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.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.