Oct. 11, 11:30pm – I packed my bags tonight pre-flight
What is it about a vacation that makes everything seem so special? After all these years, it’s the one thing that can still make me feel like a kid again. As we grow older the childlike joys leave us one by one: the magic of Christmas, the first big snow of the season, even the first day school used to seem exciting. Time jades us all and robs us of the simple joys in life. Yet for me, one remains: that wonderful anxiety that flutters within on the dawn of a long anticipated vacation.
I’m convinced that a “midnight departure” is one of the most significant things a person could do to help make his or her vacation memorable. Getting up in the middle of the night to begin your vacation is something exhilarating. It’s unique. It’s different. It’s a change in routine that tells us that things aren’t the same. It’s telling you “Your everyday life ends here” if only for a week.
For me, the adrenaline has already started the night before. I’ve finished packing, just knowing that I’ve forgotten to pack something terribly significant like my camera or a change of underwear. I set the alarm for 4:30am and double check to make sure that all the buttons are set correctly and that the alarm reset button has been pushed. I don’t want to take any chances with it tomorrow morning. The mood is different. I haven’t even left and I’m out of my routine already. For me, 4:30 seems like a ludicrous time to wake up. My normal bedtime during the workweek is 3am! But that’s the whole point. Things are different. That lapse of routine is what spawns all those wonderful memories. It’s crazy but I try to lie down and get some rest at the insanely early hour of midnight. Everything’s packed, but my mind still mulls over the packing list again and again. “What have I forgotten?” I need to sleep, but my lifelong insomnia shows no signs of making an exception this one night. Television seems uninteresting, even inappropriate. The three half-read books on my nightstand have nothing to offer me this evening. The packing list continues to race through my mind. Finally, the adrenaline subsides and the heartbeats slow. Perhaps there’s a chance after all.
Day 2
October 12 – Higher than a kite by now
Waking up to the alarm on vacation day is unlike any other day of the year. It’s like the body precognitively musters itself from slumber just before the alarm sounds. And then when the alarm does trumpet in the new day, you’re already awake. Your eyes dilate and you get a sudden chemical injection of energy. I “get up, get out of bed … drag a comb across my head.” I’ve made peace with the fact that whatever it is I’ve forgotten will remain forgotten and left behind. I’m ready. Stepping outside and closing the door behind me is an experience in itself. Locking the door this time carries so much more weight with the knowledge that I won’t return for 10 days. Two curious green eyes stare at me through the window unaware of my forthcoming extended absence … a moment of guilt. It’s 5am. No sun, no signs of conscious life, just us and a yet undeveloped morning as I place my last piece of luggage in the car. I’m off to Cincinnati, then Detroit.
I pull into a space in the long-term parking at Cincinnati’s airport and a shuttle bus pulls up behind me with a courteous driver eager to help me with my bags. “Wow, that’s convenient.” As I close the trunk, that sinking feeling returns; “Shit. Did I bring my passport?” My hands race through my briefcase. There it is. I take a seat on the shuttle bus and wait to be transported to Terminal C. “The sun still isn’t up. Does this undershirt match everything else? Shit. Did I put my passport back in my briefcase after I checked for it?” My hands go racing again. Found it. Inexperienced in international travel, even though it’s just to Canada, I’m a little worried that checking in is going to be a laborious pain. The guy at the check-in counter greets me. I’ve pre-checked in the night before so I just confirm that by giving him my name. “Great,” he says, “I just need to see your passport.” …
“Shit. What did I do with my passport!?” Oh, there it is … in my briefcase.
The flight to Detroit is on a Canadian Regional Jet. It’s a lot smaller than your typical commercial aircraft. With a maximum of 50 passengers and rows that are only two seats wide on either side of the aisle it’s certainly a new experience. I have to slightly duck as I walk back to my designated seat as my head would otherwise scrape across the ceiling. Ascending well into the heart of the troposphere, well above the clouds, I’m a bit taken with the view. The sun has just made its early morning appearance and it illuminates the tops of an endless ocean of clouds. I’ve never seen such cloud coverage. You could see the ends of the earth from up here, yet instead there is nothing to be seen except soft white pillow tops for tens of miles in every direction. From the moment we ascended above them in Cincinnati to the moment we ducked beneath them in Detroit, not once was there a single vacant patch of sky to reveal the earth below.
After a one hour layover in Detroit I finally board another Canadian Regional Jet plane and am bound for Halifax, Nova Scotia. It’s about a two hour trip … about the same as my trip in from Orlando, which surprises me. Nova Scotia just seems farther away, doesn’t it? An hour and half into the flight and I’m anxious. I’ve read my new Discover magazine from cover to cover and have read the first 30 pages of The Bourne Supremacy, the second in the series. By the way, the movies are just completely different from the books. I bide my remaining time triangulating our distance above the clouds trying to work out the speed of the jet. The mean speed that I arrived at was about 580 mph, probably a little too fast. Halifax is windy with on again off again rain when the plane touches down. I couldn’t care less, though. Things are different up here. For instance: no concourse. We stopped about 30 yards away from a building and descended the plane’s steps onto the air field. It’s funny, but you feel like a celebrity when you stand at the top of those steps and look out, wondering where the media and adoring fans are. I had the strong urge to do the Nixon wave, but contained myself. Going through customs inside the airport was a breeze. I didn’t even freak out when the agent asked to see my passport.
The rest of the day was equally gloomy. After checking in at a hotel that overlooks the harbor and downtown Halifax, I can’t help but check out the view. The weather is amazing. As I sit watching from my 5th floor balcony in Dartmouth (facing Halifax on the other side of the harbor), the clouds change from gray to black and Halifax disappears from view as a result of a heavy downpour. Then the rain subsides and the downtown area reemerges into view. A heavy fog quickly descends upon the harbor and obstructs any visibility again. But it shortly gives way as the rain starts up again. All this occurs within no more than 30 minutes.
Not wanting to surrender the rest of the night to the bad weather, we head over to Alderney Landing two blocks away. I haven’t eaten all day and I’m starved. Taking advantage of the fresh seafood available, I order the lobster. It’s quite possibly the best I’ve had; markedly better than what Red Lobster serves up. After dinner, the waitress said she’d bring me a finger bowl. ??? Excuse the rube from Kentucky, but what’s a finger bowl? I knew what it was for, but I’d never heard of one. She places a shallow bowl of warm water with a lemon in front of me. “Is there a proper way to dip your hands in it?” I wonder. With dinner concluded, it’s decided that a quick ferry trip across the harbor into Halifax is in order, in spite of the sporadic rain and staunch wind. The ferry ride costs a toonie … that’s what they call their $2 coin (FYI, their $1 coin is called a loonie). Unfortunately, upon arrival and a brief cursory inspection the inclement weather proves too much to overcome. It’s time to retreat to the hotel for the evening.
Day 3
October 13 – And the heavens dried up
After a late night at the hotel, 6:30am came unforgivingly early, but I had to catch the sunrise over Halifax. I set my camera and waited for the sun, but those damn clouds continued to foil me. There was no threat of rain today, just heavy cloud coverage. I’ll have to get it in editing.
The Maritime Museum is more interesting than I thought. A current exhibit on pirates proves to be quite interesting. The real draw to this museum for me is the section dedicated to the Titanic along with an accompanying 3D film. Eh, the 3D film is good, but the exhibit is, well, pedantic. The pirates are better.
Brunch at a quaint little place called “Sweet Basil” is unbelievable. A plate of assorted fresh fruits including blueberries, cantaloupe and honeydew paves the way for chicken and spinach served in flaky pita bread. With just two meals under my belt, it already seems obvious that their diet is markedly healthier than ours. Just as I finish my meal, one of my contacts starts bothering me. After working with it for a minute or two, it appears that I've lost it. It feels like it's still in my eye but my vision is still blurry. "Great, I've scratched my eyeball." I never did find that damn contact. With one good eye left, I depart the bistro and continue exploring the city.
Speaking of girls, this small city is loaded with them. A lot of them appear to be my age and single. And Jesus they’re pretty. The whorish outfits of America don’t appear as though they've penetrated this market yet. They’re actually attractive because they’re cute, not because they’re showing you their junk. Oh, and they all appear to have great personalities and seem quite approachable, like the “ugly duck” syndrome or something. While waiting for the ferry one time, I saw this athletic blond walk up with her oversized hockey bag and pink hockey stick. God she was hot. I mean really hot. And she had no idea. No idea. ”Is that her brother standing with her?”
I’m sorry, where was I? Oh yeah, the gardens. It would have been nicer to walk through there without one blurry red eye. I compound the problem by continuing to rub my eye. I know that it must be scratched, but it just feels like the contact is still in there. Oh well. As I walk down Spring Gardens Rd. I dart into a few shoppes looking for another nice watch. El zilcho. Perhaps it’s time to head back over to Dartmouth and …
what the hell? There they are again … the four dancing girls … running down the streets and shouting more random lines. They’ve really attracted a large audience by now. Damn that girl; she still won’t stand still long enough for a picture. “Maybe I should catch her off guard and interrupt them. Something like, 'Hi, I'm Adam. You're hot. Can I see you tonight?' Nah, she’d probably ignore me while in character." It’s time to head back to the hotel to get the Jeep.
Back at the hotel, I confirm that the contact isn't in my eye. No biggie ... I brought extras just in case. I pop one in and make way for one of the most significant destinations on my trip ...
Fairview cemetery in Halifax is the final resting place for more than 100 Titanic victims, many of their identities still unknown. As I pull into the cemetery, a somber feeling comes over me. I’ve read so much about some of the victims here that I almost feel attached to them. Located quite unassumingly in the middle of the cemetery, I almost walk past their graves before realizing they were there. When I turn to look at them, I immediately see it … the shape of the ship. Through the years (since 1912), many people have commented that the three rows of graves curve in such a way that it resembles a side view of a ship. While we know from interviews that this was merely coincidental, it’s the first thing that impresses upon me. As I walk from one grave to the next, the stories of these victims flood my mind.
“Freeman. The steward who saved so many lives knowing that there wouldn't be a spot for him in the boats. Cox: personally responsible for saving dozens and dozens of third-class passengers …last seen making another trip into the belly of the ship trying to save another group. Is that a different Cox? Jack Dawson. Hmm, no flowers.”
A Jack Dawson was on the Titanic that evening, but not the Jack Dawson portrayed by Leonardo DiCaprio. He was just another trimmer who resigned his life to stay with the ship. His grave stone remained flooded with flowers, poems, and other trinkets for years after the movie came out.
And then I see it. The one I wanted to see: the tomb of the unknown child. The body of a 2 year old child was the third body to be recovered after the sinking. No distinguishing features or personal effects could positively identify him. The recovery crew, comprised of hardened sailors, was reduced to tears when they pulled his lifeless frozen body from the water. He was positively identified as Sydney Leslie Goodwin just two months ago … 95 years after the sinking. His mother, father and five brothers and sisters were never found. His grave is unmistakable. It’s the large one at the end that is lined with teddy bears and other trinkets that people continue to bring for him. “Do I love this place or hate this place?” You can’t avoid the chill that comes over your body as you stand in front of his grave. My mind races back to 1912 and replays the tragic events. Finally, I force myself to move on.
Day 4
October 14 – The Lighthouse Route
As I wake up this morning, I'm blinded by the blurriness in my contact. It's the same eye that was bothering me yesterday. I worry a bit because if I lose this new contact, I'm in trouble. I walk over to the sink and carefully remove my contact, but the blurriness persists. "What the hell? Are you kidding me?" I stick my fingers back into my eye and remove yet another contact ... the one that I thought I had lost yesterday. "I knew I felt it in there." It must have slid to the back of my eyeball where I couldn't see it. Well, it's not the first time that's happened.
One hour, two, three hours on the road, still heading south. My expectations were apparently too high for this stretch of Nova Scotia. Where are the grand lighthouses? Hell, where’s civilization? More than 150 miles of coastline communities and there’s only a few pock marks here and there worth a snapshot. I’m a bit disappointed. The coastline is beautiful; I just thought the communities would be more developed. A gas station, an occasional Tim Horton’s (Canada’s McDonalds), and that’s it. If you blink you’ve just passed an entire town. Occasionally, I drive through a town large enough to have a grocery store. I can’t help but notice the names. Whereas America has it’s own line of discount stores such as Family Dollar, Dollar General, The Dollar Store, and so on, so too does Canada. But their budget stores have names such as SaveEasy, Bargain Giants and my personal favorite, Price Choppers. I laugh just typing it. I bet they have a funny slogan, too. I imagine a commercial where a cartoon dollar sign is running away from the grim reaper. The reaper catches up to the dollar sign and swings his scythe, chopping it in half. As the fatally wounded dollar sign spills green coins, the reaper looks into the camera, pointing his bony finger at you and says, “Price Choppers. Chop and Save!” “Should I have kept that thought to myself? They must think I’m an idiot.”
I finally stumble across a town large enough to have a restaurant … some fast food chain called Harvey’s. If you ever find yourself in a place that has one of these restaurants, I highly recommend that you take the opportunity to drive straight past it. Seriously, I don’t know what that hamburger was made out of, but I’m positive there wasn’t even a trace amount of beef in it.
A little further south, I make a quick stop in a natural park called The Oven. Like so many of the locations I’ve driven past already, the directions include “turn off the paved road.” But it’s worth it. I stand atop a bluff gazing out at the Atlantic with nothing but trees and weather-worn cliffs as far as the eye can see. It starts to rain so I holster my camera, but the oddest thing occurs. Áre my ears deceiving me?” I hear rain, the patter of it hitting all around me. This isn’t just a sprinkle or a light misting; it’s raining. As Forrest Gump would say, it sounds like ‘big fat rain’. I look back at the Jeep and see rain across the windshield. I look down and see the drops exploding into the lightly packed dirt around me. It’s an odd sensation: I stood there for upwards of a minute and not a single drop hit me. What an odd sensation. It’s as though I was moving between the rain.
Night approaches and it’s time to hunker down. Shelburne seems to be the biggest town around. I hope there’s a decent place to stay. You have to understand, these places aren’t small like Shelbyville, KY. These places are small like Bagdad, KY. They are tourist locations so they do have some accommodations, but not
many. In fact, most of the shops and motels across Nova Scotia close down for the winter months. Generally speaking, every town I’ve been through today usually just had one main road with no more than a quarter of a mile designated as it’s “downtown” area. Shelburne is by far the biggest town around and as I drive through it, I count four or five small “mom and pop” places to eat, one gas station, and two or three local B&Bs. There are no hotels here … and it’s Sunday night so most of the dining facilities are closed. But there is just enough that is open.There’s a nice cottage with a beautiful brook just beyond the back deck. Over at the Sea Dog Saloon, quite possibly the only dining facility open tonight, I snap shots from the bay side deck of the sun setting over the Jordan Bay as a waxing crescent moon takes its place in the sky. I could spend a lifetime watching sunsets like these.
Day 5
October 15 – Drop south, head north.
Shelburne to Yarmouth is a dry trip. I was hoping to stop through Shag Harbour … they have a lookout tower from which you can see the light from four nearby lighthouses. Unfortunately, I bet that’s only a good view just after dusk. Instead, I shortcut around and bear towards Yarmouth. On my way, I pass through some very unique towns. This coastline is dotted with numerous small fishing villages. It's obvious that life around here is miles away from what we're used to. I'd love to spend a week in these places talking the locals, collecting their stories.
As I drive along, somewhere west of Shag Harbour, an old pickup truck ahead pulls out in front of me. A big white shaggy dog with his tongue hanging down to his feet is relishing the frosty morning view from the back of the truck. He swiftly moves from one side to the other with all of the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas. Each time they approach a passing car, he turns his head to watch it as it drives by. Well, it's no mystery where my thoughts turn to. As I follow this weather-worn truck with it's high-spirited accessory, I find myself on a small farm in Bagdad, KY no less than 10 years ago. I can see the wind blowing through the golden mane of my best friend in the back of rusty red '78 Chevy.“I miss Buddy. I need to finish that fence so I can get a dog.” I can’t help but smile, although the reminiscent thoughts slightly depress me. When the truck finally turns off the road, my new shaggy friend looks back to give me one last cheerful acknowledgment before disappearing down a dusty gravel road.
Yarmouth is the southern most point in Nova Scotia and a popular destination for daytime tourists coming over from Maine via the CAT. The town looks interesting: a lot of old looking buildings and a variety of shops to browse around. I don’t feel like browsing though. Instead, I head for the Cape Forchu Lighthouse, a.k.a. the Yarmouth Light. Of all the lighthouses that I saw yesterday on the “Lighthouse Route”, most of them were disappointing, some not even worth stopping for. The Yarmouth Light is a notable exception. Obviously, nothing will come close to the lighthouse at Peggy’s Cove, but this one does have a much more dramatic and scenic view. The wind is gusting upwards of 50 kilometers (that’s 31 miles for you archaic Americans), the skies are gray and threatening rain and the temperature is holding steady at 8C (that’s 46.4F for you archaic Americans) which kind of adds to the experience. By the way, I never could figure out how they prefer to say the word ‘kilometer’. At first, I mainly heard it pronounced “KILL-oh-meter”. But since then, as I move up the coast, I’m hearing (kill-AH-meter) which is how I prefer to say it. But I digress. I imagine Yarmouth is a nice place to spend an afternoon, but instead I keep heading along the coastline, now heading north.
Digby is a bit of an anomaly. I can’t figure it out. It’s a reasonably popular tourist spot as it is world famous for its fresh scallops and has a wonderful view of the Annapolis Basin. Yet so much of it shuts down after the 2nd weekend in October. And there aren’t a lot of shops there anyway. After a late lunch (the scallops were
excellent), it's a bit of a rub to find a place to stay. The biggest hotel in Digby had just shut down for the off season. The resort next to it is also closed today for cleaning (it closes each Monday for this!!!). Finally, some nice people at a travel information center help secure some reservations at the Thistle Down Country Inn … and this place is magnificent. Located right on the water, it provides a beautiful view of the bay and the wharf. An after-dark trip just down the road to get some shots of the shops lit up by the night lights proves aggravating. A combination of high wind, chilly weather and that solitary car that always comes out of nowhere just in time to ruin my half-exposed shot is enough for me to call it quits. Besides, the Giants and the Falcons are about ready to kick off. Yep, that’s right. Even on vacation.
Day 6
October 16 – I give up. Say it any damn way you please.
I’m a little late for my 8:00 breakfast reservations inside the main house of the Thistle Down Inn. They seem so proper here that I don’t want to offend. A quick shower, no shave, make sure my shoes match and I’m off. As I walk through the house, I’m amazed. This place is elegant … even extravagant. ”That piano has to cost at least $20,000.” I wish I had a picture of the waiter. A tall skinny old bloke with dark features and a distinguishing mustache, he had an air of smugness. You know how you go to those ritzy 5 star restaurants and the waiter acts as though he’s better than you … yeah, that guy. But not exactly. He was well groomed, quite proper, seemingly very smart … I picture him to be a Jeopardy contestant. But he was also very cordial and had a witty sense of humor. I think he also hit the sauce during his absences. Oh well, enough about Lurch. And while my thoughts are meandering: I’ve noticed that my facial hair is growing much more quickly up here. By the end of the day, I’m looking a little rough. I don’t envy people like Swoop who have to shave every time they sit down to eat.
Wolfville is highly underrated. Aside from the larger cities of Halifax and Yarmouth, this is the first reasonably-developed town that I’ve come to. That’s mainly because it’s home to Acadia University. It’s not exactly the booming college town that most of us envision; it’s still pretty small and quiet here. Still, there are a few good places to eat and a lot of interesting shops to wander through. There is a great Arts program at this university so the streets are lined with art shops displaying incredible paintings and photography. I’m just happy to see that the cities and towns are getting bigger and more developed as I continue driving. That stretch through the lighthouse route and on up through Digby really threw me for a loop. I was beginning to wonder if anyplace outside of Halifax, Yarmouth and Sydney had any signs of life after dark. Wolfville also has another one of those dollar stores. This one is called “Loonies & Toonies” (see Nova Scotia - Day 1 for definition). I rather like this one … maybe even more than “Price Choppers”. Nah.
Truro is aggravating. After stopping off to fill up the Jeep, I plan on visiting Victoria Park to get some pictures of the waterfalls. Apparently, I’m not that bright and drive right past it. Oh well, moving on. I just need to get on 311 to head towards the Jost Winery. I see the signs telling me that 311 is up ahead off of Prince street. Should be easy, but no dice. I miss that too. Finally, I find it but I’m so angry I tell the 311 to bugger off. I take the 104 and head for New Glasgow.
Now would be a good time to rant about Canadian roads. It’s not all that different, but I guess I’m just spoiled by the ease of navigation in the U.S. I fancy myself as a fairly good navigator. Thus far, I’ve taken the wrong turn seven times. That’s pretty damn aggravating for me. Truro was just the culmination of that. What I notice the most is that you’ll see a sign indicating a junction ahead, say between route 3 and 242. You get to the junction and it’s a fork with no indication which road is which. In Truro, two signs directed me down Prince Street indicating that 311 was ahead. When I get to the intersection with 311, it’s identified as Walker Street. How the heck am I supposed to know Walker Street is 311? Sorry. I’m getting mad again. Suffice it to say that there are a number of ways they fail to mark roads and directions as clearly as American roads do. Secondly, a lot of their roads are awful. Not just “one lane gravel path” awful (although there are a lot of those), but just generally awful. A person could make a killing selling rubber doughnuts up there. Most notably, though, are their speeds. I thought my chest was going to explode, yearning to go faster. Generally speaking, everything is marked down 7 to 15 miles slower than American equivalents. It’s impossible. The fastest speed I saw was 110kph (~68mph), and that was in precious few places. The fastest I drove was 140kph (~87mph). It felt good. There aren’t a lot of cops there patrolling the secondary arteries.
Antigonish is the final destination for today. No cottage or Inn tonight; it’s an actual hotel … and it sucks. Built back in the days of Jesus, this “rustic” hotel has all the appeal of a well-decorated shithouse. The seat for the toilet won’t even stay up and I swear to god you can actually see the nearby lake lower an inch every time you flush. They have a cool economical flush rating of 20 gpf or something. I’m being very literal when I say that I could flush the toilet, walk into the bedroom, sit down, take my shoes off, blow my nose, walk back into the bathroom, and the toilet would still be flushing with enough power for me to throw the tissue in. … Not that toilets make or break a hotel for me. I’m just offering an example, you see.
So have you taken a stab at how to pronounce Antigonish yet? I’m guessing you said “an-TIG-gone-ish”. Nope. And they look at you like the tourist you are if you say it like that. For newbies, it’s pronounced “annie-gun-ISH”. Technically, it’s “antee-gun-ISH” but you say it so quickly that the “tee” doesn’t really annunciate.
After two days of driving through very sparsely populated areas, I was surprised to find that returning into a mildly populated city with an actual hotel to sleep in wasn't really what I was looking for at all. The experience and the flavor of all these terrific little towns had been accentuated by the minimal yet cozy sleeping facilities. Now I felt as though I was cheating myself out of an experience by sleeping here ... kind of like going out camping and taking a giant camper with satellite TV, stove, and full sized beds. What's the point, right.
Remember all those hot girls I was telling you about? Well, more of the same. It’s just unbelievable. There was a report on the news last night that said Nova Scotia was becoming a hot spot for older men who come to seek out younger women. ”No duh." They’re so attractive and so approachable that I don’t even think I could strike out. No, seriously. Meagan was my waitress this evening. Just adorable. ”I wonder when she gets off work tonight." I’m not saying they’re all hot up here; there are plenty of them who look just like John Lennon. To date, there has only been one girl (back in Wolfville) that appeared to be trying for that American hottie look. She was wearing skin-tight jeans and those damn bug-eye glasses that seem to be all the rage and you could tell she knew she looked hot. BTW, she was smoking hot! Other than her, none of these girls dress or come across like that. Amazing.
But enough about that ... I think I drove the point home. After another incredible seafood dinner, I return to the hotel with plenty of time left in the evening. It was rather nice to relax in the pool and take a break from the heavy amount of driving over the last several days.
Day 7
October 17 – a new experience
Leaving Antigonish (did you say it correctly?), I head for Cape Breton to the north. This is Ceilidh (pronounced “kay-lee”) country. There’s a lot of Scottish influence up here and the accents are getting noticeably thicker. I also notice that the French language is more popular here. Most signs are in both languages and you hear people speaking French at a lot of the spots along the way. Honestly, you hear so many different accents here that you could just make up your own accent and nobody would look at you like you’re weird.
Arriving at Cape North, I’m hoping for a highly-recommended whale-watching tour. Unfortunately, the winds are making the water too choppy today. No boat tour today. Instead I make the short drive (on yet another gravel road) to Meat Cove. The view is breathtaking, but what’s new about that. There’s supposed to be a waterfall here, but I’ll be damned if I can find it. Strike two on the waterfalls. Back on the main road, I head for Ingonish (yes, you said it correctly. “EEN-gon-ish”). I pass yet another park that’s supposed to have a waterfall. “Finally, I get to shoot a waterfall.” I pull in the gate. “Closed for construction”, the sign reads. “Damn it.” Strike three on the waterfalls.
My hopes weren’t high for Ingonish. Hell, there isn’t even an exit for it. You just drive past it on the main road. It’s just a light smattering of a few places to stay and a few places to eat for the tourists that drive through. Damn near everything is shutting down for the season. The hotel is nice. It’s one of those hotels that have several different buildings located at various locations on the premises. I’m in the building at the very back of the heavily wooded 10-acre property located right next to the coast. It has a nice dining room in the main building next to the lobby and a pub downstairs. “Hmm. One of those all-in-one stops.” I get to my room and collapse on the bed. This trip is starting to wear me down. Waking up each morning at 7am and driving for seven or eight hours each day has temporarily cured my insomnia (my hat is off to people like Michael, by the way). I’m actually getting to bed by 12:30 most nights. As I relax on the bed I flip through the channels. “Arrested Development” is the only thing on that’s close to being watchable. “Hey, this show is pretty funny. Didn’t it get canceled?”
After dinner in the main building, I head downstairs to the pub. They’re supposed to have a live act from 8 till midnight. “That’s kind of odd since there aren’t too many people to sing to in the off season. Oh well, I’ll grab a beer and stay for a few minutes.” I can’t tell you how awesome this guy is. He mainly sings folk songs that are native to Nova Scotia and Cape Breton, but he knows a little of everything. Of course, I shout out for the Beatles and he plays the most incredible version of “Blackbird”. The atmosphere in this place is magic. The crowd is larger than I expected, too. Not more than 15 people, though. One couple is from England, another from Germany. There is another German guy with his Swiss fiancé. Some kids from Alberta walk in, then some local Cape Bretoners. How’s that for diversity. When John Denver is requested, he sings “Country Road”. Would you believe that everybody in the bar knew the words and sang right along! It’s no secret that I favor small pubs and enjoy the solo and duet acts, but I’ve never had such a wonderful time in my life at one of these. To date, it’s actually the highlight of my trip. Yeah, that good.
When this guy, Rob McLean, takes his first break, several of us step outside to take a smoke (did I mention Cuban cigars are legally sold up here?). I start to say something to him, and the words come out weird. Halfway through my first sentence, I realize I’m using an Irish accent. I keep speaking without missing a beat, but I feel a little embarrassed. I wonder if I sound phony or like I’m using a mocking accent. He already found out that I was from Kentucky back when he asked everybody in the pub. So why is a rube from Kentucky talking like this? Well, I’m in neck deep anyway so I keep using the accent. We talk for a couple minutes before he finally double-checks by asking me again if I was from Kentucky. All he says is that it sounds as though I’d been living up here for a while. “Whew. I’ll take that as a compliment.” A couple more 23 ouncers of Keith’s Red (a local beer) and some great songs finish this evening. Midnight comes way too soon tonight.
Day 8
October 18 – I’m home
It’s Thursday and the number of places left on the agenda is dwindling down. Instead of making another long day of travel, I stop at Baddeck (“ba-DECK”) just an hour or so down the road from Ingonish. It’s not even noon and I’m already checking into my room at a giant kick-ass resort. It’s the nicest place I’ve stayed at by far.
Back at the resort, I take a stroll along the dockside and sandy shores before heading over to take a dip in the pool. I was hoping to meet some good conversationalists ... maybe even an attractive girl ... to strike up a conversation with. Instead, some rotund old gray-haired lady is hanging out in the pool. "Shit." Well, I say hello to be nice and she strikes up a conversation about how her curling club gets free passes to use this pool and that she likes to come here and soak because it helps her arthritis. @%#$@! Screw this; I’m heading back to the room.
This place has an in-house pub like the one in Ingonish, so I know that I’m going to have to go check it out. The solo act couldn’t possibly be as good as the dude from last night, but who cares. It should still be good. The songs start at eight. The dude, Tracy something-or-other, looks like an Irish version of my next door neighbor. Whereas the guy from last night sang a lot of sentimental songs suited for a dimly-lit somber atmosphere, this guy sings up-tempo songs that are suited for cheery inebriation. I couldn’t imagine having a better time than last night; it literally made the trip. This guy takes the cake, though. I’ve never laughed out loud in public like this before in my life. Everybody is in stitches. He’s not trying to do some stand-up routine or anything, he’s just good-humored. It just turns out that everything he does and says is uproariously funny. He forgets the lyrics in the middle of a song and just starts making up lyrics about how he forgot the words … all without missing a beat. Or he’s in the middle of some goofy song when an attractive girl walks by and he whistles and growls at her in a way that fits in perfectly with the song. At the end of the night my sides are splitting from laughter, helped by the 80 ounces of Rickard’s Red I downed throughout the evening. As I gingerly stumble back to my suite I realize that I could stay on this side of the island for a couple of weeks and be perfectly content.
Day 9
October 19 – Coming full circle
Leaving Baddeck is difficult. I know that Sydney and Fort Louisbourg don’t have much more than an afternoon’s worth of sight-seeing. Realizing that the remainder of the trip couldn’t possibly live up to the enjoyment I’d found in the previous two evenings, my heart begins to leave this vacation.
Sydney is disappointing. It’s the second-largest city behind Halifax so I know that there are things to do; I just don’t feel like doing them. Some browsing around the local shops turns up a gift for little buddy. “I miss my little buddy. I miss my twin baby girls. I miss my Ashlers. I’m going to have to pay them all a visit after work one day next week.”
After a tour of Fort Louisbourg, thoughts of Halifax return. If I can make it back there tonight, I won’t have to drive anywhere tomorrow. It’s 3:30 now and Halifax is a solid five hours away. Some creative interpretations of road signs and a lead foot bound and determined to end its week-long journey assure that I’ll make my destination. As I drive, the mind-numbing radio stations beleaguer my mind. It’s only as an afterthought that I catch a news update. “Did I just hear that correctly?” Apparently some group is holding a banquet or convention of some kind next week and the guest speaker for the evening is going to be Premier Ronald McDonald. Dude, are you serious? Ronnie Mac is your guest speaker? Seriously, that’s the guy’s name. What joke hasn’t he heard before in his lifetime?
The trip back to Halifax is grueling, especially after a week on the road. As an added bonus, I'm fortunate enough to hit every single stretch of road construction work in Nova Scotia along the way. And when they do road construction, they don't mess around. I sit in line at one construction zone for a solid 20 minutes and another for no less than 10. Once I cross the Canso Causeway out of Cape Breton and head south on the Trans-Canadian 104, I finally open the throttle. Most of those 140kph speeds I alluded to earlier occur during this leg of the trip.
As I arrive in Truro (that damned infernal place I lost my driving temper at earlier in the trip), even the sun's ambient light disappears. The 102 cuts directly through the heart of Nova Scotia delivering me back to the eastern coast and my beloved Halifax. After check-in and a quick bite to eat, the inevitable happens. It’s just a little past 9:30 and I’m watching the MLB playoffs on television, then drowsiness set in. Two minutes later and I’m down for the count. I wake up at about 1:30am in a mental blur. I get up and glance out the window to check for midget space aliens handing out free water park coupons, but alas I don’t see any. I lumber over to the bed and collapse again, this time for good.
Day 10
October 20 - slowing down
Saturday is very much a throwaway day. Aside from another outstanding brunch at the Sweet Basil Bistro and some light shopping, the city has nothing new to offer me that my depleted body is up for. Back at the hotel, a chat with Nathan, the guy at the front desk, reveals some interesting news. As our discussion turns to sports, I comment that I am excited about the Kentucky/Florida game today. To my surprise, he knows all about the game and two teams. And before I can gloat on last week's win over LSU, he beats me to it. I explain to him how I raced back across the harbor and back to my hotel room so that I could catch the overtime against LSU through internet radio last weekend. With a smirk, he tells me that if I had turned on the television, I could have watched it live like he did. It turns out that college football is fairly popular around these parts, although a week-long survey I conducted reveals that baseball and the NFL probably come in second and third to the perennial favorite: hockey. Nascar also has it's share of avid followers around here ... which just blows my mind.
Knowing that the Kentucky/Florida game would be broadcast on CBS, I ask Nathan for directions to the nearest sports bar: Dave Dolittle's. When I arrive at kickoff, the place is pretty dead except for one small group playing a rowdy game of darts. I approach the bar and ask a fellow if the Kentucky/Florida game will be shown here. He responds by asking, "What is that? Rugby?" Straining to keep a straight face, I explain it's the football game being broadcast on CBS. He very generously puts it up on one of the big screens for me and even switches the audio for all the speakers to the game. Despite the good food and great service, needless to say, I was disappointed with the outcome of the visit as Kentucky just couldn't mount the comeback.
Again I return to the hotel, this time for the rest of the evening ... I have bags to pack. Packing your bags before a trip is such a different experience from packing your bags at the end of a trip. Such care and precision is taken with the former and you sometimes start preparing to pack, at least mentally, days before you leave. However, none of this applies at the end of a trip. It's something you typically procrastinate doing until absolutely necessary. None of the care or loving finesse quite goes into it, either. Any damn which way those clothes will go in the suitcase is just fine. Also, I can assure you that my mind hasn't been racing all night long over my packing list wondering if I've packed everything and I surely won't be losing any sleep tonight due to anticipation.
Day 11
October 21 - Goodbye, Farewell, and Amen
The flight back home is just going to be miserable. But then, aren't all vacation-ending journeys long and depressing. A 9 hour drive to the beach can seem so short and upbeat. Everybody is teeming with anticipating and excitement and it energizes you through the trip. If it wasn't necessary to occasionally refuel or stop every 30 minutes for women and their damned bathroom breaks, you wouldn't stop at all. On the other hand, driving home from the beach is an awful experience. You approach it with the mentality that the sooner you can get it over with, the better. And if it wasn't necessary to occasionally refuel or stop every 30 minutes for women and their damned bathroom breaks, you wouldn't stop at all.
This vacation-ending journey promises to be a little more unpleasant than normal. Unlike the relatively quick flight in, this one comes with a lengthy layover in Detroit. Due to a rather late flight out, there's enough time to for a quick lunch at O'Carroll's Irish Pub and a relaxing Sunday stroll through Point Pleasant Park. I enjoy watching all of the dogs taking their masters for a midday stroll through the dirt-pathed park, but it's not until I head back to the Jeep that I realize what I'm really going to miss about this place. Up ahead, I spy a group of about 20 girls out for a Sunday jog. If I had a lawn chair, I would plant it right here for a front row seat on the coming attraction(s). And of course they are all decked out in their jogging apparel, right down to the ankle warmers. "I miss this place already."
By 1:30, I'm working my way back through customs and then it's the waiting game. I kill some time writing this blog and listening to My Chemical Romance to drown out the boredom. "Finally, the boarding call." I head back to the airfield and ascend the steps into the plane and begin my journey home. Along the way, I try to read some more of The Bourne Supremacy but my mind isn't into it. The older gentleman sitting next to me proves to be a decent conversationalist. He's on his way to Las Vegas for a week with the double intent of taking a vacation and also visiting with his son, who will be there during a business trip. I've always been interested in the stories of travelers. The stories and/or destinations don't have to be independently compelling, I just enjoy listening to people talk about their trips with such zeal and passion. It could be some guy returning from an African safari or just a grandmother heading out to see her newly-born granddaughter (both true stories I've heard during previous trips). Coming or going, no one tells a more heart-felt and sincere story than somebody in an airport.
Detroit isn't as bad as I thought it would be. Watching some Sunday night football in the airport bar helps to pass the time. Actually, it's the flight from Detroit back to Cincinnati that is the most unbearable even though it's the shortest part of the trip. "God I can't wait to get home." I know that I still have an hour's drive waiting for me once this plane touches down so I fight off the urge to close my eyes and rest; I don't want to be groggy on the way home. Some shift-change confusion causes a delay with the shuttle buses that transport us back to the long-term parking lot. After a rather unacceptable 20 minute wait, some of the travelers can't resist calling the office and childishly berating whoever answers. Then, when one of the buses finally arrives, they bark at the unfortunate old man behind the wheel. He wasn't supposed to start his shift for another 15 minutes but decided to start early in an effort to help. Certainly, this wasn't the thanks that he deserved.
As the midnight hour approaches, I race down the gloriously wide and smooth interstates at a soothing 129 kph ... I mean ... 80 mph. Sorry, the conversion has become unconscious over the last 10 days. As I make the all-too-familiar trip back from Cincinnati, my mind revisits the highlights of the trip: the first nights in Halifax, Peggy's Cove, the B&Bs and Inns, the majestic Cabot Trail, the night in Antigonish, Usige Bahn Falls ... the pubs in Ingonish and Baddeck.
What I wouldn't give to find another pub like those.
The trip draws dangerously close to its end: "There's Cracker Barrel, the exit is just ahead. Finally ... across the Shelby County line ... my neighborhood ... ahh, there it is: my house. I'm home!" It's just after 12:30am as I remove my luggage from the car and bid adieu. As I fumble for my keys at the front door, I peer through the window and am a bit disappointed. "Where are those green eyes?" Instead of just inserting the key and walking in, I knock at my own front door and then gaze through the window. Not 3 seconds expire before a small speeding gray object comes racing around the corner and up to the door. "Now I'm home.", I think with a smile.
What I wouldn't give to find another pub like those.
The trip draws dangerously close to its end: "There's Cracker Barrel, the exit is just ahead. Finally ... across the Shelby County line ... my neighborhood ... ahh, there it is: my house. I'm home!" It's just after 12:30am as I remove my luggage from the car and bid adieu. As I fumble for my keys at the front door, I peer through the window and am a bit disappointed. "Where are those green eyes?" Instead of just inserting the key and walking in, I knock at my own front door and then gaze through the window. Not 3 seconds expire before a small speeding gray object comes racing around the corner and up to the door. "Now I'm home.", I think with a smile.
