We went to Quebec City for our honeymoon 14 years ago. It was my first and only trip to the capital of La belle province; my wife’s second visit, and her best, I assume.

We chose Quebec City for many reasons. Chief among them was the price was right. A close second was the culture, the 400-year history since the city’s founding, and the artistic expression on full display.

Through university I was a bit of a nerd for Canadian history. I have a Bachelor’s degree that focused on it, after all. Where better to visit than the epicentre of the European-centric piece of that history? And, well, you know my artist wife was — and still is — a bit of a nerd for all things art centric.

It was the best of both our worlds after they collided together in holy matrimony 36 hours earlier.

I’ll never forget those first few hours after landing in Quebec City. No, not for that reason. ?

We spent our first several hours walking around inside the walls of Old Quebec. It was both a glorious and a delirious experience. Glorious because it was, well, Old Quebec. Delirious because we were completely exhausted. 

Again, not for that reason. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Resting on a bench in front the Chateau Frontenac during our first couple of hours in Quebec City. We were exhausted.

We had flown the red-eye from our western Prairie suburb and had transferred at Pearson Airport in Toronto. No one can really get any decent sleep sitting on a plane, especially not the regional flights in Canada that use the smaller, louder aircraft.

We were at least able to leave our bags at the bed and breakfast. Not having to lug those around was nice, but we desperately needed sleep.

There we were. Walking around Old Quebec dazed and confused.

We continued to bump into various sculptures and works of art. 

There has never been a sculpture that I haven’t passed up the opportunity to interact with. After all, don’t all sculptors create their pieces for the viewer to interact with?

These could be considered art and I could be a considered a cute, little, French girl, I suppose.

One, in particular, caught my eye as we strolled past. I still remember the scene.

Majestic brick houses guarded both sides of a narrow cobblestone street. The occasional car crawled past as the sun poured its rays down in late July heat.

We were walking on the sidewalk when a narrow alley between these 300-year-old homes opened. I glanced to our right and then back to the path in front of us.

Immediately, I glanced again, rubbing my eyes to wake up a little more so I could get a better look.

There, in that alley, stood a glorious sculpture. I wasn’t quite sure what the figure was doing, but I didn’t care.

There, in that alley, stood a glorious sculpture. I wasn’t quite sure what the figure was doing, but I didn’t care. 

I knew what I could do to interact with it. After all, that’s what the artist would want. Right? I was delirious with the opportunity.

I passed my camera to my artist wife and told her to take a photo once I got into the proper position (she didn’t know me quite as well back then, but bless her heart for sticking around). 

Moments later, I was hanging off this glorious sculpture, putting my own grim spin on the scene the monument was trying to depict.

I took a stab and my own interpretation of this sculpture in an alley in Old Quebec.

I was much more reserved back then, so my newlywed artist wife was lucky on this trip because, as I reflect, there were countless opportunities for me to interact far worse better than I did with this particular sculpture.

To be fair, I also interacted with the historic artifacts and remain grateful our marriage survived the honeymoon.

Fair is fair. If I was going to have a blast interpreting art, then I would also mount an assault on historic artifacts too.

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