Zachary Porat

Un Week-end Parfait

Posted on October 29, 2024

I recently returned from a weekend in the city of Québec, where I attended the Québec-Maine Number Theory Conference at Université Laval. Before the trip, I expected today’s blog post to be brief. A weekend conference didn’t seem likely to offer a compelling story–let alone one with a moral, as in my previous posts. Instead, I intended to use this post as an opportunity to announce my first solo preprint, which can be found here: arXiv:2410.02734.

I am happy to report that I was wrong, and so I will now (briefly) wax poetic on my perfect weekend! My travel companion throughout this journey was my undergrad advisor, Jeff, who has since become a mentor and close friend. I made my way to Albany on Friday morning, and then we proceeded onward together. Once in Québec, we quickly made our way to the old city. We meandered through the Plains of Abraham and Parc du Bastion-de-la-Reine, which gave way to some breathtaking views:

After exploring the riverfront, numerous art galleries, and surprisingly affordable real estate, we eventually found a place to eat dinner. Jeff was eager to speak in (very good) French,¹ while I was much more hesitant. Not only is my French rusty, but I also vividly remember an incident when my dad, after asking a gas station attendant for the bathroom in crude French, was met with, “I speak English, you know!” This incident happened outside the city over 15 years ago, but it certainly didn’t help my trepidation. Further complicating the matter is that I have several food allergies. I ended up speaking English to the waitress that first night.

Saturday marked the official start of the conference. I attended several excellent talks, but the opening presentation by Mathilde Gerbelli-Gauthier was a real standout. She eloquently weaved her thesis work into the grander story of her mathematical relationship with Nicolas Bergeron, to whom the conference was dedicated after his tragic passing earlier this year. It was a beautiful talk and a touching tribute that emphasized the humanity of mathematics. (Also selfishly, I’m grateful that she spent several minutes covering some material that I was going to have to hurry through in my own talk!)

On Saturday evening, after the day’s talks had concluded, we again made our way to the old city. We were joined by Rylan–one of Jeff’s academic siblings–who I first met at a Connecticut Summer School in Number Theory a few years ago. It turns out that they are a pretty rad family tree! While wandering through the old city, we came across a vendor selling maple taffy (aka perfection, according to Jeff). From the moment our interaction began, he exuded pure joy, welcoming us to his store and his city as he poured a fresh batch. (Here is an unrelated picture of the Château Frontenac that I took that night.)

This delightful interaction would’ve been the highlight of most trips, yet somehow–in this magical place–every exchange felt just as charming. The locals were happy to meet us, curious about our visit, and kind enough to let me fumble my way through their language; every conversation felt inviting and authentic. As the weekend progressed and I saw how open all of the locals were, I became more confident to lead with French rather than English.

So, on the last day at breakfast, I was determined to speak only French. Jeff and I went to Normandin, a local chain that had breakfast poutine (and a really detailed allergen menu). After ordering coffee smoothly enough, the waitress returned for our food orders. I clumsily explained my food allergies and went on to order the breakfast poutine. Everything was going well, until she asked how I wanted my eggs. Unfamiliar with the French term for “scrambled,” I was immediately lost. After one (or maybe two), “Pardon”s, the waitress graciously repeated the question in English. I responded and we carried on. Jeff pointed out later that we carried on in French, not English, something I didn’t realize in the moment. There was no judgement or disdain from the waitress, she just helped me through that little hiccup and we continued as usual.

For me, this small gesture encapsulated my time in Québec: kind, generous folks simply being human. I had spent the weekend anxious about making mistakes or not knowing a word that could derail a conversation. But in the end, when this worst-case scenario happened, it was no big deal. If you make a sincere attempt to speak to someone in their native language, chances are they won’t be mad if you make a few mistakes. So here’s my moral: If you ever find yourself in a similar situation, I recommend just putting yourself out there. People will appreciate the effort, and small stumbles often make for the most genuine connections anyway.