We didn’t feel like we belonged in Quebec. Everyone looked twice as rich as us, and all road signs were purely in French. The old town of Quebec City was a time machine to the past; cobblestone streets, glowing markets, cultural pride (to a degree in which only the French can attain), and not to mention the most photographed hotel in the world.
A waitress picked us off the rainy streets and convinced us to dine at her restaurant. When we were led to the coat room, and all of us shed our rain coats, the waitress was shocked at how not-dressed-up we were. It swiftly donned on us that were out of our league.
Dad wore a torn up flannel (his hair cascading out from under his Boston baseball cap),  and Joshy (if I had to guess) hadn’t changed his cloths for a day or two. The rest of us were definitely dressed for sitting in the car hours on end, and not for dining at a top notch French cuisine.
The waiter led us right past the main dining hall and into a completely isolated section of the restaurant (“The Room of Shame” I like to call it). Despite our ragged presence, the staff was very kind. Everything on the menu looked delicious (except the sweet-bread which we avoided on general principal), and there duck pasta was stunning.
PS: On our drive out we drove across the longest covered bridge in the world-  1,282 feet long.
PPS: This blog post was written a little past midnight, so not all thoughts may be coherent.