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