Part 1: Speaking the Anglais
On June 8, 1899, Karl travelled to Rivière-du-Loup via the Madawaska River and along the Temiscouata railway. In his report to the Truro Daily News, Volume 9, No. 161, he wrote:
“The road was not very good at all, and after that, for the next 51 miles, it was frightful for miles there was nothing to wheel on except a cow path, and for 35 miles it was principally uphill, or up a succession of hills. The sun was just setting as I reached the top of the mountain, and as I had to reach Rivière-du-Loup, I had no time to lose.
I arrived in town about 9 o’clock, however, after finding the last 15 miles all downhill, but quite rough, but that didn’t matter. At every point on that Temiscouata road, where there stood a farmhouse, there was sure to be from two to four dogs, all of which, as I passed each house in its turn, invariably rushed out to greet me, and with no great displace of gentleness either. One big one in particular, when he could not reach me, and as he wanted a souvenir or some description, took a spoke out of my wheel.
On arriving at Rivière-du-Loup, I looked around for a hotel, but none could I see, and finding no one who could talk any English at all, I had to look around and find one the best way I could. After going through a field and over a railway siding, I arrived at last to a good hotel.”
There isn’t any indication that Karl could speak any French, and I think his arrival to the first place where English wasn’t the language spoken was quite isolating for him. It highlights the power of language as a means to connect with people and, at a minimum, to be able to solicit and receive help. Upon my arrival in Rivière-du-Loup, I can assure you that I didn’t have to go through a field or over a railway siding to find a good hotel. I was quite pleased when the concierge at my hotel commented that: “I didn’t realize you were speaking the Anglais!” Yes, that’s right, my conversational French had her convinced I was a Francophone or perhaps bilingual, yet neither is true.
I will admit to being utterly envious of anyone who can speak more than one language fluently and can only imagine how that ability when travelling allows for a fully immersive experience in having discussions with locals in their language. And although I can get a little bit farther in conversational French — thanks to 8 years of classes in public school — it sadly halts pretty early in the conversation. Invariably, there’s a point when I’ll look at the person talking and merely shrug my shoulders and say, “sorry, I don’t understand, my francais c’est pas bien.”
Yet, I’m undeterred.
I make sure to start a conversation using the local platitudes for any country I’m visiting. If you substitute in any language (French, Arabic, German, Russian etc.), my conversation is the same, it goes something like this:
Me: Good Morning / Hello
Local: Good Morning / Hello
Me: How are you today?
Local: ______ (some sort of a response I may or may not understand) and how are you?
Me: I’m fine, thank you (in these conversations, I’m always just fine!)
Local: something something something
Me: Sorry, I don’t understand. I only speak English.
Then we revert to English, and my persona as a sophisticated multi-lingual cosmopolitan sadly comes to an end.
But I wouldn’t approach my conversations any other way. I love being in another country and using local salutations so that if just for the briefest time, it feels like a genuine connection. Whereas Karl, travelling throughout the British Empire, was much more reliant on the tongue of the Empire, which perhaps alienated him a little in Quebec, or at a minimum, compromised his accommodations. C’est la vie, n’est-ce pas?!
Part 2: International Language of Music
Feeling a bit isolated because of his inability to speak French, Karl decided to go to bed early that first night in Rivière-du-Loup but the next days his subsequent report was much more positive:
“Early next morning Sunday, I was wondering what I could do with myself all day when a brass band went by the door on the way to church. I followed and arrived at a magnificent church of grey stone, and inside, it was finished with white and gold.
After service, which was almost two hours long, a big church procession was formed, headed by a cornet band, followed by four small boys bearing a large banner, then came two dozen or more of larger boys, then as many young men, which was followed by another brass band, next came the Societe Des Enfants De Marie, composed of about 50 small girls dressed in white from head to foot. The whole procession, which was about 3/4 of a mile in length, marched through the narrow streets, around a block or two, then back to the church, at which place a band concert was held in the evening on the pavilion in front of the church, which is 40 feet x 80 feet, and built of polished stone.”
It wasn’t French but the international language of music that aided our young traveller to feel connected in Rivière-du-Loup.
Karl doesn’t mention the name of the Church he attended, but there is only one in Rivière du Loup that fits his description. The Eglise Saint-Patrice, constructed in 1855, is considered a neo-Gothic art masterpiece, and even though he also doesn’t mention the name of the hotel where he stayed, a nursing home down the street from the church matches his description.
Today, Rivière-du-Loup continues to be primarily a cross-over town, a worthwhile stopping place if you are travelling between New Brunswick, Gaspé and Quebec. My recommendation is that you start your visit at the Au Pain Gamin Artisanal Bakery and unlike Karl, at a minimum, have the ability to speak enough French to order: “un, deux or trois, pain au chocolat” to enjoy while exploring Rivière-du-Loup.