Here

By Hannah Bergeman

There are people.  Everywhere.  The mix of tourists and local people covers the sidewalks, French and English mingling in the air as the vibrant hues of flowing skirts and summer florals dance by.  The foreign language here is not so much one of words, but of actions: sobriety and sullenness have become alien topics. 

These are not people in ties and business suits.  Not people with pursed lips and grim expressions.  Not people searching for the next haven releasing an air-conditioned blizzard.  Here, it is different.  Here, there exists a gaiety, a friendliness.  Here, people make eye contact.  The streets of Quebec’s Old City are a social place.

My companions and I move through the streets, weaving between planters and the three-foot fences that surround sidewalk cafés, while avoiding the lampposts that mark the border with the street.  There is a gentle jostling as people pause to read t-shirts in shop windows or peruse the menu of a particularly inviting café, and others are forced to step aside to slip past.  Still, the pace is more of a meander rather than a hasten.  As I try to walk along, I’m not bothered as people stop to peek into shops with doors ajar, compelled by the warm lighting, colorful trinkets, and general activity, inviting them to explore. 

Even more numerous than window gawkers are those who glance at the food that lines the tables of the sidewalk cafés, cheerful murmurings and delectable odors signaling to both the stomach and that part of the soul that craves connection and companionship. 

We found that it best to choose a place to dine based on the actions of the locals, for there are many establishments that draw in foreigners through bilingual menus offering recognizable fare, but the real Québécois walk on by, headed for authenticity. 

If you follow the locals and do what is commonplace for them, it will be an adventure for you.  We passed up cheeseburgers and found a restaurant serving smoked salmon in thin strips layered atop vegetables.  It’s even better to take a risk, to order something unknown by pointing to an unfamiliar dish on a menu.  It takes a little faith, a little hope, and a willingness to stray from predictability and control, but the gamble returns experience any way it turns out.

But if the menu claims la poutine, it is probably worth a visit, for fries with gravy and cheese curds is something authentically Québécois.

The street level is a whirl - couples and children, laughter and music, cafés and shops - mixed with the hazards of uneven brick walkways, dim lighting, and moving cars.  Each sense is bombarded, rapidly firing signals to the brain, which strains to add each to the compilation of experiences and thoughts. 

I look up.  Taking my eyes off the street level, the sounds and smells fade into the background, and I am instead gazing at centuries-old architectural beasts that loom overhead.  The imposing stone reaches upward, melting into the darkness of the night, dotted with a few flickering windows.  Dressed in flowers and advertisements, mouths yawning wide to admit customers, the stone carvings exude a calmness and power as if they have watched people come and go in this same fashion for centuries.  Je me souviens.  Here, history remains unforgotten, a backdrop for the vitality of the community.

My group continues forward to a square where buildings have been replaced by sculpture and monuments, marking historic figures and events.  Here, history is performing a background duty, serving as props and seating for people watching street performers. The statutes and carvings are surrounded by clapping crowds who barely muffle the notes rising from the stereo.  In the middle stands a performer, displaying skills at magic or bicycling or juggling to the gasps and cheers of the crowd.

The spectators either climb to the highest vantage point - atop bleachers, father’s shoulders, even stone monuments - or shove their way to the front of the crowd, hoping to be the next person chosen to participate in the delight and mystery of the performance.  We push further into the crowd surrounding the bicyclist, oohing and ahhing along with everyone else as the bike frame spins though the rider remains upright, gasping as he jumps over the body of a daring volunteer, laughing as he mimics people in the crowd.  Realizing that eager spectators have separated me from my companions, I back out slowly.  The gap is quickly filled with bodies that crane their necks to see over even more heads.

Rejoining my group, we all turn back toward the main street.  The street is blocked, given solely to the pedestrians; they fill it, pointing and laughing and chatting.  Arms are linked with friends and lovers, smiles flash through the air like neurotransmitters crossing a synaptic gap. The spirit of the Québécois bubbles forth, a mix of joy, relaxation, and pride in their city.

Eventually, a stone archway in the city wall looms before us, a permeable barrier transitioning us away from the exuberance of the Old City.  Our reluctance to leave is captured in the melancholy music a man plays on his guitar just outside the gate.

As we leave the Old City, we realize that we are confused as to the location of the bus stop.  A woman pauses to ask if we need help.  Listening patiently to our poor accents and mix of languages, she points us down the street with a smile and a cheerful “de rien.”

Here, I have found, it is the people and culture that makes the Old City successful, that give it life.

Hannah Bergeman is a freshman in Agriculture.  She took part in the University Honors Program’s August 2006 pre-freshman study tour to the Université Laval in Quebec City.

For more information please contact: Hannah Bergeman hbergema@purdue.edu

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