Road to Gaspe

Once again I am a pack mule on public transport. Having squeezed the tightly rolled bundles of well-worn clothes tied up in string into my bag, it’s a game of Tetris that is never played the same twice. I am ignoring the vacant priority seat on the bus, standing holding the railing trying to keep out of the way. I often think of how hilariously embarrassing it would be if I fell over- I would struggle like a turtle on its back.

I have fortuitously arranged a ride from Quebec City to Gaspe through couchsurfing and wait outside Place Laurier for a white pick-up truck. Sylvie has just done an exam in Quebec that morning and I pile in the front, with her 4 month old son in the back. Over the eight-and-a-half-hour drive, she drinks 4 cokes and snacks on cheese singles. I consume an entire bag of chips myself, so I can’t judge. We trade stories about travel and family, and the moon landing even makes an appearance. It still blows my mind how these encounters happen. We stop in Rimouski to pick up some cladding for a neighbour of her’s whose house burnt down and is being rebuilt. I take the baby while she runs out to look for a receipt and work out a discount as advertised in another store.

She tells me about her well-meaning alcoholic mother, and her charming but absent father. She doesn’t get along with either her own family or her in-laws, but she has her French husband and her 3 kids and that’s fine enough for her. It’s dark as we roll in the driveway, and as we climb up the scaffolded stairs into their self-built, half-finished but promising home, I can only admire their positive spirits.