After preparing Foulie (the suitcase) with the bare essentials, I leave late at night for the streetcar stop, destination coach. Destination of the coach: Quebec, the separatist region of Canada. When I arrive at the bus stop I'm filled with doubts: on which of the three buses do I have to go?! The doubt is dispelled by Brit, "La Negra" as will be renamed by my fellow Spanish travelers: follow me, you're with me! So I sit down, the group travel bracelet on the wrist and seek a comfortable position to sleep during the trip... the search goes on for the whole trip keeping the well deserved rest at a safe distance. The landscape outside the window is monotonous, as I already knew: green green green green green green green water boooringgg. At 3 am we stop at a gas station to go to the bathroom: the place is dingy, but music comes from a radio... French music, you can tell we have crossed the border. I enjoy the sunrise at 6.30 am from the bus, a spectacle beyond description that only me and the driver witness, given that all the others are sleeping -good for them. Finally arrived in Quebec City we refresh ourselves with a tasty breakfast not included in the price and there I make the acquaintance of four Spanish women who are easily convinced that my understanding of Spanish is quite good... forcing me to try and catch a word every five, without much success. Without any time to rest we're back on the bus to go walking in the city center. Brit tells us about the history of Quebec City, where the governor stays during the summer, where there's the last Canadian fort since the war, where the French fought fiercely against the British enemy. The war lasted exactly 10 minutes. Maybe the soldiers at the end of the line had not even pointed their guns yet. And the French were humiliated, but you'd better not tell them. There is a tree with a cannonball embedded in the roots: for the French it's the symbol of their culture that grows and develops in spite of the English bully trying to subdue it... everybody laughs at this latest proof of French arrogance except for the group of French speakers, especially the Parisian-like girl who poses as a great diva and is perfectly in line with the spirit of the Québecois. After the tour of the old-European part we have five free hours. And the question arises: why couldn't we relax a bit in the hotel instead of hastening to walk around the city?! I take this opportunity to go to the park and sleep on a bench... what a relax! Then I take the public bus back to the hotel asking the driver to warn me when I should get off and take a look around: The hotel is "on the right" according to Brit... except you forgot to mention the need to cross a highway hmmmmmmmmmmmm. Finally I get in the room where I will divide the tiny bed with one of the Spanish girls and where the air conditioner is loud as ever, kinda like the bathroom's exhaust fan. No time for a shower 'cos it's already time for dinner at an Italian restaurant downtown. Risk-loving as I am I order a pizza and, surprise surprise, it's even decent! Only it's small, but OK, never mind. I'm sitting with a group of Brazilians who believe that an Italian like me must certainly understand Portuguese.... gulp. We go back on the bus where I can appreciate the driver's long face (at my question "ooohhhh how come there are fireworks over there?" his reply is "Well, there are fireworks. Period." ... I know he has French ancestors...) and it's finally time to sleep in a real bed, ready for day two.
The morning begins with another abundant breakfast (considering what I pay, I try to make it as abundant as possible!) and after paying I get chased by the waiter "did you pay??!" Yes moron, yes. On the bus once again I try to sleep in vain and I see Montreal approaching. Mostly you see the gigantic roller-coasters of the amusement park approaching... are we going??! No. The bridges of Montreal deserve a separate chapter. The one we're crossing was involved in secessionist attacks in the 70s (yeah sure, 3 years of terrorism with a couple of bombs here and there... amateurs!) while the near one was built on an Indian burial site: despite the warnings they continued to build it, and it collapsed twice killing 89 people, exactly the same number of people buried in the cemetery; the one we see in the center's mini-Eiffel towers on top just to celebrate a bit of French culture. We stop to photograph the Olympic stadium and while Brit draws a veil on its history, I learn from the inclement travel guide that the costs to build it doubled in the 70s, they made a project for the expensive opening roof that never worked and especially the stadium was hardly used at all during the Olympic Games and Canadians are still paying for it with taxes. The designers were Italian, confess! We spend the rest of the day shopping which has never been a passion of mine in Italy, let alone when I travel. "There isn't much to see, only the Notre-Dame church" says Brit... not much, you say! But given that it rains and the umbrella is safely in Toronto, I resign myself to go shopping. Among others, "Noël Eternel" stands out, the store that sells only Christmas stuff. I feel like the Little Match Girl who spies on the homes of rich people: used as I am to see exclusively religious articles, I'm amazed at the astounding variety of decorations for the tree (there's even the Little Mermaid!) and Charles Dickens village houses with even skaters on the ice. I buy a couple of souvenirs and take pictures of the cathedral of Notre Dame, then I go back to the bus. Destination: the Eaton Centre, which is exactly the same shopping center as in Toronto. Argh. The only peculiarity is that it's almost all underground, as during the winter in Montreal they live most of their time underground to avoid going out. As I head back to the bus I find another church worthy of pics and then spend the evening at the hotel, bored to death.
The third day begins with an included breakfast and continues with the riddles that Brit gives us into the bus as we head to Ottawa. On the way we see the prime minister's residence and that of the governor manned by guards of the Queen (the ones with the bear's hat, for instance). After having passed all the consulates of various countries and having appreciated the mega-spider in front of the art museum (spider worth millions of dollars...) we get downtown and head to Parliament Hill. The queue to visit the Parliament buildings is endless, I get through the controls (where the policeman opens both my phones... yes, I have two phones, what's wrong with that??!) but since it's finally a beautiful day I give up the tour and go for a walk around the city. Ottawa is very nice, the stroll along the river is pleasant and the landscape is beautiful. I admire the monument to one of the greatest champions of Canadian hockey (we don't have monuments to Totti or Alberto Tomba!) and I head back to the bus, destination: the 1000 islands.
The cruise on the thousand islands (on the border between the U.S. and Canada) is worth the whole trip, the views are breathtaking and the atmosphere is of total relaxation. Just across the border, we see what is now a luxury hotel but was originally built as a private castle expressly as a gift from a loving husband to his wife.... Canadians are the best, nothing to say about that. As usual Vodafone is grateful, and I receive EIGHT text messages on the inexpensive rates to call from the U.S. ... gulp. It's time to go back, and I enjoy the awkward efforts of the sixteen-year-old Spanish guys to conquer their peers... she won't give it to you darling, you'd better sleep!
Finally, I'm sure that Montreal is worth a visit as well as the other two cities, but I'll come back to make sure. Aside from the absurd organization, I still found what I was told, namely that Québec is very European from the disposition of the roads to the buildings and even the smells, and of course the language. A breath of home overseas.
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