There's something about borders.... Here we'd been staring out the window for that all-important invisible line, but it took a radio call to see it.
"Bonjour, November-Victor-Lima, Montr�al," came the reply, "autoris� � 3,000 pieds, la 24 en usage � Qu�bec, l'altim�tre 29.26."
Radio communications delineate this part of the Canadian border far more eloquently than any line on a map. For in Quebec province, air traffic control is bilingual - available in both French and English.
Cool northern light touched green hills below us, in stark contrast to the sun-seared orange cragginess of our own far-away Arizona. Moreover, even now at 8 p.m., sunset was still more than an hour away, while by our summertime clock at home it would have set more than an hour ago. But it took those words of French for us to fully appreciate our distance from home, nearly a continent away.
This would not be our first visit to Quebec, but just the latest chapter in a friendship that began 30 years ago, when following high school I traveled with two friends on a post-graduation road trip. My steed at the time was an even-then-very-old 1939 Chevy two-door which my Dad had cleverly encouraged me to buy, knowing that I'd need to fix it aplenty and thereby learn the mysteries of mechanical things. He was right. Only a few hundred miles from Chicago we were forced to replace the car's water pump in a waterfront parking lot in Windsor, Ontario.
Cruising town the next night in Trois-Rivi�res, Quebec, we picked up a young French-Canadian hitchhiker. The guy spoke no English and we no French, but eventually we determined where he was headed and delivered him home. His name was Marcel, and through a bilingual friend he invited us to sleep in the cottage behind his parents' house.
Late into the night, Marcel and I conversed via dictionary and scratch pad about our families, travels, and his passion for duck hunting. The next morning a sleep-shattering horn awakened me to a huge oceangoing freighter just outside the window. I'd gathered that the St. Lawrence seaway was nearby, but never guessed that one false step in the dark would've toppled me in.
I hitchhiked back to visit Marcel during college, then later returned with my new wife, Jean. Flying ourselves to Quebec for the first time 20 years ago, we met Marcel's ebullient wife, Lise, and introduced our respective firstborn infant sons. The Browns and Duvals have remained close ever since, hiking, rafting, and whale-watching together.
Those memories flooded my mind as we approached Quebec City, cloaked in its ancient walls above the St. Lawrence River and guarded by a solitary thunderhead. The evening sunlight tinted the towering cumulus orange against a purple sky, while glinting silver light off the city's tin-roofed steeples. We touched down in this otherworldly setting, and by the time I'd phoned Customs and secured the airplane, Marcel appeared grinning at the gate. He rushed to embrace me, then twirled Jean off her feet. The long dark hair from when I met him is now mostly gray, but the mischief in his eyes sparks stronger than ever.
Lise enraptured us that evening with homemade culinary delights worthy of the finest French restaurant. Next day we hoofed cobblestones through historic Vieux-Qu�bec, noting in particular a certain cannon carriage engraved by young lovers - Marcel and Lise - back when they were dating.
French is Quebec's native language, and my guess is that you'll probably find fewer English-speakers here than in Paris. I am still thrilled on every visit to rediscover foreign tongues and narrow European streets so close to our northern border.
Next day we traveled by ferry to �les-aux-Coudres in the St. Lawrence, circumnavigating that idyllic island by bicycle. Soft breezes and sparkling waters were complemented along the way by purple wildflowers and good-natured ribbing among friends. Marcel's young niece, Virginia, kept us all in stitches despite the lack of a common tongue.
Then came a swim in the Duval pool overlooking the omnipresent St. Lawrence, followed by champagne toasts and homemade Coquilles St-Jacques. Then, unfortunately, it was time to fly back to Earth.
Photos, hugs, and tears marked our departure next morning. Only the irresistible lure of flight could coax the Flying Carpet to depart our charming hosts and their enchanted city. Even then we hugged the mighty St. Lawrence River almost to Ottawa, savoring every last syllable of air traffic control French until handed off by Montreal to the gentlemanly voices of Toronto Center.
"Au revoir, beau Qu�bec," we cried upon parting, with likely despicable pronunciation. "We will return!"
Having escaped the sirens of French Canada, we passed Toronto and soon found ourselves over Windsor, Ontario, across from Detroit. There, peering down through 30 years of haze, I thought I saw an old green Chevy in a waterfront parking lot, hood open, and surrounded by three long-haired kids. I couldn't be certain, murky as it was and quickly as we passed, but tears filled my eyes all the same.
"Just a speck in my eye," I said to my family, noting the surprise on their faces. Quickly I shifted thoughts to our next destination. Thankfully, flying always offers new adventures to soothe fond memories of previous ones. "Onward, Flying Carpet!"
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