veryone speaks French, which I expected, and it is so oppressively hot, which I did not. I went to the lake today, where I waded out waist-deep into the water and the little boys with swim masks resting on top of their heads splashed water in my face, squealing something like, ``Blobbity-blobbity-blop!`` which I figured could only mean Kill the American girl.

Quebec City is one of those cinematic romantic places. It`s not terribly romantic to me, because there`s tourists everywhere craning to stuff every corner into their videocameras, but it`s the kind of place Hollywood might set a first date. Narrow, cobbled streets with flowers hanging from the windows. Waterfountains burbling in the center of town. Little kids scrambling to lick up all their ice cream before it melts. Last night, I took a walk along the boardwalk beside the St. Laurent River when I was joined by an old French man named Andre who told me the breeze was like liberty. We talked about Canadian Separtism, how French Canadians are unique in the world -- sharing a country with people they don`t understand, a language with people they don`t know -- and everything was fine until he tried to teach me Shiatsu massage on a park bench and touched one pressure point too many. ``I won`t do it again,`` he said as I got up to leave. ``That`s right,`` I said, slinging my purse over my shoulder. But I wasn`t mad. I suspect learning Shiatsu massage actually does involve touching a stranger`s belly -- ``It`s like your hands are in a dance with your body,`` he told me -- but if anyone`s hands are going to dance with my belly, they better buy me a Hot Pocket and a Yoo-hoo first .

Back in the hostel, my room was a sauna. I woke up with pools of sweat on my chest and in my belly. Thus the Lake today. And tomorrow, I leave for Maine. Oh, by the way: Happy Independence Day. Fireworks for everyone!

written in Quebec City, Canada