A.J.’s Big Adventure: Conclusion

We went back to Canada, back across the border once again. Our route, such as it was, took us through the State of Maine with much of the journey alongside the very same river that Benedict Arnold followed when he moved his Continental forces north, to attack British Canada, during the Revolutionary War.

 

This time, our destination was Quebec City, the provincial capital of Quebec and the former capital city of French Canada. Once again, I relied upon trusty Maggie, my Pacifica’s built-in GPS, for directions to our hotel, the Sheraton Four Points. Once again, I was disappointed.

“Maggie wouldn’t take the address for the hotel,” I finally disclosed as we crossed the mighty St. Lawrence River into the city.

“Not this again,” Jack moaned.

Before Rene’ could offer advice, I quickly stepped in to quell the rebellion I sensed brewing.

“I’ll pull off at the first tourist information center I see. I’m not about to get lost in a place where they only speak French.”

“Very easy to find,” the lovely young Quebecois who assisted me said, batting her clarion blue eyes, pressing the blond bangs of her hair in place as she drew the route out for me on a tourist map. “Very easy.”

Why don’t you live in Duluth? I asked silently. My third son, Chris would love to take you to dinner…

Of course, I only said, “merci”, one of about a half dozen words in her native tongue I can manage. We parted. The map proved solid. We loved the hotel. Matt and Lisa arrived an hour or so behind us. After they settled in and A.J. ate dinner (his mommy calls him “Snack Pack” because of his propensity to want to eat), we made the executive decision to take a ride into Old Quebec City in Matt’s Suburban.

Now, understand this. Apparently very few folks in Quebec drive big SUVs. Oh, they drive Porches, and Maseratis, and Lamborghinis, and many other exotic, expensive cars. But they apparently don’t, at least in the core city, drive big, boat-like vehicles. How do I know this? Well, once we made it downtown and into the old city on the hill, we had to find a place to park. A brief exchange in halting English with a policeman led us to an underground parking garage. There, with A.J. squalling and the women clasping their hands, Matt negotiated his way down, down, down: through a maze of passages that allowed, and this is no joke, no more than an inch or two of clearance on each side of the car. Talk about intense.

“Excuse me, sir,” my wife asked a nice young man on the street as we exited the parking garage into a mass of humanity. “Why are there so many people out tonight?”

“Ah, it is zee celebration, for ten days,” the young man advised. “Music, and art, and vendors, up and down zee Old City. Next week, Bon Jovi and Aerosmith are coming…” he concluded, his voice trailing as he walked away.

Once again, as in Montreal, we’d landed smack dab in the middle of one of Quebec City’s biggest celebrations. The streets were filled with revelers and partying Quebecois and tourists from both Canada and the States. After a meal of calzones at a local Italian eatery and a quick tour of the area, we returned to the Suburban, closed our eyes (everyone except Matt), extricated the car without incident, and made it safely back to the hotel.

“I think we should can Ottawa and stay another day in Quebec,” I suggested to Rene’ upon our return to the Sheraton. “We’ve not much time to see Quebec if we push on to Ottawa and we really won’t have time to see Ottawa either.”

Rene’ agreed with my suggestion. So did the other Mungers. The women cancelled our hotel reservations in Ottawa and booked another night in the Sheraton. I was feeling pretty good about myself, I must say.

The next morning, after a lovely breakfast on the terrace of the hotel overlooking the Sheraton golf course, the sky open and the air humid and steamy, we headed into town.

“Let’s not park in an underground garage,” I suggested. Matt agreed. We found an open metered spot on a street not too far from the Plains of Abraham, the battlefield that, during the

French and Indian War, sealed the fate of New France. Matt pulled his big rig into the space. Jack and Rene’ plugged the meter with as many Canadian coins as they could muster. Things seemed to be coming together for a great day in the city. But, as I looked at the sign attached to the meter, a sign written, of course, only in French, a thought percolated:

Does that say parking is only until 3:00pm today and after that, you will be towed? I studied the picture of the tow truck and the cryptic words. The time was written military style so I

was pretty sure I understood that part of the warning. But the rest? Instead of calling it to Matt’s attention (which would have been the smart thing to do) I simply shrugged my

shoulders and joined the crew.

We had a lovely day in the city despite the fact that, somewhere along the way, Lisa revealed that A.J. was now solely “au natural”… meaning the breast pump used to fill his bottles had ceased to function. Calls to the maker of the device had resulted in instructions to find a Wal-Mart or a Babies are Us or some such store, buy a replacement, and mail in the receipt for a refund. Easier said than done. We never found a store in Quebec City that fit the bill so A.J. had to be content with more Mommy time than anticipated.

Matt, Jack, and I took a side trip to spend an hour or so in the fortress that stands atop the hill overlooking the city and the river. It was a muggy day and the walk to and from the fort left me drained. We rejoined the girls for dinner at a small French restaurant near the old Anglican cathedral. Before eating, Matt nearly came to blows with the waiter: He mistook the man’s French-style aloofness towards his wife and son as an insult. His mom and I calmed him down enough to avoid an international incident. But, given the food wasn’t all that great, no tip was left by the nasty Americans as they wandered back out into the city.

There was more to see, and, of course for the women, more places to shop. Matt insisted on finding a jersey of some sort or another. Jack wanted yet another soccer ball. I had no interest in buying anything and, in the back of my mind, as we made our way slowly back uphill, grandpa pushing a slumbering A.J. in his stroller, I was beginning to feel troubled.

I hope the car is still there.

 

Of course, it wasn’t. When we rounded the corner and entered the open space where the car had once been parked alongside a small city park, there was no Suburban in sight.

“Matt,” I called out as I stopped across the street from the very vacant meter space, “they towed your car.”

My eldest son hustled up the street, his wife by his side. It was true. Where once there had been a full curb of parked cars, now only buses sat idling, waiting for the after work crowd. Rene’ and Jack joined us. A.J. slept on, oblivious to the distress that was building inside his old man.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

I could tell Matt was on the verge of irrationality. What I said next was likely unwise.

“I sort of suspected there might be a limit on how long we could park here,” I offered meekly.

“What?”

“When you parked this morning,” I said quietly. “I thought it said something about being towed after three o’clock.”

Matt glanced at his watch. It was after five.

Things were ready to escalate when both Rene’ and I suggested that Jack, A.J., and I stay in the park and the others find a policeman.

“They speak English,” I said even more meekly. “They should be able to find your car.”

Matt muttered. The three of them headed off, Matt and Lisa in one direction, Rene’ in another. A.J. and I took a spin around the park which had an interesting exhibit of weather resistant photographs of the impact of global warming displayed along the footpath. Jack contented himself with dribbling his new Montreal Impact soccer ball in the long grass.

Twenty minutes later, Rene’ came back.

“They found it. We flagged down a police car and Matt was able to describe the car to the cops. It’s only a few blocks away.”

My heart stopped pounding.

“We’ll pay half the ticket,” I said. Maybe, given my suspicions, I should have offered to pay it all. But Matt, Lisa, and Rene’: a computer specialist, a doctor of psychology, and a master’s degree holder all read the same signs I did and didn’t sound the alarm. I thought it was fair. I’ll leave it for you to decide.

The next day, it was back to the road. Our return route was pretty much a reverse of what we’d done on the way to Maine. We sped through Montreal. Skirted Ottawa (some day I hope to stay there) and finally made it back to Terrace Bay Suites on Lake Nippissing just outside of North Bay, ON. Racing through Montreal on the freeway, Rene’ spied a baby supply store and called Lisa with the location. Lisa didn’t pick up so we had no idea whether Matt stopped to pick up a replacement pump or not. I smiled as my wife left the message for my daughter-in-law. I had visions of Lisa standing in the store, trying to explain, in gestures and pigeon English to native French speakers, what she needed. I’ll leave it to your imagination how that discussion went.

It was another hot, still day. The fire danger signs along the highway (you know, the ones with the little needle showing how bad conditions are) indicated that Eastern Canada was in a severe drought: Conditions were ripe for a fire. So, when we pulled into our hotel, with the sun still high and the air very still, I convinced Jack we needed to check out Lake Nippissing.

The public beach in Calendar, a small village on the outskirts of North Bay, was well maintained. The water was refreshing and stayed waist deep far out into the big lake. Jack and I dove and frolicked and had a whale of a good time. I almost forgot about Matt’s car being towed.

Then, after another night at the KOA in Sault Ste. Marie, we were on the final leg of A.J.’s Big Adventure. It wasn’t long before we were back at home, along the Cloquet River, unpacking the car and our memories.

Hey, son, daughter-in-law, and grandson: It was a great trip. And Matt, like all good lawyers, I have only one thing to say: The check is in the mail!

Love,

Grandpa Mark