Quebec

Never say to me “we should go to Quebec someday.”

The word someday does not exist in my vocabulary. I have no patience for it.

A friend (I’ll call him “Ed” – two letters, easy to type) said someday to me a month ago and learned that someday for me is right now.

I wonder whether impatience is a cultural thing: we, Poles, seize that which may disappear soon.

Or, whether I should take personal responsibility for plunging the minute a rope swings my way.

In spite of Madison snows and frosty temperatures, I am heading north right now with Ed, the now biting his tongue Ed, for, having uttered the word someday, he is keeping me company as I head north today. Tonight, if the skies clear and the planes land, we will be in Montreal, driving up even further north to Quebec City, where the ice statues lay buried in snow and the temperatures will not pass single digits.

Waiting now at the Detroit airport for our (delayed) flight out, Ed turns to me and says: You’re the maturest 52-year old kid I ever met.

Personally, I don’t know why anyone would wait until spring to head north.