I barely registered it, but we received our first official "bon jour" from an attractive airport attendant standing near the entrance to the International Arrivals Area of Jean Lesage Airport in Quebec City. It was a rather perky "bon jour" considering the late hour and the fact that the rain-soaked luggage rolling awkwardly behind me had just grazed her oh, so perfect, shoes. I smiled weakly, apologized, reached for my passport, turned left and continued toward the glass doors where the promised taxi would be parked.
Our flight had begun in Phoenix at the civilized hour of 10:00 a.m. with (hallelujah) an on-time arrival at Philadelphia where, rather than being cleared to our gate, we were ordered off the taxiway onto an unofficial holding area. Ominous storm clouds had begun to circle the airport and, whereas we had just landed, no one was taking off. The gates were full. Within the hour however, the clouds moved out, the gates opened, and we eagerly de-planed to jog down the concourse to our connecting flight to Canada. But wait...as we made that quick run, another set of clouds appeared, lightning flashed, rain poured, visibility faded to zero, and we learned our pilot hadn't shown up yet. We shrugged, found a seat, pulled out our Kindles, and half-heartedly waved at the smiling baby in the next row.
I'm reconciling myself to the fact that we will be late. We will not arrive in Quebec City at 10:30 p.m. as I had told Victoria. I'm uneasy on a number of levels. We are going to a B&B chosen solely from Trip Advisor. The Number Six favorite B&B at the time. We have been told that the B&B will be locked, but between the outer door and the inner door we will find an envelope, the code to unlock the inner door, our room number and directions to find that room. There will be a taxi at the airport. Oh Lord, that is a lot of uncertainty. I need a drink. Do we have time?
Yes, we did, and after a quick hit of Cabernet I'm a bit better. Our pilot has arrived. He's the kid in the uniform who doesn't have to shave yet. Why is he late? Is he unreliable? Can I expect him to make wise decisions on a dark and stormy night? Why am I not back in my own bed in Surprise? It's this damned traveling I keep wanting to do. It is sometimes not what it is cracked up to be.
Just as the baby loses the last of her composure, the clouds clear and we begin to board. This is a smallish plane...too small for standard carry-ons. They will go in the hold. We will sit where the attendant tells us. Weight and balance matter on this plane. But, hey, the seats are more comfortable than the Airbus that delivered us here, and it's a relatively attractive plane. It is also the 23rd plane in line for take-off. We will be a bit later than my previous calculations.
After an uneventful hour and a half, we land safely in Quebec where it is partly cloudy with a temperature of 11 degrees (please, God, let that be celsius). Our passports are accepted, our taxi is waiting, and we are whisked (so to speak) to the B&B de la Fontaine on Ave. St. Genevieve, located in the Upper Town of Old City Quebec. As promised, we find our envelope, our code, our key, our room and (sigh) our wine. Life is once again...GOOD.
Bon Jour, indeed.
