Issue link: http://digital.canadawide.com/i/118148
structures as looking typically "French," they have subtle differences that equipped les habitants for a climate much different than their homeland. The cold meant increased reliance on stoves and fireplaces. Uncontrolled blazes were a constant threat and could very quickly take out whole city blocks. As early as 1690, New France's Governor Frontenac set limits on the amount of lumber used in construction. The wood-plank and cedar-shingle roofs of old were replaced with slate and tin, and "firewall" brick chimneys went up between houses to prevent the spread of flames. New France also had a bylaw requiring roofs to be cleared of snow twice per year. What the early settlers didn't know about winter, they had to learn from the natives – how to use snowshoes, toboggans and canoes, how to stave off scurvy with an infusion of spruce bark and how to trap and hunt. Winter is as much a case of "if you can't beat it, join it" now as it was then. For one, it's February and the Christmas decorations are still up, revealing that Quebecers are still on a winter high that waned for English Canada in the first week of January. Boisvert recalls fondly the city-wide outdoor New Year's Eve party in which bars and restaurants spilled out into the streets, creating outdoor outposts from which to sell food and drinks. She describes the feeling of people of all ages keeping warm and celebrating together as "effervescent." It's a feeling we will experience on our last night of Carnival. Even as we don what has become our uniform of this vacation – snowsuits and boots – we can hear the streets filling up outside our hotel. We've moved from the Ice Hotel into Quebec City proper and are staying at the Auberge St. Antoine, a rustic yet elegant CAA fourdiamond property that was once the site of the city's second battery. We set out for the Grande Allée where the pre-parade party is in full swing. Already we see people carrying their carnival accessories – long plastic trumpets and walking sticks topped with effigies of Bonhomme. The trumpets are for tooting loudly (a tradition that will become increasingly annoying as the night wears on). The walking sticks are for drinking. Around us, people are popping off Bonhomme's likeness and filling the sticks' hollow cavities with pre-mixed bottles of Caribou. The saccharine-sweet alcoholic beverage was historically made of caribou blood and spirits; its modern equivalent is a mix of red wine, whisky and maple syrup. The not-so-subtle disguise means that tonight, at least, it's OK to drink in the streets. The night parade begins and the thoroughfare fills with spectacular floats and costumed characters. Six-metre-tall courtiers wave from the tops of gigantic gowns, and mad scientists perform exploding experiments. Stilt walkers, fire breathers and acrobats all take part in the procession. Much like a certain Quebec-born circus of international repute, the parade is beautiful, dramatic, exquisitely choreographed and slightly cheesy. But to the children in the audience and those of us just starting to feel the effects of the Caribou, it's sheer magic. The final, much-anticipated float carries Bonhomme Carnaval. His arrival sets off a chorus of blasts from the plastic trumpets. I turn toward the crowd to snap a picture, but even before the viewfinder meets my eye, I have to pause and grin. Behind me lies a sea of rosy pink faces, runny noses and shapeless, down-padded bodies – but also of sparkling eyes and brilliant smiles. So when a reveller comes dancing by, pulls me in for a surprise dip and plants a couple of hearty bises on my cheeks, I give in warmly this time. 'Cause baby, it's cold outside. WESTWORLD p22-27_Quebec.indd 27 >> W I N T E R 2 0 1 2 27 12-10-19 9:52 AM