Quebec City. Temperature, -17.
One week until my Olympic servitude begins. They say it's FIFTY degrees in Vancouver.
Mary and I spent the weekend at the Quebec Carnaval...which, as you may notice they have misspelled. I pointed it out to them but they just laughed.
Morons.
There was snow sculpting, an Ice Palace, rock hard frozen samples of Kraft cheese, and a ride down a snow covered hill on a river raft with total strangers who couldn't even speak American.
Not to mention having the numbness of cold penetrate you to your core as your glasses fog and your nose feels like it is on fire.
Ironic. The fire/ice thing.
It was so cold, the St. Lawrence was steaming in agony as it surrendered it's liquidity. Also,
the Chateau Frontenac was worth the trip...especially in our ancient attic room. The young woman who gave us a touur was proud to mention that previous guests included Winston Churchill, Frankin D. Roosevelt, and MS. CELINE DION!
Eat your room tempperature hearts out, mere mortals.
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