A guy playing guitar next to a basket of chanterelles, which to this day I regret not buying. The next day I go back, no basket. So in my broken french I ask if there will be more and he shrugs almost sadly and says something like ils ne sont pas mes champignons, madame….
The expression on the fish monger’s face when I enter his tiny shop, wave at the air and say (enthusiastically): mon nez est tres joyeux!
The woman at the b&b whose english is on par with my french (which makes me so happy) and where, after determining that I do not mind that my room has only a shower and no tub (this alone feels like it took the better part of twenty minutes), I receive la cle and decide this tiny quirky space with a bougainvilla covered porch, tivoli lighted tree and room with a tiny humming fridge and a most magnificent view of the parking lot is so very much better than the place the tourist office recommended, which, instead of bougainvilla on the porch, had three grouchy old men sitting in rockers.
My dinner of smoked salmon from the fish monger, which I eat on the rocks at the beach as the sun sets.
The older woman, swimming in the cold water of the harbour — pure joy — and the way, ten or so minutes later, she’s joined by another woman and they hold hands, jump and bob about in the waves.
A child playing at the shore and the slant of late day sun on his face.
The rosehips I pick and bring home to mix with calendula and borage flowers for tea.
The food, everywhere. (I vow, again, to improve my french if only to be able to at least order a meal without feeling like an eejit in this kingdom of cuisine.)
The long fields of long Kamouraska grass.
A tree outside the museum, covered in knitting.
This patio on the water, and that one… hidden in a garden.
The small lights of a boat across the river pose questions: where has it come from? where is it going in this dark night? The best guess is that it’s coming for dinner.
The curious note I make in my journal — cafe avec caffeine, et sans caffeine. Curious because I don’t drink coffee.
And this, copied from somewhere…. dans la vie, il n’y a pas de hasards, il n’y a que des rendez-vous.
(Driving back from PEI, September-almost-October, 2015)
Other (not always) wordless friends: