Genevieve's Travels

All I could see was her breath escaping from the small opening at the head of her sleeping bag. Despite my best efforts the dampness had entered my bag with me and my teeth chattered behind the thick woolen scarf, double wrapped around my face. "I can't stand being cold," I half groaned, half laughed to my friend. Her neck and shoulders ejected their head from its nylon shell, her eyes incredulous. "Then WHAT are we doing here?"

Previously that January day we journeyed five hours north of our New York home to Parc Jean-Drapeau, 520 acres of island amusement just east of downtown Montréal. In other seasons one goes to Parc Jean-Drapeau for the beaches and hiking, the concerts and casino, the Formula-1 racetrack (seriously, what don’t they have?). But when the temperatures freeze the snow-painted landscape, you go north to say you survived a night in the Ice Hotel.

At least that was the defense I had ready for my Popsicle partner’s protest. “Allison, it’s the Ice Hotel!” Giggling, she burrowed back into her bag. This might have been my idea, but we were companions in crazy. From our first overnight together, two third grade Girl Scouts telling ghost stories at camp, we became partners in adventure. Twenty years later, we were in sleeping bags again but the floors and walls were snow, and blocks of ice boxed in our beds.

I lay there, believing our hotel orientation leader’s promise that we would be toasty soon. We worked to warm ourselves before turning in, with drinks at the Ice Bar. Soft blue lights illuminated the place and brought out shadows in the impressively chiseled sculptures. The parka wrapped DJ played away the hours while the bartender slid drinks to patrons across the sculpted ice. After our nightcap we changed into bathing suits and ran barefoot through the snow to the hot tubs. Silver dollar snowflakes fell on our heads and disappeared into the bubbling bath as we enjoyed our own personal snow globe.

The attendant came to room -8 and called through the curtain to wake us. Sunshine bounced warmly around the igloo-like walls and birdsong broke through the insulated silence we’d known all night. Surprised at our reluctance to get up, we managed knowing there was hot chocolate and breakfast waiting in the visitor center. “Happy to make it through the night!” might read like a negative review for a hotel if it weren’t posted with a photo of two women with ruddy cheeks, posing enthusiastically next to their room made entirely of ice and snow.