Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Is Everybody Here? - Field Trip & A Trip to Quebec

Episode Date: May 19, 2023

“The Pensionne du Quebec was lit up like a party ship” Sam is apprehensive about Dave signing up to escort the school field trip to the art gallery. You’ll understand why. On this week’s episode, laugh along with audiences from across Canada with two stories about Sam’s school trips: Field Trip is one from the early days, while in A Trip to Quebec, Sam’s Grade 8 heart is won over by a chance meeting in Quebec City. Jess shares some school trip back stories that didn’t make it into the final story and tells of a special trip to France when she was just 11 years old.  Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

From the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton, and this is Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. We have two David Morley stories for you today. Stories about school trips. Let's start with this one. This is Field Trip. The first week after Christmas vacation, Sam brought a note home from school. His class was going on a field trip.

They were going to spend an afternoon at the Matisse exhibit at the Art Gallery of Ontario. Sam needed his mother or father to sign his permission form. Now getting something like this signed is a lot trickier than it sounds. A kid doesn't do this sort of thing without careful thought. First, about who they're going to take it to, and second, about when they're going to present it. Sam took his note to his mother, waited until she was on the phone. Just don't want to give them a chance to ask questions. just don't want to give them a chance to ask questions. Didn't take the note to his father because Sam has learned that when Dave hears about field trips,

wants to go. By the time you're in grade five having your father on a field trip, that's the last thing you want. Unfortunately for Sam, Dave's job has always afforded him the flexibility of being available for this sort of thing. For two years, Dave ran pizza lunch at Sam's school, which was actually a great thing for Sam. When you're in grade two, you get a lot of status when your friends learn your dad delivers pizza. Well, why couldn't you get a job like that, said Sam's friend Ben to his father one night. What do lawyers do anyway? Now, because of his availability, Dave has had more experience than many of his friends of squiring kids around. He's done birthday parties and sleepovers. He's coached baseball and hockey, and he's done

field trips. Field trips have never been his strongest suit. Dave only got to go on one school trip when he was a boy, grade five. It was one of the greatest disappointments of his young life. Every other grade five before and after Dave's class at Big Narrows Elementary School in Big Narrows, Cape Breton, was taken to Doris Eckerly's Brick Apron Bakery on Main Street for their field trip. And not just to the front of the bakery where you went to buy stuff, but right into the back where they baked it. The grade fives went there every year. And when they came back to school, they brought back horrifying stories about the back of the bakery.

Stories that would curdle your blood, especially if you happened to be in grade two. The grade twos would listen to the stories at recess, and many of them would start to weep because they knew that one year they would have to go to the back of the bakery. And when they went there they would meet Chopsy, the one-eyed baker who never shaved and chewed foul-smelling cigar butts and breathed fish breath on you, and stared at you with one bulging, infected yellow eye. All the kids knew the story of Chopsy. Chopsy had been a cook during the war,

and the soldiers in Chopsy's unit were fearless, because they were so well-fed. They'd do anything as long as they knew they could get back for supper every night, because Chopsey was the greatest chef in the entire army. And then one day, Chopsey's unit was cut off from their supply lines. They were trapped in this town by the enemy, and as the days went by, the generals came to Chopsey and they said, we're doomed unless you can do something. They were running out of food, and anyone would have given up. Anyone else would have given up,

but not Chopsey. Chopsey sneaked into the sewers at night in this town, wherever they were. It was like in Poland or Saskatchewan or something. And Chopsey would hunt for rats in the sewer, and every morning before dawn, he'd return with a bag full of writhing rats. And because they were short on ammo, he had to use his carving knife to kill the rats. And that's how he got his nickname. And he cooked those rats so incredibly that none of the men had any idea they were eating rats. Chopsy told them it was quail. any idea they were eating rats.

Chopsy told them it was quail. And they all survived, except Chopsy went crazy, which was why he was living in Cape Breton. But the most horrible thing was that Chopsy had developed a taste for rats, and he raised them in a secret room in the back of the bakery. And the rats ate children.

And that's why they had the tours. Because Chopsy needed children to feed the rats. And there were kid traps in the back of the bakery. There were vats of whipped cream back there that were just traps for kids. Boys wandered into those vats of whipped cream and they're never seen again. Vanished. And it didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened to them. Chopsy. Parents wouldn't talk about this because parents didn't want kids getting worried but everyone knew that's what happened to Chan Gillespie the grown-up said that Chan had gone

to boarding school in New Brunswick but Joey Tallarico's older brother Michael found one of Chan Gillespie's hairs in a jar in his locker. And for five cents he'd open his locker and show the hair to you. And for a dime he'd let you hold the jar. Dave and Billy Mitchell had been looking forward to their trip to the bakery since grade three. They had a plan. They were going to take Dave's younger sister, Annie, with them, who was in kindergarten. And they figured if Chopsy came after them, they'd offer Annie in their place.

And then they were going to dump Billy's marble collection into the mixing machine, the machine that mixed the cake dough, see if they could get real marble cake. But they didn't go to the bakery that year. They went to the sardine plant. Sardine plants no longer operating in Big Narrows. It was closed in 1961. After a Norwegian sardine expert no longer operating in big narrows. It was closed in 1961. After a Norwegian sardine expert came to the narrows and told them they had to change the way they were packing the sardines.

They used to put the sardines into the can in two rows with their tails resting at either end and their little sardine snouts meeting in the middle of the cans. And the guy from Norway came to town, told them they should put the tails in the middle and the snouts at the cans. And the guy from Norway came to town, told them they should put the tails in the middle and the snouts at the ends. Said the tails were flipping out of the cans from time to time and they weren't sealing properly. The women in the Big Narrows plant took this as a personal insult. We've been packing sardines this way for 22 years, said Norma Kavanaugh when she heard about the proposal, and I ain't changing. No way tails is coming out, said Nance McDougall.

Plant closed soon after that. Before it closed, they had begun to pack them tail in, but it was too late. Anyway, Dave and Billy had to go to the sardine plant the year they were in grade five. Dave still can't open a tin of sardines without checking for marbles. That was it for field trips. Dave didn't go on another school trip for 30 years until Sam was in grade two, which was before Sam had figured out who he should take his notices to when they needed to be signed. They went to the zoo. Dave was given a group.

Well, that was the problem. By the time they got to the hippo paddock, Dave couldn't remember how many kids he was supposed to have in his group. He knew six was part of the equation, He knew six was part of the equation, but he couldn't remember if it was Sam plus five made six or Sam plus six made seven, which wasn't such a big deal right then, but could be at the end of the day. It wasn't important at the hippo paddock because one of the six or seven, at this point, as I say, the numbers weren't that important because one of Dave's kids, a kid called Mark Portner, had somehow scaled the concrete wall surrounding the paddock

and was marching back and forth along the top of the wall screaming, Come and get me! And one of the hippos, an animal about the size of a bus, seemed to be thinking it over. Dave got Mark Portner off the wall, which was harder than it sounds, and he said, is everyone here? And everyone said yes, and Dave counted them, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. And then he said, hey, to the kid in the Montreal Canadian hockey sweater who was walking away from the group, what's your name? And that's George, said Mark

Portner. He's in my Hebrew class. And Dave said, okay, George, let's go. And George looked at Mark and Mark said, come on. And Dave, whose patience was growing thin, said, I don't want to hear another word out of anyone. Come on, said Mark Portner. How was Dave to know that Hebrew school was all that George and Mark had in common? How was Dave to know that George was at the zoo with his mother? How was Dave to know that when he said, okay, George, let's go, that George's mother was standing not 10 yards away with her back turned to them, tending to George's younger brother? How was Dave to know that when she turned around and found George, her son, had vanished. George's mother would lodge a frantic

report with zoo officials and spend the next three tearful hours waiting in the administrative building. Unless someone told him this, how was Dave to know? All he knew was that at two o'clock when they got to the bus, George said, my mom's going to be mad if I get on that bus. And Dave looked at him and said, I'm going to be madder if you don't. And George started to cry and Mark Portner said, come on. And George looked at Mark and then he looked at Dave and he shook his head and he said, you're going to be sorry. And then he got on the bus with his head hanging down. And it was only when they got back to the school and all the parents had come and picked up their children and the only three people left in the schoolyard were Dave and the school principal and George standing between them weeping that the enormity of what had happened settled on Dave.

Dave eventually got wind of the trip to the Matisse exhibit. You know why I've always liked Matisse, said Dave at supper. Sam shook his head. Because, said Dave, putting down his fork, a collector once asked Matisse how long it took to paint some incredibly expensive piece that consisted of just a few breezy lines. And you know what Matisse said? He said it took a lifetime. I don't get it, said Sam. You will, said Dave. They were still looking for parents to go on the trip to the art gallery. It's your big chance to redeem yourself, said Morley. Dave signed up to go, and so did his neighborhood nemesis, Mary Turlington.

As soon as Dave saw Mary Turlington standing at the back of the classroom on the day of the trip, all of his confidence evaporated. Mary was holding a clipboard and a neat pile of name tags for each kid in her group. Hello, David, she said when she saw him. Hi, said Dave. She saw him. Hi, said Dave. Where do I get the labels? I made them at home, said Mary Archly. There were five boys, including Sam, in Dave's group.

Five, said Dave, smiling confidently at Sam's teacher as they were getting ready. Five, he repeated earnestly to himself. One for each finger. When no one was looking, he took a ballpoint pen and he wrote the number five in ink on the back of his wrist. He looked across the room. Mary Turlington had her group sitting in a circle. She was filling out name tags. Five, said Dave. Five would be easy. Five, said Dave. Five would be easy. As it turned out, one of Dave's five was late for school that Tuesday. They just phoned, said Sam's teacher. They're on their way.

Go, said Dave. You go. We'll catch up. We'll meet you at the museum. They were traveling by subway. Be careful, whispered Dave to Grace Weed as she led her group out of the classroom. There's a guy in the basement of the museum who's crazy. What, said Grace. Not sure if Dave was serious or not. His name is Chopsy, said Dave. I'd watch the kids very carefully if I were you.

The guy's as crazy as a loon. By the time they got to the subway, Dave felt like he was a sheepdog. His boys, they all seemed nice enough. They were wound up like seven-day clocks. Keeping these boys together took his full attention. Two of them tried to slip into a corner store to buy candy. No candy, said Dave. At the first intersection, three went one way and two another.

Same thing at the next. And then they all wanted pizza. No pizza, said Dave. No pizza now, no pizza later. We're going to a museum. We're going to see art. We're not going for pizza. Felt like he was in a giant game of snakes and ladders. Just as long as he kept everyone in sight, just as long as he returned with the same number he left with, five, he said to himself again.

Eventually he chivvied his boys onto the eastbound subway platform. By the time the train arrived, he had them more or less circled. Door of the subway car opened. Wait, said Dave, holding them back a second. Okay, now. And the boys went, but Dave didn't go. He held back, counting the bodies as they got on the train. One, two, three, four. Four boys.

Where was five? Dave looked around. There was five. Five was tying up his shoe. Come on, said Dave, looking nervously at the train. Coming, said number five, who hop, slid onto the subway, doing his sneaker up at the same time. Dave sighed, all present and accounted for.

Sir. Took a look up and down the empty platform and then he turned to get on the train himself, just in time to watch the doors slide shut in his face. Leaving Dave on the platform and his five boys on the train, which was pulling out of the station. Wait at the next station, he shouted. Last thing he saw of his boys, they were shrugging and pointing at their ears. Took four minutes for the next train to arrive. Four minutes during which Dave accepted Christ Jesus as his personal Savior.

Please, Jesus, he said, make them get off at the next station and wait. When it finally arrived, Dave leapt onto the next train, but he didn't stop praying. He wasn't worried that the kids would fall to any harm. They were, after all, ten years old. There were, after all, five of them. It's just that they could get hopelessly lost, and if they got separated, he didn't even want to think of that. It is only a minute and a half ride between stations. Halfway there, Dave's train passed a train coming from where he was heading. Exactly.

Dave pressed his face to the car window and saw what he didn't want to see. Sam and his buddies pressed against their window, and they were jumping up and down and waving at him. Why me, Lord, said Dave. Dave didn't know what to do. Should he go back again like the boys had? Were they waiting on the platform for him to appear? Or should he stay put? Someone had to stay put.

What would they be thinking? Who knows what a 10-year-old thinks, especially when there are five of them. Dave decided to wait. He waited for three trains. Nothing happened. Now he knew the boys were waiting for him, but he knew they knew he was waiting for them. He felt like his head was going to explode. It was a nightmare. He waited two more trains, and he ran to the other side of the track, and he headed back to the station where everything had started, and it was empty. Boys weren't there. They'd either gone back to school or gone to the museum, and now Dave felt trapped. He didn't want to alert the school if the kids hadn't.

On the other hand, if the boys were waiting for him at school and he didn't phone, what would they think of him? He decided to make a precautionary call. When the school secretary answered, he said, Hi, it's Dave. I'm just checking in, just making sure everything's all right. Everything's okay, said the secretary. She sounded doubtful.

Good, said Dave. Everything's okay here, too. That was pretty strange, said the secretary when she hung up. And then because he had no better idea, he got back on the subway. He headed for the museum. And then with a heavy heart, he walked through the large brass front doors, went right for the cafeteria, nothing, went to the gift shop. First, the gift shop looked empty too. Dave was about to leave when he suddenly spotted Mark Portner, the perennial troublemaker. Alone in the corner, he was supposed to be in Mary Turlington's group.

Had his back to Dave. Seemed to be holding something in his hands. Dave moved over an aisle to get a better view, and as soon as he did, he realized what Mark Portner was up to. The boy was about to slip whatever he was holding into his backpack. Dave knew he had to apprehend the boy. He had a split second to decide whether he did it before or after the theft. He didn't have time to mull over the repercussions of the two possibilities. didn't have time to mull over the repercussions of the two possibilities.

Operating on instinct, he decided to give the boy a break. What do you have there, Mark, he said as he stepped around the corner of the aisle. I was just looking at it, said Mark. I was holding a little book. Dave took it from him, Great Masterpieces of the Western world daily affirmation book. They went up to the museum office together and they found a hysterical Mary Turlington and the rest of her group. He was in the gift shop, said Dave.

Thank you so much, said Mary. I just saw your group working on their sheets on the second floor. I wondered where you were. How did you know we needed help? Oh, said Dave, you know it's okay. He found Sam and the other boys in his group sitting in a circle in front of a painting of a woman in a pair of red gypsy pants and no top. They were so absorbed in the painting they didn't even notice him until he sat down.

Sam looked at him and smiled. What took you, he said. Oh, said Dave, you know. They heard footsteps and they looked up together and they saw Mary Turlington heading toward them. Sam looked back at his dad in time to see his father's face drop. I was thinking, he said suddenly, a sly look crossing his face. Maybe on our way back to school we could stop for pizza. Dave stared at his son in disbelief. I was just

thinking, said Sam, just in case anyone asks, he glanced at Mary Turlington, that you know everyone would have much happier memories if they were remembering things on a full stomach. Thank you very much. Thank you very much. That was the story we call Field Trip. I just love that chopsy storyline. I find it so funny, the buildup for the grade twos who are terrified because they knew that one year they were going to have to go to the back of the bakery. It's so the way kids talk. It's spot on. I love it. And that one's an older story. It was from the early years of the Vinyl Cafe back in 2002. And in a lot of those

early stories, Stuart would create these side stories, almost standalone stories within stories. And often they were like fantastical. Chopsy is one of those stories. It's inspired by the definitely non-fantastical experience of Meg Masters. That is, you know, Stuart's long-suffering story editor, Meg Masters. Meg's only field trip growing up was a trip to, you guessed it, the bakery. The bakery in our hometown of Thunder Bay. And you won't be surprised to hear that they got to go into the back. No chopsy, though, she assures me. I also love the Mark Portnoy storyline. Stuart calls him Mark Portner in that story. But over the years, his name sort of morphed into Mark Portnoy.

I have no idea why. And actually, I should admit, that happened with a few different characters over the years where their names changed. Anyway, Mark Portnoy is a wonderful character. We all know a kid like that, right? And for the most part, my heart goes out to them. All of us, Meg, me, Stuart, used to throw stories into the Mark Portnoy melting pot. My favorite was one Stuart never used. Meg told me this story recently. Meg was on a class trip with her daughter, Erin, when Erin was younger. They were at an apple orchard. And you know how it goes. They get the kids all organized, they assemble them, and they start telling them the rules. The teacher was carefully explaining what they could do, what they couldn't do. Everyone's allowed to eat one apple off the

tree. Everyone is allowed to bring 10 apples home. Everyone has to be at the picnic table at 12 for lunch. Everyone has to be back at the bus at 2 p.m. And then she said, and what happens if someone isn't back on the bus at 2 p.m.? And one of the little boys puts up his hand and says, We're going to kick them and punch them and we're going to tell on them. The teacher looked horrified. She said something like, Well, no, I don't think we're going to do that. And then another little kid, let's call him, I don't know, Mark Portnoy.

The Mark Portnoy kid says, well, I might. All right, we're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a minute with another story about Dave's son, Sam. So stick around. Welcome back. I told you we had two stories for you today. This is the second one. This is A Trip to Quebec.

They left on a Monday morning at the beginning of September, 7.30 a.m. The annual grade 8 trip to Quebec City. 7.30 in the morning and the entire neighborhood was revved up, all the mothers and fathers. You would have thought they were leaving for war. Jenny Moore, poor Peter's mother, hovering by the bus with her eyes full of tears and her hands full of Kleenex. And Jenny wasn't the only one crying, just the most obvious. Jenny ping-ponging from one teacher to another. Would they remember Peter was allergic to eggs? Was there a bathroom on the bus? She'd given him 60 bucks. Yes, she knew it was supposed to be 40, but the extra 20 just in case. Peter was already on board.

Peter clambered onto the bus the moment it arrived. Murphy was second. And when Murphy found out about the extra $20, which, excuse me, what do you think, he found out about right away, when Murphy found out, he reappeared out the front door like a bull weevil. And he used the information to pry an additional $20 from his father. All the parents gathered around all the kids, all the kids with their fancy

backpacks ignoring them, brothers and sisters, a nanny or two, and Mark Portnoy on the edge of it all looking lost, the only kid who came by himself. The only kid carrying his stuff in a plastic bag. Before you knew it, it was time to go. The kids bouncing around the seats at the back of the bus. Parent volunteers settling into the ones at the front. And Mr. Reynolds with his clipboard sticking his head out the front door. Mr. Reynolds looking up and down the street uncertainly. And sure enough, here they come. Dave looking up and down the street uncertainly, and sure enough,

here they come. Dave and Sam running down the street, backpacks slapping their thighs, Arthur barking as he tries to keep up. Sorry, puffed Dave when they got there, the alarm didn't go. David actually volunteered to be one of the parent supervisors. Mr. Reynolds had demurred. Oh, lied Mr. Reynolds when David called, that's very kind, but we already have a full compliment. Put me down as a backup, said Dave. Over my dead body, thought Mr. Reynolds.

After months of anticipation and weeks of planning, they were finally ready. Parents standing on either side of the bus, waving at kids they couldn't see through the tinted windows. And then, when the bus finally pulled away, the two groups of parents suddenly finding themselves waving at each other. Everyone cracked up, waved even harder, and then walked down the street in twos and threes. Everyone except for Peter's mom, who sprinted to the next corner so she could catch the bus as it turned at the end of the block. Poor Jenny Moore, waving all by herself at no one at all.

The only person who saw her was 22-year-old Pierre Massacotte, second year sciences sociales at l'Université de Laval. Pierre was sitting in the jump seat in the stairwell to the driver's right, and Pierre was too preoccupied to pay Jenny Moore any mind. Pierre was going over and over the speech that he had been preparing all week. It began like this. We're going on a fantastic trip, and I want you to leave everything you know behind you. I want you to pretend that we're in a boat, not a bus, and I want you to pretend that

we have just left France. And just like the French people in the 17th century who climbed into their boats, we don't know where we're going or what's going to happen to us. Pierre was their student guide, and this was his first ever student trip. He had put a lot of thought and effort into his presentation. He waited until the bus hit the highway, and he stood up and he reached for the mic. He took in a deep breath. We are going to Nouvelle France, he said, and we're going to be there for four days.

I want you to be adventurers. I want you to give me your five senses for four days. Instead of the rapt audience he'd imagined, Instead of the rapt audience he'd imagined, Pierre was greeted with the sounds of candy wrappers ripping, pop cans popping, Game Boys buzzing, leaky iPods, and snoring from one of the parent volunteers. Murphy turned to Sam and said,

last year they went to the IMAX. Do you think we'll get to go to the IMAX? The only people listening to Pierre were two girls sitting way up front who were oui monsieur, oui monsieur right from the start and who were now pouring over Will Ferguson's Canadian history for dummies, apparently checking his facts. It was not the reception Pierre had imagined, but Pierre didn't give up Pierre kept going the food we're going to eat is not the same as your parents' food

I want you to taste the food the houses are not your parents' houses they're made of stone I want you to touch the stone walls they were built by the French and the British 200, 300 years ago I want you to smell the horses and buggies and the smells coming out of the horses. Someone at the back of the bus made a fart noise and everyone laughed.

He'd lost them. He wasn't getting them back, and he knew it. It was late afternoon before they closed in on Quebec, North America's only walled city and New York's only rival for best skyline anywhere, anytime. The breathtaking stone turrets and towers of the Chateau Frontenac guard the cliffs and cobblestones of old Quebec like an ancient castle, the Gibraltar of America. Everyone was pressed to a window as the bus rolled onto the Quebec Bridge. Pierre reached for the microphone. Longest cantilevered bridge in the world, said Pierre.

He waited until they were high above the river, about halfway across, and added, as if it was just an afterthought, it's collapsed twice. It was the first reaction Pierre got all afternoon. Their hotel was a pension inside the walls of the old city, the floors uneven and the stairways narrow. There was an elevator with a frayed green carpet with gold fleur-de-lis, but the elevator looked as old as the city, and the fleur-de-lis were like little worn moths. No more than two people with suitcases could ride in the elevator at the same time, and everyone except the two girls from the front of the bus banged their suitcases up the

stairs. They were billeted four to a room, two to a bed. They had half an hour to settle into their rooms and argue about who was going to sleep with whom. Then they were to meet in the lobby. There were signs on their beds that said, phone the front desk if you need more pillows. They felt like royalty. It took about five minutes before they stopped answering the phone at the front desk. When they went downstairs, Pierre circled them up in the lobby. We have an hour before dinner, he said. Go explore.

No one go alone. And not beyond the Port Saint-Jean or Rue Saint-Anne. They couldn't believe it. Sure, most of them had been away from their parents before. A lot of them had even been to camp. But at camp, there was always someone watching. At camp, they never dropped you in some town and let you wander around unsupervised. It was beyond the realm of their imaginations.

unsupervised. It was beyond the realm of their imaginations. They stood in the lobby for a moment in shock and then off they went. The shy ones stuck to the teachers but most of them headed off in groups of twos and threes. Peter Moore was like a cat let off a leash. Come on, he said. Murphy and Sam followed him out the front door of the hotel and down the street. Murphy led them into the first panneur they saw. I want to get some Red Bull for tonight, said Murphy. Look at this, said Peter. Peter was holding the biggest plastic troll doll they'd ever seen,

maybe two feet high with bright orange hair that stuck out in all directions, its troll hands perched on its hips. Peter said, watch this. The troll's eyes lit up and began to flash. There's a button on the back of its head, said Peter. It's only $21. At five o'clock, they gathered in the hotel lobby and marched off like just another army set on conquering Quebec. Up the Côte de la Fabrique, along Rue du Trésor, they stopped at Champlain's statue in the Place d'Armes and then headed along Rue Saint-Louis. Pierre pulled up in front of a little stone house with a steep red roof. Built in 1677, he said, as they marched into a restaurant that was much too good for them. Prefixé, bouffe bourguignon, salad and dessert. This meat looked

like dog food, called a voice from the back. Less than half of them ate their stew, but they all devoured their dessert, sugar pie. At 10 o'clock that night, Mr. Reynolds went from room to room checking everyone was present and accounted for. He had a roll of masking tape in his pocket. As he left each room, he tossed the masking tape in the air and caught it. I'm putting a strip of tape across your door, he said. Then he told them about the all-night security guard. If the guard saw the tape on their door was broken he would know they had left

their room. They didn't want to know how much trouble they'd be in if that happened. Is the guard armed? asked Peter Moore. He has a Kalashnikov said Mr. Reynolds. Then lights off at 1030 right? said Mr. Reynolds. Then, lights off at 10.30, right? Yes, Mr. Reynolds, yes, sir, we're pretty tired, sir. Good night, boys. Good night, Mr. Reynolds. 10.30? As if. There wasn't a light out by 2.30. There was much too much to do.

In Eleanor Michelin's room, four little girls had set up a spa and were attempting to turn the bathroom into a steam room by running the shower at full tilt. Two floors above in room 421, Mark Portnoy, the only kid with a bed to himself, was about to show his three goggle-eyed roommates who were sleeping in the other bed how to make a blowtorch with a can of hairspray and a cigarette lighter in the shape of a cannon that he had bought on the Rue Saint-Jean.

There was a marathon Xbox tournament getting underway in the room below them and on the top floor in Sam and Murphy's room there was a two-foot troll being lowered out the window on the curtain sash. At any moment, it was going to come even with the window of the girls' room one floor below, its red eyes flashing menacingly. All of this, of course, was happening behind the tape doors. So at 11 o'clock, when Pierre reported to Mr. Reynolds that all was quiet,

Mr. Reynolds nodded and said, you can go then. Mr. Reynolds took a look down the hotel corridor. He wasn't naive enough to believe everyone was asleep. But as long as the kids were in their rooms, Mr. Reynolds was going to try his best not to think too hard about what might be happening in them. If he had stepped outside for a moment, and if he had looked at the hotel from the street,

he would have seen that the Pension de Vieux-Québec was lit up like a party ship. There was steam billowing from one bathroom, what looked like a flamethrower belching occasionally from the third floor, and a troll with flashing eyes dancing around in the night sky. Mr. Reynolds missed all this, however, and he was sound asleep by midnight, which was when Charlotte Groves got bored of her pedicure and picked up the remote control and discovered Channel 2, the blue channel.

And Eleanor Michelin worked out how you could phone from room to room without going through the switchboard. And words spread like wildfire. And pretty soon every television in every room was switched to Channel 2. And the educational component of the trip to Quebec began in earnest. That's not real, is it? said Peter Moore, moving closer to the television. The next morning, Peter snuck back to the day panneur during breakfast and spent every last cent of his lunch money on trolls. When Sam and Murphy came back upstairs to clean up, Peter had his trolls all sizes and shapes lined up on the windowsill like soldiers.

There were 17 of them. Peter said, Murphy, I can't believe you've done this. What are you going to do for food? Peter didn't care. It was hours until lunch. Peter was lost on planet troll. Look at this one, said Peter. Isn't it cool?

Come on, said Sam. They were supposed to be in the lobby. They followed Pierre through Place d'Armes and past the chateau and onto the wide wooden boardwalk suspended high above the river. To the east in the lee of the Ile d'Olyon, you could see the great colonies of snow geese had begun to gather. Pierre was about to stop and point them out. From this distance, they looked like slashes of snow on the shore. Then he decided to let it pass, thinking as he kept walking that winter was closer than he thought. It was in the Jardin du Gouverneur that he had his brainstorm. Come on, he said, and off they stormed to the plains of Abraham. Venez, venez, dépêchez-vous, said Pierre. He divided them into two armies and assigned them all roles. Murphy was Governor General Vaudreuil,

Pierre the Intendant Bigot, Sam was General Wolfe. What are we doing, asked Murphy. We're going to recreate the battle, said Pierre. You, he said, pointing at Marc Portnoy, you can be the Marquis de Montcalm. I don't want to be Montcalm, said Marc. He lost. We, we what, said Pierre. Who do you mean, we? Marc Portnoy shrugged. Canada, he said. Canada, said Pierre? Who do you mean, we? Mark Portnoy shrugged. Canada, he said.

Canada, said Pierre? There was no Canada then. They were standing on the green plains of Abraham, just outside the walls of the citadel. For the first time, he had everyone's attention. This wasn't, said Pierre, sweeping his arm around him. This wasn't a battle between English Canada and French Canada. There was no English Canada. There were British ships and British troops. Were they the Canadian army? They weren't the Canadian army. There was no Canadian army. This was a European war that they fought here. Canada came later. Canada hadn't been invented, not yet.

They refought the battle three times. Everyone jumping and shooting and whooping around. Twice the British won, and once, to make it fair, the French carried the day. Mark Portnoy stomping around with his fist in the air. After the battle, Murphy, all grass-stained and sweaty, ran up to Pierre. That was pretty cool, said Murphy, but are we going to the IMAX? Last year, they went to the IMAX. Tomorrow, said Pierre, defeated. We're going to the IMAX tomorrow. Murphy pumped his fist in the air. Yes, said Murphy. This was going to be the highlight of the trip, NASCAR 3D with French subtitles. They left for the theater the next morning at 10. As they staggered onto the bus, Sam wheeled around and looked at Murphy. I forgot my wallet,

he said, patting his back pocket. I'll be right back. He peeled up to their room and he bounded back through the lobby as fast as he could. But it was four floors up and four floors down. And when he hit the sidewalk, he stopped in his tracks. He couldn't believe his eyes. The bus had left without him. Murphy should have stopped it, of course. But Murphy panicked. When the bus pulled away, Murphy thought Sam must have got on. He must be at the front. And then when they did attendance and Sam clearly hadn't got on, when Mr. Reynolds called Sam's name and Sam didn't answer, Murphy did what he thought was the best thing under the circumstances. He answered for him. Present, called Murphy. He was trying to keep Sam out of trouble. And it worked, sort of.

Except it left Sam all alone on Rue Saint-Jean in trouble. Sam stood there in front of the hotel for about five seconds. Felt a surge of panic. And then Sam did the one and only thing he could think of doing. He started running in the direction the bus had been pointing. There was a red light and he spotted it a block away but the light changed and the bus accelerated and even though he did too, even though fueled by fear and his desire not to miss the movie, even though Sam ran harder than he'd ever run in his life, running even when he couldn't see the bus anymore, he lost it and eventually pulled up, standing in the middle of a block,

bent over his hands on his thighs, a spent little NASCAR, clean out of fuel. When he straightened up, he saw a policeman on the other side of the street, and he almost asked the policeman the way to the theater, but it occurred to him the policeman wouldn't just give him directions. The policeman would make calls, and he would for sure get in trouble. So he didn't ask the policeman. He asked the boy carrying the skateboard. It was only after he asked that he realized the boy with the skateboard was a girl. And by then, she was as confused as he was, because as far as this little girl understood, this odd-looking boy that she had never seen before had just asked her on a date to the IMAX.

He had used his best French, but it had come out garbled, and, quoi, said the girl he thought was a boy. Sam wanted to start running again but it was too late to start running again and anyway where was he gonna run to? So he tried again. The girl was leaning forward looking at him really hard and then she said, Ah! and she started talking in

French and she was going so fast, he didn't understand a word, not one word. And she must have seen that because she stopped talking. And she said, c'est trop difficile. It's too far from here. You can't do it. It's much too difficile. I have to, said Sam. Everyone's there. I can't miss it. Everyone's there. His voice cracked. It's the best thing of the trip. He was still out of breath. He was thinking, I am not going to cry. I can't cry. The girl shrugged. C'est difficile, she said again. I could show you there.

And he wasn't sure, but maybe she reached out and wiped a tear off his cheek, or maybe he just wanted her to. She was wearing black boots and brown army pants way too big for her, and a baggy jacket, and they were walking beside each other, and she was saying, where are you to? And he said, the movie theater. And she looked at him funny, and he understood that she meant from. Where was he from? And he said, Toronto. I'm from Toronto. And she said, I'm so sorry.

And then she was climbing up on the wall. On the wall that went around the city, and he was standing there below her. He didn't know what to say, so he said, I'm on a school trip. And she said, je sais, je sais. And they stared at each other without moving, and she waved her arms in exasperation and said, Vient-y, vient-y, it's okay.

And before he knew it, they were walking along the old stone wall of the city, 30 feet in the air, the street on their left, the river on their right, like they were walking along railway tracks. Sam said, we drove past this yesterday. And then he told her about the planes of Abraham and the museum and Peter's trolls, talking to her back because she was ahead of him by a couple of steps, telling her how he had left his wallet in his room. And she slowed down, and they were walking beside each other, and she said, did you see the cannonball in the tree?

And he said, which one? And she stopped talking, and she said, it's super cool. And she jumped off the wall, and the way she jumped, holding her skateboard over her head was almost as cool as the way she had said super cool. And he stood there staring at her and she said, viens. And he jumped and they ran down the narrow cobbled street hand in hand. Well, that's how he imagined they ran. Really, she ran in front of him, and he had to push to keep up. Sam had forgotten all about the IMAX. Tiens, she said, pointing.

And sure enough, it was a cannonball at the edge of a narrow lane, the roots of a tree gnarled around it. He smiled at her her and he said, super cool. Then he said, I was General Wolf in the battle. And then he remembered she was French and he felt awkward and he added, it was a play, Montcalm won once.

And she said, I saw Montcalm's skull. The way she said it, he knew it was true, though the truth is he would have believed anything she said to him. But the skull of Montcalm, he was so mesmerized, he started speaking fluent French. Ooh, he said. And the most magical thing happened.

She understood him. She said, Au Musée des Sœurs Ursulines. And off they went again, over another cobblestone hill, to another museum to see the skull of Louis-Joseph Le Marquis de Montcalm. When they got there, Sam said, Moi, je ne jamais vu un crâne. Well, actually, he said, I've never seen a skull. But talking to her, it felt like he was saying it in French.

When they got to the museum, the woman in the ticket booth said, We don't have it anymore. They buried it with his troops in the Basse Ville five years ago. Too bad, said the girl. It was a cute skull. Sam said, c'est far rien. She said, veux-tu un chocolat chaud? Oui, he said, noticing with relief that he had his French back. They went into a little cafe on Rue Couillard. She had a coffee that came in a little cup. His hot chocolate was served in a bowl. Sam didn't know how you were supposed to drink hot chocolate

when it came in a bowl. To be safe, he went to the counter and got a spoon and ate it like soup. She wanted to ask, is that the way the English do it? But she didn't want him to think she, M. Thieu, Daniel Bélanger. Sam said, J'aime Avril Lavigne. They had to take a bus to the theater. They sat at the back of the bus. He could feel her leg against his.

He couldn't think of anything to say to her, so they barely said anything at all. It took about a half an hour. When they got there, the big tour bus was parked outside. Sam said, that's my bus. There were kids getting on it. She said, I think you missed your movie. Sam said, I can't miss my bus. All he wanted to do in all the world was kiss her. in all the world was kiss her. He had never done that before. They stared at each other. That's what she wanted too. She wanted him to lean forward and kiss her goodbye. They shook hands. It was so tragic. But as he got up, he kissed the air in her general direction.

Murphy said the movie was amazing. Murphy said, I can't believe you missed it. It was the best thing I've ever seen. Sam was looking out the bus window. The girl was standing there with her skateboard under her arm, her head to the side. Sam said, I'll see it another time. He lifted his hand and waved tentatively. She was looking right at him, squinting right at him.

But she didn't wave back. She couldn't see him through the tinted windows. So he brought his hand up to his lips and blew her a kiss. If he was older, he would have asked her name or her email or something. And if she was older, he wouldn't have had to ask. But he didn't know anything about her, really, except she had seen Montcalm's skull, and he didn't. The last moment Sam saw her, Murphy was sitting beside him, telling him something about the movie,

but he wasn't really listening. He had his face pressed to the window. He said something under his breath, and Murphy said, I can't hear you. And Sam said, nothing, it's okay. And then he turned back to the window and he said it again. Au revoir, he said. Salut. And then just before they turned the corner, she blew him a kiss.

He leaned back in his chair and sighed. His first kiss. And it was his first girlfriend ever. Thank you. Thank you. That was the story we call Trip to Quebec. We recorded that in Quebec City in 2007. I remember how that story started.

Stuart had gone to give a speech in Quebec City, and he came back and said he wanted to write about the city. He wanted to write a love letter to Quebec. And that's exactly what he did. Stuart used to have this line about Quebec City. He'd say, it's all the pleasures of a trip to Europe without the pain of a cross-Atlantic flight. And listening to that story and being reminded of all our trips to Quebec, it really rings true.

Listening to that story today gets me so excited to take my own kids to Quebec City. Anyway, as I said, Stuart spent time in the city, and I think he interviewed some tour guides as research, which is where some of those great class trip details came from. But there's one tiny part of the story that I can shed some light on. Remember that part about Sam drinking the hot chocolate out of a bowl with a spoon? When I was a kid, I was in the Hamilton Children's Choir. We used to do these tours, touring from place to place to sing concerts, which, when you think of it, is interesting considering what I ended up doing for 15 years of my life. And actually, so many of the places that we went to on tour with the Vinyl Cafe were places that I toured first as a kid with my choir. The choir mostly toured in Canada and in the Maritimes because our director was from the Maritimes. So I

sang in places like Pictou, Nova Scotia, in Mabu, Cape Breton, and Lunenburg with my choir. And then 15 years later, went back to those same towns on tour with the Vinyl Cafe. Kind of neat. same towns on tour with the Vinyl Cafe. Kind of neat. Anyway, my choir also toured Europe, and that's probably what ignited the flame for adventure and travel in me. I love traveling and exploring, and I started doing that at a super young age without my parents on tour with this choir. The first time I went overseas was with my choir. We were in France. We went over to sing at Vimy Ridge on Canada Day, which is a whole other story for a whole other podcast. Today, I'm telling you about the time that I went to France and we were billeted in people's homes. They put us up so we didn't have to pay for hotel rooms. hotel rooms. The very first place was somewhere in France. I can't remember the name of the town. It was a small town. And the family that I stayed with had a modest, very tiny home. Most kids in the choir were billeted in pairs. So there were two kids together so that everyone had a friend. But this family didn't have room for two kids. So they sent me by myself, which as an adult,

I realized probably says something about me as a kid. I was pretty out there. I was very outgoing. There's a family story in our household about my baby book. You know those things. Parents fill them out to try to remember what their kid was like when they were little to try and capture or remember their personality before it fully emerges. My baby book had prompts, meaning there would be a question and then a space for my parents to fill in the answer.

So there's one question about sociability. The prompt is something simple. It said something like sociable question mark, and then there were sort of four lines, and they expected my mom and dad to write a paragraph about what I was like, describing my behavior. My mom wrote one single word. The question was sociable question mark, and her answer was overly exclamation point. The accompanying I roll wasn't noted on the page, but it's there when I read it now, clearly. I

was overly social as a kid. I still am. So it's not really surprising that they sent me on my own. The family that welcomed me into their house was so sweet. They had three boys all around the same age as me. I think I would have been 11 or maybe 12. And they didn't have a lot, but they were giving so much of themselves and sharing so much with me. It was true kindness.

It made a big impression on me. I mean, I still remember so many of the details, and it's been 30 years. I remember their kitchen, and I remember the breakfast on the first morning. They made me a really special breakfast. They were proud to present it to me, and I felt special sitting there receiving it. They made fresh baguette, and I'm realizing that might sitting there receiving it. They made fresh baguette. And I'm realizing that might have been the first time I ever had baguette. Baguette's my favorite food. I love baguette. And that was probably when I was introduced to it. Anyway, fresh baguette,

butter, thinly sliced cheese, and hot chocolate. And I just remember thinking, hot chocolate for breakfast? This is incredible. The hot chocolate was served in a big bowl. Now, like this family that I was staying with, my own family was modest. We didn't have fancy things and we did not live a fancy life, but we always sat down for dinner at the dinner table. My mom was a wonderful cook, and she taught me which fork to use, and which one was the dessert fork, and which one's the salad fork, and to sit with a napkin on your lap. And she taught me how to eat soup properly. She taught me to eat soup by carefully dipping the spoon into the bowl, lifting it up, and delicately scraping the bottom of the spoon off the far edge, the outside edge of the bowl.

No drips. And then, and only then, to bring it to your mouth. So I sat down and there was a bowl of hot chocolate in front of me and there was a spoon. And I was like, all right, I got this. I know what to do. And I sat down and I very carefully dipped my spoon into the bowl, scraped the drips off the spoon, and painstakingly drank my entire bowl of hot chocolate, my entire bowl of hot chocolate, spoon by delicate spoon. It must have taken 30 minutes. The boys in the family were giggling. I mean, not outwardly, but enough that I knew I was doing something wrong in that way that kids do. You know, kids are so sensitive to learning about

the ways of the world that they just know, they feel it. But the mother gave the boys a look. It's a very specific look. And as a mom, I now know the look she gave them. Her mouth said nothing, but her eyes said, don't even think about saying anything. They were so kind to me.

They didn't tease me. They didn't correct me. They just let me do my thing. And I think the mom said something like, that must be how they do it in Canada. It was years later, like 10 years later, that I saw people in a cafe with huge bowls of cafe au lait. And of course, they were holding them up to their mouths like a mug. And I immediately flashbacked to 11-year-old me in the tiny house in the tiny town in France. And my heart swelled a bit thinking of the family

welcoming me into their home and watching me take half an hour to drink a bowl of hot chocolate with house in the tiny town in France and my heart swelled a bit thinking of the family welcoming me into their home and watching me take half an hour to drink a bowl of hot chocolate with a spoon. Stuart always loved that story. He used to tease me about it. Every time we'd get a latte, he'd say, should I get you a spoon too? So I wasn't surprised when I read the first draft of that story, Trip to Quebec, and saw that Stuart had taken that story and made it his own. And I am happy to be reminded of it today. We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a minute with a sneak peek of next week's episode. So stick around. Thanks for coming back.

I want to take a moment once again to thank you for listening, like not just today, but for listening to this podcast. Thank you for your support. Thank you for all the thoughtful and helpful feedback. It has been so great stepping back into the world of the Vinyl Cafe and connecting with you each week is a huge part of that. So thank you. And I just wanted to let you know that season one is drawing to a close. Next week will be the last episode of season one, but don't worry, we'll be back in the fall with a brand new season. And we'll be back here next week with two more Dave and Morley stories, including this one. This water slide was the water slide to end all water slides.

This water slide began at the second floor bathroom window. That is such a good story. That's next week on Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. And next week is our last episode of this season. So I hope you'll join us. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Greg Duclute is our recording engineer. Theme music is by Danny Michelle. The show is produced by Louise Curtis and me, Jess Milton.

Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.