August, 2019
Thoughts and ruminations about nothing in particular:
As of this writing (8/12/19), we have been in Quebec for almost two weeks and, although I've enjoyed it enormously, I'm ready to be back in a land of English speakers.
As Bernadette and I walk the campground, every conversation we hear is in French. No mistake, it's a beautiful language. Someone — I don't recall who (but a better writer than I) — once said that the sound of French being spoken "falls gently on the ear." As opposed to, say, German, which sounds like suspenders caught in a garbage DisposAll. Still, hearing the words and having no idea what people are saying gets old after a while.
And not just conversation. Several times a day the campground manager broadcasts announcements over a PA system and I have yet to understand any of them. For all I know, she could be warning of an impending flood of biblical proportion and telling everyone to leave the island on which the campground sits or abandon all hope. The river that surrounds us would have to rise about 20 feet so I don't think that's what it's about, but what do I know?
It's fun to be immersed in a different language, but after a time it creates a feeling of isolation and I'm getting close to that point. Fortunately, we leave on Thursday for Ottawa. That's in Ontario, and that means more English (although they do that curious thing of ending their sentences with "eh?"). Departure is about three days off and by that time I may be counting the minutes.
It's interesting to note that Canadians don't seem to share our love affair with trucks and SUVs. Our campground, for obvious reason, is a haven for big trucks, but most vehicles plying the roads are small to very small. Also seen are lots of motorcycles, scooters and many more bikes than I'm used to. I think I know why.
In a previous post I mentioned being pleased to find that gas was only $1.24 in Canada. That is, until reality took hold and I realized that it was priced per liter. Thinking about that again today, I did a little math. I probably shouldn't have, but I did it anyway.
There are roughly 4½ liters in a gallon. That means $1.24 per liter is a whopping $5.58 a gallon.
Now, I don't know if that number brought on a "holy crap!" moment for you, but it sure did for me. Once I got over it though, I remembered that the amount in question was in Canadian dollars, which is like the Centigrade of currency. A handy conversion calculator brought the price down to $4.19 a gallon USD; a little less eye-popping, but not much. Thinking about it for few moments, my self-pity changed to sympathy for Canadians. They don't get the converted rate.
Small cars indeed.
Canadian men, at least Quebecers who camp (I don't want to over-generalize) seem to go for the bare-chested look. More than anyplace I've seen yet, guys at our campground in Sherbrooke spend their days, dawn to dark, in nothing but shorts and sandals. I don't know if it's a cultural thing or if the long hard winters give them a need to dive into warm weather with greater gusto.
Campers might not be an accurate sampling but generally people here do seem to revel in summer, certainly more than the typical Tennessean. Of course in the South we swelter through the summer months all the while dreaming of winter, then we pine for summer's warmth when it turns cold. Go figure.
Imagining the hardships of a Quebec winter, I can't blame these guys for enjoying themselves in minimal clothing, even though they're not exactly Chippendale material. The look doesn't work well for most of them and someone really should say something.
Don't look at me. I don't speak French.
Another thing I find odd about folks around here is their attitude toward dogs, specifically mine. Bernadette is the fourth greyhound in my life and the most affectionate of the bunch. A sweeter dog has never been born. She wants to meet everyone and she just knows they want to meet her.
Also, greyhounds are very attractive. They're thin and they have long legs, long necks and big eyes. In other words, they possess all the physical attributes that our society prizes. They are the fashion models of the dog world. And with far fewer dog tracks in Canada than in the U.S., many people hereabouts have never seen a greyhound. You might think they'd be interested, especially given that unusual beauty and grace.
Yet, despite all that, here in the campground people walk right by her as if she doesn't exist (me too for that matter, but I'm no one's idea of a model). As a dog person, I want to greet and meet every one I see, large and small, young and old. I love 'em all and the attitude of anyone who doesn't is to me, well... foreign.
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