Ten things to love about this December

I've been away from the blog for a while, not because I'm done with writing it, but because its been such a different month from the previously blogged ones that I've not had time nor known where to start. And once you get a bit behind, its hard to play catch-up. So, to commemorate my return to the blog, I'll summarize, in order of events and appearance, the past several weeks in a very non-media-like list of headlines, capturing the essence of the month's highlights for me (yes, a very conscious use of the lingo, my dear ISA friends):

1.December starts with a flight to Cuba after three days of rest on a Bahamian beach; the Jamboree is securely parked at the Charlotte aiport back in North Carolina.
2.Five days in Havana is like dipping your littlest toenail into the Atlantic Ocean and saying you know what it feels like to swim in it; luckily a change of flights allowed two weeks and a little more exploration around Cuba, maybe enough to equal swishing a foot in the lapping coastal waves.
3.Swapping the spacious Jamboree for the old, familiar backpack to carry stuff down the road travelled.
4.18 km hike straight up and down a mountain in the sweltering Sierra Maestra leads to the well-preserved remains of Fidel and Che's HQ from 1957-58, and to the baffeled hikers who find themselves standing in Fidel's house.
5.Driving in a '56 Chevy to the beach; sipping Havana rum between attempts at salsa dancing; walking through villages, towns, cities all left to carry on in the chasm of time; peso pizza; barely scratching the surface of Cuba, trying to understand it while falling under its spell.
6.2-day reunion with the Jamboree on the last stretch of I95 south from Charlotte, North Carolina, to Miami, Florida, where it is once again parked in an airport lot.
7.Camille, Lily, Elaine, Tara, Ingrid, Job, Marlies and Jacky.
8.My skin reminds me how it loves the daily Vitamin D doses, while I consciously remind myself that it is Christmas in the heat and tropical surroundings.
9.Discovering the cycle route across the bridge from Miami to Key Biscayne.
10.A Miami Christmas with Lily's family.

The photo album included here is, like the words written above, a sampling of the highlights from the past several weeks. Its enough to give a taste, but I didn't include them all to avoid infecting my followers with overload.

December: Bahamas, Cuba, Miami

Myrtle Beach

With a name like “Myrtle Beach”, one might expect a “beach” experience. Alas this impression can't be counted on. Mid-November is apparently a time of the year that weather can be warm and sunny one week and cloudy and rainy and cool the next.

Unfortunately for dad and I, up until the day before we left, we experienced the latter. At least we had one glorious day of sunshine.

Some things to be unhappy about during our 6-day stay in a condo on that beach:

Besides the aforementioned weather,
The wireless internet in the condo facility was down for the duration of our entire stay.

Some things to be happy about during our 6-day stay in a condo on that beach:

I had dad almost to myself for an entire week.

My friend Petrina joined for a few days.

There was a very small exercise room, a laundry room and a jaccuzzi in the condo facility at which I respectively sweated, cleaned clothes, and then soaked and drank beer nearly every day.

A short drive away, we found charming modern Georgetown, with a curious southern past, about which I shall spew at the bottom of this post.

We found really yummy seafood. Really. Yummy.

After debating the origins of the name "Myrtle" - ranging from the name of a woman to that of a tree - a google search at the local internet cafe revealed that a Myrtle is a type of flowering plant that is common in this coastal part of South Carolina. I love etymology, of words and of names of places.

Friendly people asking “how y'all doin'?”. Every person asked. In elevators. In shops, bars and restaurants. On the streets. Literally every person we saw. After which we would always engage in what felt like a genuine conversation. My first real taste of Southern Hospitality.

It was quiet. Not crammed with tourists (until the weekend bringing American Thanksgiving hit, that is, at which point the population of Myrtle Beach quadrupled, according to my rudimentary estimates. And as far as my first American Thanksgiving in America goes, I spent it realizing that everything was closed and we had forgotten to shop the day before, so, guided by my most trusty cookbook, concocted a souffle/quiche dinner with whatever was left in the fridge - cauliflower, carrots, eggs, thanks Petrina - and we drank the remaining beer. Not quite a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, but I already had mine over a month ago in Canada, and we felt like we got to experience the turmoil of it all via CNN's more than regular updates anyway.)

Walking along the beach, along a coastline, feeling those enduring waves is therapeutic even when the skies are grey.

Getting caught up on news according to CNN, and James Bond flicks.

Starting to pick up that southern influence on the English language.

I got to know Garmin (the GPS with a – for the moment – woman's voice. I'm calling him “He”, though, because the factory name is Garmin – I know, how original – and because I intend to find a sexy male voice to guide me through the streets of the remaining North American cities and countryside over the coming months). I'll keep Garmin around at least until he sends me on another wild goose chase through quiet country backroads, scenic but way off the beaten track routes, instead of on the interstates and main county highways, in order to reach my destination; if he tries that again, he'll find himself flung out the window. Or at best, tucked into an unused corner of the Jamboree and forgotten. Based on his performance in getting us to the Charlotte airport, though, I'm feeling more optimistic, so I won't be rash and will give him future chances. While I am, admittedly, rather good (read: lucky) at finding my destinations the “old fashioned way” with maps and intuition, I admit Garmin might be a useful addition to my growing Jamboree family.

An aside-show, random thought: while I am imbued with the very gracious Southern hospitality bug, I'd like to make the comment that I'm very aware that through this blog, I am engaging in a bit of navel-gazing. And so for any of you out there (who aren't my parents) and aren't rolling their eyes at my sometimes obvious, sometimes trivial, sometimes blatantly optimistic observations, I extend you a nod that screams “bear with me” during my blogging/writing attempts. Its surprisingly tiring work out here on the road, on the go, all the time, and I don't really always have the time or conditions available to do the things I'd like to do, like writing or reading or cycling, well. I'll get there yet.

And finally...

..so I'm left now leaving you with some of my promised impressions about Georgetown, South Carolina. A quaint town with significant waterways built for shipping designed by Dutch engineers, surrounded by gorgeous houses and a lovely town center.

We toured the Rice Museum in which I was given first-hand examples as to how to use language to sway things your way.

After upteen displays and pieces of evidence about how prosperous Georgetown and the outlaying area once was in producing and exporting rice, their official claim is that They Suffered after the American civil war because the result of it meant that they “lost their workforce” and so could “no longer compete” and as a result, their “industry declined”. The sweet old-lady guide said to us, twice, that she didn't wonder that “the North envied them their culture and wealth so of course they waged a war against them”.

I admit, as a Canadian, I naturally side a bit with the Northern perspective on things.

The use of language made it sound as if they – the plantation owners - were the ones who were hard done by. Who suffered most. Fair enough to them; it must have been a shock. Before emancipation, they were ridiculously wealthy and they had a prospering, thriving economy. On the backs of people who were not free in the “land of the free”, where there was an average of 1000 people (I dare anyone to show me a picture of a slave from this time and part of the world who wasn't black), who were not technically “people”, working under each “person” (ie/ most likely white plantation owner). I can't continue to call To Kill A Mockingbird one of the more important pieces of relatively modern literature that everyone should read and not conclude for myself, at least, that there's some sort of skewed perspective here.

At least, from my perspective.

I know that there's no need for me to dreg up that old argument again. So I'll say nothing further. Except, that it kind of surprised me to hear that perspective justified. And I am really glad that I live in a world in which cultural and racial diversity is respected and valued rather than taken advantage of. At least, from my perspective.

Myrtle Beach

Presidential near misses and soft southern countrysides

Driving on the interstate from Dulles airport to a campsite north of Washington DC to spend a day in the US capital. Dad in the Jamboree with me. 10 lanes of traffic, we in the middle express lanes, not much company. A glance in the rearview mirror at the flashing blue and red lights from the official motorcycle coming up behind me. Surely I'm not speeding, in the Jamboree? No. He whizzes past, to our left, ignoring us. We wonder what or who he's chasing; there's no one ahead of us. Then a second set of lights comes up from behind, identical to the first, but this one pulls slightly ahead of us, in the left passing lane, and indicates with his arm for me to pull over, move over and make room, get the Jamboree into the shoulder. I do. The next glance in the rearview reveals an official train of cars zooming along, closing in on us, flying past, all manner of lights flashing, police escorting, somberly official and expensive looking, American-flag flapping. As they whiz past us, dad says “I heard on the news that President Obama landed this morning”.

I wave excitedly at them, just in case.

I'm sticking to my story. President Obama drove past the Jamboree. How can I not like DC now, after this?

A day in DC. Walking up Pennsylvania Avenue. Posing for pictures in front of the fence on the opposite end of the lawn in front of the White House. If you squint you can see it. So much security. A visit to the Smithsonian Museum of American History. To escape the rain; to see Dorothy's red shoes and Kermit and C3PO; to walk through the story of the United States.

Interesting story.

Dinner. Too much wine.

Two more days of driving, now continuing south on the I95. New GPS system on hand to guide us through Viriginia, North Carolina, South Carolina.

Glimpses of cottonfields, me unable to stop singing that song “in them olllddd cottonfields back home... it was down in Louisiana, just about a mile from TexArcana...”. Even though we aren't there, we are in the Carolinas. Visits to civil war battlefields turned into outdoor museums. A lot of history in these parts.

A bit of a wayward route, Garmin the GPS takes us off the I95 too early, we traverse fields and small towns and see the southern houses of my imagination; rocking chairs on every veranda, big verandas on every house. I like the drive off the beaten path but it takes a long time, and I think I could have found a better route the old-fashioned way, with my maps.

Washington DC

Driving, flying... "In life, as in hockey, keep your legs moving"

It took 6 hours to fly back the distance that took me three months to drive. Admittedly, in my unhurried pace in the Jamboree with a lot of side trips.

I am not a jaded frequent flyer. I can't say that I hate it, am sick of it, nor that it causes me to pull my hair out. I love how easy it is to board in one place and mere hours later arrive in a totally different place. Fast and romantic. And that a glass of wine while travelling is not generally frowned upon gives it my vote.

But what is missed in the air is all the stuff in between those places.

I took a lot of family road trips growing up, most often between Calgary and Vancouver; you know the kind where the kids are in the way back of the stationwagon, playing and wondering loudly if we were there yet. I took road trips when I was in university; we'd drive south out of Calgary and end up in Arizona to get chased through the desert by rattlesnakes, and once all the way into Mexico, just to be able to say that we did. I've taken European road trips, from Amsterdam to Croatia and back again, around Scandinavia, into Germany and France, and from them I can confirm that the Europeans really are, on the whole, much better drivers than North Americans. I even took a road trip around Hokkaido Island once, in Northern Japan, on the other side of both the car and the road.

I won't even begin to try to list the flights I've taken over the years.

Whether it is a jet barrelling through the air or a vehicle bumping along the road, spewing out my contribution to the diminishing air quality of our beloved planet, its the moving and travelling that keeps me doing it. Sit still? In one place? For always?? You're kidding, right?

But driving to and from work? Commuting by car? You're kidding, right? Shouldn't driving be fun? Shouldn't travelling be fun? Give me my bike any day to commute. To get around. To breath in that increasingly spewey air. But for as much as I love love love my bikes, none of them can get me from Calgary to DC, for example, within a day.

I am apparently wondering about my carbon footprint, as they call it. And I don't love it. And so you see my ongoing dilemma.

A week ago, I parked the Jamboree at Dulles airport and wished it a safe rest, and then scampered onto a flight to Calgary through Toronto. This almost-week in Calgary was hectic as usual, me trying in vain to see everyone I wanted to in the 6 days I had there, waking up most mornings with the requisite fuzzy-head feeling from all the wine, and, this time, battling a cold (no, not that oogly-boogly one all over the news, I'm much better now, thank you). So now I find myself, once again, glad for those who I was able to see, and extending apologies out to those who I missed. But of course, you know, I will be back.

As I write, I gaze down at the lights over New York state from my seat in this Air Canada bullet zooming me back to DC; I can only wonder and hope that the Jamboree is still there, right where I left it, waiting for my return and all the stuff we'll discover in between places on the next leg of the road trip.

Calgary-Banff November 09

A whirlwind tour through cities that deserve more time

New York City was, as it should be, a helluva good time.

My friend, Raj, called me at eight am, jarring me awake me and promptly dragging me away from my Jersey shore trailer park experience. I drove armed only with his Jersey City / Hoboken address - no map, no GPS and, really, once I got off the Turnpike, no clue as to where I was going - yet I somehow managed to make my way into the right part of the city with the Jamboree.

Raj and his concierge had saved a spot for the Jamboree in front of his building, and no sooner had we parked and said hello then we took the train into the centre of NYC. An afternoon of walking the Soho streets – which I found out stands for SOuth HOuston, the street Houston, not the city, for the city is a just wee bit further south than NYC – in the unseasonably warm 18c temperatures. Sunday afternoon, street performers and people out everywhere.

Lunch with Pinot Grigio, a late afternoon Mojito on a rooftop lounge directly under the gaze of the Empire State Building, photographing the Chrysler tower as the sky grew darker and the lights glowed brighter. I learned a little bit more about what light dispersal means to a photograph lens and our eyes.

Raj left me on that rooftop for another Jennifer, but luckily Petrina was just around the corner, and so she picked up the day and lead me to a Manhattan Indian dinner. We returned to the rooftop to meet up with Susan and her husband from Amsterdam, in town for only two days, like me, and so we six sipped wine well into the wee hours until I feel asleep under Raj's care on the delayed train back into Jersey.

For the second morning in a row Raj jarred me awake at 8am, this time to move the Jamboree before getting a parking ticket. While I didn't think my blood was yet clear enough to be driving anywhere, even if only to the shopping mall parking lot kiddy corner to Raj's apartment, I stumbled my way downstairs anyway, and found, to my dismay, that the Jamboree had received a parking ticket, anyway. A mere 5 minutes before I got there, of course.

Good thing I've been to NYC before. I didn't feel the need to see and do everything. I've already seen and done a lot of it. But I still made a yelp of glee upon driving behind that Lady of Liberty holding her torch high as I drove South on the Jersey Turnpike (dEUS Turnpike song on the iPod, uh huh).

My goal was Pine Street in Philadelphia to find Jelle, friend to my new Dutch friends. I had a toilet roll to deliver. This time I printed off directions from google maps to guide me through Philly, which is, I must say, a pretty cool looking city. I didn't get enough time there to even consider seeing or doing anything, but I can safely say that I've put it on my list of places I'd like to return to.

I found Jelle's place, but, alas, not Jelle. He was at work, his phone was not working, his wife was also out, and I was parked illegally in front of his house in the university area. So I added a note of my own to the one the boys had scribbled on the toilet roll and left it for Jelle on his doorstep. When he returned my call later that night he assured me that he got it.

My ride into Washington DC was peppered with legitimate campsites, which I've discovered, so far, are more expensive and not as nice as they are for comparable services in Canada. Me being a snobby Canadian? Perhaps.

A bus ride through rainy streets into the centre of the US capital, Petrina from NYC, now in DC, trying to figure out where the bus dropped me off to pick me up for dinner, a tapas place with delicious Rioja, with her and her father and her Austrailian friend. Driving past the capital building, all lit up impressively, oohing and aahing but not photographing through the dark and the rain. I’ll return to do that during what I hope will be a dry, at least, day next week.

And as this post goes up, the Jamboree sits alone in a parking lot near the Dulles airport, awaiting my return 6 days from now.

NYC 2009

Some of the things I love about travelling: a story of five days in five parts

Characters

I went into town (Bar Harbor) to find a coffee and a Wifi connection to upload my last blog post 6 mornings ago. There were several people in the cafe but the two that caught my attention did so because they were speaking to each other in Dutch. After about 30 seconds of wondering if I should or shouldn't, I said something like, “Ah jullie zijn Nederlanders. Wat leuk om weer Nederlands te horen, het is wel lang geleden.”

Which lead to a brief conversation in which I found out that they, Syb and Ane, were driving around New England for their holiday, and an invitiation to try to find them later that evening at the “restaurant with the big moose on the roof”. Which I did, and found out further that they planned to drive south, same direction, same destinations, roughly the same speed (although theirs ended up slowing down to accommodate the Jamboree and I) to reach NYC by the weekend. They had to fly back to Amsterdam on Saturday, and I needed to be in the vincinity of NYC around then in order to continue to make my way to Washington DC by Wednesday to catch a flight of my own.

So, we travelled together. They, of course, were very impressed with the Jamboree and wee little me behind the wheel of it. I was impressed with their TomTom (with John Cleese as the narrator, which is, I found out later when I listened to it, suitably hilarious: “if you will please just press the button now so that we can get started, because I am old and need the money”) and their habit of playing frisbee just about anywhere. At a gas station, walking down city streets, in the Jamboree.

So it seems that whether backpacking and hostelling through Asia, travelling by train through Europe, finding myself stranded in the middle east or driving the vehicle of my choice on North America's roads, I end up meeting new people and moving along together.

Settings: the bigger picture

The first day we all pulled out of Bar Harbor, I took one road, they took a different road, but we exchanged cell phone numbers and agreed on a final destination to meet up again at the end of the day: Saco, Maine, just south of Portland. We carried on to Boston the next day, then to Cape Cod, and finally to Mystic, Conneticut. The second day we took the same road, they and their TomTom in the lead, remembering to slow down whenever they looked in their rearview mirror and noticed the Jamboree drifting off further behind in the traffic. The third day, they took turns in the passenger seat with me in the Jamboree. Then we got smart and decided it was easier for me to lead and them to stay behind, as it is much easier to spot the Jamboree in traffic than an unremarkable white Jeep Cherokee. And finally they drove away from the campsite on the last morning in Mystic to get to their flight from JFK back to Amsterdam. Me waving goodbye.

When settings and characters intermingle

Saco as a first destination after Bar Harbor was a result of the boys' American Halloween experience, which included a party in a bar in Portland with Christina and Paul. Christina and Paul are both teachers who also run a B&B on the coast in Saco: Christina's B&B. That Halloween night, Christina invited the boys to stay on their way back through again; she also lost her scarf. The boys had found it, and thought it would be a nice way to turn up again, with her scarf. Now that the clocks have changed, 6pm is suddenly very dark, and this was the time that we three knocked on the front door of Christina's B&B, scarf held out as our offering. Picture a dark street of beach houses, some of them vacant summer houses, others occupied year round, silent but for the insistent crash of the Atlantic waves just 50 metres beyond. Christina opened the door, recognized the boys, invited us all in, gave them both warm welcoming hugs, then one for me when I was introduced as the extra they'd picked up along the way, and laughed with genuine pleasure at the sight of her lost scarf and returning new friends. How could I refuse a night in the B&B, drinking wine and engaging in ridiculously interesting conversation well until midnight, and then waking to the peaceful ocean, the eclecticly fascinating company, the dog and cat and breakfast and delightful veranda?

Boston: an Amy Render story, in authentically unbelievable plot twists culminating in “Waar een wil is, is een weg”/ “Where there's a will, there's a way”

(PS: For those of you who don't know what an “Amy Render story” is, sorry, I won't go into detail here. I just couldn't possibly do it justice in this short forum. For those of you who do, enjoy)

Ane and Syb and his TomTom lead the Jamboree and I on a harrowing (for me and the Jamboree, anyway) drive through Boston. I literally ducked several times when going under the short bridges and underpasses, and while luckily we made it through unscathed, I now know that any bridge less than 11 feet I will not attempt to take the Jamboree under.

The YMCA in the centre of Boston was the goal. The plan was to get the boys into the YMCA for the night (girls not allowed) and get me a parking spot in the lot along with them. Unfortunately, the Jamboree didn't quite fit into the YMCA lot. Fortunately, the friendly parking attendant suggested we go around the corner to the big secure lot attached to the Northeastern University.

So that's what I did. And when the lot attendant told me that I couldn't park there because I didn't have a permit, I explained that the other guy said I could. After circling the lot twice, and me asking again, just once more, with perhaps a lost-in-translation insinuation that I was there for some actual reason, he stopped traffic for me to park temporarily on the street, leaving one of the boys in the Jamboree, and directed me across the street to the University parking control/Boston police authority office for a temporary overnight permit.

I went to the office, told the officer behind the window that I was now told by two people to come there and get a permit and park, just one night sir, I'll be gone by noon. He seemed a bit flummoxed but made a call, asked me for the license plate details and my name, and then said, very simply, “ok, you can park for the night, tell the attendant I gave you permission”. So I did. And he called on his walky talky to confirm and then directed me into the lot.

All the while the boys were watching on dubiously from the Jamboree parked on the side of the road with its hazard lights flashing away.

As soon as I got back into the Jamboree and was about to pull into the lot, a woman pulled up in a golf cart and asked what I was doing. So I explained it all to her, and rather than give me a hard time, she said, simply, “damn that thing is big, girl, we gotta get you out of the way and park it. Follow me.”

So I did. She guided me to the back of the lot, directly under the gaze of the 24 hour security guard and also, kind of unfortunately, right beside the incredibly noisy train station. She asked me all about my details, made sure I was parked well in the bus zone, and, after engaging me in a friendly conversation, laughed at us Canadians “I tell you, girl, its cold up there in Canada.” After being wished a good evening and to enjoy my night in Boston, she tooted and drove off in her golf cart to help the next unusual, I'm sure, parking tenant.

The lot was 5 minutes from the YMCA, right in the centre of Boston, and gratis. So off we went, we three lucky travelling bastards, into Boston for the evening.

There, I lost my debit card. Had a great walk around the town. Played frisbee at a square. Listened to some live music in a pub with a beer and watched the Phillys playing the Yankees on the TV screen.

And then I returned to my parking lot to try to drown out the noise of the trains so I could get some sleep. One of the boys stayed in the Jamboree with me because they wanted to make sure I'd be safe. And I, at least, slept well, until 7am.

You know how you can recognize a sound even if you've rarely heard it in real life, if you've only ever mostly heard it on TV or in movies? You know that sound of a police officer talking into his walky talky? The scratchy connection when he presses the button and then the mumble into it, and then the scratchy connection again, usually followed by a deedle-de-deep beep sound?

That's what woke me at 7am. Right behind my head. And then, a few seconds later, a very loud knock on the Jamboree door. It took me a minute to fumble my way out of bed, and then I opened the door and said brightly, but not fakey “good morning, officer!” He asked what I was doing and I explained to him that I'd registered with the police station the night before, and that I had permission. He asked when I'd be going and I said “before noon”. He explained that he had a call about my Jamboree parked in the student parking lot and just had to follow it up. And then he apologized for waking me and wished me a good day.

I tell ya. I didn't even need to use Amy's name, but it certainly is Amy's luck.

And finally, A Camp Story

We decided that the boys needed to have a real North American camping experience before flying off back to Amsterdam. And we all wanted to see Cape Cod. So we found a State Park campsite on Cape Cod in which I think only two other sites were inhabited. We got a lot of firewood, beer, wine, fresh fish and veggies, and camped. They loved it so much that they cancelled their original idea to find a hotel in New Haven, CT on their last night and stayed again in the Jamboree at a slightly more upscale and occupied campsite in Mystic, CT, home to Mystic River and a really nice street with really nice shops and restaurants and a cool band that covered really common, great American classics like “All Shook Up” and “Bye Bye Miss American Pie”.

And so you see why when the boys drove away to catch their flight, I was left for most of the day feeling like something was missing. That empty feeling when encounters and adventures like that end.

Bar Harbor - Mystic

From Canada to America

Two days ago, on Halloween, I left Canada, and drove the Jamboree into the United States. I had spent exactly four months in Canada. I am not yet completely sure how long I'll spend in the US, but this next stage of my little journey will certainly take at least two or three months.

Crossing the border went something like this. I pulled up to a very short line of two cars in St. Stephen, New Brunswick / Calais, Maine. After nearly a 45 second wait, I was able to pull up to the booth and show my passport. I was expecting all sorts of questions, delays and searches. So when they questioned my travel plans, logged in my passport details, logged in my license plate, confirmed my citizenship status (Canadian), my residence status (Netherlands), and that I was, technically, still employed and not seeking to work in the US, I wasn't surprised when they then asked me to just pull up ahead, turn off the engine and could they please come on board to take a little look around?

Of course. A lot of smiles. They asked if I had any citrus fruit and, admitting that I still had a lemon rattling around in the fridge, I handed it over to Homeland Security. Three people came out to check out the Jamboree, I think more out of interest upon seeing that it really was just me, all by myself in here, with my bikes and my wall of local beer labels and my story about my year off, than any official reason. When I showed the lady in charge of food and substances the contents of my fridge and explained that I'd cooked all veggies and eaten all fruit, except for that incriminating lemon, before arriving at the border because I knew they wouldn't let me in with it, she took a casual glance, smiled and said “well done.”

The other lady didn't so much ask me questions, but engaged me in a pleasant conversation about where I worked, how many other teachers I knew in the US and Canada who had taught overseas, and what else I planned to do with my year off. She ended her part of our encounter with “I wish I could have a year off and travel around North America.”

All of this while the kindly gentleman (no I am not joking, he was in no way burly or surly or grumpy) who had my passport was processing it inside. He came back out, gave me my passport back, and wished me well on my trip.

This took all of ten minutes. And that was it, I pulled the Jamboree out of the parking space, waved a goodbye, and drove into Maine.

I drove for about three hours along the coast of Maine which in so many ways still resembled Atlantic Canada. What was different: less French (although this is still, technically, Acadia, so there is some); no CBC radio – radio 2 Drive is my most missed programme; Tim Hortons gave way to Robins Donuts; and the obvious pickle of working out how many miles an hour I am going and at what point around 30 degrees is closest to freezing. I've never been good with these American conversions.

I pulled into Bar Harbor, a highly recommended spot by several people along my journey so far, just before supper time. I stocked up on groceries and wine, and found a completely illegitimate parking spot for the Jamboree on the edge of town in the lot of a motel that looked very much to me to be closed for the season. I left a note for the motel owners on the windsheild of the Jamboree, just in case they came out and got upset at its imposing presence in the lot, claiming that I'd only stay the one night, I'd just pulled into town and so many campsites are, like in Canada, now closed here too, and that I'd offer to pay them if they thought that would be appropriate for the spot for the night.

As it turned out, the note lay fluttering in the wind under the wipers well into the next day, and nobody even looked towards me twice.

It was Halloween, and the kiddies and their parents were out in costume, collecting treats and apparently having a grand time. Halloween! Real Halloween! I love it! It also became very quickly apparent to me that several adult versions of Halloween were planned in the town's bars, and so I found myself, within hours of arriving in the States, caught up in a whirlwind town party, surrounded by the best of the creative and homemade costumes. The most memorable include a couple dressed as H1N1; a ladybug; a guy who I'd swear was famous because he was only wearing a wig and looked exactly like some actor's face that I remember and is stuck in my head but for whom, unfortunately, I can't put a name to even yet; Laverne and Shirley; an Irish Willy Wonka; and my favourite, Bob Ross.

Good thing nobody wanted me to move the Jamboree; the amount of beer I consummed with my new Bar Harbor friends would have made that quite illegal.

How convenient was it when I woke to discover the YMCA across the street from where I slept? Hello, Shower! And so that story goes on...

My last night in Canada was spent beautifully in a campsite right on the New Brunswick coast, so close to Maine that I could swim there if I wouldn't have had to drag the Jamboree through the water with me. I walked along the coast and reflected and felt Canada in all it has done for me over these past four months; indeed, over my lifetime. I left with mixed feelings; this trip on the road has brought me back to Canada and my Canadianness in a way that I kind of imagined it might before I began. I lingered as long as I could, and even took pleasure in the cold nights.

I love it. I love Canada.

And so for now, I will seek the sun in another great North American adventure: the drive down the I 95, the east coast of America. An adventure that, now that I've had a taste of here in Maine, including some gorgeous hiking and biking around Bar Harbor, I'm looking forward to even more.

Yes, I'll keep blogging it all. No need to stop reading now, Susan. :)

Peggy's Cove NS to Bar Harbor Maine

This one is a bit more about Halifax

I've spent the past week sleeping in Meghann's parking lot in Halifax by night and engaging in a bit of a routine by day. Every day I ride into town on Libby (the little silver addition to my Jamboree family). I go to the Second Cup coffee shop, check email, browse cheap travel options and sip soya lattes. I go to the Y. I go out and see something of Halifax. And then I find some place to have dinner and a glass or two of wine before returning to the Jamboree to sleep.

As far as coffee shops go:

I've been to Starbucks, of course, but they have a maximum of 2 hours online time per day. I tried another local coffee shop called Perks, twice actually, and both times their internet was down. I have gotten wireless signals in bars and restaurants to keep me company while I eat, and one evening I even had a few too many glasses of wine while browsing a little too long.

Hands down, Second Cup wins. Not only is it Canadian, it serves great coffees AND lets you sit there all day if you want, online. The reason I know all this isn't because I'm dying to spend all my time in Halifax online, but I had to get some work done this week, so needed a place to go where I could sit for hours and do that work. As well as browse and email and skype... and sip coffee...

I got to observe some of the coffee shop clientele while there. There's this one guy there every day, smells pugently of cigarette smoke and wears his tie around his neck, but right against the skin, not on the shirt but inside the shirt. He's otherwise well enough groomed, if you don't mind the fact that he wears the same clothes every day. He sits and listens to music on his Discman (haven't seen one of those in years!) and sips his coffee and knows every server by name.

There are two students from Dalhousie university, two young guys, who sit beside each other but both on their own laptops, comparing stuff. There is a woman who has come in a couple of times with a young Chinese girl, engaged in animated Chinese lessons over their cappucinos. There are two other young students who sit at opposite ends of the room from one another, both online, and I think engaged in an online game either against one another or on the same team against someone else, as they occasionally look up and make a comment to each other simultaneously about something that happened on both their screens. And these are just the people I've seen more than once.

Seriously, coffee shops are interesting character studies.

Another part of my routine is that I've gone to the Y almost every day to sweat and shower. It was the first place I went to when I rolled into town a week ago. The staff went above and beyond the call of duty to help me find Meghann – my parking lot hostess - online, to help me get a personal locker that I could keep all week, and, of course, let me use the facilities.

Here's my two-cents-worth for anyone planning an extended trip around North America and values feeling good: get a Y membership.

35 dollars a month and you can exercise when you are sick of driving or otherwise just needing to sweat. And shower! I can't tell you how important that part of it is. When I arrived here in Halifax, as an example, I hadn't showered in about 3 or 4 days. I had been sleeping in truckstops and parking lots in Newfoundland and Nova Scotia. I drove straight to the Halifax Y, seriously. Directly. First stop. Met the uber-gracious and friendly people behind the desk, and then, thankfully, sweated, saunaed and showered. You know that expression, “I felt like a new woman”? Uh huh.

I've decided to give my own YMCA awards for the services across the country so far.

Best security for Betty: Victoria
Swankiest new facilities: Its a tie! between: Calgary Eau Claire, and Winnipeg
Most challenging to get to: Mississauga
Most obviously full of the beefiest guys: Saskatoon
Most trusting (ie/didn't call to verify that my membership was in good standing): Corner Brook, Newfoundland
Best escape from the rain: St. John's, Newfoundland
Best class (karate!): Montreal
Hands down, friendliest and overall most helpful: Halifax

In fact, I was so damn thrilled to have found the Y in Halifax, to sweat and shower away my days on the road, that I composed a jingle. You know what tune to set it to, I'm sure I don't need to point that one out:

Young girl!
After driving around
you can go to
the nearest-kinda-big town
a-and work out!
All your driver's stiffness
and you'll feel – bet – ter – af – ter - wards

Young girl!
After your exercise
you can go down
to the sauna, no lies!
a-and shower! for the very first time
in sev - eral - days – but who's – count - ing.

Dun dun dun dun dun

Let's hear it now for the Y M C A
Yea, give a cheer for the Y M C A ' hey...

You can travel a lot
and sleep in par – king lots
and never worry that – you – are – a - slob.

Young girl!
After you feel revived
You can go out
and take part in your life
a-and feel great!
Knowing that you are
so clean - and - re-vit-a-lised!

Let's hear it now for the Y M C A
Give a cheer for the Y M C A ' hey...
... etc...


Ok, I admit, “young girl” is a bit of a stretch now that I've celebrated my 37th birthday, but it goes with the spirit of the song, don't you think? And attached are the pictures that will make the ladies at the Halifax Y famous, and without whom my week in Halifax would have been considerably less happily spent. :) Meghan with one n.

And finally, dining in Halifax. Yum. And great names. I've been to the Economy Shoe Shop. The Argyle. The Wooden Monkey. The latter being my favourite, full of gorgeous vegetarian and fair trade and organic dishes.

And so I leave Halifax feeling like I've gotten to know it, kinda, in an everyday sort of sense. I didn't take too many pictures, some of the citadel until my camera batteries died on me. But enough to know that I like it.

Halifax

I'd love to say this is about Halifax, but its not, not really...

Here's something funny. I am sitting in a cafe in Halifax, listening to two young people discuss their upcoming 2-months-travelling-around-Europe, while pouring over maps and travel guide books. From what I can glean, they are travelling next summer, which is about 8 months from now, and they are meticulously planning itineraries, number of days to spend in each place, what to do and see on which day, and how to avoid spending too much of their precious money: “like, you know, we could decide that we're going to see that one museum that day and then go have a picnic after, cuz, like, you know, restaurants are so expensive”. She has claimed to cut out some of the destinations on the recommended doing-Europe-in-2-months tour published in her guidebook, because, I overheard her say “I don't think you should rush too much through Europe”. Hah. So cute. So full of hope and excitement. I can guarantee she'll wander through Europe with a gigantic maple leaf stamped to her backpack,full of purpose and intention.

And I can't help but wonder: Have I rushed too much through Canada?

I admit, shamefully, that I'm eavesdropping. I can't help it. Its hard to ignore when A) I understand not only every word but every nuance behind every word and B) its about something I'm interested in.

I can't remember ever planning a trip quite to that extent. I wonder about if I did, if I went armed with all my guidebook info, if I would have had a different life. At least, a different travel life. Probably.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of the Lonely Planet, especially when you are me, a young woman, out there on her own much of the time. I often have one on me for the place I happen to be in. But I generally view it as one does a phonebook; useful when you need it, but no need to read every word in it before picking up the telephone. Its my reference book for when I'm there, and only sometimes do I consult it, usually for practical details, before pointing my nose in that direction. I'm glad that I've discovered the joy of spontaneity while travelling. That, yes, sometimes you need to move quickly, other times slow down, depending.... But that, really, its so much more fun the less I plan.

I bet this young girl will have read every word of every page of several guidebooks about their upcoming once-in-a-lifetime backpacking through Europe adventure, so that while she is there she will have most of it memorized, a self-appointed savvy traveller, and shouldn't be surprised or phased by any of it. Hah. Sweet, really, eh. But she will be surprised by something, I can promise that. Something will shock her, something unexpected. Of course, she'll be witnessing first hand such beauties as the Eiffel Tower and Mona Lisa, of the Parthenon and the Colliseum all of which will (and should) blow her away in her own personal way. But something unexpected will happen to throw her off a bit, something that she wasn't prepared for in all that reading and planning that she's doing about it before going. How she reacts to that unexpected moment will decide for her what kind of a traveller she is.

Good idea to go prepared, I suppose. People often ask me the question, “did it meet up to your expectations?” when inquiring into a place I've travelled through. I always find that hard to answer definitively, as I generally go places with as few expectations as possible. Its not something I do consciously, but I find it greatly enhances my travel experiences. Some places I know about more than others – for example, in my current travel across Canada I am much more aware of what Canada is all about than I was of, say, Japan, when I first moved there. I went there quite uniformed, actually, to say the least, and I think much of my enduring love of anything Japanese comes from my total lack of experience or knowledge of it before I landed. I was tabula rasa when it came to Japan and love Japan because of what I discovered while I was there.

There are places like Egypt and Greece, the stories and histories of which I knew about; there are places like the Phillipines and Sri Lanka, about which I knew comparatively nothing before I went. “Meeting my expectations” implies that I had a pre-conceived idea about what the place looked like, felt like, smelled like, tasted like, of what things I would see and what I would do and how much money I would spend before setting foot there. I am well read. I browse the internet daily. I like to think of myself as well-informed and well-educated. Yet I travel with relatively rudimentary ideas of what to expect – if, for example, I'm going to Moscow in November, I expect it will be a bit chilly outside, whereas the month before when I went to Cyprus, I similarly didn't expect to have to wear a heavy winter coat.

I think that much of the joy that I get when I travel, and indeed may be the reason why I am addicted, is that I go without the well-researched itinerary. I go knowing some things about where I am going and what I might like to do there, and look forward to discovering all that can happen when I'm actually there.

If I go expecting to be a bit surprised, to taste something interesting, to see something different, to meet someone unique, then I guess I can answer that, yes, nearly every single place I've been has met my expectations.

A recent example. Two days ago, when I was driving into Halifax, I was asked by a friend out west where I planned to stay and what I planned to do here. Besides celebrating my birthday somehow, and seeking out the nearest WalMart parking lot to sleep in, I didn't really know. He put out a call on facebook and within hours, actually just as I was driving into town, I got a message from him that a friend of his in Halifax said that I could park the Jamboree in the very big parking lot behind her apartment building. And now that I am there, I've got a view of a deliciously red maple tree outside my window and I'm only a 10 minute bike ride into town. I've gained a new friend in Halifax, Meghann, who works at the Art Gallery of Nova Scotia, at which I discovered some intriguing Atlantic art, including a glimpse into the very interesting life of Maud Lewis. The weather hovers above zero, so I'll stick around a few days, which includes plans to go out and about in Halifax.

How much did I plan for this year? Not much, really. Who needs a strict itinerary when such wonderful, spontaneous, genuine stories happen if you are just brave, silly, smart, or unattached enough to put yourself out there.

Now, have I ever been disappointed? Well, that also implies that I expected something and when it didn't happen, I felt it. For which, for now, I will answer, No.

PS: The pic to go with this blog is an advert prominently displayed in all NSLC (ie/ Nova Scotia Liquor Control) stores. I thought it was pretty funny. x

Cape Breton Island

There is a reassuring sense to the ocean no matter where in the world I encounter it. Walking along the coast of Newfoundland in late October, I closed my eyes and stood facing the ocean, hearing and feeling its waves rythmically crash against the rocks, and I was instantly, simultaneously, standing along about fourteen different coastlines around the world. The gentle rumble as the tide pulls out, and then crack as a new wave breaks and races in over the land, as familiar and predictable and wonderful here as anywhere. Standing on a rock, the water crawling up and around me, almost touching my shoes, the ocean felt like it does everywhere, taking over every sense, booming and drawing away and returning again and again. When I move away from it, step up inland, its intensity fades but its powerful presence a dull throbbing beat never wavering in the background.

The ferry carried me from this brilliantly calm last day on the Newfoundland coast and back to the mainland. To say it was a breezy night on board might be an understatment, though, as the wind banging into the metal sides of the boat at regular enough intervals to wake me up just as I was dozing off again and again, continuing this charade up through the night. So upon landing in Sydney, Nova Scotia at 7am, I drove to the nearest Tim Hortons, pulled down the shades in the Jamboree, and napped until 10. Quite convenient, really, that once I woke from my morning nap, I was able to fill up on a cup of coffee and a muffin before hitting the road again.

I've been sleeping in truck stops and parking lots a lot lately. I sleep surprisingly well in them, they are free, usually include a restaurant, and sometimes there is even somewhere nearby that I can get online. Irving truckstops, Wal Mart parking lots, even Canadian Tire is tolerant of us wayward campers determined to stay beyond the official season. A great discovery on the road at a time when campsites are all advertised with “Closed for the Season” signs stamped across them. The only thing I miss are warm showers and so I thank the stars for YMCA (as does my driver's cramp).

I drove around the Cabot Trail yesterday, which circles the northern bit of Cape Breton Island, weaving along the coastline and in and out of the Highlands national park. I had to peek through the rain and fog to confirm that the fall colours were still putting on their shamefully flamboyant show, and when I got to the top of one of the highlands, the fog and rain cleared enough to give me the breathtaking views that I went there for. The ocean was a bit angrier than it had been the day before on the Newfoundland coast, the sounds of it intensified. Having tricked my imagination into thinking it was just like it is everywhere, this ocean reminded me of its many moods.

Cabot Trail, Cape Breton Island

Letting the Pictures tell the story

Time to make a U-turn and drive back into the sunset.

On Newfoundland

On Weather

Every good Canadian story, be it a sincere conversation with dear friends or a casual need to fill up a few minutes between strangers, devotes a respectful amount of time to this favourite subject. Considering my experience here on Newfoundland so far, it seems a good place to start.

I think it was Pooh who once described a day in which he and Piglet were trudging their way against a wind so slanted that it seemed determined to force them to turn around return the way they came, as “blustery”. I couldn't help but recall that picture to mind today as I watched the predicted 140 km/hr winds, accompanied by rain which collected suspiciously like snow in some places (ie/ the ground), draw in across St. John's harbour. The wind and rain was blowing and billowing so thick and fast that you couldn't see through it to the other side of the harbour; you had to load the pockets of your rain gear with rocks for fear of being blown away; all you really wanted to do was wrap a blanket up around you on the sofa, grab a very big steaming mug of tea and a book, and let the wind rattle the windows while you stay warm and dry and stationary inside. Wind so fierce and determined that you hear it raging around your head at night, screaming through the trees and banging on the windows, ready to whip the door out of your hands as soon as you open it to step out into it if you don't hold tight enough. Blustery, indeed.

When the ferry finally landed me in Newfoundland a week ago, I was warned by the truckers not to park too close to the coast for that first night; the wind was apparently “coming up hard” in the morning and it could cause a bit of havoc for the Jamboree and I. On the road across Newfoundland, the wind was insistently provoking my abilities to keep the Jamboree on a straight course for hours on end, as if it was having a good laugh at my jerky two-hands-on-the-wheel dance in its honour. It took three days to drive to St. John's where normally two would have been enough.

Image of a girl leaning slightly inwards, eyes almost closed, both her scarf and her hair blowing at a 45 degree angle away from her.

And then one marvelously sunny and calm day to make up for it all, tucked up in between the rainy and windy, so that the newly christened Libby (little silver bike that I bought on PEI) and I could get out and about town to photograph the sights.

On the Sights

The Newfoundland I drove through and witnessed from points along this final stretch of the Trans Canada Highway: mountainous, rocky, colourful (trees), grand, natural, watery, rural, is d' b'y' y'know' lads.

St. John's: gorgeous, colourful (houses), quaint, spirited, chilly, picturesque, historic, lively, funky. All of this, and easy to get around, too.

I cycled to the top of Signal Hill. There stands Cabot tower, including a little museum documenting the story of Marconi receiving the first wireless signal ever from England. I commemorated my being there by sending a few text “signals” of my own from the spot.

Quidi Vidi, the oldest and absolutely quaintest fishing village in North America. Battery Road, with old houses built into unyeilding granite overlooking the harbour. The harbour, with giant oil ships, coast guard, fishing boats. Downtown St. John's: steep hills lined with brightly coloured houses; Duckworth and Water streets; the famous George street, with its longest concentration of pubs and bars in one stretch. A community named Pleasantville, where my friends live and where I've been more than generously hosted throughout my stay in St. John's, and which lives up to its name.

Seriously, I could live in St. John's, it has such a good feel to it. Like Ireland meets Canada. Two of my favourite places. Even when the sun isn't shining, its marvelous.

On Thanksgiving

I spent it here with friends whom I hadn't seen in five years, and with whom I shared previous Thanksgivings in Norway. There was the expected Turkey, and the for-me-unexpected-but-heartily-indulged-in potatoes and carrots harvested from their garden outside. And the two beautiful little girls that have come into their lives since I last saw them.

Amanda and Dave have welcomed me into their house for nearly a week: with the girls, we have shared mornings over coffee in pajamas; afternoons walking and playing and pulling carrots out of the garden; suppers of leftovers with Amanda's parents and conversations in the evening after the girls had gone to bed.

Because I don't have any of my own, wherever I go I end up borrowing my friends' kids. So, within a day the girls were my little shadows around the house. Now, there aren't many moves that I make that go unnoticed, nor opportunities for hugs or a round of hide-and-seek passed up. Now that a few days have gone by, I fear for both them and me upon my departure, as tears on both sides are sure to well up.

On Reaching the East Coast of Canada

Yes, I've now driven to the most easterly city in North America. I've looked out over the Atlantic ocean. I'm four and half hours away from BC and four and a half hours away from Europe. I've driven half of the way back from where I was this time last year in Amsterdam, and from where I started driving in Victoria in July.

I'm only 3.5/13th of the way through this year.

Why go so fast? Why not stretch it out? What will I do now that I've reached my goal, now that I've driven coast-to-coast?

Let's play muliple choice.

A: driving coast to coast was, while admittedly monumental, only one of my plans for this year.

B: as the weather worsens, so does my desire to drive and camp in it.

C: I am dying to know how America feels now that Obama is in charge.

D: I haven't yet found my “I'm-not-working-this-year” groove and so can't quite get myself to slow down yet.

In reference to the first part of this blog, the weather is a big deciding factor for me. If it were up to me, I'd stick around. But living in the Jamboree through a Canadian winter might be an experience I don't need to have. I've lived through enough Canadian winters in well-insulated and heated houses, and that's bearable. In a van, considerably less so. And as generous and hospitable as all the friends who have hosted me across the country have been, I'm sure none of them want me as a permanent fixture in their homes through the sleet and freezing temperatures and blizzards, no matter how many suppers I offer to prepare and how many times I shovel the snow.

So, I'm happy to say that the journey isn't quite over yet. Not by a long shot. (Is the journey ever really over?) As the weather becomes more and more typically what we have come to expect from this pre-winter time of year in Canada, I will, indeed head south for a while. I have a few more adventures and ideas to keep me busy down there while winter rages and settles in up here in our Utterly Fantastic Land of So Many Mind Bogglingly Beautiful Colours in the North, and turns it into our beloved Great White North. Some of which will see me returning to well before the sun melts it all away again. All of which I'll continue to blog, whether you want to read it or not.

But for now, anyway, I'm still here in Canada. I've reached St. John's and loved it, despite (or maybe even because of?) the weather, and don't intend to duck my tail south of the border just yet. Even if I wanted to go tomorrow, I couldn't, its just a wee bit more than a day's drive away and anyway, I have a few more Atlantic Canadian adventures up my sleeves to get through before I pull out the passport again. Come rain or wind... or even snow!

Newfoundland part 1

Learn something new...

Some things I didn't know before spending 11 hours on a ferry to Newfoundland with a bunch of Newfies and truckers (many of whom are also Newfies).

1. Moose, a Newfoundland import, have apparently prospered here. The Newfies claim that there are more per capita than in other parts of the country. You can tell at dusk and dawn, when for some reason they are drawn to the highways (but then, that's what moose do across the country, so that's not new). And one fellow passenger today claimed that he spent half of every year in Newfoundland and is convinced that he sees at least one moose for every day.

2. A lot of people come here to hunt moose. Four of my travelling companions on the ferry claimed to have a hunting license and were looking forward to being able to use it soon. Another had a theory that the reason our ferry was delayed – a bomb threat on the ferry departing the Newfoundland port, not ours, but all ferries were docked and searched until confirmed bomb-free anyway – was because some important visiting dignitary was reputedly in Newfoundland this week, moose-hunting.

3. How to spot a moose up ahead on the highway when driving at night: look for two to four white sticks that resemble toothpicks either on the road up ahead or just off to the side in the ditch. These are the moose's legs. The moose itself blends into the darkness, and its eyes don't shine in the reflection of your headlights like a deer's. If you see these toothpick-like legs up ahead, slow down.

4. Many trucks have moose racks on the fronts of the cabs to sweep the moose that do get in the way out of the way without totalling the truck (which is the effect a collision with a moose would have on nearly any other vehicle on the road, I am assuming including the Jamboree and I. While this part I also already knew, I don't plan to test it out.) What often happens is the moose (this also works for deer) is either spectacularly tossed off to the side of the road, or it gets tumbled underneath the truck. The truck's wheels ensure enough space for a bit of a bumpy passing but, again, comparatively little damage. The poor mangled animal then pops out behind the truck.

5. This is one reason among several why its not a very smart idea to tailgate too close behind a truck as it wails down the road. Despite the gas one might save by being dragged along in the draft, and the cudos another will get from driving so courageously, if an animal goes under a truck and pops out behind and you are right there... well, I imagine a mess will likely ensue.

I had no choice but to drive for a wee bit at night last night after getting off the 5-hour delayed ferry in Newfoundland. With all this fresh advice clamouring around in my head, you can bet I was on watch. Didn't see any moose, though.

Tales of the genuinely nice and hospitable

Mother Nature keeps up her scandalous show out here. The past couple of days I've continued to drive and cycle around and yelp out "holy shit!" randomly at the trees whenever they spurt out a reminder of the time of year at me. In pattering rain, driving rain, soppy rain, and threatening-to-rain with brief patches of sun shining through, still the reds endure, reds so red that it hurts to look at it for too long.

I made my way to a little town along the east wing of PEI called Souris, in the threatening-to-rain skies, hoping to beat the rain by getting in a wee cycle up and around the tip of the East lighthouse. I parked the Jamboree in the empty parking lot of the tourist info centre and was immediately greeted by the guy who lives next door, Joe, who has just returned to his PEI from Whitehorse and is busy converting his house to open a pub. When he heard my plan to cycle, he offered to give me his mobile phone number in case it started to rain while I was out there, he'd come pick me up. He then invited me to the party he was hosting that night and reassured me that I could park there overnight, no problem.

I took Betty out; her wheels and my legs were both itching to ride, so we were off and feeling good. It was one of those roads on which you always think that just over the next hill or just around the next bend would be the goal: in the case of this ride, the lighthouse. I'd gotten used to PEI being so small and driving distances so short, and I'd estimated – with the help of Joe and another friendly lady at the tourist centre – that the ride would be about 50km. No problem.

Until it started to rain, that is. I kept looking over my shoulder to judge the advance of the sky, and once I was already past the lighthouse and around the bend on my return loop, the threat of rain turned several layered and intermingled really deep shades of grey and then, ultimately, it finally all melded into one solid curtain of unmistakable rain. And so, in the last half hour or so, Betty and I got nicely soaked. You can imagine how glad we were to see the warm and dry Jamboree when we pulled back into town. I wish I knew how many kms the ride was but, unfortunately, the battery in my bike computer also chose this day and this ride to quit. I'm guessing 50kms was a bit of an optimistic pre-ride estimation, and think it was little more than 60kms. If only PEI published those distances on one of their otherwise very well detailed maps...

Anyway, check out the route: google Souris, PEI, loop the highway up to the lighthouse, around the other side and then across the little highway 305 back to town. And please, let me know how far we peddled!

Even if I had wanted to leave upon my return from the ride, I couldn't, because the cars carrying the party-goers had pulled up and parked all around the Jamboree, including right behind it, blocking me from going anywhere. Besides, it wasn't like I had anywhere to be, nor had any intention of finding another place to go: upon my return, drowned-rat-like, I stuck my cold feet in a hot bath I'd prepared on the stove in the Jamboree and bundled up in bed with some dry clothes, a beer and my book for a while until I felt ready to move again.

After dinner, around 8pm, Joe came over and knocked on the door to re-extend his invitation to the party. So I went over to Joe's party and was greeted with such a charming and interesting set of characters, ready to share their beer, their food, swap stories, and play music, that I stayed into the wee hours. We had a few guitars between us, and we jammed and sang and talked and laughed until I went back to the Jamboree, finally, to crash for the night, giggling away to myself.

I slept like a baby in that parking lot, and before I drove off the next morning, Joe had given me a case of the local Schooner beer and an African rain stick to take with me for the road.

I passed through a town named Montague. I wonder how many Romeo and Juliet jokes it and its residents must suffer annually. When I was taking the picture of the Welcome to Montague sign just on the outskirts of town, someone who I assumed to be a local called out to me, “you wouldn't happen to be a fan of Shakespeare, eh, my dear”. Uh... who? Me?! Hah!

People in the campsites let me play with their dogs and give me as many thumbs up and cheers as they have at their disposal whenever they find out I'm doing this on my own; some campers I've spotted in more than one site along the way, and several have shared that they have a similar itinerary as me: stay here as long as possible until the weather really turns, then head south. No wonder we are known as snowbirds. Should I be worried that I'm jumping the gun a bit, not yet retired nor anywhere near close to it, or should I just accept my community of 55+ travellers on the road for who and what they are? Um... easy answer.

How is it that people are always so nice?

Here's another story. Last night I got off the ferry from PEI to Caribou-Pictou, Nova Scotia, and it was about 8pm when I found the campspot nearest to the ferry and where the Jamboree and I would sleep that night. 8pm at this time of year is dark but I managed to find a campspot, back in, and as I was attempting to feel my way to the cords so that I could plug in, a car pulled up to shine its headlights along the side of the Jamboree so that I could see what I was doing. I called the owner of the campsite as nobody seemed to be around that late, told him where I'd parked, and he gave me the password to the wireless access and told me to have a nice rest. The next morning, I tried to find him or anyone who worked there to pay for my stay, but couldn't. When I pulled out I called him again to see if I could arrange to meet him to pay him before driving off, and his first words when I identified myself were, “don't worry about it, no charge.”

Seriously. I might never leave Atlantic Canada. Life is not very swanky but its absurdly comfortable and easy and charming and friendly. And what's more, the road signs here are written in two languages: not the expected English and French, mind you, but English and Gaelic!!

These are only a couple of examples of the kind of hospitality that I've been extended that have made life worth living. And I'm not limiting this statement to within the Canadian borders nor within the past three months. It happens out there. All. The. Time.

Let's hear it for all the gazillions of genuinely nice people out there because they definitely, thankfully, outweigh the assholes. Even when there's nothing in it for them.

And THIS little dingy will be sailing the Jamboree and me off tomorrow to one of the Canadian adventures I've been looking forward to for so so long: Newfoundland!

From PEI to NS

Charlottetown, PEI

I wonder if kids who go to school in Charlottetown are better versed in the history of Canadian Confederation than kids in other parts of the country. I've spent the past three days in this charming city and have been reminded in detail about their role in the birth of what we know of as Canada on just about every street.

The story goes that back in 1864 Charlottetown hosted a conference which was meant to develop the idea of Maritime unity among PEI, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. Then George Etienne Cartier from Lower Canada (Quebec) and John A Macdonald from Upper Canada (Ontario) also showed up to join the party and managed to change the debate to one of Canadian unity. After a week of luncheons, meetings, dinners and balls at which apparently a lot of champagne and fresh seafood was consumed, the idea of Confederation was agreed upon. Three years and two more conferences later, one in Quebec City and the final one in London, England, which got the Queen's approval, and Canada officially became the Dominion of Canada. July 1, 1867.

Charlottetown gives itself the moniker of the “Birthplace of Canada” because of this first event; somehow fitting that the idea of Canada was born out of a week of non-stop parties. Gives a bit of insight into the national character, eh.

There is a Confederation Museum and souvenir shop in Founders Hall, an old train building on the picturesque waterfront ,which is kinda cheesy but lays out the details of the story; it then goes on to describe how the Northwest Territories, which included the north and also extended as far west as BC from Ontario, were bought from the Hudson's Bay Co; how Reil led the rebellion in Red River, now better known as Winnipeg, defending those who, many of whom were Metis, were rather unwillingly sold in the deal, and as a result created Manitoba; how BC bargained for the railway; how Alberta and Saskatchewan were formed and lured European settlers to farm the lands; how the Klondike gold rush of Yukon attracted people from all over; about Newfoundland's rather reluctant entrance after World War II; and finally Nunavut's recent formation. Quite a fascinating story, actually. Don't know why I wasn't utterly captivated when I was learning it at about age 14 in school.

There's the Confederation Bridge that I drove over from New Brunswick; the Confederation trail, the bike trail that spans the island and on which yesterday I found myself on a path that diverged in the woods (I am beginning to wonder if Mr. Frost ever visited PEI...); a Confederation Mall and plenty of Confederation themed souvenirs and nicknacks. Every night until the end of October in the centre of old Charlottetown there's a sound and light show beamed onto the facade of the Provincial House, the spot where many of the meetings from the first conference took place and the only photograph to document the event was staged, also detailing the story peppered with reasons why PEI is so great. In town, there's a bench on the sidewalk with a statue of John A. that one can sit beside and pose as if engaged in a conversation or a cuddle with our esteemed first Prime Minister. Hmmm, I'm not sure, but I'd hazard a guess that PEI is fairly proud of their role as the hosts to the conference that breathed life into the idea of Confederation. Despite their not joining themselves because they didn't think it would suit them until many years later, interestingly enough, when it became apparent that Canada was just getting to be too much of a giant to resist.

Autumn is a little later arriving here, I've noticed. The air feels calm enough and many cafes still have thriving outdoor patios; its a bit cool, but the trees are only just beginning to turn their colours. There's still a lot of green out there at the moment. The drive into Charlottetown had me stopping at pretty lighthouses, The Great Canadian Soap Company selling their homemade, organic, goat's milk soaps and creams, complete with an opportunity to feed the goats, and totally irresistible pumpkin-and-potato stalls along the side of the road. I'm now cooking potatoes every night in the Jamboree for supper, and I have two perfectly orange little pumpkins decorating the interior.

Thankfully, its not only Confederation for the Tourists here; Charlottetown is also a humming little city with normal things going on. A good choice of restaurants to dine on oysters, lobster, haddock and mussels and sip wine. Live music in pubs and on stages erected on the street. The requisite Starbucks on the corner, and wide choice of pubs from which to gulp Atlantic beers. Which I did last night; no matter where in the world I've been, my tried-and-true method of meeting people and engaging in conversations when I feel the want for company when travelling alone is to head to the nearest Irish pub, grab a seat at the bar, and pass the evening in the company of those who are there. I sit and read a book, chat with my neighbours, and now that I'm carrying on this tradition here in Canada, and now that hockey season has started, I can keep up for the first time in twelve years with who's playing who, who's been traded and for how much, and who's winning and losing!

Road to Charlottown

To each trail, its own bike

For the last day of September, I found myself spending most of the day admiring Prince Edward Island by bike. Two bikes, actually.

I drove over the Confederation bridge yesterday from New Brunswick to PEI, a 12.9 km long bridge – apparently the longest bridge in the world over ice-covered waters: Luckily for me, there wasn't an ice cube in sight during my crossing. When I arrived on PEI, I was greeted by a huge welcome centre suggesting loudly and clearly that PEI has a booming tourism industry of which they seem to be very proud.

The interesting thing about being here now is that its the end of the season. Many touristy places are closed until May; there is such a scant number of campers left that I have my pick of sites when/if I find an open campground; and the roads are fairly quiet. What this translates to for me is lots of space to park and camp where I can without worry of someone shovelling me towards an official campsite, free entrance to several spots that during the peak season would have charged me, and lots of wide open roads and trails to jump on my bike and explore.

PEI has transformed an old railway line running from one end of the island to the other into a bike path. . Over 400 kms of trail traversing the island! How can I resist? Well, for starters, I've got the wrong bike for these trails. Its because I love Betty the Road Bike that I won't submit her skinny tires to chisel and gravel and pebbles. The tourist info guy suggested that I rent a bike (of course) but I wasn't about to fork out precious dollars for something that I'd only use very briefly. Might as well put those dollars towards something that I can use again and again in similar situations. This line of thinking took me directly to my first stop on PEI: Canadian Tire.

I've threatened to buy a cheap but handy go-anywhere bike since Kamloops, so I finally bought myself the newest inhabitant for the journey in the Jamboree: a little silver mountain/hybrid bike with fat tires that I can ride on gravelly trails, or alternatively, into town for a beer. I love Canadian Tire.

As I exited the store with this rather significant purchase, the downpour that google weather predicted hit. I managed to find the little silver bike a temporary spot in the Jamboree (her permanent spot is sharing the extra bed above the driver's cab with Betty, although she's a little heavier to lift) so that I could manoever our way through the rain with the wipers going full tilt to a campsite that was actually open and not far away; Cavendish. My neighbour is our dear Anne of the Red Braids.

When I awoke to sun and warm temperatures – I dare say reminiscent of summer, even – I took the playful silver bike out for an initial test ride. Our first stop was next door to visit Avonlea, Anne's little village, quiet and mostly closed so gratis to wander around. Without the hoards of tourists elbowing their way through the buildings and gift stores, in a hurry to take as many pictures and buy those souvenirs before their busses leave in 4 and a half minutes, it was quite a pleasant visit, despite the inherently cheesy touristy aspect of it. We gotta love Anne, and when in Green Gables, its a shame not to pop in and say hello.

I then took the as-of-yet unnamed silver on a 20 km trail through the PEI National Park. Another thing I've discovered in the quiet wake of tourist season: people seem relieved that the hoards are gone, and that they finally have enough time to slow down and notice that you are there; I think everyone I passed by today waved, called out a hello, stopped for a chat, or gave me tips on what to look for further on down the road. So incredibly nice.

The trail took me through forest and dunes along the coast of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. I only came up on one other person the entire way along this trail, called the Homestead trail, but I did sneak up on a few examples of the local wildlife. So far, I've spotted fuzzy red and black caterpillars shuffling their way across the paths; slitherly little snakes that would swerve to get out of my way and then pose for me standing perfectly still in the foliage along the side of the path; and curious foxes, in no way fearful of humans. I saw six foxes in total today, sauntering nonchalantly, sometimes playfully, along the side of the road. When I stopped to photograph one of the six, he was downright flirtatious with me, showing off his jumping skills to catch a little bug in the grass, then luxuriously rolling around in the grass, and finally trotting along beside me not a foot away for a while before carrying on with his afternoon.

They must be fed regularly by tourists.

I stumbled upon a littering of apples along one of my paths. Many suffered bruises from the fall, others suffered from all sorts of bugs and worms keen to gorge on their fruity goodness. But I managed to go apple picking anyway, if you call picking off the ground "apple-picking", and found a good stash of apples to take back to the Jamboree. They are a bit on the sour side, and small (because they are natural!), so I plan to make apple crumble with them. MMmmmmm. And, I think it makes a difference that I found the apples before the snake, don't you? And so, dear Mr. Frost, that about does it for apple-picking for me (for now, anyway), too.

Its supposed to rain tomorrow so once I finished this gravelly path, I seized the sunny day, swapped the silver for Betty (she's great on gravel but for paved roads, I like my road bike), and did the ride I was saving for tomorrow of speed and smooth sailing on the cement. I cycled 26 kms to the nearby town of Rustico, with a quaint harbour equipped with an original Atlantic lighthouse, and stunning ocean views - especially in the setting sun - before returning, famished, to the Jamboree.

The rest of my day was filled up with trying to work out how to tune my guitar, reading, and writing this blog post to you. That, and noticing how utterly pretty and charming PEI is. I think I'll stick around a few days.

link to the pictures marking the end of my 3rd month on the road!

Welcome to PEI