​​​​​​​Happy Mother’s Day!

Back from my Gaspesian tour and already settled into a daily routine, what else is there to tell you about than the small ups-and-downs of life at home? The life of a retired CEO can easily be mistaken for a quilt that got unceremoniously shrunk in the wash. A few meetings here and there, one or two words of advice from the founder to department directors, a few chocolate-dipped recommendations for my children… That’s how much my former importance has dimmed. And yet! How many times have I begged angels and even demons for a single day of peace, for one quiet afternoon spent reading, for one midday movie accompanied by some popcorn and cola or a Monday morning when I can sleep in until noon? The sky has finally fallen on my head. Everything I asked for was given to me a hundredfold. I’m telling you! Do you remember the two merciless bullies I told you about at the beginning of the pandemic – retirement and old age? They came to me holding hands, without any warning. They ruined everything, both the good and the bad. Now I have to be satisfied with the ordinariness of life from one morning to the next. Thank goodness, writing saved me! Writing has become my vigorous plant that keeps growing and purifying my existence. I need it as much as I do breathing. And when I don’t have a spectacular tale to tell, words wrap little things up in ribbons and turn them into colourful surprises. And so each Sunday morning, I sit at a table at the café in my little corner of the Laurentians. The constant coming and going of people keeps the mood lively. Almost no one sits down. Just me, always at the same table. The café-bakery is perfectly situated, at the centre of the town’s bustle. Most of the patrons stop here to get bread and pastries to take home. Occasionally a few regulars sit down to enjoy a coffee. Almost all of them wave to me. To them, I am merely the lady who’s always scribbling, not the woman whose name appears on restaurant fronts across Canada. From where I sit, I am a faded former CEO who still feels useful to any reader hungry for some small talk. Sundays are a very special day for me because my letter is published on the Cora restaurants Facebook page in the morning. Each week, I have to fight the temptation all day to check how many comments I’ve received. I always worry there won’t be many. Truth be told, the higher the count, the sunnier my mood. And so I always wait until Tuesday morning before taking a look. I am dumbfounded each time by how many readers appreciate my words. And, you know what? I have my own ritual when I read the comments. I sit down on the fir-green sofa in my sunroom, a notebook on a small round table next to me to jot down a few notes if needed, along with a large cup of hot black tea and a few delicious Nonni’s Limoncello biscotti that I buy at Costco as a treat. I am not an author by profession. I have no clue how to invent a story or to write a beautiful poem. But I have hope. Even if my journey as an apprentice scribbler improves at a snail’s pace, it still opens the doors and invites the little details of daily life, distant memories and the unexpected to enter. My paragraphs are still like showers of disjointed words; “the sum of all that I see, hear and perceive,” as the famous Quebec author, Robert Lalonde, used to say. 10:32 a.m. Like each Sunday during the summer, I leave the bakery around 10:30/11 and stop at the local flea market. It’s an activity that is almost bucolic, thanks to its country setting. It is also the perfect opportunity to get in a good kilometer of walking, usually taken at a leisurely pace. Glancing left and right, and a few times in front of me, I bump into a rather nice old man. We are in front of a stall filled with fresh vegetables of the day. He offers me a few ears of corn for dinner. I take three and thank him. Darn it all! Even at my age, my eyes are still bigger than my stomach. I will eat two and will have to slice and freeze the third one for vegetable soup this fall. I move on, feeling somewhat contrite, when a golden nugget grabs my attention. A $1 book by Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, who holds many honoris causa from various universities around the world. She spent her life at the side of the dying and firmly believes that “death is but a transition from this life to another existence where there is no more pain and anguish.” According to her, the moment of death is a unique, beautiful and liberating experience, without fear or distress. Wow! I was too young when I read her book for the first time. I want to believe in her words such as those written on the back cover: “Dying only means moving into a nicer house….Death is simply a shedding of the physical body like the butterfly shedding its cocoon.” Good heavens! I need to revisit this book now that three-quarters of a century is pushing me towards the exit. And if I must leave, I will move to paradise and will write about the sublime happiness of the faithful. 12:06 p.m. Back at home, I open the fridge. Since I already have three peeled hard-boiled eggs, I decide on the best sandwich in the world, one we have been serving in our restaurants since the beginning: the delicious “Egg salad sandwich” (in French, Midi Dolores). It was created in honour of and named after the mother of one of our first franchisees. With the apron around my waist, I slice a few branches of celery, two or three green onions, a handful of parsley and the hard-boiled eggs. I mix everything together in a bowl and add two spoons of mayo, salt and lots of pepper. I’ve always preferred black pepper to all other colours. I am not a fancy eater and I often wonder where my creativity came from to invent breakfast dishes that our competitors never tire of imitating. I toast two slices of multigrain bread and finish off my sandwich with two large leaves of lettuce. I add radishes and Nantes carrots to my plate, and I peel and slice a cucumber. I am almost convinced that these daily veggies that accompany my main courses are the secret to my narrow septuagenarian waistline. Believe it or not, since the beginning of the pandemic, I’ve lost 15 lb. by stuffing myself with raw vegetables instead of chips, a second serving or extra bites of something fattening. 1:28 p.m. I finish my tea at the table as I peruse the pages from the weekend edition of Le Devoir. Almost each day after lunch, I fall asleep on the couch in the sunroom while I read. Today, Morpheus might have to wait a little because I am reading a story whose splendid heroine has me transfixed. The author is JULIA KERNINON and the title of the book is LIV MARIA. It’s an exceptional story! On the back cover, Marine Landrot, from the French magazine Télérama, describes the heroine this way: “Liv Maria’s trajectory has the blinding beauty of ancient tragedies and the frenetic tumult of the contemporary world.” Cora ❤

You can easily imagine that during all those days I spent crisscrossing my native GASPÉSIE, I couldn’t resist the urge to throw a bottle into the sea. I’m telling you! It’s a means of communication just like any other and, who knows, maybe one day a handsome Prince of the sea will find my letter. And so, when I arrived in PERCÉ in the afternoon, I knew immediately I would act on it. Even more so because the Hotel La Normandie put me in a pretty room steps from the sea, with a big patio door overlooking the famous rock. The location was idyllic, making it the perfect place to write a message to a potential alter ego. But what would I tell him? So many years separate us, and perhaps continents, different cultures and foreign languages too. Would I write in French, in English, draw a dozen red hearts interspersed with twinkling stars? What to do? I crossed the hotel lawn and walked a few steps to the seashore. I sat on a weather-worn log and soaked my feet in the sea. Overhead, a thousand seagulls were trying to answer me. And, just like a miracle, the wisdom of the water reminded me that I had already written a letter about old philosopher Plato’s theory, recounting the perilous journey of soulmates. Plato declared that the Earth was once populated with spherical beings with four arms, four legs, a head with two faces (one female, coming from the earth, and the other male, coming from the sun) and the reproductive organs of both sexes. According to the philosopher, these ancestors felt they were superior. In fact, the strength and vigour of these androgynous beings were so extraordinary that they even dared to attack the gods. Wanting to hold on to his supremacy and weaken these superhumans without wiping them out, the great Zeus decided to split them in half, with each side having one face, two arms, two legs and the respective reproductive organs. Once separated, the halves were pointed in opposite directions, so that they would spend the rest of their lives looking for their missing half, their soulmate. Only then would they finally be happy and whole, as they once were. If we believe Plato’s word, humans as we know them today are incomplete half-beings –constantly trying to recognize and find their other half in order to be happy. I don’t believe in this philosophical myth, but the truth is that I have never met my true “soulmate.” And every time I am near the ocean, I feel at home, I become bolder and I am tempted to send my message in a bottle. Who knows what a kind-hearted cod, somewhere in the depths of the sea, might do for me? Back in my room, I decide to write a poem to my Prince. Using my LAMY red ink fountain pen, I write it down on a nice crisp sheet of white paper whose height I have previously measured so it will fit comfortably in the bottle. An obliging server had given me an empty bottle of Errazuriz Estate Sauvignon blanc with a blue twist cap. I let it soak in hot water in the tub while I write. After I’ve finished writing, I unglue the two labels from the bottle, polish its surface and meticulously dry the interior with the room’s blow dryer. I then roll up the poem and gently slip it into the pretty forest green bottle, accompanied by a strand of my white hair. The very next morning, before leaving for GASPÉ, I return to the dock in L’Anse-à-Beaufils, dear readers, with my precious bottled message. Everything is perfect. With a hopeful heart, I muster the courage to ask an old sailor about to leave land to kindly take my precious bottle to the open sea and throw it into the water. “Of course I will, ma’am!” I will never forget the kind sailor’s smile as he held my bottle close to his heart and wished it to its destined port for my sake. POEM FOR MY SOULMATE I was born tearful, for I had left you. Where we were joined in love, united. Did we walk here together through this tunnel? By Zeus, now I am alone, forbidden and punished. My weeping eyes fumble for you. Where are you? In what mysterious depths? Three new breaths came out of me. Three reasons I wish for better attire. I managed, and managed well at that. Clinging to work, so far from your fingers’ reach. You are always there, in my head, looking for me. Me, your beloved, your beautiful other half. I imagine you are both talkative and serene. Can you hear in the distance my heart in turmoil? I long to find you and hear your voice. May you find me as beautiful as before. My walled heart combs the bottom of the seas. May you find my bottle in the sea. May you break this glass prison and console me. Cora ❤

During all those long, almost forced months of confinement, I often thought of my dear GASPÉSIE dearest and I was desperate to finally see it again one day. Now I have done it, and I am delighted to have done so. There is something magical about finally bringing a dream to life that you have held on tightly to for a long time; an unequalled sense of contentment. Have you ever experienced it? Think about it. Life is like Sputnik, it goes by so fast! And we have so many things to do just to stay alive. It’s rare we are satisfied and greatly content. This morning, I am satisfied and I realize that this recent trip was different from my previous expeditions to the land of my childhood. This time, I barely spoke to anyone. I travelled as one with the sea, the lush nature, the audacious mountains and the infinitely beautiful road. And yes, I was alone in my Mini Cooper, just like each time I head out on the road to a far-off destination. This trip was a great surprise to me. While roaming totally free in nature, my inspiration shot into the clouds. I definitely intend to repeat the experience, to leave on these adventures more often. I return home, my head filled with achievable ideas: Go to MONT-TREMBLANT more often, MONT-LAURIER and even further north. Visit the Eastern Townships and also travel WEST and dip my toes in Ontario’s Great Lakes. Try it and find out. Take the car and head somewhere, even if just for an afternoon or an entire day. Take a few apples with you, a sandwich, a bottle of water and your favourite candy. I’m telling you! Do like I did; bite into a candy and turn back the years. Open the windows and let the wind brush your lovely face. Admire the landscape; take in all the beauty that’s in front of you. And empty your mind. Empty the wastebasket of worries that clog the artery leading to your heart. Birds fly because they don’t carry any baggage. You must surely know of Thomas Edison, the famous American who commercialized the electric light bulb. He also left us with the popular saying that genius is 2% inspiration and 98% sweat. Do you know what his last words were before passing on October 18, 1931? He said: “IT IS VERY BEAUTIFUL OVER THERE.” Encouraging, isn't it? You should know that one of my favourite pastimes is to collect famous people’s last words before their final rest. And you, dear readers, do you sometimes think of the last words your loved ones will hear from you? I didn’t have a precise itinerary for this trip; I had no event to attend and no friend or family to visit. The reality is that only the seagulls knew I was among them. I just wanted to hang on to the wheel and drive towards the sea. I had my iPAD with me, a box of sharpened colouring pencils, HP lead pencils, a drawing book and three notepads in case a whale whispered a few secrets to me. And, to my surprise, I didn’t draw or colour. I just filled four notepads with everything I saw and thought of while driving. Very often, I would park my Mini to describe the scenery, note a question, an impression or simply how I felt in the moment. I was happy to drive with the radio and an iceless cooler containing (many!) well-washed apples, carrots, pears, keto crackers, water bottles and my assortment of vitamins as my only companions. Once I had crossed the Matapedia Valley, I was home. While driving, I truly had the impression, dear readers, that you were with me, comfortably installed in the back seat. I was talking to you, turning my head on occasion to hear your comments, ask you a question or laugh at a silly village name. I wasn’t alone in the car, you were with me. I read, the other night, in a small $6.95 book entitled “The Golden Rules of Positive Thinking” that we can find a way to stay young at heart if we smile 400 times a day. I can produce a dozen smiles in the morning in front of the mirror – that’s easy. I try on one or two pairs of different coloured glasses, I choose a nice scarf or flower-studded headband, I crimp my hair, apply lipstick, remove the siren red and switch for a candy pink hue, and so on. My face is a blank page on which I begin a new story every morning. And the book’s author will have the last word. It is up to me to multiply the smiles by pairing the colours of my clothes with a pretty pin, some handmade bracelets and matching socks. Bright colours invariably elicit smiles. Try it and you’ll see. I provoke many smiles myself as I hobble along. And that makes it a lot easier for me to stay young at heart. How I would love to go back to the little girl with the golden locks I was when I was five. Playing marbles with my brother, I would believe in my mother’s love and I’d never meet the dreadful man who ruined my dreams as a young woman. Hypnotized by the whirlwind of life, do we really have time for a small movement of the mouth and eyes? Of course WE DO! A smile takes a nanosecond to appear. Shall we deprive ourselves of thousands of small daily joys hidden within a contagious smile? Of course NOT! Coming back from my trip with nine letters filled with this and that, I truly felt like I had no more beautiful sentences left in me. And yet, as I switched on my iPAD this morning, hundreds of pretty words jostled to leave my mind. Words tonified by conviction and hope. So I will continue to write to convince myself and you, dear readers, that life is worth living. Let us fill our days with bright smiles and let us remain young at heart, together. Cora ❤

I finally arrive in Rimouski at 5:20 p.m. I’m starving! I follow the river and, when I reach Hôtel Rimouski, a hundred graduates in their prom suits and gowns are roaming the lawns and sidewalks. Two small cruise ships are moored at the dock. The adolescents get onboard. I am so hungry, my stomach rumbles. I leave the waterfront and turn onto St. Germain Boulevard. I park and enter the “Spaghetti House” restaurant, an institution since it opened. My belly satisfied, I decide to drive to RIVIÈRE-DU-LOUP (literally “wolf’s river”). Quick, I need a coffee to keep me awake! The sky is still very bright. The road is beautiful and the wolf awaits. 8:10 p.m. Do I have any cherries left? I’ve eaten all the hard candy and my throat is dry. I cross the bridge over to RIVIÈRE-DU-LOUP. I look right, left. I look everywhere searching for the wolf and a place to spend the night. I finally find lodging, but no wolf! At $200 per night, even the outskirts in GASPÉSIE are pricey. Perhaps that’s why so many RVs are on the roads. Food and lodging for less, but monthly payments throughout the year. To each their own package. After soaking in a hot bath, I finish François Rabelais’ biography. I fall asleep in an oversized and super comfortable bed. I wake up very early, around 4:30 a.m. according to the hotel clock. I have a single thought in mind, the last sentence pronounced by Rabelais before his passing on April 9, 1553: “I GO TO SEEK THE GREAT PERHAPS.” I repeat this sentence nonstop until I come to the conclusion once again that nobody knows what awaits us afterwards. I put my clothes away, turn the Keurig on and pour myself a black coffee. I write for about two hours until I clear my head and leave the hotel. Anxious to lie on my favourite couch in the Laurentians, I jump at Highway 20’s invitation to head home. My foot heavy on the pedal, I drive on the long tail of a siren who swims faster than all. The harlot dares to carve up farm land. She disturbs the villages, the wind’s direction and the moose’s trails. When I reach LA POCATIÈRE, thousands of baby fir trees try to grow, glued to this villain. I need gas. It is already too late to take the exit when the big yellow Shell emerges from the clouds. I have to concentrate like Tom Cruise in his F18. The words PETRO-CANADA appear on a sign. I miss the exit again! I did read the sign, but immediately forgot the exit number as I read it. Damn old age. A kind-hearted friend suggested I get a chauffeur. Not going to happen. I love to drive! “Everything that happens is not without consequence,” says Boucar Diouf as I tune in to RADIO-CANADA. Seven million years ago, mankind stood up and discovered back pain. I, for one, have pain in my left knee. I often imagine that the muscles in this leg are knitting a steel scarf around my kneecap. According to Boucar, 1 billion people live with back pain. How many have bad knees? Highway 20, also named Jean-Lesage (a former politician), has such a serious demeanour. It never learned how to waltz with the landscape or twirl with the mountains in GASPÉ, or brush against a beautiful lake, lost in nature. It is the straightest road in the Gaspé Peninsula. Dearest readers, can you keep a secret? For goodness’ sake, please don’t tell anyone that I take notes as I drive, in a notepad placed on my right thigh. I know! My kids must never read these travel letters or they will take my car keys away from me. I seem sweet and kind, but under my hawk feathers, I’m a bold one who’s not afraid of danger. I am only afraid of snakes, eels and everything limbless that slithers on this earth. I nearly died as a young mother. I was mopping the floor in the kids’ room. I came across a big brown grocery bag in the closet. I open the bag, and in that instant, I experienced the worst moment of my entire life. I see a dozen young snakes tangled together in the bag. My heart stops beating. I exit the room, close the door, take an armchair from the living room and place it against the door of the snake room. I had to stop them from finding their way into the rest of the house. Seriously, I thought I would die of fright! 11:20 a.m. I still have some cherries left. I eat a few. The pits fly out the window. The soft rain transforms into a storm. I close the windows. A miserable pit hits the glass, reverses direction and falls directly on my white shirt. The HORROR! I promptly stop eating the damned cherries. There are only 4 or 5 left and I throw them to the crows. I hesitate and then open a pack of CLOROX disinfectant wipes. Will I make it better or worse if I attempt to clean the cherry’s red blood that has settled into the stitches of the white knitted top? “When in doubt, let’s refrain,” my late mom whispers to me. MONTREAL, 160 kilometres. I drive and, suddenly, the only things my eyes see are the many dark brown spots on the two hands holding the steering wheel. What are those? Small parcels of old age roasting in the sun? I never cared for my skin despite the 3 or 4 jars of cream I receive every Christmas. I much prefer getting new books, but my daughter is forever hopeful I will improve my personal appearance. She insists every time she finds a blackhead on my nose, a new wrinkle on my neck, or worse, the damned red pimples on top of my forehead. Sometimes, I would like to be someone else, a magnificent woman. A Lise Watier, for example. So sweet, so noble and so beautiful. I’m certain she can never get old. The 20 clears up and so does the sky. I try to sing a little. My heart flies to Iceland, where a few of my favourite authors live. These geniuses of the page know how to dress their sentences with beauty and masterfully strike a judicious balance between the human spirit and our physical shell. 1:29 p.m. I bite into a carrot, swallow vitamins and it takes the edge of my craving for food. Which bridge onto the Island of Montreal has the least traffic? It’s Friday and urban dwellers are escaping the city, I suppose. I grab a “cream of coconut mint” candy. The mint part of the candy tastes good, but the coconut has no flavour. Disappointed, I bite down on the candy and, miracle, I discover the delicious coconut cream. Such is life! We meet someone, we chat a bit and, most often, we part ways. We throw away the candy. But when we insist, when we shatter the first impression, we often discover the delicious, the marvellous. Are we so disposed to hiding the best in ourselves? This small, unique heart of goodness inside each of us is our treasure, our vessel of tenderness and generosity. Take very good care of it; take very good care of yourselves, dearest readers. Take care of this vessel of love at your core that animates your existence. This is the grace that I wish upon you with all of my heart! END OF THE TRAVEL LETTERS. Cora ❤ P.S. – You needn’t worry, more stories to follow!

10:47 a.m. I am eating cherries as I drive. The pits fly out the big open windows. I drive and everything is rolling along smoothly. Suddenly, a cherry that has become too soft slips between my fingers and lands on my left thigh, right on my light blue pants. My sky darkens. A fire-red missile has just attacked the peacefulness of the journey. I feel like throwing all my cherries to the seagulls. 11:28 a.m. Since I realized that the double yellow line on the road is the same colour as the Cora Sun, I am no longer alone at the wheel. My Sun is with me. We arrive in the great SAINTE-ANNE-DES-MONTS and RADIO-CANADA stops crackling. I hear very clearly that summer officially arrived yesterday. Darn, summer already! “Radiators are thirsty,” adds the radio. I follow the road taken by tourists with my wheels almost in the water. The bay in SAINTE-ANNE-DES-MONTS is very bucolic. It almost looks like small houses hanging in a Christmas tree. The city is a large municipality. Its church with two steeples is also big, not to mention the huge presbytery. Across from it, the EXPLORAMER complex pulls me like a magnet. I park in front. Let’s go see if I can find a new plastic seagull for my sunroom. No such luck. The plastic seagull trend is definitely over, but I do find a siren made out of fabric and a big unbreakable shark. I hope they’ll get along in the sunroom. At the Exploramer counter, I feel my stomach rumbling. I question the pretty cashier. She suggests a canteen on the waterfront, a few kilometres away from the museum. I order a lobster roll with a small fries and cola. Here, customers walk in, take a look at the menu on the wall, order, pay the bill and wait until the boss lady shouts their number. Mine is number 132. “Like the highway,” notes the boss. She gets a smile out of me. I ask my tablemate how many more kilometres to RIMOUSKI, and he replies to me with an impeccable French accent. In front of him, a poutine stuffed with cheese curds and shrimp from Matane. I should’ve ordered that! I am still hungry as I leave the building. Outside, a few men talk about the big bonfire for Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day. That’s right, it’s tomorrow! I completely lost track of time. 1 p.m. I get back on the highway. In CAP-CHAT, a crow hops with both feet on the road’s double yellow line. I turn on the radio. Announcer Eugénie Lépine-Blondeau is telling me about Elvis. Apparently, he is alive more than ever. Will Madame Cora persist in the collective memory? Do satisfied bellies remember where to go? Elvis became a huge star at 19 years old; I, a small one at 40. It’s a lot less memorable. When I started behind a counter, I wore my long braided hair around my head and a white blouse buttoned up to my neck. Elvis reached people through their ears and quickly found a way into their hearts. I descended into their stomachs and had to work my way back up into their hearts. Either way, I am now an old crooner, satisfied enough with her accomplishments. Still following the river, I contemplate a long line of wind turbines. I don’t know exactly how they improve the wind’s strength, but they are magnificent. They remind me of beautiful ballerinas in the sky, their heads upside down. Have I ever mentioned that I miss the old cars in which we could listen to CDs? When I was working night and day, I passed the director exam for public companies thanks to the dozens of business CDs I listened to while travelling from one city to the next. When you’re just starting out in business at 40, you don’t have a minute to waste, I’d tell myself. On this trip, if I had a CD player, I might listen to fantastical tales or the great legends of Gaspésie. Or maybe not. No. All things considered, I prefer to pay attention to what nature is teaching me. I prefer to imagine that you are with me, dear readers, riding along in the back seat of the Mini. I drive, take off, fly and bang! I land in GROSSES-ROCHES. I come to a near stop. I’m in line, bumper to bumper, behind some 20 vehicles moving at a snail’s pace. More road construction! This year, it really seems like the entire GASPÉSIE is getting an upgrade. I have a lot of compassion for heavy truck drivers. Their patience is put to the test so often. But what can you do? It’s the bridges that suffer the most from severe arthritis. Where are my candies? My throat is dry again. I need to put two in my mouth before I can taste something. The Butter Creams from Super C are the best of the assortment. Lucky moose; after the 50 or so signs I saw while visiting the peninsula, I can attest that not a single one expired. The road construction infuriates me, so I grab two more Butter Creams. 2:28 p.m. I move and drive like I was learning a strange four-wheel waltz. Nearing MATANE, I notice that the mountains have stopped parading. The ground is flat again, the wind chilly. I drive through town and witness the procession of all the big name brands in the country. I turn left and take my spot in the queue to get a hot coffee at Tim Hortons. As I get back into my car, I try in vain to turn up the heat. Darn old age, I forgot how to. Another one of those momentary lapses I experience with increasing frequency. Sometimes I lose my keys, my fountain pen and the book I’m reading or my grocery list. I waste my time messing around with the buttons. I take a few breaths and calm down. Then wouldn’t you just know it, a warm puff of air brushes my nose. I always find what I misplace in the house. For everything else – a name, a piece of information, a way of doing something or an address – I wait. I call my daughter, my granddaughter, a good friend or someone at the office. These small memory lapses terrify me. This is the first time I am sharing this. Could it be the sea air that makes me so forthcoming with both the good and the bad? I’m almost in SAINTE-FLAVIE where I slept a few days ago. I slow down and park the car in the church parking lot for a few minutes. Just enough time to run across the road and dip my toes in the sea, take a deep breath and realize that in SAINTE-FLAVIE my GASPÉSIE tour has come full circle. East to west, I adored being at the river’s side. From here, I make my way back towards my home, in the beautiful Laurentians. To be continued next week for the conclusion of my travel letters! Cora ❤

I leave GRANDE-VALLÉE, its nice motel and breathtaking view. I hang on tightly, turn and climb a narrow road that reminds me of a ribbon wrapped around a huge Christmas tree. I encircle the mountains repeatedly, terrified, because the road seems suspended high in the air. RADIO-CANADA announces nice weather: alternating sun and clouds, humidity and 25 degrees, with the clouds clearing in the afternoon. Hurray! A few minutes pass by and the radio suddenly starts to protest at the top of its lungs: $350 per night for a hotel in the U.S., $60 per pound to taste a small, fresh lobster, and that’s not even taking into account the exchange rate! I drive down a very long hill. I fly, I twirl like a feather from a seagull falling from the sky. I’m afraid, even frightened. My toes are cemented to the brake pedal. I hope my car insurance is in order, I think to myself. I read somewhere that a person who walks is healthier. The one driving is in greater danger – from suddenly not being able to walk any more. SAINTE-ANNE-DES-MONTS, 95 kilometres. Do I have enough coffee to make it there? Finally, a yellow-lemon house catches my attention. I take a picture of it from the car. It’s rather rare in GASPÉSIE to see such vibrant colours. According to the voice on RADIO-CANADA, inflation is directly proportional to the price of gasoline. And don’t dare ask me how many $$$ I have paid so far to admire the landscape. Come to think of it, I am on my last few miles. I don’t need much of anything anymore; no need to purchase new clothes or dress shoes for Sundays, no reason to buy fancy scarves to hide the wrinkles that betray the passage of time. My closets are full of them. I had my hour of glory when I was 15 or 16 years old, when everyone would tell me I looked like the famous Marina Vlady. She was a beautiful actress who married the splendid Robert Hossein. Today, at my age, I live in my head most of the time and I feel pretty good there. Until a handsome lobster holds out its claw to me. I forget about the cost; ocean delicacies are one of my weaknesses. Here, surrounded by the ocean, I say to the devil with money! I compensate for all the small frozen Icelandic cod filets I’ve ever bought from Costco. Is this my last trip around the Bas-Saint-Laurent region which stretches along the St. Lawrence River? Maybe not! The only way to live a long life is to accept getting older and to get on with your projects. It means embracing your dreams whatever your age. My close friends and family know that I’m inquisitive – constantly questioning life, others, myself and the creator above, who has never replied back. Will I be able to find out who I truly am before I leave this earth? It seems to me that my identity is in constant metamorphosis. SAINTE-MADELEINE-DE-LA-RIVIÈRE-À-MADELEINE (literally, “Saint-Madeleine of Madeleine’s River”) announces the green sign. Where is the river that bears my name? Didn’t I wash enough dishes in my life to merit my own body of water somewhere? Perhaps in heaven? I arrive in GROS-MORNE (literally, “big gloomy”). Who is that? A famous bear? An oversized Canadian pioneer? Who is GROS-MORNE? A deforested mountain? A well-known First Nations leader? Is there a ministry of place names here? And church names? ANSE-PLEUREUSE (which translates roughly as “crying cove”) is on the horizon, just 12 kilometres away. “Tears wash our eyes,” my mother would tell me from the other side of the door when I hid in a closet to fume. And so life goes on. Have you ever noticed that our misfortunes are often intersected with small, surprising joys? I run away from my home with my children. The husband gives me nothing, nothing at all, and I jump for joy despite it all because I am finally free. I’ve been through enough hard times to finally realize that the most miserable calamities don’t last forever. In the worst of times, in the darkest moments of despair, there is always a small crack, a thin ray of light that penetrates the shadows. Maybe that was what the acclaimed Leonard Cohen was talking about when he wrote, “There is a crack in everything. That’s how light gets in.” It’s that small crack that we all have within ourselves, each one of us. I will certainly reread this great poet. At one point, I even studied the symbolism of his psalms, including those in his book on my bedside table that falls asleep with me. In MONT-SAINT-PIERRE, I finally learn that GROS-MORNE is a great rock that juts into the sea. But why is this rock so sad? If the rock’s name is “big gloomy,” then it has to be a very forlorn rock, I tell myself. I drive for a long while, brushing against the sea’s edge. I always hope I will see a whale’s back surfacing. At the same moment a flock of seagulls perform a dance in the blue sky. I see many of them landing, gathered on the shore or perched on driftwood. They are impressive birds. I even had one in my sunroom at home for many years. I would say hello to the bird every morning until a painter threw it away in a garbage container four years ago. I had been doing renovations around the house and my big, beautiful plastic seagull flew away. MARSOUI, 10 kilometres. I am still tracing the seashore’s edge. Invigorating and soothing, GASPÉSIE’s water makes me think of goodness. I imagine it filling all the empty rooms of my life. A little further on, I think of the GROS-MORNE’s (a.k.a. Big Gloomy) sad story. An old fisherman told me the tale. Big Gloomy had fallen in love with a stunning mermaid whose golden agate eyes attracted hungry sailors. Capricious and haughty, the wretched siren ignored the kindly rock who, holding out its open arms towards the escaping mermaid, only retreated further into the bay. The mean siren preferred to entice her many suitors with her angelic voice and her tail of sparkling scales. When I was 18 years old, I could have been a beautiful, good siren, in love with a strong rock. But I stayed on firm land and that didn’t stop a terrible shark from laying waste to all the dreams I had as a young woman. Attentive and studious, I was finishing my classical studies and had enrolled at the Sorbonne in Paris. My greatest desire was to become a writer. Oh, if only! I remember it so well, that fateful Saturday night when the Earth started spinning in the wrong direction. I had just gotten my driver’s licence and Dad had agreed to lend me his small white Volvo to visit a college friend who lived some 15 kilometres away, in the metropolis of Montreal. I was spending the weekend there. I was elated as I took the wheel of the car. I loved driving then as much as I do today. And when I got to my friend’s house, her two cousins, who were the same age as us, were also there. The three young ladies were crazy about dancing. Much more worldly than me, they often went to downtown Montreal on Saturday night to dance. And, of course, they insisted that all four of us go dancing in Dad’s car. Enjoying being behind the wheel, I instantly agreed to it without giving it a second thought. I explained to the girls as I was driving there that I had never been dancing before in my short life. They burst out in laughter. I was intellectual and studious; I knew little of the real world. It was getting dark when we arrived at our destination. Stores were closed, but the city streets were packed with the young and not so young. It was an urban crowd that was utterly unfamiliar to me. I parked in a secure paid spot and then followed my companions, who seemed to know exactly where they were headed. A portly, ageless man was guarding the door. He opened it with a smile that seemed more questioning than friendly. Weren’t we too young for this type of place? Were they going to ask for our IDs? In front of us, an infernal sound blasted from the top of a huge staircase. The girls ascended the stairs two by two, transfixed by the music. Yuck! Where am I? With each step, I wanted to turn around and flee. But I had promised we would all return to my friend’s house together. And so I let myself be led to a round table facing the dance floor. “Four cosmopolitans,” ordered my friend. Four what? The place itself was cosmopolitan, filled with the most attractive men I had ever seen. I couldn’t make out the different nationalities that were gathered at the party, but I appreciated the handsomeness of the men. Almost all of them resembled mythical gods from Greco-Roman antiquity; the same ones whose history I read about in my classical studies. One of them, a strikingly tall, well-built and gorgeous man with his ebony hair and copper tan, suddenly made his way to our table. I couldn’t help but stare at his beauty; his eyes, on the other hand, were fixed intently on my friend’s turquoise eyes. After a few long moments, he inexplicably turned to face me. I am held in his hypnotic spell. He holds out his hand and invites me to dance. Incapable of saying no, I stand up and let myself be pulled to the centre of the dance floor. And so that is how, ignorant of life, a Sleeping beauty fell asleep for many long, nightmarish years. But she is slowly waking up. Trying to assemble the pieces of the puzzle, revisiting the good and not so good moments of her existence. Writing, reading, trying to understand the moral of her story. One thing is for sure: Appearances deceive; trust only the goodness of others’ hearts. More next week! Cora ❤

Have you ever noticed that the return trip always passes faster than the trip there? We drive, we fly, our eyes become used to the landscape. And the calm, accommodating sea remains at our side. Even when passing through the upper Gaspé, with its mountains and valleys, and breath-taking scenery. I am presently on the 132 North-West headed towards QUEBEC CITY with a stop around 6 p.m. to overnight in GRANDE-VALLÉE at an inn with its toes dipped in the salty water. I left PERCÉ around 1 p.m., after a satisfying morning of writing. I must admit, I didn’t have much difficulty leaving. A bitter cold was pushing me towards the mountains. So I said farewell to the gulls, waved to the rock and Bonaventure Island and set off to climb the cliffs guarding GASPÉ. The first small village announced its name: BARACHOIS. How strange! Apparently, the village has been part of the town of PERCÉ since 1971. The most notable thing in BARACHOIS is its 10 km long sandbank. I didn’t walk on it, but I did gaze at it for awhile. Leaving this pretty village, my Mini is rumbling. She is already tired of constantly ascending and descending hills. We are heading towards GASPÉ, which sits on the big nose of the Gaspé Peninsula. BEWARE, DANGER. White helmets are digging up big iron veins along the road. An unusually large man holds a huge hose in his hand. He is spraying down the dust being thrown up by the work. I thank my lucky stars I was a cook! My mind takes a thousand pictures of the ocean as I drive along. The sky is dark blue, almost the same blue as the blue bins dotted along the road. To my left, another cemetery with roots planted in the sea. In front of me, a dead skunk lies on the two yellow lines of the road. Is it less or more fortunate than the bones lying underground? Did you know? The First Nations have occupied the territory for thousands of years. The name GASPÉ goes back to the Micmac word Gespeg meaning “end of the world” or “end of the land.” GASPÉ, 26 kilometres. A vast coastline, perpendicular to the sky, now dominates the view. Its surroundings full of idyllic greenery. I have just heard on the radio that rain is a book’s best friend. Is this really true? Rain can soak the pages, soften the flesh of sentences and dilute the meaning of words. At one point, my mother had a hobby of washing our hair with rainwater. I never gave it much thought, but I remember that we boiled the water on the wood stove first. GASPÉ, 7 kilometres. Will I find a place on my way to buy a new notebook or two to capture my thoughts on paper? Often I stop at the side of the road, in a driveway. A huge veranda encircles my head, where ideas wait for me to write them down on a sheet of paper. The car is on a downward trajectory. On the left, a beautiful bay; on the right, a convenience store. A bridge appears and GASPÉ awaits me on the other side. A small shopping centre offers hope of finding something suitable to write on. I head in and come across a nice independent bookshop where I purchase three books. As if I don’t have enough in Montreal! I'm a voracious reader – a “libriofagas.” That means I eat them every day. I can be quite eccentric. I even invent words that I borrow from Ancient Greek, forgetting them soon afterwards. I live alone in a big one-storey house. Every day, I choose what I want to see, read and hear. I listen to clever Mozart, Handel and a lot of baroque music. They say it makes writing easier. I am convinced that whatever happens to me today, the sun and my Sun will rise again tomorrow. I am now moving along the 197 North. I have cut across a section of GASPÉ’s nose to save time, but I am not pressed for time; the girl at the PERCÉ tourist office suggested this shortcut. And I usually listen to people who want to help me. The mountains are as high as the ocean is deep. At least that's what I think as my Mini climbs into the sky. All the villages in GASPSÉSIE look alike: small and medium-sized houses, along with a few big ones, all painted white with beautiful lilac bushes in front. A hundred times I want to stop and pick some, but I do not. It’s not nice to take someone else’s property, especially if you’re stealing lilac branches that will never grow back. The morning before yesterday, at the supermarket in CHANDLER, I bought myself several Bosc pears, some cherries from who knows where and some mixed candies to help the dryness in my mouth caused by prolonged silence. A rare condition for me. Truth is, I am bit of an opinionated loudmouth, but the trip is doing me good. It calms me down and teaches me to think in silence. I drive in a straight line for a few moments before arriving in SAINT-MAURICE-DE-L'ÉCHOUERIE; a cumbersome name, but an attractive seaside town. I stop my car and look for my bag of sweets. I take one out, unwrap it and bite into it. I immediately feel like throwing it out the window. Maybe a hungry bird will swoop in and take it. POINTE-JAUNE (“yellow point” in French). But there is nothing yellow on the horizon; everything is green and white. The white of the little houses that all look the same. Ascending a large hill, I notice that only the double line in the centre of the road is yellow. It’s an unusual shade, the same yellow in fact as the Cora SUN. Pixel for pixel, the lines on the road and the star that shines over Cora restaurants are the same colour. I’ve only now noticed it, after 35 years. Such is life: It’s often the things closest to us that we neglect to see, like the dog whose tail you step on, the husband who fills your cereal bowl every morning, a teenager polished smooth by life’s routines, a belly that grows unbeknownst to its owner, a neck that cracks, a breast that gradually deflates. The car ascends and descends one last time and I arrive in CLORIDORME, where there is far too much beauty for so few houses. Heavens! Wild roses on my right. Like the ones we used to have in CAPLAN. I remember them well. We’d gather them into bouquets when in season for mother and grandmother. Our fingers bled from the flowers’ thorns. When we came home, my mother would say that beauty hurts. What did she mean? Her eczema-scarred hands would bleed at the slightest provocation, like when rolling out a pie crust or trimming raspberries. We had certainly tasted her life liquid more than once. Come to think of it, aren’t we also the flesh of her flesh, who’s now buried at the bottom of the BAIE-DES-CHALEURS? See you next week! Cora ❤

Who would have guessed it? I’m sitting with a large black tea at the McDonald's in CHANDLER. As I was leaving the lovely motel in PASPÉBIAC, I realized that the coffee counter in the main office was closed. So I put the key in the door slot and hit the road without writing, my head full of yesterday’s memories. On RADIO-CANADA New Brunswick, I hear an affable announcer making a point about points (point sounds like “dot” in French). And I imagine a long line of little dots following each other to who knows where. But no, the woman is talking about the points you get when you buy something at the drugstore. Fiddlesticks! I spill a bit of coffee on my pink slacks; candy pink like the sweater and the socks on my feet. Since giving up serious three-piece suits, I’ve tended to dress in bright colours: pink, lime green, lemon yellow, sky blue and raspberry red. I'm a natural born thinker. I wear the colours of the fruit that decorates our breakfast plates. I have amassed so many of those purchase points. In fact, when I last thought about it, all the grandkids were away enjoying a free holiday. In PORT-DANIEL, the houses are almost all painted white. What’s going on? 30% chance of showers in PERCÉ, announces RADIO-CANADA, my best travel companion. I don't mind the rain. According to Google, water moistens, washes, purifies and preserves our skin, and improves our concentration, memory and digestion. Forget the water just for a moment and simply open your eyes wide and see how beautiful the wild lupines are in GASPÉSIE. Purple, pink, white or pale blue, they embellish our roadsides and warm our hearts. I love flowers, but I never got into the habit of buying them. I've always been a committed penny pincher, probably because my mother was one. The poor thing looked for deals on everything even though her husband made a decent salary at the time. Believe it or not, during the pandemic I dug up some wild lupines and transplanted them in my garden bed. And they survived! This year they are as big and as beautiful as their wild sisters. I drive on and on and finally arrive in the centre of PORT-DANIEL. I am on a bridge surrounded by water when a big storm strikes. To the right, to the left and everywhere, seawater mixes with cloud water, which is coming down in buckets. Have you ever thought about Anglican churches? Do you know that they are much smaller than big Catholic churches? Painted humbly in white, they look like little cottages where travellers in need can sleep. Is faith measured by the size of the building, or hell by the intensity of its fire? After some 700 kilometres of travelling, it seems to me that almost all the cemeteries on the Lower St. Lawrence are located on the seaside. Would the dead be more at ease there, happier to hear the gentle whisper of sirens, more inclined to dissolve in the saltwater? Oh! On 95 FM, Gilles Vigneault sings Gens du pays (“People of my country,” often considered the unofficial anthem of Quebec). I stop my car and take in all those kilos of poetry. I am a gens du pays. Talk to me about love, dear Gilles. In CHANDLER, the ghosts of dandelions evaporate into the sky. Clay mushrooms adorn shop fronts. The cliffs are steep and the sea is often hard to see. My brave Mini is constantly being bounced up and down, like an amusement park ride. I roll and fly, and suddenly the radio tells me that in PERCÉ, 800 walkers have just completed the Ultra Trail Gaspesia 100 trail-running event. I am 30 kilometres from the rock, will I find a place to stay for the night? My foot grows heavy against the pedal. I am hungry. Today I have eaten nothing but apples and carrots. I shoot down a long hill. In the sunshine, around 4 p.m., I finally catch a glimpse of the famous rock, which has been seen, felt and touched by billions of tourists since the dawn of time. The Hotel La Normandie also has a view of her. I enter and ask for a night's stay. From the balcony of the room facing the sea, I can almost reach out and caress this natural wonder. But no! Thousands of white birds protect her. A security perhaps even tighter than that of Pope Francis’? Ah, if I were younger, I would put on big boots, wrap myself in a sailor's raincoat and venture onto the high seas to watch whales or catch big cod by the belly with a thick transparent line and a giant hook. If I were more athletic, I would explore the hiking trails of the PERCÉ inlands. I would visit the UNESCO World Geopark: the famous Grotto, the great crevasse and the magic forest. If I were more adventurous, I would go around BONAVENTURE ISLAND in a kayak. I would climb the rocks until I reached the island’s mainland where I would enjoy a bite to eat. If I were more curious, I would rent a scuba tank and scour the bottom of the bay to admire its most beautiful agates. If only time could unfurl, but it cannot. So I wander the streets of PERCÉ in search of a beautiful gull knickknack to hang in my Laurentian sun room. Confronted with a thousand trinkets I’ve already seen, I go back to the B&B to get dressed for dinner. Then, at the big counter of La Maison du Pêcheur, a magnificent white pizza steals the show from the live lobster. Packed with shrimp, scallops and lobster meat, the pizza is a real treat. I enjoy it with not one but two glasses of Pinot Grigio. Even the wild sea couldn’t stop my extravagance! It's so easy to dream when you've eaten like a queen. I wrap myself in the pristine white of the sheets, and laying on my side, open a book of poetry and let my heart gently absorb the magic of the words. More next Sunday… Cora ❤

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 ❤

Vacation time is slow time. So I calm down, tidy up my desk, stack three notebooks, sharpen my pencils and make sure I have enough wipes to clean my iPad screen and glasses. As you know, I’m crazy about books. So I waste a good hour choosing a dozen that I need to read immediately. Then I pack some colourful clothes, my old sailor sweater, a heavy-duty raincoat, my vitamins and a jar of instant decaf coffee. I set off in my car around 11 a.m. with a magnificent sun (“My Sun”) overhead. The one who I’ve held in my heart for the past 35 years. I’m hungry, but I prepared a big Ziploc bag of apple wedges and Nantes carrots. And, of course, a thermos of coffee. Halfway to Quebec City, I call to book a room. Hurrah, success! Every time I’ve toured Gaspésie, it's always before the vacation period or in September, when vacationers have returned home.   Highway 640 quickly becomes the 40 and, after about 200 kilometers, I find the B&B where I will overnight. The sun is still strong and I decide to tour the famous Île d'Orléans; a pilgrimage I make every year (except for the last three). The island is a bucolic paradise where every house is postcard perfect. Many of the small local businesses beckon to me, but I resist. I’ve improved my jam-making skills during the pandemic to the point where they are good enough to rival those of local artisans. In Quebec City, I fall into a deep sleep like Sleeping Beauty. I dream of whales. I would love to see one, even if it was only a young calf. Maybe I should cross over to the North Shore? The perfect area for whale watching apparently. I don’t have a set itinerary; I make it up as I go along. Like this morning, I was supposed to leave Notre-Dame-du-Portage and its beautiful inn, but the dark sky decided to open up and release its load. So today I am writing this letter in a magnificent solarium that has been transformed into an aquarium. Water spurts out from everywhere, from the glass ceiling and the transparent walls. In front of me, the angry river tries to reach my table. Does it have a secret to tell me? I started off the second day of my trip crossing the Quebec City bridge with the intention of travelling at a leisurely pace down the 132 to Baie-des-Chaleurs, where I was born in 1947. Suddenly the businesswoman in me took control of the wheel. SHE who was always on the go, with no time to admire the landscape. SHE made me turn onto Highway 20. After going some 15–20 km at 110 km/hour, remorse started to shoot through my neurons, rage burned my nose and my ♥ screamed HELP! I anxiously searched for the next exit as if it were a gateway to heaven. Back on the 132, my soul relaxed. Thank God, I’ve changed; I’m no longer that person who fought to survive and eventually succeeded. Driving slowly along, the road is so close to the river that I can almost reach out and touch the water. I take in the beautiful landscape: Berthier-sur-Mer, Montmagny, Saint-Jean-Port-Joli, Kamouraska and Notre-Dame-du-Portage. I completely forget to check my watch. Only later I realize that it no longer works. Two days have passed. Where did I put the charger? Ah, I left it at home. “This is certainly a sign,” Providence would say. A sign to decompress. A dazzling sight greets me in Berthier-sur-Mer: from one side of the road to the other, the trees are holding hands. Perhaps I will see the Wizard of Oz? I cross Montmagny when, suddenly, the immense blue of the sky begins to fracture. It becomes cavernous, disturbing. As if the big manitou was about to give the 132 a good scrub; the wind has turned tempestuous. And now some angry clouds are unleashing torrents of rain. I despair. On my right, a spry old man is rocking back and forth on a veranda. I move at a snail’s pace. The man’s gaze greets me through the rain; he smiles. And like an Egyptian plague, a monstrous shower seems like it will flood the front seat. As the famous Carlos Fuentes would say, “We are helpless slaves to the hope of happiness.” It’s noon on the dot. Cap-Saint-Ignace is sweeping away the clouds and Master Ouranos is getting a makeover. My stomach is rumbling. Nibbling on carrots, I take the road to artsy Saint-Jean-Port-Joli. When hunger strikes on the road, I always choose the restaurant with the busiest parking lot. It pays off once again. Today, it’s a big log-style house, nicely done up with a large inviting door. A huge bakery counter and fridges filled with delicious take-out food greet me inside. The large dining room at the back provides me with a wonderful country meal, including the best poor man’s pudding ever. All this for just $18.95, plus a generous tip. Wow! I almost eat too much, but as the great Edith Piaf sang, JE NE REGRETTE RIEN (“I HAVE NO REGRETS”). I’ll have to drive barefoot to keep from falling asleep at the wheel. I arrive in Kamouraska around 2 p.m. The museum, the big church, the stores, the beach near the local bakery – it must strike a city dweller as a scene from some fairy tale. I would love to stay longer, but my Gaspésie is tugging at my sleeve. I take the Navigators’ Route in search of lodging for the night. I end up at the magnificent Auberge du Portage. There is one room left; an angel must be watching over me. It turns out the inn is also a very popular health and resort center.   It’s beautiful here! Should I promise myself to return some day for a dream week? I sleep like a log in my nicely appointed room. And in the early hours of the morning, I begin to write this letter. The storm arrives and I continue to write until the sun’s return. It’s now 10 a.m. and I’m back on the 132, in the direction of Sainte-Flavie, where I will find a place to stay for the night. More from the road next Sunday! Cora ❤