I do breakfast

Perhaps I have forgotten? Did I tell you about Amqui, the heart of the Matapedia Valley? Where I bought myself curlers at Hart’s because my hair had become dishevelled by several storms. Yes, that night in Carleton-sur-Mer, I sleep just like in the old days, with a big scarf swaddling my scalp-stretching curlers. In the morning, when my Gorgon head enters the hotel's CAFÉ area, the handsome young waiter serves me an enigmatic smile with my coffee. A smile and about 10 more coffees, which I drink while writing my morning letter. I leave Carleton, and further along, I am instantly dazzled by the bay in the town of Maria, with its pretty beach, magnificent sea and the little stairs that lead into the water, installed here and there along the edge of the road. Maria reminds me of a perfect lemon pie that doesn't need meringue to be beautiful. With her arms open wide to greet tourists and no need for bling to convince the skeptics, I might even pronounce Maria to be a top Gaspésian destination. I drive and drive, and as I approach Caplan, tragedy strikes! A sky full of thunder and lightning flattens my curls. I look for my ancestors. I look for Grandpa Frédéric's house, the one next to where we used to live. Did a flood uproot them? Has the village of Caplan become a pinhole in a map of the world? Or is it me? Have I become too senile to recognize the village of my childhood? Have I forgotten everything during the pandemic? Like an old sock in the washing machine, has my village shrunk in half? Except for the church, which has been blown over by gusts of wind, I no longer recognize anything. What to do, what to say? The streets, the pavement and the little green front yards are empty. So I go down to the seashore and immediately notice that the pier, with its thousands of eels, has disappeared. The cliffs and sand are still the same iron red colour as before. I had imagined a bucolic picnic by the water, but I swallow my hunger. Even the wheels of my car bulge in despair. What can I do? Back in the church parking lot, the rain weakens. It turns into a drizzle, fine, persistent and penetrating. I despair. Maybe I shouldn’t have come back? No one knows me. No one really needs to know me. Who am I now? A rag doll, carried away by the wave? A shark flinging me right and then left. The swell crushes my stomach. And I hurt all over. Imagination and reality clash in my skull. Was I that young the last time I saw Caplan? Am I too old today? For a moment the church coaxes me, would it remember my baptism? I feel like the living dead. Hasn’t the cemetery watched over the bodies of my maternal grandparents all these years? Where are the little pockets of shelled hazelnuts that Grandma kept hanging in the pantry for special occasions? We didn't eat them all. For a long moment, the sky sprays me with tears. Where should I go? It’s Sunday. All the shops are closed. The car decides to go back down to the shore. She too wants to bury herself in the soggy sand. Offshore, I feel like I can hear mermaids singing. They spread their viscous clothes over the flounces of the large waves. These sea queens are strong; they have fed on all the eels in the bay. And I envy them. Everyone on this earth has a story to tell, as long as there’s someone who’ll listen. But I am all alone on the shore and my voice is crumbling, my words tumble into empty seashells. Suddenly, I see a man in a black raincoat walking along the shore, his head bent. He's probably digging up mussels, just like we used to do as kids. I remember it so well! Brother was always fighting to be the best, the first to fill his bucket, the first to catch a trout in the stream. He was also the first to push up bright daisies in the earth's embrace. I feel like crying. Life is so short; peace as frail as a bird with a broken wing. A thousand sorrows plough through my mind, a thousand unanswered questions. The deafness of the world overwhelms me. Suddenly, all the beaches from the past vacate my memory. My mind is desiccated. My bladder about to burst, I look in vain for a place to hide. I leave the beach and decide to drive up the 132 in the direction of Montreal. My bewildered car climbs the cliffs, past the sign AU REVOIR, CAPLAN. My heart is in neutral. Adios, amigos! My two palms welded to the steering wheel, I'm going almost 100 km per hour. The engine rumbles and on my right, a fire-red sign announces: À+ CORNER STORE FIREWORKS FOR SALE. I walk in, desperate for a washroom. “Is there a...?” I ask. “At the back on the right,” a very young boy replies. I feel like I have discharged all of my sadness and, on my way out, I spot three rows of recent magazines. Wonderful! I pick out six of them and grab a big bag of popcorn, a diet cola and a Coffee Crisp for dessert. That's it. I head back to Caplan. It’s 2:20 p.m. I drive through the light rain, and without realizing it, I pass right by my hometown. I bring the car to a dead stop. This is a sign from heaven, perhaps. A woman in turmoil is still smarter than a blue whale, no? My tank is three-quarters full and I now set my sights on Percé, convinced that this majestic rock will still be there, waiting for me. I start off, motoring along at the speed limit. In the distance, I can barely make out the horizon separating the sky from the sea. Everything is white, creamy beige. When I arrive in Paspébiac, I find a nice, old-fashioned motel for $100. I charge my devices and spread out my purchases on the motel’s queen size bed. I love magazines. It's my weak point; the one thing I indulge in. I have RICARDO, VÉRO, CHATELAINE, ELLE QUÉBEC and BEL ÂGE (a magazine for seniors) in front of me. Yes, I am very interested in reading about old people. Today I also bought LA SEMAINE, with a beautiful photo of journalist and writer Janette Bertrand on the cover. She is one of my idols. I always enjoy discovering her recommendations, and I would love to know her recipe for longevity. On the wall in front of my bed, a huge TV stares at me. I turn it on and open the bag of popcorn. Life is beautiful again. The hot soapy water from my bath has washed away all the day’s frustrations. I am fulfilled. On the screen, Al Pacino is telling his life story. I thought he was great in the role of Fausto in SCENT OF A WOMAN. My heart flutters, my eyes grow heavy, I fall asleep in Al’s arms, now the newly crowned Godfather. To be continued next Sunday! Cora ❤

The morning air tingles my nose. As soon as I wake up, I imagine thousands of microscopic fish swimming up to my pillow. A stone’s throw from the water, in the bay of Carleton-sur-Mer, a mermaid sits on a weather-worn log. She is smoothing out her lapis-lazuli coloured scales. Smiling and friendly, her long regal arms push a trawler out to sea.   I left Sainte-Flavie with tears in my eyes. This pretty coastal village became rooted in my heart when I was 7-8 years old. My father, a travelling salesman, had been promoted, and we left Caplan, until then our centre of the world. I remember it well. Stuffed into the backseat with my sisters, the three of us cried until our laps were wet with tears of fear of this "new faraway home.” Our brother had bombarded our eardrums with constant talk of it. That day the road seemed like it would never end. It followed the river’s edge all morning before veering off into the hills and small mountains of the Matapedia Valley. That was some 68 years ago. I am moved when I realize that I spent all day yesterday retracing that exact same route, in reverse. I am on the road to BAIE-DES-CHALEURS! Did you know that the explorer Jacques Cartier named this place baye des chaleurs (bay of warmth) in the summer of 1534? Long before him, the Mi’kmaq called the place Maoi Pôgtapei, meaning “the big bay.” I push on, my head heavy with three quarters of a century of life experiences, including births and the death of my dear parents. Despite my many adventures in survival, I have always found time to travel down the river to my roots, my hometown, my country. I have learned three languages and yet the river still dulls my mind. I am frozen, transported back to an age when my memories were fresh and vivid, before fossilized by time. The sand between my toes, Aunt Hope’s wild roses, the little dried fish we chewed like caramels – all this and thousands of other little pleasures, each one a note in a harmonious symphony. See you soon, Sainte-Flavie, with our childhood games on the seashore, the sun-bleached mussel shells, the branches polished by the waves, the intoxicating smell of the ocean, the families of ducks, the great wharf… After capturing hundreds of photos with my cell phone, I take Highway 132E up the hill of Mont-Joli in the direction of the famous Matapedia Valley. The first sight that greets me is an immense quilt of green hues. Nature always shows us more than what we grasp. Isn’t this precisely what entices explorers to leave safe shores? Isn’t it what sparks my creativity? Surely cavemen could have imagined a prehistoric bird carrying humans in its belly. The caveman brain simply needed time to develop. Isn’t all progress a question of time? Should we ask Henry Ford or Elon Musk? The car motors along.   SAINT-MOÏSE framed on a green sign says BONJOUR to me. Was there ever a real one? Are all the heavenly saints gathered in Quebec? And would the largest buildings be imposing churches? Today, they are often empty and sad as a light rain that neither wets nor leaves dries. A little further on, the church of Saybec taunts me with its slender bell tower that pierces a cloud. Who were the Christians who, in 1931, carried all those heavy stones to build the church? Did they earn their place in Heaven? Lightning struck two churches in Saybec: the old one in 1929 and then the new one on September 26, 1979. Only the rooster on the tip of the steeple was damaged, along with the church’s electrical system. A little further on to my right, a provincial liquor store adjoins a small grocery store. What is there to say? A stop-off, two bags of groceries? Next, another small church protects a cemetery. Do the dead still need protecting in this part of the country? At noon, at the end of the valley, the radio announces that Joël Le Bigot, who hosts a Saturday radio show on current social and cultural affairs, is retiring. Sad news! What will become of my weekend morning? Can playful Mozart comfort me? Well, everything comes to an end eventually, both the good and the bad. At least the road I am travelling on is smooth enough and even freshly paved in some places. I recommend the route. Of course, the valley is less romantic than the seaside, but that’s how life goes: you can’t always be eating strawberry shortcake. “No future for the F1,” says Radio-Canada. 18 million dollars of public money. What to spend it on: the health of the planet or the entertainment of the public? Tell me, could a grand tour of Gaspésie replace the grand F1 spectacle? I imagine thousands of Gaspesians throwing lilac branches at cyclists. I imagine the river swirling and swelling, eels holding their heads above the water to take everything in, parents promising bicycles to their children. Elected officials promising to improve the waterfront.   In Saint-Vianney, it looks like everyone has fallen asleep in the middle of the day. I don’t see anyone. No dog, no cat, no living soul. Further on, in Saint-René, the weather turns darker, the road caves. I feel small and vulnerable. I turn on the radio to hear that the corpses are piling up in France. It is inevitable. Has Mother Earth lit a great fire? We live in denial as if we were still in an earthly paradise. One expert says that the longer the heat wave persists, the greater the danger. Could this extreme heat be emanating from the cracks in the mantle of hell? Here in our country, Vancouver has been so hot that the elderly are almost frightened to death. I am terrified too. Maybe I should leave this world as soon as possible before I am completely incinerated. I push hard on the pedal. I can’t wait to get out of the valley. On the right, a pretty covered bridge consoles me. The 132 keeps stretching in front of me, just like when our mothers used to make taffy for Ste. Catherine’s Day. Thank goodness I’m not a domestic goddess, just a morning cook. I roll on down the valley as if the Olympic flame were licking my backside. Going at a good clip, I finally arrive in Matapedia. I don’t stop and eventually arrive in Avignon RCM. I would like to visit Escuminac and some old Mi’kmaq sites, but the Mini goes straight through. I console myself by dreaming of a TOTEM just for me. I would pile up a dozen or so plates from the past years, each one unique and significant. And up there, at the top of the totem pole, my old age would be pecking at the sky to be let in.   In Carleton-sur-Mer, I look for a place to turn in along the seashore. I pull into the Manoir Belle Plage. A beautiful place filled with history books on early pioneers. I polish off a feast of fried fish at Dixie Lee and soon regret it: my stomach aches, my heart aches, my entire body aches. I’ve forgotten how to keep my digestive system happy. My stomach is bigger than my body; my head is empty and my legs weigh 100 pounds each. After an hour-long hot bath, I disappear under the luxurious comforter of my Manoir bed and fall sound asleep. I dry up, shrinking until I am only a net of kelp caught between two pieces of dead wood. My sheets become liquid. Who am I but a lead ball, a swollen belly drifting out to sea, a strange void hoping for the dawn? My silent snoring ploughs through the foam of the open sea. In my flooded mind, a dream tries to surface. I am afraid. A giant wave strikes the blackness of the water. I grab onto a giant seaweed and wrap myself in it. I am warm, I am safe. Suddenly, a cavernous mouth opens and swallows me. What a nightmare! Come back next week for more adventure! Cora ❤

I am not exaggerating when I say my Gaspésie journey is exceptional. Goodbye Paris, London and Istanbul. I went there, I loved it, and yet, this current return to my roots is unrivalled. Having left the Notre-Dame-du-Portage inn around noon, I started looking for the wolf of Rivière-du-Loup (loup is “wolf” in French). The poor thing is certainly hiding somewhere in the 138.4 square kilometers that make up the territory. I passed the Hôtel Universel, the Hôtel Lévesque, the Comfort Inn and the Auberge de la Pointe, but no wolf, anywhere. Looking beyond the pasture fences, I learned that the town’s name might come from the presence of seals, also called “sea wolves” in French, which would have once been numerous at the mouth of the river. It is said that the maritime explorer Jacques Cartier, during an expedition, named the town because he had seen many seals on the river’s bank. So it seems that a wolf is not always a wolf and the hunt for the male animal that haunts my dreams is an adventure that’s not without false tracks. Fortunately, the beautiful Cacouna next door was able to console me. With its magnificent houses overlooking the river, the Pub d'Antan restaurant, a huge flour mill, antique stores and hundreds of lilacs that fill the town with their scent, Cacouna is a well-hidden treasure. I walked through it as gently as if I were licking a soft ice cream cone. Even the dazzling sun was trying to convince me to sleep there one night. To appear beautiful and unique in others’ eyes, we must first be beautiful and unique to ourselves. To have the courage to show our uniqueness, our colours, the flower wreath crowning our heads and our eccentric style. Daring is not a game, but a declaration of courage. My courage and beautiful Cacouna’s. Still on 132 East, the Mini Cooper sputters. It's enough to drive you crazy with the jumble of pamphlets inside. Maps here, brochures there, notebooks, half-open books, bills in disarray – the interior looks like a tourist kiosk that has been hit by a nuclear attack. “RIMOUSKI,” announces a green sign. In the distance, the Île Verte plunges into the river. Cyclists are pedalling towards tomorrow. Two women in a convertible wave to me as they pass by. All along the way, the ghost of Highway 20 threatens me. I see it reaching out to me at each clearing. Such is the case since the horse and buggy disappeared. Convenience tugs at our sleeves; speed is queen! 12:26 p.m.: For a long time, I cross farm land more fertile than hope itself. I resist the temptation to take the ferry to go shake hands with Île Verte. Notre-Dame-des-Sept-Douleurs offers solace. The poor parish tells the story of the Virgin following her son step by step to Golgotha. Lord, how sad it is. Did she know that He would rise from the dead? 1:32 p.m.: Another green sign appears, this time announcing TROIS-PISTOLES. Why three? And not four or eight? Are we dealing with a duel to settle a score between priests? Perhaps I should ask the famous author Victor-Lévy Beaulieu? He is still alive and very prolific. Perhaps he will encourage me to continue writing? On my left, the Fromagerie des Basques seems to be the town’s main attraction. I stop there. I think about it. I forgot my cooler. Foolish me! I wanted to bring my granddaughter back a fresh lobster. And now, no cheese either. About 2:00 pm. Should I take the ferry to Les Escoumins? Look there, a museum on the horizon, a collection of old cars from the Maurice Duplessis era. On the other side of the road, Marcel Plourde’s workshop, a cabinetmaker. And just next door, a small business called Ballons en Folie. I stop my Mini, roll down the driver’s window and ask an elderly woman why the place is called Trois-Pistoles. Believe it or not, she doesn't know. She tells me she’s sorry, almost tearing up. I'm back on the road. I love my country, its lands and seas, its benevolent sky and its warm people. I am happy. Then what on earth do I see? A hearse parked alongside a cemetery’s fence and many shiny cars parked nearby. Who died? The mayor? A big shot? A well-healed man, as Victor-Lévy would say? Who owns the shiny red Jag? Curiosity takes hold of me. Then as luck would have it, a small bookshop comes into view through my windshield further down the road. I park the Mini, open my window, take off my sunglasses and see a big CLOSED TODAY. Closed for what? For the funeral for the deceased man whose name I don't know? I realize that while crisscrossing my beautiful Gaspé Peninsula, I am accumulating a lot of WHYs. Why exactly? With my right foot applied lightly to the gas pedal, I continue on my way. That's the way life goes, in Trois-Pistoles or elsewhere, I am comfortable with what I know. And I don't suffer from FOMO (fear of missing out). I am not the centre of the world, just a tiny beauty mark on my town’s cheek. With both feet planted firmly on the ground, I live in a connected world. I frequently miss things, but Radio-Canada and Saturday’s Le Devoir teach me the most important things to know. And here is a magnificent big church. A masterpiece made of big field stones. I admire those builders of ancient cathedrals. I park and walk around the church. Just behind it, a small modern building is home to MALLETTE, chartered professional accountants. It's quite edifying to see how much Trois-Pistoles has to offer. Just next to Mallette's is the Cantine d'Amour. A clash of neurons occurs: I want to stay in Trois-Pistoles. At least until I discover why "three" pistols and not four or eight. Should I knock on Mallette's door? Or should I leave these mysterious places? "On the road again," the famous Jack Kerouac would answer me. Nobody is waiting for me. So much the better. I don't even know where I'll sleep tonight. That's true freedom, don't you think? Could it simply be old age? Not promising anything and only revealing afterwards what really happened? The unvarnished truth? I hit the road and am mesmerized by the wonders before me. Approaching Bic National Park, everything I see is beautiful and green; the lushness of the trees is transcendent. Is it the water, the temperature, a microclimate effect or the locals’ love? Even the birch trees in the Bic seem to put an effort into looking lovely. On my left, a ferry to the North Shore readies to leave. Visible perhaps from the boat: the Bic, a whale and her baby. Have you ever noticed that birch trees are the ones who protect our country roads? They are slender, flexible and hardy. Polite, friendly and discreet, too. Elegantly dressed, they are the ones who stretch, bend and stoop to assist a little rabbit or mother groundhog. They are also the ally of drivers, who, when dusk falls, follow the light from their white outstretched arms home. I finally arrive in Sainte-Flavie where I once lived for some three years. I find a bed for the night at the Gaspésiana Hotel and then rush to smell the sweet scent of the sea. I soak my feet for a few moments until they become numb. At 7 p.m., I finally taste a local lobster whose flavour sweeps me away. Dazzled by the moment, I dare to order 8 ounces of Jackson-Triggs Reserve Sauvignon Blanc. Fresh out of a pot of boiling water, the animal holds out its two claws to me, as if land and sea were finally to be reconciled. "Life is dangerous, dear friend. You must crack open the shell to taste the flesh," the great Bocuse would certainly have told me if he had been my dinner guest. This great chef, whose biography I have read, was a passionate man, full of enthusiasm and know-how. He died in his sleep on January 20, 2018. Ouranos! First son of the Earth and master of the starry sky, hear me: This is the kind of departure I wish to have. To leave while dreaming of the next breakfast to be invented. To leave without regret, with the hand of an angel guiding me skyward. High above, where no annoyance can take root in my mind. I fly, fly away. Who will I be tomorrow? A queen dishevelled by the swell? A mermaid approaching Bonaventure Island? More next Sunday! Cora ❤