ROAD TRIP!!!
it's surprising even to me that despite my long proximity to it, i've only had one other trip to canada. that was a for a friend's wedding in toronto, where i spent the long weekend barhopping in short skirts and high heels, dodging horny exes, and wannabe exes ( a massive feat of willpower regarding the ruggers, lemme say) and placating a petty friend who always got pissed by the proportion of male attention i got vs. what she did. (gee, dunno, your whiny bitch face is kind of a boner-killer, maybe?) so, lots of booze and laughing, a very good time, but very little contact with actual canadians or the country itself.
we plotted a slow route up, top-down, with hopes for sun. weather gods smiled and shined, although we didn't wish hard enough for warmth, cuz it was unseasonably cold.
first real stop was the now mandatory duckfat for poutine and paninis in portland. yup. just as amazing as always. in town and fed earlier than we expected, we wandered over to an open mic night. on tap, an old fave, old thumper. the music, meh. a fun bar to revisit another time for certain, in spite of the weirdly hyped-up pregnant announcer.
crash in a cheap motel, in a room right next to the ice machine.perfect. :)
sunny day next, contrary to the forecast, but we're far up and close-ish to the water, so know it's a crap-shoot. sevens and elevens, so we stopped for sunblock.
doesn't take long in that neck of the woods for the peeps to get sparse and the trees to get dense. right about when you're wondering what the heck locals do for work, we passed a sign for ewegurt. a friendly old lazy dog greeted us, and we had our pick of maple or plain. with a bag of fresh and cold csa strawberries, we had a quick picnic on the water at the fort point lighthouse. 1200-pound fog bell still on display. the lighthouse, although now automated, is still active. we happily discovered we were tramping on the grounds of yet another american fuck-you to the brits during the opening salvos of the revolution: via the commands of the loyalists then in charge of fort pownall, british sailors snuck ashore one night in march 1775 and secretly removed the fort's guns to keep them out of rebel hands. in response, the rebels burned the blockhouse and filled in the moat to prevent the british occupation of the fort. good times, lol.
somewhere way up, we stopped for a late lunch. lobster roll for me, lobster stew and a scallop roll for him. piles of onion rings and fresh iced tea. friendly low-key service and we were stuffed and happy, then back on the way.
destination that night was campobello island, summer playground for fdr's family and other richy-rich new yorkers. although it once held many of those summer homes and giant hotels, only a few buildings remain. fdr's cottage among them, and i'm guessing the island's big draw. breathtaking harbor views, but a warren of tiny rooms, all spartan in their utility. of course they were extra protestant and the mother looked terribly dour, even in the unsmiling tradition of the day. (i'd forgotten fdr had contracted polio only as an adult, and it turned out that this island was where he succumbed. when we heard that he had arrogantly built a 9-hole golf course on local grazing ground, it wasn't much of a leap to think a local may have gotten some real revenge.) felix, the neighborhood fox, trotted boldly across the back lawn. ( i named him. the nice women who now staff the place lacked the imagination to have done so, lol.)
next door and not often open to the public was the hubbard cottage. even wealthier than the roosevelts, but the place i would have preferred to party, with its open floor plan, sunny colors and wrap-around porch. not to forget the picture window of flawless glass that framed the bay.
next? cheapest. lobstah... on ... the ... planet. not a din of dining options on the quiet island, and when i sheepishly asked the market price for the buggers at family fisheries resto, i was told $7.50 a pound. no, not per ounce, and yes, cooked. so yeah, lobstah for lunch AND dinner.
adirondack chairs, wine and a chilly sunset on the lawn by the water of our inn, the owen house. hummingbirds, bald eagles and cormorants all getting busy as the day dwindled. it was so nice... to just sit. just sit til we were too cold to sit out any more.
not having prayed to the ferry gods, it wasn't yet running, so more driving. no real disappointment to the owner i guess, other than missing out on what was likely some breathtaking scenery.
record time to halifax. no surprise in the hot rod, i guess, but we were early everyplace we went. not sunny, not warm, but not raining as predicted. we'll take it! the downtown is ringed by a postcardy neighborhood of rambling victorians, and the city itself is low-slung. a very charming link of townhouses is the halliburton house inn, and our room was a gem. a short walk to the raison d'etre of the trip -- the henry house and seafood stew for the owner. it had made him a happy man by accident many years ago. that and a pint of old peculiar and he was happier still, all over again. my mussels were great and garlicky and our server was again a very nice and friendly young lady. patio weather for the maritimes, so we sat out and people-watched. who knew halifax was a homo hot-bed? everybody knew everybody and it would put the south end to shame, fer sure.
we bar-crawled a bit, up- and downhill, and near to home, stumbled upon bearly's, that night hosting carson downey. smokin' solid r & b covers, and extra fun for me watching the extra-white people "dance". what the hell were they hearing in their heads, and were their spines fused? cuz nary a swaying hip, besides my own, in the joint. i know canucks ain't exactly showy, but "circumspect" is hyperbole for how still and quiet that crowd was. carson must be used to it, cuz he and the guys rocked out anyway.
next day we had our history lesson at the citadel. an impressive fort, completed after its usefulness had passed, because artillery improvements moved more quickly than infantry lugging and piling up granite blocks. we tagged along with a choir group from the american south. fat women with bad haircuts and fanny packs, complaining of painful knees while climbing a few stairs. oy. my inner history nerd got her dork on though and the park ranger kid in the organ-grinder monkey hat did a swell job of showing us about.
down the hill for lunch. for an area that ships out some of the tastiest oysters i've ever had, raw bars are a rare treat up there. of the two, we picked "the warehouse", a barn of a place on the water. which really was "on" an asphalt lot with no view. no matter, the server was yet another sweetie and the bivalves did not disappoint. 5 local varieties, expertly shucked and served on a mountain of chipped ice. killah good. is it that so many canadians are land-locked, or too many choir groups who want fish and chips? hard to figure why so little demand for such a treat.
dinner was the prix-fixe promo at our hotel. a tiny dining room that seats maybe 40. seafood from smoked salmon to black cod, all just right and very pretty on the plate. the chef knew exactly what he was doing -- even when sneaking the bacon into the scallop course.
early the next day, we were headed home and we were in a rocket, the owner stopping as little as possible to get home asap. 11 hours without a break, really, but he did it. it was the only time we couldn't have the top down. even for him, it was just too cold. it also drags down the speed a bit and he wanted pj's and a sofa. and more lobster. yes, more lobster. we scrambled to get some lively kickers on the back end of father's day and steamed up a few.
we crashed early and it was done.
he still has a pile of canadian bills in his wallet. lobster prices are predicted to fall even lower. when do we go back? :)
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