Parlez-vous sweet nothings? No matter what Hollywood says, the language of love is best polished amongst genial Québecois with egalitarian penchants for cultural layer cakes and hops heartened musings. Much like the dollhouses of our pigtail days provided snug escapism, Québec City furnishes a Honey I Shrunk the Western Europe kind of mood for the curiouser and curiouser. And in the vein of Polly’s Playhouse, the miniaturized version is a tightly knotted (walled-in) cluster of just the essentials - gratuitous ‘tudes left by the wayside - like a France concentrate. Of course, copasetic Canadiana breathes a little one of a kindness into its precocious tourist prodigy, so there’s no mistaking Québec City for anything but its sweet, tootsie-pop self.
the romance
Nothing punctuates a morning romp between an oppressive thread count quite like pocket-change crepes on a character spotted counter or flaky croissants on no nonsense, underground turf. Once the post-coital famine has been pacified with empty carbs, butter, and fingers crossed, homespun jam, it’s time you hit the cobblestone streets. For afternoon droll, ensconce yourselves cushion deep at the Cinéma Cartier, an independent video shop with a tucked away theatre for clandestine-minded lovers. Catch a French flick and let the soft intonations and pitch black blanket lull you into a stupor amoureux. Get the randy out of your systems locking lips in the far corner of L’Oncle Antoine, a sequestered microbrewery toiling euro-tang, or Chez Son Père, the much beloved folk club lined with friendly faces.
the scenery
Shrink-rayed Old World, a waking life musée – the similes all spell out mise en scène type perfection. Sitting lotus-legged atop a cliff, the city is worth its weight in Christmas song lyrics and Caribou booze during the chilly months, and is festival happy throughout the heat wave. This means period pieced together streets a buzz with masterly buskers and small town color. Directors of cinematography could learn a thing or two from the architects who engineered the caged wonderland that is Québec City. It’s a looker, this one.
the adventure
Keeping in mind that adventure is a relative term, Québec City can be as roaring as the flapper age. What the town lacks in cookie-cutter, resort audacity - all bungee cords and rainbow parachutes - it more than makes up for in get down and dirty brouhaha. Chez Dagobert is a rascal of a discotheque sure to inspire bad Travolta impersonations and sloppy, breathy frenching. For waking hours romping, Agora throws a mean open-air rock show, and for smoky backroom banter typically privy to suits only, Maurice houses a cigar parlor along with a few other, less pollutant luxe lounges. Join the buffalo roam on the Île d’Orléans, take a boat cruise downstream of the Bassin Louise, or mount the junketing funicular, boarding from the historic House Louis Jolliet.
For Great North exploits without any White Fang undertones, hit up the Carnaval d’Hiver – the world’s biggest and bestest. Established in 1894, the ongoing party continues to trump notions of hibernation with Bonhomme, the goose-bumped, good times mascot championing cheek apple-ing outdoor activities like snow sculpturing, canoe racing and Caribou swilling (a wicked combo of vodka, brandy, sherry and port).
the secrets
Les Plaines d’Abraham, all the turbulent history it evokes and present day soul it endows is about as well kept a secret as Central Park, but the interactive entertainment and educational regalement it offers is so prolific, it’s hard to keep track. Snowshoe treks, no-anachronism-let-slip reenactments, buccaneer history lessons from a de facto swashbuckler, and well-soused murder mysteries abound across the plains, making the old battle site a happening place to get your enlightened goof on.
Seek pleasure in the little things the city – a veritable basket of goodies - has to offer, like sugar cones on the pier, boutique raiding in Old Québec, ooey, gooey fondue dinners, tummy-teasing orchards and chocolateries on the Île d’Orléans and culture-quenching art galleries bespeckling the joint like great blue herons do the night sky.
the attractions
Post-slopes dinner at the Château Frontenac is sort of a snow bunny no-brainer, but for straight-laced dining at its peachiest, skip the repast, cock the top hat and opt for London-sent Tea Time complete with petit fours, finger sandwiches and heavenly scones. Help digest that side of the Atlantic grub with a helping spoonful of aestheticism at the Théâtre Periscope, where avant-garde french theatre gives convention the old thigh high boot.
Take one for the nippymoon team, engaging thermal sleeping bags and knit underwear at the Ice Hotel - carved, insulated and festooned with winter’s finest fabrics. The frozen swan sculpture that evinced your sweet course is going to seem pretty pitiful when compared to this chilled to the base inn, keeping guests just a notch above shivering at –5° Celsius. Each year’s polar structure refuses to carbon-copy its predecessor, but some variations on the opulent igloo theme include a chiseled bar, cinema and outdoor hot tub.
