Letter from Quebec

We landed mid-afternoon at the Quebec City airport. It was small and easily navigable. We've developed a strong affection for small planes and small airports. I had reserved a car and a GPS to go with it.

TADOUSSEC HOTEL

Our destination was the village of Tadoussec, which perched on the far bank of the Sanguenay Fiord, three hours north-east of the city. The GPS did a pretty good job of getting us across Quebec and out on to the highway that runs parallel to the St Lawrence Seaway. But she (most GPSs are “shes”) was a bit eccentric and she mangled French names unapologetically (perhaps because we had opted for instructions in American English).

FERRIES

The highway comes to an abrupt end at the fiord. I guess that it's about 2 miles wide. There's no bridge to the far bank; the tides are too swift and the fiord too deep. Instead two ferries convey motorists across the waters, all day, all night and all year. There's no charge. Huge trucks comprise much of the traffic. We made it across without a problem although the GPS did rather dither over our B&B.

This was located near the top of the village. It proved to be a good choice. Our hosts were kind, the accommodation was 5-star, the views were superb and the breakfasts were amazing. The only downside was the need to indulge in small talk with other residents, much of the conversation necessarily in (Barbara's) French.

OUR BEDROOM

Tadoussec is a village of 800 people that swells to 4,000 in the height of summer. It offers holiday makers a good beach, inland waters for boating, whale-watching in the St Lawrence and endless hiking in the nearby national parks. Every second house advertises accommodation.

We took ourselves on a 3-hour whale watching cruise that began at the small quay a mile away at the bottom of the village. Although our twin-deck boat was capable of holding some 200 passengers, our actual number was closer to 30, which allowed us to move around the vessel and to get the best possible sighting of any whales.

The two species that inhabit the seaway in early summer are the lone Minke whales and the more sociable Belugas. We spotted a Minke first – they're black-backed – and followed it as best we could for 30 minutes. The animal would surface briefly to breathe and then vanish for several minutes – resurfacing hundreds of metres away. The whales feed for 20 hours a day, we learned, and sleep for 4, surfacing automatically to breathe while asleep.

BELUGAS

Later we came across a family of Belugas, white-backed and much smaller, that were happy to gambol around us. It was quite an emotional experience. Our guide was a young French woman with quaint English who really made the whole thing come alive. The business is competitive. Two other biggish boats and a couple of zodiacs shared the seas with us.

We learned a great deal more about the lives and activities of the whales during a subsequent visit to the whale research and information centre in Tadoussec. Needless and sad to say, hunting and pollution have endangered them.

On day 2 we took a drive up the fiord, stopping off at villages along the route and hiking out to viewing points. It's a glorious part of the world. What it doesn't do is cater for English speakers.

Hardly any information is provided to tourists in English.

We struggled to work out the complicated system at the unmanned entrance to a national park. We had to indicate on a card how long we would be staying and put the correct amount of money in the envelope provided. Without Barbara's French I wouldn't have had a clue.

On day 3 we made our farewells and headed back to Quebec City. We'd given ourselves lots of time, which was fortunate, because our hotel was located in the heart of the old city and not easy to find. Even harder was locating the offices of the car hire company to return the vehicle.

We knew they were located in the Delta Hotel. But finding the Delta Hotel proved the very devil of a job in the traffic – with nowhere to stop and consult the map, and the GPS recalculating every few seconds. Barbara eventually spotted the hotel from a distance, with its name high up on the building. We must have passed it a several times in our search.

With the car returned, we walked the streets of the old city – for the rest of that day and all of the next. By the end of our visit we could have taken you to the Delta Hotel blindfolded. Old Quebec is sharply divided between the lower city at the foot of the cliffs and the upper city with its extensive fortifications. Just a few steep roads link the two.

The old city is the place to live – established and elegant. Its modern residents are clearly more interested in commerce than defence. The streets are lined with art galleries, souvenir shops, fashion boutiques, boulangeries and markets.

Some of the buildings have giant scenes painted across an entire wall. We came across throngs of noisy kids from visiting school parties. At night they trailed behind guides in 19th century dress on ghost tours of the city.


Quebec's main buildings reminded us of Paris. One of these, the museum of civilisation was just a couple of blocks from our hotel. Its fine display on the evolution of man was more to my taste than that of my wife, who took herself for a walk while I peered at our ancestors.

Another target, the museum of fine arts, was several kilometres away. The building looks quite unlike an art gallery, unsurprising because it was once the city jail. Some of the tiny, grim cells are still open for inspection. Unlike the several galleries we'd visited in the US, Quebec's exposition concentrates on local and Innuit art, the latter mainly small sculptures from green stone and whale bone.

Friday morning we took a taxi to the airport – en route to Vancouver and a weekend with the Chris Joneses. In spite of Barbara's insistence that there should be a bus service to the airport, there wasn't. So taxi it was. There's a fixed fare, $32.50, which means that the driver gets $35.

At the airport, Air Canada informed us that instead of flying via Toronto as routed, we would be going via Montreal. There were no explanations. It made no difference to us but it clearly inconvenienced a French family who spent some time trying to sort things out at the check-in desk.

Letter from Princeton

Princeton is a small, leafy town that clusters around the famous university. Bevan lives and works in the heart of it. With his partner, a Princeton resident, he trades steel for a living. The tools of his trade are his Blackberry and his computer. His apartment is in the same house as his office, which is very convenient.

BEVAN

It takes him about five seconds to get to work – out of one door, down a passage and into another. The interior of the house reminded me of the Victorian house we used to occupy in London. Narrow stairs lead up to the first floor (the Americans would say the second floor) which he occupies. His one-bedroom apartment, which snuggles into the roof, is newly carpeted and furnished in (seriously) minimalist style. Behind the house is a small car park where he has private parking. The location and the arrangement would be hard to beat.

To accommodate us, Bevan surrendered his wonderfully comfortable double bed (a tempurpedic mattress on a hand-made base) for his sofa in the living room. These two items are just about all the furniture he possesses although he assured us that he was planning to obtain a chair and a lamp. He took us the first evening to his favourite eatery, The Point Blue fish restaurant just down the road, where we were joined by his neighbours, Chris and Monica. The menu was extensive and the fish was excellent.

En route to the restaurant, we stopped off at a bar. I was interested in trying the local beers but found these not to my taste, something in-between lager and ale. Ironically, most students are not permitted to drink alcohol as the legal age for its consumption in New Jersey is 21. This is a situation unthinkable in Europe but the Americans seem to tolerate it well enough – or at least to drink elsewhere.

It was a university reunion weekend, an occasion that each year's graduates celebrate every five years. This coincided with Memorial Day, when Americans honour their armed forces. In the morning, the wail of a pipe band drew us to the window. Jonesy rushed downstairs to get some pictures. Behind the pipers came a great parade of bands, marchers, majorettes, emergency services, scouts, Christians and you name it, all clutching their banners and waving their flags.

After the parade Jones and I went exploring while Bevan settled down to work. My wife discovered an upmarket consignment (second hand clothes) store while I found an Ecco shoe outlet and we both returned home pleased with our purchases. Our suitcases were less impressed. We're travelling with relatively small cases, which don't take kindly to having a pair of shoes thrust into them.

That afternoon Bevan drove us to Philadelphia for a performance by the city's famous orchestra. We arrived a few minutes late and had time to explore the stunning vestibule while waiting for the end of the introductory piece, a Mozart symphony.

The second piece, by a Chinese -American composer, featured a Wagnerian soprano, who tried to outshriek the discordant cacophony from a demented orchestra. It was just awful. Afterwards the composer appeared on stage where he and the soprano fell into each other's arms.

Jones gave them a good clap for effort. I don't believe in applauding the dismal and didn't. Happily, the final piece, Rachmaninov's 3rd piano concerto, was superb and the Russian soloist took several bows. That evening – and the following one – we dined in style. Most restaurants are unlicensed and the custom is for diners to take their own bottle/s to the restaurant. It's a great idea.

On the Saturday Bevan took us to a sculpture park, several acres of lawns, lakes and dozens of sculptures. It was a great place for kids to run around while the adults enjoyed a good lunch and some undemanding art.

Sunday morning – and thanks once again to our nephew – Bevan ran us to Newark Airport for our flight to Quebec City via Toronto. At his suggestion we had booked with a small airline called Porter Air that operates only smallish turbo props. What a delightful airline. It offered passengers excellent wine in real glasses as well as free wifi, drinks and eats in the airport lounge. A glimpse of the Niagara falls on our approach to Toronto was a real bonus.

We landed, not at Pearson international airport, but at the tiny Billy Bishop airport on an island in the bay, a few minutes from down-town Toronto. The short runway left the pilot with precious little to spare. It was the easiest connection we've made. Bureaucracy was minimal, the service was wonderful and the planes were small and personal. It was like going back 20 years and we loved it. If you ever get the chance, fly Porter Air.

Letter from New York

FIRST GLIMPSE OF NEW YORK

Our Boltbus dropped us 15 blocks short of our New York hotel. As usual, we walked it, dodging through the crowds and pulling our suitcases behind us. We were travelling light. Over the bedlam of voices came the impatient honking of motorists and the wail of sirens, a background noise that hung over the city.

Our route took us via Times Square. It may not be the heart of the city but it's certainly the heart of the heave – with the garishness of Picadilly Circus married to the bustle of Trafalgar Square. The approach roads were lined with police cars. There were police on foot, police on horses, police on motorcycles and police just sitting around – dozens and dozens of them. We surmised that this heavy presence was related to the recent attempt to set off a car bomb in the vicinity.

Our hotel was just around the corner. Like everyone else in central Manhattan we found space at a premium. Instead of the comfortable room we'd enjoyed in Washington, we were directed to a depressing rabbit hutch overlooking a central courtyard. Fortunately, the air conditioning didn't function and I insisted on another room. This proved to be fractionally larger with a a small desk and a view of the city. The downside was a back-busting mattress on the bed. Rather than complain again, I slept on the floor.

Our first move in New York was to obtain an 80-dollar city pass. This entitles the holder to a 3-hour boat ride around Manhattan and a discounted visit to 5 of the city's main attractions. The boat ride was really instructive. We passed close by Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, saw where the World Trade Centre had stood, passed by the UN building and were able to place Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx on the far side of the river – names we'd heard and read a thousand times.

Of course we had to go up the Empire State building. I forget whether the high speed elevators took us to the 80th or 90th floor but it was the top of the world with views half way around America. The country was preparing to celebrate Memorial Day and a fleet of warships was sailing up the Hudson to mark the occasion.

A constant stream of visitors poured out of the elevators and jostled for space on the viewing deck. Seeing New York from the Empire State building is a tourist industry on its own. We were glad we'd arrived early.

As in Washington, our focus was on New York's museums and galleries. We gave ourselves a couple of hours and a target in each. One could easily spend a week in both the Metropolitan and the Natural History Museum and still have much to see.

One afternoon we walked the two miles home via Central Park, sharing it with horse-drawn carriages, cyclists, roller-bladers, joggers, baseball players and courting couples as well as a great many birds and squirrels. With its numerous wilderness areas, Central Park reminded me more of the great park in Berlin than London's Hyde Park. We crossed its roads with care. New York cyclists demonstrated the same contempt for the red traffic lights (intended to assist pedestrians) as cyclists do in other parts of the world.

One of our targets was the Guggenheim. We arrived with less than an hour to closing. An attendant advised us to take a lift to the top floor and then to wind our way down the spiral walkway. I was disappointed by the display of pictures, photos and videos. Most had to be explained to make any sense; and the explanations were inevitably couched in language quite unfathomable to the layman. With just a few minutes to go to closing, I came across a side gallery with a wealth of Picassos and impressionist works. I ran to fetch Jones who was listening to an audio guide some distance away. For those alone the visit was worth it.

Each evening we would head around the corner to Times Square; it was like being part of both the cast and the audience of a show. The faces and languages came from all over the world. Hundreds of young US sailors, both men and women, were also present, obviously enjoying shore leave from their ships anchored in the Hudson.

Many wore ribbons that I attributed to action in one of America's recent conflicts. In the supermarket where we bought our supper groceries, I encountered an American man thanking two young women in uniform for their service to the country, and insisting on paying for their purchases. It's easy to forget that the United States is still at war on the far side of the world.

We left New York as we had arrived, trailing our suitcases down the pavement. Our immediate destination was Penn Station, some 15 blocks from the hotel. Fortunately we had given ourselves lots of time. Penn Station is a nightmare for a newcomer. We entered the station on the Amtrak side and needed the assistance of three different policemen to find our way through busy, twisting halls to the area where the much smaller New Jersey Transit service operated.

Having obtained tickets for the journey to Princeton, where we were to meet Bevan, we waited with lots of other passengers in a central departure area to learn what platform we'd be leaving from. This was announced 10 minutes before departure. The crowd immediately funnelled through a door and downstairs to the platform - pushing and pulling, shoving and squeezing through the narrow passage. Somehow we made it, suitcases and all. Soon the high-rise Manhattan skyline gave way to the green fields of New Jersey. Bye bye New York. You were something else.

Letter from Washington

From the airport Bevan took us on to our hotel in Washington. His service was five-star and we found ourselves much in his debt, all the more so during our later stay with him in Princeton.

NATIONAL CATHEDRAL FROM BUS

For an impression of Washington we boarded a hop-on hop-off bus, using a two-day ticket that another resident had handed into the hotel on day one. A thoughtful receptionist passed it on to us – a saving of 35 dollars. Washington proved to be a pleasant surprise, a city of green spaces, impressive buildings, skateboarders, joggers and fat cops – some very fat cops.

The tubbiest were on museum duty, checking visitors' bags and waddling down the corridors with the usual guns and other apparatus attached to their belts. They were an impressive presence though they could not conceivably have chased a felon.

The cops guarding the White House were an exception. They were lean and keeping a careful eye on the crowds that had flocked to the famous gates on Pennsylvania Avenue. Many people were busy taking snaps of each other. We followed suit.

It's not every day that one gets to see the White House. The banshee wailing of sirens and flashing of lights announced a VIP exit from the White House. Out of the gates sped a phalanx of motorcycle outriders and important black cars. We surmised that the chief must be going about his business.

Our hotel was located within walking distance of many of Washington's prime attractions. The White House was 30 minutes away, with the Washington Memorial obelisk a few hundred metres beyond it.
The Capitol and the row of museums and galleries that lined Connecticut Ave were about as far again.

We walked from one end to the other and we walked back again. By the end of three days we knew our way around. Least fun was the trek back home in the heat of the evening. Finally we discovered a handy bus service that we wished we'd found earlier. Washington is a visitor-friendly city. It's easy on the eye; the skyline is low-rise. No building can be more than 20 feet taller than the width of the street it faces – or so we were informed.

Pedestrians are well catered for. They get a visible count-down on a clock attached to traffic lights each time they have to cross a street. Sometimes it's as little as 15 seconds. At others it's closer to a minute. But they always know how much time they have to cross.

Of the museums for which the city is known, the Smithsonian is pre-eminent. This is not a single institution, as we discovered, but a group of museums and galleries – 19 in all, concentrated in Washington but extending to other cities. We visited all we could. I loved the Museum of American history. It came alive, as delightful for adults as their children. I found myself inadvertently stepping aside, alerted to possible traffic by the hoots, honks and sirens from the transport halls.


Inevitably, the Air and Space Museum stole the show. Entry was free, as to all the Smithsonians. Parents with eager kids gathered on the steps for the inevitable bag searches at the entrance. The halls were huge, with aircraft strung from the ceilings. Adults climbed into the planes and space capsules with the same enthusiasm as their children. The whole history of flight was there to behold.

The exhibits included America's rockets and missiles. To my surprise I noticed that the height of a Minuteman missile was wrongly given as 8 metres rather than 18, a fact I helpfully brought to the attention of the Information Desk. “We know,” a young man replied disarmingly: “Not many people notice”.

For all the charm of the museums, it was in the city's art galleries that we spent most time. Barbara led the way. She was familiar with many of the works and thrilled to be able to see them in the flesh. I was bucked myself. Some of the galleries were vast. Trying to see everything was impossible. Just finding one's way around was hard enough. We would choose a couple of halls and concentrate on those, generally covering the years from the impressionists to the present day.

Everywhere we bumped into visitors taking photographs, often of companions posing in front of the paintings or sculptures. It was a practice quite foreign to Europe, one I found both intrusive and irritating. From time to time the attendants would call out “no flash”. For the rest they ignored the snapping. Nor did they appear too concerned when visitors leaned over to peer closely at a valuable painting, behavior that would have sounded alarms at similar galleries in Berlin.

Knowing how late summer could arrive in North America we had come well prepared for cold weather. What I hadn't anticipated was the heat. The US east coast is not Canada. Washington simmered in the 90s on the day we arrived; so did New York a day or two later. What a relief it was to stagger back into an air conditioned bedroom after a sweaty day's sightseeing.

Two coach services, Boltbus and Megabus, link the two cities. It's about a five hour ride, depending on the traffic (which, at the approach to the Lincoln Tunnel under the Hudson, gets very congested indeed). We were impressed by the service. Our Boltbus was comfortable and equipped with a wifi link. As everywhere in North America, most passengers passed the journey immersed in their own private electronic worlds.

Letter from Barrett Cove

In the end we beat the volcano. Terry and Margaret, our house sitters, ran us to Faro airport long before the sparrows woke. Our parting glimpse was of Prickles, his nose under the gate, crying to know why he wasn't coming with us. TAP flew us to Lisbon and Frankfurt. Air Canada took us on to Toronto. The plane was full. The cabin attendants were older women. Ours looked worn from too many flights across the pond. We were grateful for the selection of films on offer.

OUR DESTINATION

The airport Holiday Inn put us up that night. We'd hoped to fly on to Washington the same evening but been advised not to attempt it in the two hours available between flights. Three hours is recommended. Passengers have to clear US immigration and customs before departure, a procedure that entails form-filling, queues and questions on top of the usual security checks.

The next morning we flew to Washington Dulles in a 50-seater Embraer-145 – two seats on the right of the aisle, one on the left. The twang of the single cabin attendant baffled us. We watched the US unfolding beneath the little jet. Barbara's brother, Robbie, and his son, Bevan, were at the airport. Bevan lives in Princeton, New Jersey, a 50 minute train-ride from New York.

His parents had arrived from South Africa several days earlier to join him at the luxurious holiday house he had rented on Chesapeake Bay. This is a vast body of water in a beautiful area east of Washington.

There we spent two lazy days with them. The house offered us every comfort. From the patio a broad lawn ran down to the water and the private jetty. At the end of the jetty a line was attached to the crab basket that Bevan had baited and lowered into the water.

He hauled it up to reveal three of the soft-shelled crabs for which the Bay is known, awaiting consumption. Bevan is very fond of crab. His mother and aunt pleaded for the captives' release. In the event they were set free, which doesn't often happen to Chesapeake Bay crabs.

Onshore, squirrels and birds went about their business. So did a long black snake that we saw worming its way into the shrubs beside the house. We had no idea whether it was venomous and were careful for keep the house door closed.

That evening, the serpent was shrugged off by a visitor, a woman who apologetically interrupted our barbecue, explaining that she was the local census officer and obliged to record the occupants of the house. We sat her down for tea and conversation. Black snakes were common, she reassured us; they kept the vermin down and did no harm.

On the bank beside the jetty a small catamaran was drawn up. We looked on as Bevan and Robbie, both experienced sailors, took the craft out. The gentlest of winds, a mere zephyr, tested their nautical skills as they sought deeper water.

Chesapeake is a maze of bays and inlets whose total shoreline exceeds the length of the west coast of America. It was once, we learned during an excursion from the nearby town of St Michaels, a favourite refuge of pirates, who could vanish into it.

From our excursion boat we had a splendid view of the fine, comfortably-separated houses lining the banks. The average price our guide informed us, was a couple of million dollars. In previous centuries fishing, especially for crabs and oysters, provided a living to people in the area. The craft used by these fishermen were exhibited at the fine maritime museum at St Michaels, along with a host of photos and accoutrements testifying to their hard lives.

With Robbie's help I managed to dismantle and revive my noise-cancelling headphones, which had failed me on the plane because of bad battery contacts. I was delighted to have them working again. They weren't cheap and are very useful. What I didn't manage to do was to get an internet connection via the house wifi link. My computer refused to talk to the router that I could see lit up in our bedroom cupboard. It was a problem that I ran into throughout the trip. I tried fiddling with the configuration – to no avail. Very frustrating!

On day three we squeezed ourselves and our luggage – all five of us – into Bevan's mid- sized Lexus. I sat in front passenger seat in comparative luxury on the strength of my size and fussy back. The three passengers behind me sat clutching their bags.

It was an hour to BWI, an airport serving both Baltimore and Washington, where we saw Robbie and Carol off on a flight to Toronto. (From there they continued to Vancouver, a connection they made by the skin of their teeth because of a security go-slow.)