleak. The only thing going for me is sheer fatigue; Joshua was up awhile last night with a fever, and I never sleep well the night before a big trip. Too much adrenaline.

The trip (Charlotte - Detroit - Quebec City) was as uneventful as airline trips can be, except that this one was my first since I got my pilot’s license. I found myself mumbling air traffic control radio calls at key points. “Northwest 1234, taxi into position and hold, #1 for departure” earned a priceless look from my wife. Or would have, anyway, if she weren’t busy dosing Joshua with Benadryl. He traveled very well today, thanks to that miracle drug. He slept on the plane, woke up right before landing, and cruised calmly around the airport in his stroller, despite his cold.

Stephanie and I had the usual travel-day squabbling. We both like to travel, but she’s the planner and I’m the seat-of-the-pants type. She plans the itinerary months in advance, and I fix it when something inevitably goes wrong. It works, but not without friction. We’d probably do well on The Amazing Race, but kill each other in the process. I would be remiss not to mention that Stephanie’s mother was also traveling with us, and I leave the implications of that as an exercise for the reader.

Stephanie’s aunts and uncles greeted us at the airport. We headed to her grandmother’s old apartment, our home for the week. They laid out the typical French-Canadian fast food dinner –bread, pate, creton, fruit, cheese and wine — accompanied by the typical French-Canadian dinner conversation — in French that was way over my head despite my last-minute cramming. Well, my French can’t help but improve this week.

Stephanie is the only driver for our rental car (a Chrysler 300 that would make a great prop in a Mafia movie), so she’s gone now to take her grandmother and aunt home. Just me and the baby here, and I’m hoping he’ll sleep decently tonight. One of us needs to.

Tomorrow morning I’m leaving for vacation in Quebec. I don’t expect to be posting, but I’ll definitely be keeping a travel journal (thanks to Bryan for saving the day there). I’m sure parts of it will find their way here. Until next week, then, here’s a little number I wrote to celebrate the travelin’ jones.

Time to go.

The words are a wakeup call. Bags sprawl by the door like sleeping dogs. Wanderlust has made their master’s sleep fitful. It’s been too long.

For most, travel is a nuisance. Airports, with their hurry-up-and-wait schedules and counters staffed by drones, do their best to dull the shimmer of flight. But he doesn’t mind. All night he’s anticipated it — the last-minute dash around the house, the morning coffee made meaningless by adrenaline, the exit marked by an airplane silhouette. Every snag in the itinerary will be an opportunity to master the chaos.

He rushes toward the gate now, gliding past mere commuters who dream of bed. Even the indignity of the metal detector tells him he’s going places. Airport smells — diesel, chlorine and cheap vinyl — beckon as long-distance friends do. Ticket in hand, pockets triple-checked for essentials, he sits. Barely. The flight boards in twenty minutes.

Doors open. A polyester-coated attendant calls out rows like winning lottery numbers. Head cocked, feet gathered under him, he listens.

Time to go.