I’m sitting in the third row of a white Ford Expedition, half-asleep after three drinks, a really excellent braised lamb shoulder, and a two-hour drive through the mountains north of Montreal.
My birthday dinner felt like a dream. We drank pinot noir from Quebec and ate impossibly fluffy Parker House rolls, along with at least three kinds of fish (I lost count) and Canadian croquettes (so good). Our group of seven was tucked away in a cozy corner booth and attended to by at least four different servers, most of whom had full sleeves of tattoos and charming French accents.
On this note, you should know that Quebec is full of hot people. (I promise this is an important part of the story.) Starting with the GQ-model-turned-border-patrol-police who checked our passports and continuing with the bearded server at the restaurant who filled our water glasses far more often than necessary, we could not stop talking about the attractiveness of the Québécois.
In fact, we were discussing that very topic on our way into Mont-Tremblant when the entirety of our 5,500-pound SUV—plus passengers and luggage—took a wrong turn and slowly began to slide down an icy slope.
(Don’t worry, my mom already knows this story, and it has a happy ending!)
After an attempt to get the car back up the hill with the help of two very kind Canadians who spoke only French, including lots of gesturing at the supposedly “all-season” tires that the dumb Americans chose to drive into snowy Canada, the car ended up stuck nose-first in a large snowbank.
“Happy birthday,” someone squeaked while I leapt from the car and tried to resume breathing normally.
Eventually, another kind (and buff) Canadian came to our rescue. We had somehow stuck the car in a sort of yurt hotel, where we found the guy on duty for overnight emergencies and convinced him (also with lots of gesturing and Caitlin’s French—thanks, Caitlin!) to shuttle us to our Airbnb a couple miles down the road.
We left the car amidst the yurts and returned in the morning, where Canadian Triple A towed the car just a few feet out of the snowbank and we were able to drive up the freshly plowed hill to freedom.
We hit the ski slopes just a few hours behind schedule (more hot Canadians, this time on skis and snowboards), where I successfully* skied two greens.
*I still fell down a lot, and I still don’t know how to get up without taking my skis off, but I had fun and as a person in my 30s learning how to ski THAT IS REALLY ALL THAT MATTERS.
I will take this moment to highly recommend the following items which redeemed our weekend and, by extension, my birthday:
Natalie’s parents’ Triple A Premium membership
Spa Scandinave, where we spent hours sitting in saunas, soaking in hot tubs, plunging in an icy river, getting massages, and drinking tiny cups of tea
Eating poutine between ski runs
Dipping broccoli in fondue (sleeper hit)
The new Mr. and Mrs. Smith show on Amazon Prime
This SNL skit (iykyk)
It was a weird way to kick off 32, but I’m happy to report that not even a week later, we can already laugh about this story.
Also, I feel like I should learn French?
For those of you who checked in: YES, I did eat croissants on my birthday. The kind humans pictured above brought me the saffron-pistachio croissant from La Saison (of Croissant Fridays fame) and lots of other baked goods. I felt loved and seen!
I ate it so fast I didn’t get a photo, so here is another chocolate croissant from La Saison which I recently had at Faro Cafe. Admittedly, it’s not as good as the pistachio one, but just look at those layers!
