L'Isle Verte, QC: Dreams Do Come True
When I was in high school, there were a group of acquaintances who were planning a bike trip to Colorado one summer. It was the first time I heard of people traveling by bicycle, and thought it would be something maybe I could do....someday.
When I turned 30, my circle of friends and co-workers were getting married and having children. I was singularly lonely with not a prospect of matrimony. Although the children part was not important, I did hope to have someone to grow old with...someday.
So the other day I found myself in Eastern Quebec, riding a bicycle loaded with everything I needed, pushing ahead into a mean headwind and in the rain. It was near noon, and a few hours of exposure and exertion makes one hungry. I had been thinking about bread for the last few kilometers. You need to understand that I have a bit of a preoccupation with bread -- carbohydrates are like to my body as gasoline is to an automobile. I love everything about bread -- the science, the kneading, the smell when it comes out of the oven, and eating it. And for a long time my wish was to have a true baguette, one made in the artisan style, like in France.
Too cold and wet to have the usual customary picnic lunch, we saw a sign pointing to a boulangerie/cafe in the next town. It was Sunday, so there was a chance they would not be open. But we walked in ten minutes before closing, dripping wet. The proprietor knew not a word of English, but our needs were obvious. We hung up our wet outer garments, sat down, and he served us soup, cheese, bread, and a hot tea. A sliced baguette came out in a basket, warm and fragrant. It was perfect.
So lunch was shared with the man I am growing old with, who selflessly lead the way into that headwind in the rain so I would not further strain my Achilles tendon, so we could keep on traveling this way for the next three months.
And I got my baguette, too.
When I turned 30, my circle of friends and co-workers were getting married and having children. I was singularly lonely with not a prospect of matrimony. Although the children part was not important, I did hope to have someone to grow old with...someday.
So the other day I found myself in Eastern Quebec, riding a bicycle loaded with everything I needed, pushing ahead into a mean headwind and in the rain. It was near noon, and a few hours of exposure and exertion makes one hungry. I had been thinking about bread for the last few kilometers. You need to understand that I have a bit of a preoccupation with bread -- carbohydrates are like to my body as gasoline is to an automobile. I love everything about bread -- the science, the kneading, the smell when it comes out of the oven, and eating it. And for a long time my wish was to have a true baguette, one made in the artisan style, like in France.
Too cold and wet to have the usual customary picnic lunch, we saw a sign pointing to a boulangerie/cafe in the next town. It was Sunday, so there was a chance they would not be open. But we walked in ten minutes before closing, dripping wet. The proprietor knew not a word of English, but our needs were obvious. We hung up our wet outer garments, sat down, and he served us soup, cheese, bread, and a hot tea. A sliced baguette came out in a basket, warm and fragrant. It was perfect.
So lunch was shared with the man I am growing old with, who selflessly lead the way into that headwind in the rain so I would not further strain my Achilles tendon, so we could keep on traveling this way for the next three months.
And I got my baguette, too.
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