Amy and I were determined. No amount of protesting loved ones gasping “you’re driving WHERE?” could dissuade Amy and I from taking another road trip (practically five minutes after arriving home from Syracuse), straight to Carleton County, New Brunswick.
After many debates over how far the drive actually is to New Brunswick, Amy and I decided that the drive would be great. Amy had never seen an east coast Canadian autumn, and I knew that the farther east we drove, the better the colours would be. And even if they weren’t, Amy would be able to visit a dear friend she hadn’t seen in more than six years (ironically, they met in Sweden 14 years ago). And finally, what girl can resist a road trip that doesn’t include work or daily responsibilities, other than maintaining the speed limit and watching out for wandering moose?
Saturday morning, we took off for New Brunswick. This girl has never driven outside the province without her beloved Canadian husband to show her the ropes, so having TWO California chicks wandering the wilds of Quebec made Amy and I feel like real explorers.
It didn’t take long for the excitement to wane. That Champlain Bridge in Montreal put a thick, wet blanket over our enthusiasm. After being stuck for 30 minutes, Amy offered to get out and walk and meet me in New Brunswick. Nice. But we muddled through it – and at least by being stuck in that traffic, I knew I was going the right way.
We had driving instructions from Yahoo maps. The problem was, everything on the map was in English, and everything in Quebec is French. As a matter of fact, the farther we travelled through Quebec, the more residents looked at us as if they’d never even heard the English language. Amy commented that if it were Spanish, we’d be okay, but even Spanish wouldn’t help much at that point.
We had many stops for drinks and road-trip treats, and our conversation turned from witty banter to wondering what all the road signs said. Referring to our Yahoo map (brought from California, by the way), all we knew is we needed a Highway 20.
When our concern grew to thinking that we may have missed the sign we couldn’t read anyway, we took the first turn-off to clumsily ask for directions in English. We found that we had turned off right onto highway 20. It’s a good thing too, or we might have had to accept the offer from two Rastafarians who were happy to accompany us on the rest of our trip to make sure we made it safely.
Before dark fell, Amy’s eyes were filled with the dazzling, unreal colours of autumn that whizzed by on either side of us. Watching her try to take pictures from her passenger seat as we cruised through Quebec at 120 – er – 80/90/100 (whatever the legal speed limit is there) clicks an hour was quite amusing, especially in the rain.
The largest disappointment on our trip to New Brunswick was that we never did meet Prudence the deer or Prudence the moose. The signs were everywhere that we should be watching for them, but they never did show their faces, until the trip home. Until next time. . .
