Up early, to roll down the hill from my elevated apartment in Levis, past the ruins of ye olden days shipbuilding, to the brand new ferry terminal.
I wait for the boat with maybe a dozen other travellers, no more.
We set sail in bright sunshine, admiring the gothic city skyline of Quebec City in front of us, over which a solitary storm cloud hangs – directly over the walled town.
Once off the steamer, I spend large parts of the day trying my best to escape from all of the people, which proves a futile exercise in amongst the busy lanes and cobbled alleys and endless photo opportunities.
The old walls, the new roadworks, the palatial train station; the solo godless activist outside Parliament, the forgotten fort being knocked into a cocked hat – brick by brick.
And Le Chateau Frontenac, lording over it all, frowning.
Even the fortifications, the citadel.
Inside the grand hotel, dark wood serious walls and imposing light fittings; fussy rugs and finicky guests; storyboards of the famous and the infamous visitors.
Yet I find it difficult to absorb all of the surroundings and all of the information presented in front of me, in what I worry is a kind of genetic predisposition – a general inability to focus in the presence of a topiary artwork poodle, with a teacup balanced on it’s head.
I head back out and teeter on the edges of the city / the citadel / civilisation, watching commerce and life pass by on the river down below.
Then around the city walls to a late-morning art-deco teenage riot scene.
After the heaviest of showers, I dive into the most obvious of sanctuaries – the Irish pub.
Down in tourist alley, a street overrun with human beings, with gift shops, expensive tat, comedy T-shirts.
Of course I end up in the restaurant in the Old Lower Town where you just know Michael Palin or Clive James has visited at least once, with a camera crew and the driest of quips in tow.
I’m forced to eat a saddle of rabbit in a desperate attempt to keep the numbers down.
All the while I’m eating, I’m thinking: I wonder if I’ll ever be able to re-enact the whole ‘Postcard from Rome’ episode … darting around town in a bright-red Fiat 126, kitted out in a bespoke Italian suit, gatecrashing la dolce vita and the high society and a classroom sexology lesson; getting regular hints and tips from the man at the reception desk in my hotel.
When I come back around from my daydreaming, I’m presented with a bill which shows a very large number I pretend not to recognise.
After musing on this number for a few minutes, I decide clambering head-first out of the bathroom window is probably not the finest work of a moment, so reluctantly dust down my credit card instead.
At the top of the steps near the cable car I sip my IPA on selfie alley, before melting back into the crowds and escaping for the early-evening ferry.
Bloody tourists.
An Outside World 