Quebec: North America's Best-kept Secret

Text and Photos by Liisa Berg

t the first hint of dawn, I looked through the hotel windows and saw the beautiful city still lit in its night-time neons. The rising sun spread beams to the eastern sky in hues of chartreuse and lilac, painting a magnificent backdrop for the dark cityscape dominated by the steeples and towers of the noble and historic edifices. The old city wall with its conical watch-towers and gracefully arching gateways cut a pleasant picture right from the Middle Ages. I watched the morning's display of colored lights until daylight revealed all the details in the old city. I made my way to the picture that I had admired.

The walled city still lay half asleep; only an occasional biker or jogger brushed by. For breakfast, I stopped at Casse-Crêpe Breton for a quick and light bite. I sat at the bar which surrounded the cooking counter and I watched the short-order crêpe maker smother the large hot plate with butter and then literally paint the batter on with a large brush. In a minute, the paper-thin pastry was cooked. It was then removed and filled with the usual breakfast makings: eggs, sausage, cheese and some chili peppers. That was for someone else; I opted to have my crêpe filled with fresh local blueberries, topped with orange wedges and maple syrup. In a jiffy my breakfast was in front of me, rolled and folded into an aromatic heap on a Limoges plate. I savored every bite—it was simply scrumptious! On departing, I tried a bit of my French on the waitress, complimenting her on a job well done. My attempts were amicably accepted.

By now, outside the art deco etched-glass and brass door, life was throbbing on Rue Saint-Jean—but leisurely. No one seemed to be in a hurry. The masses meandered forward, articulating their French accents, peering in display windows, stopping to jabber at friends, buy fruit, thumb through antique books, pinch a batik shirt to assure its quality; on and on, the masses filed by. Sidewalk cafés underneath multicolored awnings and umbrellas were filled with natives and tourists in equal portions, sipping their cups of café au lait and iced tea, and nipping on croissants, while the adept garçons filled the epicureans' orders to perfection. I walked up the tree-lined Rue Sainte-Anne towards Château Frontenac, which dominates the center of town, drawn to it magically in a trance-like reverie of many such castles that I had explored elsewhere. From an alley I heard some authentic-sounding Renaissance lute and oboe music, played by two young musicians. I stopped to listen, standing in shade to find a bit of cooling relief from the early sun. I learned that they were students of musica antiqua, and that the lutenist had made his instrument himself to the exacting specifications of a sixteenth-century master builder. "Merci beaucoup," the jongleurs said and flashed an appreciative smile as I slipped a bank note in a small dish on the ground.

No, I was not in France, although once the name of this place had been Nouvelle France. This bit of françois is firmly on the American ground, in Québec, the eastern province of Canada—with strings attached. These strings are as old as the New World and as long as the distance between France and Canada. But they are not puppet strings, for France has little to do with the way this province is run, save for the fact that it is run in French. Those strings are roots that tug at every French Canadian's feet in this province, reminding him whence his his ancestry comes.

Remembrance is at the heart of the issue, for even the province's slogan speaks of remembering: "Je me souviens" ("I remember"). But when the Québécois displays this bit of nostalgia on his car license plates, he does not mean merely remembering "home." No; what he really wants to remember is that he still is a Frenchman.

For generations, Québec has lived a controversial dichotomy: how to stay French on purely Anglo-American soil. Perhaps the guard at the opulent Parliament Building personifies this duplicity the best: with genuine pride he introduces Her Royal Majesty's queenly quarters within the hallowed halls of his government's shrine, while in the same breath he speaks of his French Canadian heritage in the musical tones of his Québécois idiom.

The French connection of this historical province and its enchanting capital goes back over four hundred years. In 1534 the French sailor Jacques Cartier arrived in these parts and claimed possession in the name of King Francis I of France. Cartier had come with the intention of discovering and conquering "certain islands and countries that are full of gold and other precious objects." Undoubted-ly spurred on by what Columbus, Cortéz and others had brought back as souvenirs from these "certain countries," Cartier had gone with high hopes and promises. But he came back only with disappointing stories of primitive Americans who wore loincloths and feathers and had nothing to offer but empty hospitality. "There cannot be poorer people than these in the whole world," lamented Cartier.

A lot of history has passed since Cartier piloted the St. Lawrence and Lauzon Rivers. Now in their confluence there prospers a magnificent city, grown out of its old-time walled confines, modern, spacious and friendly. But it is the Old City—Vieux Québec—that offers the most promise and intrigue for a visitor bent on history and architecture.

Finding the promised fulfillment at every turn, I explored this bit of Europe on the American Continent. I drank its Old World ambiance like sweet nectar. And if nectar can befuddle, then I was at its mercy, for Vieux Québec is a city that leaves no one untouched by its charm. Cobblestone streets, avenues and allées are lined with flowers, bright awnings, shop and pub signs, and colorfully painted window shutters. Romantic horse-drawn carriages roll along the busy arteries, harmoniously fitting in this picture from "someplace else." Artists and craftsmen sell their wares on Rue Tresor, which competes in ambiance and atmosphere with Rue Petit Champlain, the oldest street in America. Wide Casse Cou staircase is flanked with cafés, each with a different gastronomical delight, and channels the foot traffic towards the lower city. I made my way slowly through Place Royale, a small town square surrounded by well-maintained historical houses. On a bench in front the of the old Maison Dumont there was a gathering of old gentlemen, discussing the comings and goings of their venerable old city. From the harbor where the ferry traverses to Beauport Island, there is a breathtaking view upward, past the cafés and their colorful umbrellas—like a patch of red and yellow mushrooms—and toward the magnificent Château Frontenac.

A self-professed connoisseur of castles and forts, I delighted most of all in this imposing structure on the promontory, overlooking the St. Lawrence and Lauzon Rivers. Even though it has seen a mere century, the castle is like a vision from the hillsides of Loire or Seine, with its oxidized copper-clad towers and turrets. The edifice appears disproportionately large in this otherwise small-scale city, but that, too, adds a whimsical aspect to the other-worldly picture. The castle was actually built as a landmark hotel which opened in 1893, and it is hemmed securely to the promontory by a the boardwalk-like Terrace Dufferin. The Terrace is like a stage set for perpetual entertainment in the summer sun: jugglers, musicians, clowns, and mimes file on and off, delighting children and their rejuvenated guardians on their mandatory outings. Adjacent stands a monument of Samuel de Champlain, the founder of Québec, whom the Québécois remember as an enterprising and humanitarian personality.

Champlain was an explorer and a merchant who had arrived in the New World in hopes of conquering more lands and people. He had pushed his way back to the Great Lakes, fighting the Iroquois Indians, and his dream was to hoist the French fleur-de-lis banner on the Pacific rim. However, his contacts back at home, although sympathetic to his endeavors, were occupied with other enterprises, and left Champlain without important backers, and thus his dream remained unfulfilled. He did, nevertheless, leave a legacy for the French people in this territory: he founded the city of Québec in 1603, and was an instrument in Richelieu's hand in making New France a proprietary colony.

The Québécois of today seems to remember Champlain's dream: all over Québec, if not on the Pacific coast, the blue-and-white trefoil furls in the fresh winds. It even decorates the top of the Parliamentary Cupola. In fact, this seems to be the only flag that the Québécois flies; the Maple Leaf is for the rest of Canada. And the rest of Canada tolerates this form of double nationalism.

That very tolerance, dedication to history, and humanistic endeavor are the attributes that perhaps best characterize Québec. These people have roots. They still belong to the Old Continent, unlike Americans who seem to supplant their ancestral heritage with the endeavor to create their own culture.

In 1759 the well-equipped British army laid siege on Québec. After prolonged and fierce battles, the young British Commander James Wolfe was able to take over the city. The two leaders of the armies, the British General Wolfe and the French General Montcalm, were mortally wounded, and there were heavy casualties. The battle ground of the Plains of Abraham are still revered as deeply historic ground. Centuries later, a statue was erected in the two generals' honorable memory—another indication of the diplomacy with which the Québécois addresses life. The monument's inscription reads, in Latin: Mortem, Virtus, Communem, Fama, Historia, Monumentum, Posteritas, Debit." ("Their courage gave them the same fate; history the same glory; and posterity the same monument.") This is infinitely symbolic of the province's character, but perhaps more importantly, it is the very bedrock of its survival. This is what the Québécois remembers.

As for me, as I bid my fond adieu to this America's best-kept secret, I pledged, responding to Québec's invitation to remember: "Je me souviens . . ." And ready on the mind was also the promise to return: ". . . et me reviens."

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