My family and I recently went on a road trip in the province of Quebec. I have lived in the Montreal area for many years now and I’ve been on road trips before, but I’ve never stopped at a fromagerie. I have seen signs on the road announcing their presence all over the place, and I’m very enthusiastic about cheese, but for some reason, I never stopped.
For this road trip, I told my husband and son that I wanted to stop whenever we saw a sign that said “fromagerie.” I was also willing to stop for the word “laiterie.” Now I’m writing a blog post so that you can join us on this delicious journey.
I have posted on this blog every day since June 8. It’s been years since I’ve been writing with any sort of regularity, so it feels pretty good.
As you may have noticed, I’ve mostly been writing vignettes. Some of these depict recent scenes, but many of them are old snapshots of my life from way back. I thought it might be a good idea to post a monthly update to share what’s happening with my blog and what’s happening in my life.
You can read the vignette presented in this video here.
The video includes my artwork, and also some footage from our more recent whale watching tour last week. This time we were armed with Gravol and we didn’t get sick.
Here is a gallery with some pictures from the tour and with the artwork from the video.
The waterfall at Camping Chutes Fraser near La Malbaie, Quebec
There’s a waterfall across the laneway from our campsite. After our tent is set up, we cross the little road to have a look.
Wooden stairs lead down to to the flat rocks at the top of the waterfall. We stand on the rocks and admire the scene.
“We’ll probably get a better view from the bottom of the waterfall,” I say.
My husband Phil says, “Do you want to take that trail we saw when we came in?” I agree and we head down the path.
We quickly realize that the path we’re walking on is also a roadway. We squeeze onto the shoulder to let cars pass. We bend our knees generously as we make our way down the steep path through the woods.
At the bottom of the hill, there is a parking lot. A family in a pickup truck wants to park where my son is currently walking. They reach their arms out of the open windows and bang on the metal sides of the truck, making a loud, booming sound.
Not wanting him to get run over, I pull my son out of the way, but the truck is taking up the entire parking lot. Pedestrians scatter as the driver maneuvers around the small parking lot.
We get away from that mess and onto the trail. There is a wooden bridge crossing the river and a foot path leading us closer to the waterfall. I snap several pictures and take some videos from the bridge and from the path.
We find a picnic table near the base of the waterfall and sit down to enjoy its beauty. The cool mist tickles our hot faces, relieving us from the humidity that has been clinging to us all day.
Phil decides that it’s a good time for him to get some photographs as well. He takes out his phone and uses the camera to frame the waterfall. He is about to tap the button when the family from the pickup truck walks into his shot.
They’re wearing bathing suits, tank tops, and flip flops. A guy with a mop of white-blond hair and neon pink swim shorts takes his shirt off and poses in front of the waterfall.
He bares his teeth and sticks his tongue out as far as it will go. He sticks his pointer and pinky fingers up while holding the middle fingers down with his thumb. He poses with his right hand up and his left hand in front of his belly, with his left hand up and his right hand down, and with both hands in front of his hips.
When he is done having his picture taken, he puts his shirt back on.
When Phil sees the guy walk back to his family, he thinks that this is his chance. He takes his phone out again, but the other family members also want their pictures taken.
We notice rain drops and decide to walk back to the campsite. As we walk over the bridge, we see the guy climbing up the waterfall. His shorts are blazing like a neon sign in front of the white water and the grey rocks.
A few days later, we’re at home sitting on the couch. I ask Phil what his favourite part of the road trip was.
“I liked it when we were sitting on the picnic table and laughing at that guy,” he says. “You know, the one who was throwing horns in front of the waterfall while his girlfriend or whoever took his picture.”
I was on a road trip with my family this week, which is why the video is late. It also contains scenes from our trip. There will be more posts about this road trip coming soon, and there are already some photos and videos on my Instagram.
The boat jumps up and down on the waves like a volleyball leaping over a net. Even without the connection to my least favourite sport, I’m not feeling super amazing. I try to concentrate on the tour guide’s fun whale facts and the soft weight of my son’s head on my shoulder and not on my stomach.
“I don’t feel good,” my son says. I look down at him. His arms are hugging his stomach and he is staring at the bottom of the boat.
“I’ll go get a barf bag,” I tell him. I give him a gentle pat on his shoulder and walk up to the tour guide to ask her for one the bags that she waved around in the air and stuffed into the pocket of her fleece jacket at the start of the tour.
She is still reciting her whale facts, and she puts a finger up, indicating that I should wait. When she finishes her sentence, I ask her for one of the bags, but when I have it in my hand and I turn around, it is already too late.
My son’s vomit is all over the bottom of the boat. Another mom is sitting next to him and rubbing his back with concern. As I watch the scene with the empty barf bag in my hand, I feel that I have failed him.
I clean my son up with tiny, brown, ineffective paper towels. The smell and the rocking boat make my stomach want to empty itself as well, but I manage to hold it together.
When we get home from our trip a few days later, my son tells me that his favourite part was the whale watching tour.
It’s 2016, my son is seven years old, and we are boarding an airplane. We arrive at our row and the young man in the window seat greets us politely.
My son is angry that this guy has the window seat.
I am surprised by this reaction because my son hates flying. The last time he had a window seat on a plane , he cried out, “Oh no, we’re all going to die!” while we were landing at the airport. He wasn’t trying to scare the other passengers to be mean, he just thought that what he was saying was accurate.
When you’re not afraid of flying, it is difficult to know what will help someone who is afraid to feel better. Apparently, specifically choosing non-window seats while booking the flight is not helpful.
My son is telling me that he wants the window seat and asking me why he can’t sit in the window seat. I explain to him that I chose to not have window seats and I explain why. He is not satisfied with my answer, so I explain that the passenger in the window seat probably also specifically chose his seat, and he chose the window, and it wouldn’t be fair to ask him to switch seats when he specifically chose a window seat and we specifically chose non-window seats. I also explain that we should probably just leave the guy alone because we don’t want to be rude jerks.
“Okay, fine,” my son grumbles. I give him a comic book and he settles down, but his face still looks slightly sulky.
The plane turns on. The engines make all of the voices of all of the passengers sound muffled and hushed. The flight attendants do their safety pantomime in the aisles as the plane crawls slowly around the airport.
Finally, it’s time for the airplane to shoot up into the sky in a diagonal line. My son tries to look out of our neighbour’s window. He stretches his neck back and forth before saying, “Ugh, his head’s in the way!” and collapsing back into his seat in frustration.
We run into the guy from the airplane the next day when we’re returning from a tour. His face brightens when he sees us.
Sometimes you have to make a quick decision during a stressful time. Your brain throws several options at you when, really, two options would suffice. Is the option to wait a good one, or will you have an even worse problem two minutes from now? Is the second option too dangerous? Will the third option get you lost, making your stressful situation even more stressful? You can’t sit here weighing options, you have to make a decision right now, immediately.
“Oh no, I just cut that person off!” I say as I drive around with a friend in Ottawa. She tells me that it’s okay because I have a Quebec license plate.
Late August vacations span warm days and cool nights. It is a time when both mosquito and tourist populations are beginning to dwindle. It’s a good time to take my son on a road trip.
My car is the only one in the dirt parking lot surrounded by tall pine trees. I can hear the cars on the nearby highway where the entrance to the campground is. I’m carrying the firewood while my son clutches the map of the campground that will help us find our site. I open the hatch of my car and drop the wood inside. I’m about to close the hatch again when I see her.
She walks out into the parking lot from a line of trees, a baby in a summer outfit with a cotton sun hat and a white pair of sandals. She’s a little bit wobbly and probably only learned how to walk recently. She stumbles and puts her hands down to catch her fall. She’s only down for two seconds, and then she’s back to wobbling her way across the parking lot.
I look around. Nobody else is here, nobody followed her from behind the trees. I completely forget about closing the hatch of my car and walk towards her, my son trailing behind me.
The baby looks a bit nervous when I pick her up. She half-heartedly tries to escape before settling into my arms. My son says, “Are you sure we should be doing this?”
We walk towards the trees where she came from. There’s a small road lined with campsites. The first campsite has an older couple sitting on lawn chairs. I say, “Excusez-moi, avez-vous perdu ce bébé?”*
“Non!” they say, shaking their heads vigorously. They looked scandalized, but I now have their rapt attention as I go to the campsite across from them. I feel like the little girl in Robert Munsch’s Murmel, Murmel, Murmel.
The next campsite has a young guy grilling steaks on a portable charcoal barbecue. He looks up at me casually when I ask my question, and then looks down at the steaks again. Then his head snaps back up to look at the baby that I’m holding. He rushes forward to claim her.
“Je suis désolé!” he exclaims. “C’est ma blonde qui devrait la garder.”**
His girlfriend yells from the camper that she’s in the bathroom. They start to bicker.
As I turn to leave, I get two enthusiastic thumbs up from the first campsite I visited. My son says, “That went a lot better than I thought it would.”
I think about that baby all the time. My son doesn’t remember her. When I tell him the story, he says, “Did you find its owners?” and I say, “You mean her parents?”
*Excuse me, did you lose this baby?
**I’m sorry! It’s my girlfriend who should be watching her.
Raccoon Brontosaurus 