Quebec City: How to Love the Cold

“Is that what you’re wearing?” she asked, a bit concerned. It was the dead of winter, and I’d just arrived in Quebec City wearing a thin jacket, jeans, and suede Nikes. She quickly corrected herself. “I’m so sorry, I do not mean to start our conversation by criticizing your clothes! I just worry,” she said. “Will you be warm?”

This was coming from Lucy, a lifelong Quebecois who greeted me at the airport. And her concern was warranted.

This was my first time in Quebec City. I was born and raised in Florida, then spent three years in Thailand. I don’t do single-digit degrees. I can’t ski, I don’t sled, and I certainly don’t spend time frolicking in the snow. I don’t even know how to properly layer.

In other words, I don’t do winter.

I was here to explore Quebec’s Winter Carnaval — an ode to the winter and a celebration of it by its people. The Carnaval attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors every year and has gone on since 1963. I, however, had one overarching question: How can these people love winter so much? And is it possible I could, too?

My first glimpse came on the plane. As the tires hit the runway, I looked out and saw only white. My brain did a double-take: We must still be in the sky, I thought. No. This is not the sky, nor an anomaly.

This is February.

Enter the white (pardon the window reflection)

Everyone in the city though just seemed to be milling about, speaking their buoyant French and bopping to and fro. It was a usual Friday — they had errands and places to be. As the snow piled up along the streets, buses and cars and everything ran on schedule. One guy was on a bike.

“White gold” is what I heard it’s called here, snow. That’s what turns winter into a wonderland. “It brings beauty, but that’s also what lets us go out and play,” said my friend Patrick, who’s lived here his whole life. Patrick does cross-country skiing, snow-shoeing, and also builds toboggan runs in his backyard for his daughters.

When I arrived, it was 15 degrees Fahrenheit and snowing sideways. I had some time and walked the Old City. Many say Quebec City feels European, and I’d agree. It isn’t just cute, it is darned cute. Wooden signs hang outside storefronts, cozy pubs line the streets, streetlamps cast a warm glow. As I approached the castle-like Château Frontenac, the city’s most famous hotel, the realization struck me: My God. I’m in a Christmas movie.

It took me fifteen minutes, though, to step in my first puddle (at this point, I’d changed from the suede Nikes into similarly-suede hiking boots — better, but still insufficient). Freeze wrapped my foot. I still enjoyed the walk in this adorably quaint city, but one hour and four puddles later, it was time to call it quits.

“Golden Hour”

The Hotel

The next day, I came ready.

I had my thickest socks, long johns, plus two sweaters underneath my jacket. I had two hand warmers cracked and ready to go inside my gloves, along with three backup pairs, two gel hot pads, and spare socks. I had my Fargo-inspired winter hat and my scarf. I was determined: As long as I avoided puddles, I was going to be warm.

This was good, as the first place we went to was made entirely of ice. It’s called Hôtel de Glace, known familiarly as “the Ice Hotel.” It’s the fanciest igloo I’ve ever seen. Constructed entirely of snow, the place gets rebuilt every winter in a matter of six frenzied weeks by snow-loving, axe-yielding Quebecois. Each room had ornate carvings on the walls, large ice sculptures depicting mythical creatures, and of course, a bar that served cocktails in hollowed-out blocks of ice (and, speaking of Christmas movies, Hallmark rents the place out every other year to make their holiday dandies).

Guests can sleep there, though they rarely stay more than one night. I asked our guide what it’s like to stay there. “Ah,” he said dreamily, “I never get a better sleep than here.” It makes sense: wrapped in a warm wool blanket, surrounded by the chill (along with a spectacular silence), it mimics the way we slept in caves — the original conditions for deep sleep.

Two hours in, though, I hit my cold threshold. We had cocktails in our ice blocks, and then bussed off to lunch.

Lunch was at Le Buche, a lodge-like restaurant in the Old City. Actually, it’s designed to mimic a “sugar shack.” This is where families gather in log cabins to escape the cold, where they feast at long tables and sing and dance to traditional folk music.

That’s exactly what happened (sans the dancing). Out came: foie gras on toast, pea soup, a glass of Caribou (mulled wine with rye and maple syrup, quite divine), rabbit wings, tourtiére, stew, and of course, the bell of the ball herself, poutine. Judging by the squeaky bites of the cheese curds, this was the real deal (and kudos to my table-mate for discouraging me from eating the entire pan). Everything was rich, buttery, warm. I’d think that’s more for survival than anything; now, armed with a newly added layer of fat, I had fuel to burn for the next few hours.

We had a free afternoon, though first took a quick tour of the downtown ice palace (not to be confused with the Ice Hotel). Audrey, our guide, was about the most bubbly person I’ve ever met, all smiles and sunshine. She bounced and guided us along, telling us all the joys of Quebec winter.

“Audrey,” I asked her, “why are the people here all so nice and happy?”

“Well, we are nice, yes,” she said, “but happy? That’s something I choose to be.”

It hit me. The Quebecois don’t seem to naturally love the winter; they choose to. Let’s be real, it’s a difficult time. For all the poutine and maple syrup, it’s still painful to endure negative-40 degrees. Yet while you can hole up and wait it out, they choose to actively embrace it. Thus, there are no “off times” for the Quebecois — unlike other places, happiness does not skip a season. They’ve done what many spiritual books implore: Take life and love it as it is.

After the tour, I had some free time and strolled Petit Champlain, described to me as “Little Europe” for the cobblestone streets and narrow alleys. I made a quick stop to buy wool socks, and then someone stopped me: “Excuse me,” he asked. “Could you please take my picture here?”

A quick aside: Years back, the Quebec tourism department noticed an abrupt spike in visits, mostly coming from South Korea and other Asian countries. It was a mystery until they learned of the show “Goblin,” an international hit that used a Quebec street for one of its most important scenes: namely, at this red door. Now this door, when you walk by, is largely unremarkable — I’d’ve passed right by it if this person didn’t grab me. Yet it’s done wonders for their tourism and is now on the blogs of thousands of people.

“Sure,” I told him. “Tell me where you’d like me.”

All in all, I spent ten hours in the cold, and I remained puddle-free.

When I got back to my room that night, I took one of the most enjoyable warm showers I’ve ever had. My pajamas felt especially soft and silky. My legs were fatigued in the best way, a unique exhilaration that comes only from walking in the snow.

There was a documentary called “Happy People,” where the filmmaker profiled people living in the Siberian wilderness. At one point, a man is sitting by the river in a big jacket sipping warm tea. “Doing this,” he says, “gives me a happiness that is unimaginable. There is absolutely no other feeling like it.”

As my body was relaxed into the bed that night, sleep coming ever so easily, my mind and thoughts perfectly clear, I thought of that man by the river.

I see what he means.