"Just let us out on the off-ramp. We need to keep hitching."
"Oh, yes!" the old lady chirped as she sped past the off-ramp towards Quèbec City. If she wasn't so frail I'd have been worried about her kidnapping us.
"We don't need to go downtown," we shouted, as if raised voises would pierce the language barrier.
"Yes, this will be downtown." We sighed. I'm not sure if she ever understood where we needed to be (or what an off-ramp was) but by the time we arrived downtown we'd made it clear that we weren't supposed to be there, and that we had no money. Essentially, we were fucked. Tabarnack.
She sympathized with us once she realized the situation and began driving us to god knows where. She took us through an old windy Quèbec road - rustic buildings rose like rickety flowers to blot out the sun, mustaches reigned and I felt the lack of accordion music rather unsettling. She dropped us at ferry terminal with ten bucks and good wishes.
I've heard that Montrèal is the only English-friendly town in Quèbec - and the city solidified the rumour. Bemused locals grinned and pointed at our bags and my didgeridoo, intrigued smiles melted into contemptuos glances once it became obvious that we spoke no french. Unfinished verbal exchanges left a sour taste in the otherwise beautiful city. Montrèal had been much more inviting to outsiders, but the brash lack of bilingual accommodation spoke ill of our presence in Quèbec. Hell, French WARNING signs and Quèbecois safety posters promised they'd just as soon see us die than be protected.
Cash transactions, fortunately, speak a universal language; we managed to pay for our ferry tickets without issue. Nature, too, spoke the same language as always; the river ushered us towards freedom as the ferry sailed across the silky sheet of water, carrying us towards salvation - a town callled Levis.
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