“Je Me Souviens”
I have many memories of visiting Québec. Some of the most poignant moments of my life have occurred in that vast, cold province where people and places stay tucked away from the sweeping, snowy landscape.
Yet whenever I hear the word Québec my first recollection is not a special event, but the peaceful beauty of those silent cold days. Walking along the stone streets on a perfectly clear, frozen day will forever define my feeling of the city. The air doesn’t bite like in windy Manhattan, nor does it exhaust like the wet sleet that pelts the northeast coast. Instead it’s the gentle cold I remember from the Rocky Mountains, that carries a wood-burning smell and is always softened by the sun.
Dramatic shadows are cast by the old buildings that seem to press against each other for warmth, and hidden inside are cheery cafes, musty bookstores and dark, regal churches. Those old buildings — all alike on the outside — are magnificent disguises for the vastly different goings-on inside, making for an exciting anticipation whenever one steps through a door.
As I walk briskly along the narrow sidewalks and cross over into the next block, I feel for a moment that time and place no longer exist. I am young again, skipping quickly home through the snowy Colorado streets, and if I just choose the right door, I will step back into my childhood home where our fireplace is always glowing warm.
This essay was inspired by the style of Vladimir Nabokov’s memoir, “Speak Memory,” in which his vast travel and cultural experiences always seemed to bring him closer to home rather than farther.
