WTF (What the French)?
Having spent most of my life in the tropics, I’m not exactly what you’d call a seasoned winter traveler. Snow, for me, had always been something that only rightfully exists in movies and Christmas cards. But when the opportunity arose to visit Quebec with my wife’s family, I figured, why not?
Sure, I didn’t know how to ski, my French is limited to “bonjour,” “oui” and “merci,” and my tolerance for cold was about as high as our office aircon. But I’m always up for an adventure, so, armed with layers upon layers of clothing and a healthy dose of curiosity and cold meds, we hit the road.
Getting to Quebec from Ontario isn’t exactly a leisurely jaunt. It’s a long haul, filled with the kind of drive that makes you contemplate the meaning of life and the agony of a numbed backside. The ride stretched for hours upon hours over what seemed like endless icy roads reminiscent of a trip back home from BGC to QC, on a payday Friday night.
Quebec is a beautiful blend of old-world French charm and modern Canadian flair. It was cold, it was snowy, and yes, there was a lot of French, but it was also a whole lot of fun.
The ONroute rest stops, complete with Tim Horton’s and Burger King or A&W, were life-savers. They allowed us to stretch our stiff limbs, breathe some fresh air, and reinvigorate our spirits.
But as soon as we crossed into Quebec, the landscape wasn’t the only thing that changed. Suddenly, we were bombarded with road signs in French, while radio stations blared French music and news.
It wasn’t just the air that felt different; it was as if we’d crossed into a different continent. This “Frenchification” of Quebec can be traced back to the time when it was a French colony. Quebec remained a French stronghold even after the British took control in the 18th century. Over time, Quebec maintained its distinct French identity, and to this day, the province’s French heritage is deeply ingrained in its culture, politics, and day-to-day life.
Arriving at Mont Tremblant, we were welcomed by a premier ski resort that looks like it jumped straight out of a Hallmark card. With its charming town square, snow-covered rooftops, and mountain backdrop, Mont Tremblant was everything I expected from a winter paradise, and more.
The resort’s name, Mont Tremblant, is derived from the French word meaning “the mountain that trembles,” which makes sense when you think of the wind gusts and the occasional shiver down your spine from the cold. Or, if you’re being paranoid about it, you can always assume that this is a volcano waiting to blow its snow caps off.
The mountain peak itself reaches almost 800 meters and is a haven for skiing and snowboarding enthusiasts. I’m no skier, but I couldn’t help but be amazed by the sheer size of the place and the energy of the skiers zooming around in their fancy outfits. Most visitors bring their own gear, making the rental lines look like a queue for total amateurs.
The gondola ride was a real treat, even if we got strange looks from skiers when we disembarked at the bottom. It takes a leisurely seven minutes to reach the top, offering panoramic views of the surrounding snowy landscape. After a few minutes of taking photos of—what else?—snow, I was quite content to stay in the cozy restaurant where guests either bought food or brought their own to be reheated in microwave ovens. I can almost see Pinoys nuking their containers of adobo and pancit.
Somehow, by riding the gondola, I was able to avoid a Dumb and Dumber moment by not being tempted to lick the T-bar of a ski lift.
The town square at Mont Tremblant is exactly what you’d expect from a ski resort: picture-perfect. It’s got that magical, idyllic vibe that feels like it should be the backdrop of a romantic holiday movie. There were pockets of people huddling around bonfires to stay warm, while I, on the other hand, had no such concerns. With four layers of winter clothes on, I was practically sweating under the mountain of fabric I was wearing. Whatever works, right?
From Mont Tremblant, we headed to Montreal, a city that immediately struck me as having a certain bohemian charm. If Philadelphia and Paris had a child, it would be Montreal. The streets were filled with vibrant energy (notwithstanding the rarity of getting a parking space), graffiti-covered walls, cozy cafés, and a culture that embraced individuality.
The first stop was Marché Jean-Talon, an open-air market where you can find fresh fruits, vegetables, meats, dairy products, and pretty much anything else you can think of. There were also delightful maple syrup treats (of course) and even single-use pine trees, an oddity for someone from the Philippines, where plastic Christmas trees last a lifetime.
Montreal also has a food scene that is not to be ignored. And when I tell you that Schwartz’s hot smoked meat is better than any Philly cheesesteak I’ve ever had, I mean it. Montreal’s melt-in-your-mouth pulled meat is hands-down heaven on earth, and the endless lines for dine-in and to-go customers prove exactly my point. I don’t care if you’ve spent your whole life in Philly. Montreal wins. End of story.
After all the excitement in Montreal, it was time to head back to Ontario, with one final stop at The Big Apple in Colborne, a roadside attraction with sugary treats that would make any diabetic break into a cold sweat. It’s quirky, it’s charming, and it’s a reminder that you’ve left Quebec and its French flair behind, only to be transported into an entirely different world, one that’s much closer to home. But trust me, that apple pie and strudel? Worth the stop.
Our time in Quebec was an eye-opening journey. While I may have been a little out of my depth in the snow, one thing was clear: Quebec is a beautiful blend of old-world French charm and modern Canadian flair. It was cold, it was snowy, and yes, there was a lot of French, but it was also a whole lot of fun.
And next time, maybe I’ll try to ski or snowboard, on the kiddie slope, using rented gear. No shame there.
