Crossing the Atlantic ocean and landing at our cousins of Quebec is a unique sensation: the impression to find one's origins (should it not be the opposite), and take any phone book and find your name inside. Sure, the language helps. The landscapes you travel through are what America is: huge and magical.

Suddenly a strong picture appears, a "Red Tunic", right out of my childhood comic books. I look around and search for BLEK the Rock, but he is not there. Too bad...

I like the spirit of people in Quebec, the way they hold on to their roots. They find it a shame France has somewhat abandoned them and I deeply regret it.

The US influence is really there.

A village as it was when the first Pilgrims arrived. The collapsed house is exactly the way it is when found. Wood is a material I really appreciate so coming back to France our house was to be built out of wood.