Canada 2025, Part XII: The Long Return

 As you know, the trip up to Canada from home was quick and went without incident. It was the smoothest travel experience we've had in a very long time, aside from the trip to visit my parents in NC earlier this year. 

The trip back was not this smooth or fast.

Mind you, it was partially the timing. We were to fly out of Halifax in the middle of the day, land in Philadelphia and have a layover, and then get on the plan to Omaha to touch back down here around 11pm that Sunday night. This is so far removed from the norm of what our usual travel is, which is to leave as early in the morning as possible and to get at our final destination in the early afternoon hours so that we have the rest of that day ahead of us. 

Well, that wasn't an option this time around for the set of flights we'd booked, due to budget constraints upon booking them months in advance. We were, basically, taking what we could get and were working around that as best as possible. And, of course, it was a holiday weekend in Canada -- we were flying home the day before Canadian Thanksgiving. 

Early Sunday morning we got up, made sure everything we had would fit into our luggage and carry-ons, and weighed them to ensure they were not overweight. Daisy's suitcase was 48 pounds and mine was 49 -- juuuust under the limit of 50. We unfortunately could not take the remainder of our bottled water or my Monsters, so we left them on the table in the room that they were unopened and a gift for the hotel cleaning staff. 

And so, we were off. Our first flight into Philadelphia was uneventful, but it felt like I was being ripped away from my rightful homeland to return to a land of tyranny and oppression.

Well...maybe I'm being a little melodramatic there, but the thought remained in my head that if it weren't for the cats, I would have no real reason to ever return to the states. I feel no more patriotic connection to the United States, no want to be there, no undying need to be around other Americans anymore. I feel no more need to fight for my country; the Trump administration has beaten that out of me, and the half of the country who is complicit in allowing and supporting his agendas sicken and at times, outright disgust me. I feel defeated and beaten down and it is very hard to see a light at the end of the tunnel, if such a light even exists. 

Nonetheless, we landed uneventfully in Philadelphia, stopped and got a bite to eat (I chose Sbarro, so I could get a calzone and a slice) and made our way to the next gate, where we would sit for five hours.

If you have never had a five-hour layover in an airport, I would not recommend it. I would recommend it even less if you have to do it in Philadelphia. Yes, it's a decent airport, but good lord is it mind-numbingly boring to just sit there. There were no TVs anywhere near our gate, the seats were uncomfortable, the lighting was dim and troubling, and for most of the layover we were just sitting there. 

I don't like just sitting there. I have to have something or do something that occupies me or occupies my time. I have a great need to be entertained or to keep busy. At home, I can write here, I can go watch TV, I can take a nap or listen to podcasts and play a game on my PC or my Switch -- in an airport, I can do none of these things.

But Brandon, you may be saying, do you not have a phone?

I do. I was so very bored with everything on the phone and I had no way to really recharge it until we'd get home. My phone requires a stand charger because of the case on it; its case is too thick to just be able to plug it in, and I'm not going to take the case off every time I want to charge it. 

Daisy seemed mostly content to read her book and just veg out; I can't just do that in airports. I don't know why. I can't sleep in airports either -- I don't feel safe sleeping in an airport, not to mention the sheet uncomfortability of the seats at our gate. I got up and wandered a bit, looking around for something that could occupy me -- the newsstands had some interesting books, but none I was willing to pay the inflated $30 price tag for. Everywhere I looked, I was also surrounded by bright green Philadelphia Eagles merchandise, which as a Kansas City Chiefs fan, slightly turned my stomach.

I was very restless and irritable. I love to travel when it's fast and I can get to my intended destination quickly. I hate it when I have to wait...on anything. Waiting and layovers mean it's that much more time before I'm where I'm supposed to be, that much more time until I can exit an airport and vape, that much more time until I can actually relax. We'd been traveling for hours and I just desperately wanted to be in my house, in my office, in my chair. 

The flight to Omaha from Philadelphia was very cramped and uncomfortable; I felt like I was crammed into a box for three hours with nothing to see and nothing to do but stare at the back of the seat in front of me. There was no in-flight entertainment, no screen, no reading material -- I was just there. I was starting to go mad. I tried to sleep and dozed off here and there, but it's hard for me to sleep comfortably on a plane. Don't get me wrong, I can do it, but it's never comfortable and I can't get any actual restful sleep on a plane.

Eventually, finally, we touched down in Omaha, and I rushed outside to vape while we waited for our luggage to hit the baggage claim. Daisy was very angered by this even though I was gone for less than five minutes, and I get it, but there is no way I can rationally explain to her the need for nicotine and fresh air after being denied it for over twelve hours straight. It will make me sound like a crazy, selfish asshole -- and maybe at that point I was. I was done, absolutely done, sick of traveling and fed up. How many airline miles do I need to accrue before I can vape on a plane and say "fuck you" while giving other passengers the finger? Because after twelve hours of being stuck on planes and in airport gates and terminals, I was ready to start punching people. I am not a nice person when I reach my breaking point, and few things do it faster than being essentially imprisoned for long, long travel trips -- it's why I will pay more, will pay through the nose, for the shortest and most comfortable trips possible when we're flying somewhere, and I've found when I let Daisy plan the trip she plans for budget and not comfort. When I plan the trip (as I generally do when we visit my parents, for example), it will cost more, but it will also be the fastest and most comfortable option. 

Anyway.

After waiting for what seemed like forever for our Uber, at midnight, we got home under cover of dark night to find our loving cats waiting for us. They were fine, the house was fine, and we were finally, finally back home. We both showered, and I lugged our luggage upstairs and began unloading it to start the long, arduous process of laundry and unpacking, with both of my voids (Pete and Mable) incredibly curious as to what I was doing. 

Now, this was the overnight hours of Sunday, October 12, going into the Monday morning of the 13th. Daisy had to return to work the next day for her normal shifts, and I had to as well on Monday evening. But my sleep schedule was absolutely destroyed by the trip; I had not been staying up all night to readjust, because, well, I couldn't. Daisy went to bed almost immediately after her shower, but I forced myself to stay up until around 4 or so until I trudged into the bedroom and collapsed into the bed -- which seemed to welcome me like an old friend. 

And so, our trip officially ended and our lives slowly began to return to normal. We both returned to work, we both slowly unpacked, and I am still eating (slowly) the packs of vegan turkey and bags of ketchup chips we brought home with us to this day. 

So it goes...

Canada 2025, Part XI: A Canadian Wedding

 We were told, very early on, that the wedding attire was "cozy and casual," so after my shower, I put on my tan/fawn Columbia zip-up jacket over a Sun Records t-shirt and a pair of thick Duluth Trading Company jeans, with my normal sneakers. This is, essentially, a standard outfit for me and really isn't anything different than I'd wear at home. I'd also worn variations on this theme, sometimes with my corduroy baseball cap, pretty much the entire time we were in Canada.

Daisy put on comfy pants, a nondescript top, and her new black Canada hoodie, fixed her hair, and off we went to meet her aunt and uncle downstairs and then go to the wedding. 

I will mention here that we'd not seen Daisy's cousin or her husband-to-be, nor had we heard from them, the entire time we'd been in Canada to this point. I am in contact with Daisy's cousin on a pretty frequent basis, actually -- Daisy is pretty close with her, and I've gotten to know her well over the course of the past few years. She is a wonderful person, very kind and sweet, and I talk to her back and forth a lot over Snapchat. We have bonded over our love of cats as well as the normal family stuff. Her husband-to-be, as I've mentioned here before, is a Navy man, and is one of the greatest people I've met in Canada as a whole -- incredibly fun, funny, and open with a kind and thoughtful personality. I adore them both, and would have never missed their wedding. They knew we were there in town and knew we'd been up at the family homestead for the week prior, because I'd told Daisy's cousin before we left. And I had texted her from the hotel room to let her know we were there in Dartmouth and were excited. Aside from that, I knew they were finalizing a wedding and I did not disturb them as they made their final preparations to be wed.

When we got downstairs to the lobby, we met up with Daisy's aunt and uncle and were the only ones in the lobby bar in the middle of the afternoon, so we got to have a nice little sit down time with them. Daisy's aunt produced a bottle of wine from a bag she was carrying with her -- I found this hysterical, but said nothing -- and her uncle asked me if I drank alcohol.

"Not at all," I said.

"Yeah, I seem to remember that," he replied, "so we brought this--" and he produced a four-pack of Guinness zero alcohol from the same bag. 

Daisy laughed. "We just saw a commercial for this last night, and Brandon mentioned how much he wanted to try it."

This was true. In my beer-drinking days, Guinness was a perennial favorite of mine either at a bar straight from the tap or in the draught tallboy cans. But, because I haven't drank in years, it was something I no longer could have -- and I made the mental note, aloud, when we saw the commercial that I wanted to pick some up to try it once we got back home to the states, as long as it was available there. 

It was delightful. Like, you can tell there's no alcohol in it, because of course you can, but the flavor of the beer itself is on point. I was thrilled. 

We sat and chatted over drinks for about half an hour or so, catching up. Turns out they're at least casual fans of the Hip, and spent time in Bobcaygeon, Ontario (which Gord Downie sings about in one of the Hip's most famous/popular songs). 

"I hear that's where the constellations reveal themselves one star at a time," I said with a smirk.

Daisy didn't get it; she had not, at that juncture, heard the song or that lyric. When we got home, I not only played the song for her, but held up the artsy t-shirt I have with that very lyric written in fancy script across it over a field of stars.

We talked about many things in that short time; our new jobs, the cats, how grandma was doing, our love of Tim Hortons, the troubles in exchanging cash in Canada, the American Tax Daisy was charged for her haircut, etc -- it was like a half-hour long recap of our lives and our entire trip up to that point. It all seemed so far away yet so close at the same time, and throughout the conversation I was so very happy and relaxed -- of all places all of us could be catching up, we were doing it in a hotel lobby bar in Dartmouth, far away from each of our homes, in town to see the wedding of other family members. It was so intimate yet so disconnected from our normal lives, for all four of us sitting there. 

Eventually, of course, it was time to leave to get to the wedding venue, as we were told beforehand that parking would be at a premium because it was a small location. Both of us had our own vehicles, both rented, and Daisy's aunt and uncle offered to let us ride with them. We declined as in the event we needed to leave early, if one of us got sick or something (Daisy's POTS had been acting up from time to time over the trip) we wanted our own vehicle there. 

The drive to the wedding venue took us out of the civilization of Dartmouth and onto a number of woodsy forest backroads, past ponds and lakes and pond/lakefront homes and communities, and we quickly learned again that if you head away from any city or town in Atlantic Canada in any direction, you are quickly thrust right back into wilderness for your drive, with an occasional clearing of the trees and rocks where you can get a glimpse of the wide-open ocean and scenic coastline. 

The wedding venue was in a town called Mineville, which (I assume) was so named because there was once a mine there. It's a small community in a cove a bit back from the southeastern coast of Nova Scotia, northeast of the Halifax area, and it is heavily forested. The venue itself was an old barn converted and updated into a small resort area/event center and restaurant -- at least by the way it looked, anyway. I don't recall the name of the place right now, honestly, but I know it was about two miles or so "as the crow flies" away from where Daisy's other aunt and uncle, parents of the bride, lived. They'd originally wanted to do the ceremony in their backyard, so this place appeared to be the next closest approximation that could hold the number of people the bride and groom wanted there. 

That should have been the first clue that original plans had changed quite a bit.

It turned out, once we arrived, that a lot of assumptions had been made based on our original invite that ended up being wholly inaccurate. The first was that parking was limited. Well, it was, especially near the entrance of the venue where we crammed the Bronco into a woodsy corner of the driveway, but it turned out that at the bottom of the hill there was a large field with all the parking that could possibly be needed.

The second was the attire.

Remember, we were told and reassured multiple times that the dress code for the wedding was "cozy and casual," as it was supposed to be a small gathering with a ceremony and a bonfire.

We got there and it was very clear this was a far more formal affair than originally planned -- we're walking by many friends and family of the bride and groom, friends and family who are dressed to the nines in suits and ties, with flowers on their lapels and generally, the works. And not just people who were part of the bride or groom's parties either -- normal people, wedding attendees.

And here we were, the Americans, looking very American in our hoodies and jeans, feeling like we were the only ones who got the "cozy and casual" memo, or at least thinking that meant something completely different in Canadian parlance. 

The venue area was massive -- it was not a small backyard affair. There was the building itself, a large yard with music pumping (thanks to Daisy's uncle's sound system) where the propane bonfire fire pits were, a cigar bar, tables full of drinks and snacks, and a huge tent with tables and chairs halfway down the hill. I foolishly assumed that the tent would be where the wedding would be held, but I was wrong -- the tent was set up for the after-wedding dinner. It was a tent big enough to hold probably 200 people. 

We met up with the parents of the bride -- Daisy's aunt and uncle -- who were both dressed very formally (almost as if it were their own wedding), and they relayed that the logistics of setting up everything had been a nightmare, especially the few days leading up to the wedding day. The caterer had abruptly canceled and they had to get an entirely new caterer, for example -- on Thanksgiving weekend, and one who could feed the number of people expected to attend -- and that had been incredibly difficult. We then learned that the couple originally wanted to get married in onesie pajamas, an idea that (presumably) Daisy's aunt had shot down. 

The bride later let us know that her mother had basically forced her to go dress shopping and pick out a dress, something that I found quietly amusing. They'd compromised on getting married in traditional attire for photos and the like and then changing into the onesies after the ceremony and photos had ended. Spoiler alert -- the onesies did not make an appearance while we were there.

Once everyone had gathered and were mingling -- meaning, once all those who planned to attend were there -- strangers, friends and family alike to all of us -- it was announced that we were to follow a long path down into the woods, through a swampy grassland area, to the very bottom of the hill, where the ceremony would take place.

I will add here that if Mama had come with us on this trip, this part of the wedding would've been terrible on her for her mobility. The path was beautiful, winding through tall grasses and trees, but it was just wide enough to walk normally on and not wide or smooth enough for a scooter or walker. We were all essentially single file for most of it, and it was probably...oh, 200, 300 meters from the building down to the actual spot where the wedding would take place. 

Eventually we came to a little opening in the trees -- and there, under the canopy of thick trees and on a bed of freshly-fallen fall leaves, were multiple rows of benches and an archway made of twisted vines wrapped in black lace. I immediately thought "yep, that's [cousin's] aesthetic." Because, really, it was. I don't claim to know Daisy's cousin better than I do, better than Daisy or the rest of the family knows her, because I don't -- but I can tell you I know her well enough to where I did not expect a fully traditional wedding ceremony from her. Aside from the black lace wrapping around the archway, traditional is mostly what was being presented here -- and I was sure that the black lace was her choice.

All of us found places to sit...while there was room, anyway. Daisy and I crammed onto one of the benches near the middle, along with her aunt and uncle who'd come up from Ontario. It soon became apparent that the wedding would quickly become standing-room-only, as there were far more people showing up than there was seating for at the ceremony. People began to line both sides of the benches and a crowd gathered at the back of the forest area, standing behind everyone else. Most other attendees were also dressed to the nines. 

The ceremony itself -- officiated by the twin sister of the mother of the bride -- was beautiful and very, very traditional. The couple did not write their own vows, opting for the more traditional ones, there was no grand speech by the officiant. The bride's dress was gorgeous, traditional and white (it actually reminded me quite a bit of Daisy's dress) and the groom's tuxedo was deep emerald green, which was the perfect choice for him and went really well with the nature backdrop. Everyone in the bride and groom's parties filed in, played their parts, and filed back out afterwards, and it was done -- they were married. It was announced that the bride and groom, their parties, and immediate family would be taking an hour or so to do pictures, and the rest of us should saunter back up the hill to get some drinks before everyone would gather for dinner.

So that's what we did. As we went back up the hill, we could see that there was a flat clearing area to the side of the trails -- you would've missed it coming down if you weren't paying attention -- and that's where the formal photos were being done as the sun was beginning to set -- they had planned that timeframe perfectly. 

Now, here's the thing you might not know, but would probably assume about Nova Scotia in October -- even when the weather is beautiful and warm during the day, and it was about 65 or so degrees without a cloud in the sky on this day -- once that sun starts setting, you are reminded that you are in Canada in the fall and normal Canadian fall rules apply -- it gets chilly AF. And in Atlantic Canada, the sun sets fast. We went from full light to full dark in the span of less than an hour.

During the time between the ceremony and the call for dinner, Daisy and I mingled around a bit -- sometimes together, sometimes separately. I met the groom's sister and her boyfriend, both of whom were wonderful people. I met the groom's stepmother as well, who was also very sweet. At dinner, we sat with one of the bride's childhood friends and the groom's two cousins from Newfoundland who had come down for the wedding, but seemed to be professional adventurers/travelers who had been all across Canada, Europe, and the states as well. 

The dinner itself was fine; just like our own wedding, it was the basics of spaghetti, sauce, and salads -- something I appreciated. When Daisy and I planned our wedding, the catering was done by Fazoli's -- yes, the fast-casual Italian place -- because they could do vegan spaghetti, sauce, breadsticks, and salad for 200 people for $400-something. This wedding wasn't much different. I appreciated the simplicity of all of it, honestly. I appreciated it more when I remembered that this particular caterer had been able to throw all of this together and make it work in the span of a few short days, since the other caterer had canceled.

Eventually, everyone had finished eating, and while a lot of folks sat at their tables in the tent and kept chatting down there, the cold of the unheated tent was enough to make me lean over to Daisy to tell her I could not feel my fingers and I needed to go back up to where they'd fired up the propane bonfires. 

If you're wondering why the fires were propane-based, it's because Nova Scotia was, and likely still is, under a burn ban because of the wildfires that have plagued the province (and country) over the past few years. You can turn a propane fire pit off -- you can't turn off a bonfire. 

Daisy hung out with "the Newfies," as the groom called them, for a bit longer. I came back up to the main building, where I found multiple family members to relax and catch up with, some of whom I had not seen since the death of Daisy's grandfather in 2022. Eventually, the bride and groom both came back up and we got a little time with each of them -- they made sure to spend some time with us since we'd come so far away, and sincerely expressed their gratitude for us being there. We did not want to take up a lot of their time, because of course, this was their day and we were just two people of many, many people who'd shown up to see them be married. Believe me when I say I wish we could've spent hours just with the two of them, but we knew that wasn't going to be something we could do.

The parents of the bride, Daisy's aunt and uncle, did spend a lot of good quality time with us. They missed us and are always thrilled to see us when we're there, but this time around they made no bones about it that it was time for us to come home. Meaning, figure it out, get Daisy's parents on board, and get the fuck out of the states and come back to Nova Scotia for good. 

We, uh, actually discussed this opportunity with multiple family members when we were there, both at the wedding and outside of the wedding, and all of them had the same sentiment -- it was not hard, in their eyes, to move from the states to Canada, and it appeared far more difficult than it actually was primarily because of the US media's efforts to keep everyone from trying. Because, of course, if Americans knew how easy it actually was, they'd be abandoning their country in droves.

I took all of this with a grain of salt, especially after having numerous discussions with Mama over the years about just how much average Canadians dislike Americans and discriminate against them in housing and job opportunities -- and this was long before the ruffling of feathers between the countries over the past year or so. 

But, we were told, there's a support network for us. And there is -- our Canadian family is wonderful, they love us and would do anything they could to help us. Daisy's aunt and uncle point blank told us their home is open to us at any time for any reason when and if we need to escape or decide to pull the trigger. The groom's stepsister, upon hearing that I've worked in telecommunications for over a decade and was a college English professor before that, flat-out told me I'd have zero problems finding work that would allow me to establish residency -- Canada looks for people who can contribute to Canada, and singles out those who can provide a service and expertise to fast-track them to permanent residency/citizenship, apparently. Everyone seemed to agree that with Daisy being a Canadian citizen, it would be much easier for me as her husband to get all of that established and locked down were it to come to that. 

I honestly don't know how far off we are from that possibly becoming reality, to be frank with all of you here reading this. 

Daisy's aunt introduced us to friends and family we'd not yet met as Canadians -- I am an "honorary Canadian." I am Canadian by marriage, much like someone is a brother-in-law or son-in-law by marriage. According to the family, Canada is as much my home as it is theirs.

I wish I could put into words how that makes me feel; how welcomed, how included, and how actually loved knowing that feels. It is a feeling of deep comfort I can't exactly describe.

Eventually, but not before many other people, we did say our goodbyes and depart. It was a long, tiring drive back to the hotel that seemed to take forever in the dark, but once again I noticed that for a Saturday night in Dartmouth, the town seemed mostly deserted. There was a little traffic here and there but the plazas were empty, the highways were sparsely dotted with other cars, and it was a ghost town compared to what you'd see in Omaha on a Saturday night.

We arrived back at the hotel, very tired after the long day, and ate cold leftover pizza. Shortly thereafter, completely drained, I fell asleep first. Daisy followed at some point, and with our missions accomplished and all objectives taken care of, our trip to Canada essentially ended that night.

Canada 2025, Part X: Records and Wooden Monkeys

 We rolled into Dartmouth that Friday night after dark, because it was another long drive up from Peggy's Cove to get to our wedding-group-rate hotel in Dartmouth. We were tired, we hadn't eaten in many hours, had been on the road since before noon, and still had to make multiple trips to lug all of our stuff into the building. 

The hotel we were in was the Hampton by Hilton Dartmouth, and it was fine enough. We checked in and learned that we were on the third floor of a ten-story or better hotel (I am estimating; in reality, I have no idea, just that it was big), and tiredly moved all of our belongings one by one from the Bronco up to the room, the latter trips with the use of one of those hotel dolly carts. Once we were in, however, we could decompress a little and unpack the necessities like our refrigerator foods and toiletries. 

The hotel room did not have a microwave, and the fridge did not have a freezer. I also didn't think the fridge was that cold, either. But, it was cold enough, I guess. What was important was that the bathroom was large, the bed was comfortable, and we were there.

It was my first time in Dartmouth, or really, the entire Halifax area. The Halifax airport is Halifax in name only, as it's way outside of the city in the middle of nowhere. Per Google Maps, it's 15.6 miles away from the hotel in Dartmouth (I just checked). Fifteen miles does not sound like a lot, and in the grand scheme of things it's really not, but I can tell you that I've flown in and out of Halifax a lot over the years, and it is truly nowhere near the actual city itself. It is in the woods far out past the suburbs and built into what appears to have been a wholly uninhabited area before the airport was installed there, as there seems to be nothing around but farms and open country and then bam, airport.

We had originally planned to find somewhere to go eat once we got into the hotel -- as in, leave the hotel, search for vegan places or vegan-friendly places, and go get food. But, we were so tired and it was nearing 9pm by the time we got settled in that I declared that I was not leaving that hotel room again. I could either make a sandwich and have some ketchup chips or we needed to order something. 

Now, Daisy is a master at food-ordering in new and different places we travel. She's like a ninja at it, honestly. She'll whip out her phone, open up the food delivery apps, and within moments she's finding all of the best vegan-friendly restaurants in the area that are not only somewhat cost-effective but will deliver in an hour or less to wherever we are, no matter the city (or, in this case, country). 

I was not in the mood for any particular type of food -- I honestly just wanted something on my stomach that I could eat cold the next morning for breakfast (again, no microwave) and wouldn't wreck my guts. We had two more days of this trip ahead of us and arguably they were the most important days -- her cousin's wedding day and our day to travel back home. That basically left us with few options -- delivered sandwiches that could be fridge kept and would still be good cold, or pizza. I told Daisy I'd be fine with pizza. I am always fine with pizza. 

Canadian pizza is different; I've had multiple pizzas in Canada from different places, and there's just something about it that hits differently. It's not that they have, like, regional pizzas like the states do (or, if they do, I've not had any of these -- nor have I heard of them) but they're somehow different than rank-and-file pizza here in the US. But, it's a good different; I don't know, it's hard to put my finger on.

So we began looking through different menus for different pizzas for delivery. They all sounded great, but I was also starving at the time. We settled, eventually, on a place in Dartmouth called Stone Pizza and each built our own custom pizzas. I don't remember at this point what I put on mine -- I know it had vegan pepperoni, extra cheese, and onions at the very least, but the other toppings are lost to me now; I was, at the time, deliriously hungry and deliriously tired and I can only remember so much. I also got a side of stuffed pizza roll things.

Daisy ordered a loaded down veggie vegan pizza and a set of vegan cheesesticks.

And we waited. They did call Daisy and ask for our room number so they could bring it right up to us, which I thought was very thoughtful, and gave a window of a little over an hour. 

It was during this time where we found out that there was a channel on the TV in the hotel room that played, apparently, nothing but Star Trek, and so we watched the tail end of a mid-run episode of Lower Decks, and two episodes of Voyager back to back. Some would say those are the worst two Trek series to be stuck watching in a hotel because nothing else is on, and I would counter by saying that Lower Decks is hilarious, and that Voyager is very '90s, and some episodes are definitely better than others, but the series overall is pretty good. 

Anyway.

The pizza was great, by the way; I would not have linked it above if it weren't. I think it wins the prize for the best pizza I've had in Canada. And yes, it was delivered directly to our hotel door -- all I had to do was open the door to my room and bring it in. 

I don't remember much afterwards; we were both very tired and went to sleep -- after putting the remainders of our pizza into our slightly-colder-than-room-temperature fridge, of course. I didn't shower. I was too tired to care.

I next awoke sometime in the 6am hour; I was groggy and disoriented and felt awful. I lumbered to the bathroom where I spent probably a half hour doing, ahem, bathroom things until I felt somewhat like a human again, and then rejoined my sleeping wife in bed. My back was still screaming at me from the hard hotel bed at the Cove Motel, and I was overall intensely uncomfortable and had trouble getting into any sort of relaxing position. I did eventually doze back off for a bit, off and on.

I will also note that when I'm traveling, it is very difficult for me to sleep. After a few days, my body sort of acclimates to wherever I am and learns to sleep there -- or, if it doesn't, it instead shifts and acclimates to me running on severe sleep deprivation and everything that entails. Part of it is the obvious "this isn't my bed at home" feeling, but a part of it is also temperature, airflow, room ambience of light and sound, and...the fact that the cats aren't there with me/us. Now, mind you, the cats don't sleep with us every night all night or anything like that, but a good chunk of most days/nights I sleep in the bed at home, I have at least one cat. Pete and Gary are my most common sleeping companions, both of them wanting to get right up on me and snuggle in tight -- but Mable, Hank, and even Empress have been known to snuggle up to me too, usually during the day when I am sleeping during the work week. About the only cat who chooses Daisy to sleep with over me almost exclusively is Charlie, who loves his mom so very much. 

Even if they're not sleeping with us, the psychological comfort of knowing they're there, in the house, safe and sound with us is a big thing too. Yes, we can look at them anytime from our phones because of the cameras we have in the house and know they're okay, and that does provide some comfort, but knowing you're over 1,000 miles away is the sad part of that.

I should note at this juncture that our catsitter was wonderful the entire time we were gone; she was at the house every day for an hour or more (we know because, again, cameras), and made sure all of our children got food, treats, attention, and their medications. She was even able to give Hank his eye drops, which to me is nothing short of miraculous because Hank is notoriously a scaredy-cat and does not like to come out and socialize, most of the time, with anyone but us. Yet, when I'd boot up the camera when I knew she was there, I'd see Hank and Emmy lounging with her, Gary on her lap, and the others also wandering or lounging about. 

But it's very clear they missed us, a lot. I'd check notifications for movement in the house from the overnight hours the next morning, and I'd see stuff like this:

My son, Gary, looking for any sign of life from either of us instead of the robotic movement of a security camera. 

Anyway, moving onward.

Daisy eventually got up that morning -- slowly, as she always does -- and began to get ready for the day.

You see, it was early on Saturday morning, and the wedding wasn't until 5:30 in the evening, 20ish miles away. That meant we had the entire day before the wedding to explore the Dartmouth downtown area, the waterfront shops and streets, and the waterfront itself -- plus get something to eat at one of the restaurants she wanted to go to, and just...be. Just exist in this little seaside city.

We also had one major goal that day too -- and it was one we had before we even left Omaha -- go to Renegade Records.

I have mentioned here before, and I was not quiet about it while we were on this trip, that one of my biggest goals for this trip was to find somewhere, anywhere, that I could buy as many of the albums by The Tragically Hip as possible, as those records are unobtainium in the states. It did not matter if they were new or used, but I figured I'd have better luck at a used music store. This was part of why I'd brought so much cash with me to Canada -- I wanted to use it, primarily, to buy as many Hip albums as I could find. And in rural Atlantic Canada, it is really hard to find any store anymore that actually sells CDs. 

I did not know this going in. I figured every Walmart had a large music section full of CDs, just like they do here in the states. Not only was I wrong, I was very wrong for almost every single Walmart we visited. Not only did these Walmarts not have a music section anymore, but in most of them their DVD/Blu-ray section had also been very significantly scaled back. What replaced it? Video game stuff, and cell phones/accessories. Headphones, printers and camera supplies. I was stunned.

In the one Walmart I did find that still had a music section with CDs in it, it was a very small section of only the newest albums by the newest performers -- and they didn't even have the new Taylor Swift album that had been released a week prior (that I'd preordered and had waiting on me once I got home, by the way). In that music section, of course, there were no Hip albums. I was beginning to get frustrated, but all the while, I knew that Renegade Records was still going to be a thing.

Renegade Records, as mentioned, Daisy had researched before we left Omaha. They are a used music shop in Dartmouth, with wall to wall racks of new and used CDs by pretty much any artist you could ever think of. I looked at the pictures of their shop and their reviews, and figured if there was anywhere I'd find Hip records, it would be there. But Dartmouth was far away at the end of our trip at the time, and it was an afterthought of sorts until it became very apparent throughout the course of our trip that I would not find these records anywhere else. At that point, Renegade Records became my last, and only, option.

So the plan for the day was set -- head down to the waterfront (which, honestly, wasn't too far from the hotel), hit Renegade Records, get some food, and wander around a bit to enjoy the day. It was a bright, crisp fall day -- not a cloud in the sky -- and for a Saturday I was really surprised that not a lot of people were out and about. Of course, there were people, but when I am in Canada -- especially more urban parts of Canada, I am reminded that Canada only had about a tenth of the population of the United States, and Nova Scotia as a whole doesn't even have a million people in it; meanwhile, Omaha's metro area alone has well over a million people in it.

Around the time we left the hotel, Daisy got a text from her aunt and uncle -- the wealthy ones from Ontario -- who had come up for the wedding and were actually in the same hotel with us. We had not known this before. We knew they were coming up for the wedding, but didn't know they were already there and in the same hotel. Or maybe Daisy did and I didn't; I can't remember. Anyway, they wanted to meet up with us for drinks in the hotel lobby bar area in the afternoon before we'd all head down to the wedding venue in the late afternoon hours. 

Mind you, I don't drink, but Daisy's aunt and uncle are important to me just as they are to her, so I was absolutely happy to do this, and was excited to see them. So we agreed to those plans, which shortened our timeframe to enjoy Dartmouth a bit. 

Dartmouth itself is beautiful; there is a commercial area with malls/strip malls/big-box stores (which is where our hotel was) right off the highway, but there are gorgeous little residential neighborhoods with winding hilly roads through them, a vibrant colonial-looking downtown area with shops, restaurants, bakeries, bars, office buildings and beautiful murals. 

We found a pay-by-the-hour parking lot that was almost deserted (it's actually on the other side of the building that mural directly above is on) and parked the Bronco in what ended up being a pretty central location to where we needed to be -- down the gradually-sloping hill a few hundred meters or so was the record store, the waterfront, a vegan bakery, multiple bars, and the restaurant that Daisy wanted us to try, the Wooden Monkey.

Dartmouth itself has its own pop-culture history, of course -- it's where Trailer Park Boys is and always has been filmed, in a trailer park on the outskirts of the town, and the Boys themselves are of course celebrities in the area and are spotted frequently in and around it. I did not, unfortunately, see any of them while we were out and about on this crisp Saturday morning, but we did find Renegade Records:

And it was as wonderful as I ever thought it could be.

After a quick search, I found the section for The Tragically Hip, and began pulling out disc after disc. There were a few I left behind due to price (in hindsight, I should've just paid the $24 CAD asking price for a few of them, as they are more expensive to import via Amazon) but in the end, I had about ten of their records -- most of them their newer releases, for varying prices of between $6 and $22 CAD. I am guessing the record store's pricing was based on demand for the album itself, new or used, but I honestly have no idea what reasoning they were using. I cleaned out their Hip collection, leaving only one or two discs behind, and took my stack to the counter. It was $138 CAD total, which is something like $103 or so American. I ended up putting it on the card because I didn't have that much Canadian cash left (oh, the irony). 

The CDs were of varying quality; some of the used ones had cases in pretty rough shape but the discs were fine, and others were brand-new and still shrinkwrapped from the factory. In that one trip, though, I'd collected about half the Hip's discography in one shot, but I did not -- unfortunately -- find two or three of the records that I was looking for in particular -- no Fully Completely, no Road Apples. 

Still, I was very happy and content with my findings. Daisy took the paper sack of CDs back up to the Bronco so we wouldn't have to carry them with us everywhere, and when she returned, our journey continued. 

We walked down to the bottom of the hill where the waterfront was; this is where I took a few of the above photos. At the waterfront there is a beautiful park-like area they call the Dartmouth Harbourwalk, as well as the people-ferries that will take folks across the harbour (yes, with a U in it) to Halifax proper. 

Right at the dock where those ferry boats above are, behind that (and you can kind of see it in the photo) was the Wooden Monkey Restaurant, where Daisy wanted to eat -- one of the many, many places in the area that had advertised delightful vegan fare, but one of the closest ones to us physically and very conveniently located where we were actually standing on the Harbourwalk. 

If you know me, you know I'm not a big walker up and down hills, or for long distances -- I'm a house potato; I don't like to go anywhere I don't have to most of the time, and energy on most days, especially weekends, is at a premium. Once I'm out of energy, I'm done and I crash out -- and I don't have much of a choice about it, my body shuts down. This is even more especially true when we're on vacation and we're running constantly doing one thing after another when we're already tired and the sleep deprivation continues to accrue compound interest. 

And we had to be social that evening, we had a wedding to attend. That evening was the entire reason for our trip, and our travels around Dartmouth were burning my Saturday energy fuel faster than normal. I was, essentially, burning the candle at both ends at this point not with a match, but with a blowtorch. 

The meal at the Wooden Monkey was delightful; we both got the vegan donair and fries. I got some non-alcoholic foo-foo drink with mango and orange juice in it that was heavenly, and I could've drank them all day long. 

By the time we returned to the hotel, we had but twenty minutes or so before we were supposed to meet up with Daisy's aunt and uncle downstairs -- which I didn't know we were so tight on time for. I was full of food and had not showered, had just put on the clothes I'd worn the day before. Daisy pushed back our meeting with them a bit and I leapt into the shower to scrub myself down and condition my hair and beard, as I knew it would be the only chance I had to make myself clean before the wedding. 

And then we were off...

Canada 2025, Part IX: Fat Sailors

 Friday, October 10th was the day we were to leave the area and drive east, back across the province, to the Dartmouth/Halifax area for the wedding the next day. As such, we got up early and made sure all of our stuff was packed, cleaned out the hotel room and checked out, and got our coffees from Tim's before heading up the hill to say goodbye to Daisy's grandmother.

Goodbyes in Canada are never easy. Grandma is 92, was not going to the wedding (neither were her aunt and uncle who lived next door, or any of Daisy's cousins from his side of the family) so this would be the last time we saw any of them for this trip. Leaving grandma is doubly hard because we are fully cognizant of the fact that it may be the last time we see her alive -- at her advanced age and with the health problems she has, it is very possible she could take a turn for the worse at any time, and the next time we'd be traveling to Canada would be for her funeral. We know this. We don't like knowing it, but we know it. We always say we'll be back next year (and we always are) but all of us knows that while that will likely be the case, we still have a very limited number of years we'll be able to say that and mean it in the spirit which it's intended.

Daisy asked her grandmother, before we left, if it hurt her feelings that we stayed in the hotel instead of with her when we were there. It had been weighing heavily on Daisy's mind for the entire trip. While we do like the freedom and independence of staying in the Cove Motel -- or, like we did last year, in the AirBnB down the street from grandma -- Daisy did not want to offend her by it.

"Well," grandma said, "that bed in the spare room is not big or comfortable." 

She's right, it absolutely is not; when we stayed there in 2023, half the nights I'd wake up to find that Daisy had gone downstairs to sleep in the basement because it was too uncomfortable or too hot with both of us in there when grandma keeps the house at 80 degrees all the time. 

"Yes, but would you rather we be here and stay with you?" Daisy asked. "We just don't want to impose."

"I don't mind if you stay here [Daisy]," said Grandma, which is the closest thing we'll ever get to a yes, I would much rather you stay here with me. 

So, moving forward, we'll be saving the money and will be staying with grandma in the house again for future trips, and we'll adjust for that. I find the house peaceful and the time there gives me a lot more reading time, downtime, and the ability to take naps basically whenever I want. This is, essentially, all I want out of a vacation.

I personally don't mind being in the house, but there is that factor of imposition. I never want to be a bother, especially not to a woman in her 90s who is very set in her ways -- but I also like the security of knowing that if she has any health issues or needs our help, we're right there ready to assist. And honestly, the woman is lonely -- she hides it well, and she'd never outright admit it because of her pride, but she does love having us there. 

So, we said our goodbyes, as bittersweet as they were, and got on the road.

Our plans for Friday were as follows:

1. Stop for coffee and maybe food at the cafe in Truro
2. Hit up the Giant Tiger in Truro -- the best one we'd visited in the province last year
3. Drive down to Peggy's Cove to finally see the Peggy's Cove lighthouse
4. From there, drive into Dartmouth, check into the hotel, and finally eat something

Auld's Cove to Truro is a nice little drive:

And from there to Peggy's Cove is also a nice little drive still:

And just for the hell of it, why not just plot the course from Peggy's Cove to Dartmouth too?

So yeah, it was...a lot of travel time for one day, and entailed us driving essentially the distance of one end of the province to the other -- maybe not fully distance-wise, but absolutely time-wise. 

We left town before noon, leaving Tim Hortons and the best poutines in the province behind us; I would not drink another double-double or eat another honey cruller for the rest of our trip, and the poutine I had the night after we arrived -- with Daisy's aunt and uncle -- was the only one I ate on the entire trip.

Onward we pushed to Truro, stopping at a gas station to use the bathroom and get some really questionable bubble gum that sort of tasted like cleaner, and we finally arrived around two at the cafe. My stomach was going nuts and I didn't really want anything. I don't remember if I actually got anything, honestly. I wasn't feeling great and I was very tired from having gotten up so early. Not to mention, after a full week of sleeping on the thin/hard hotel mattress, my back was screaming at me in a language of pain that ibuprofen couldn't touch. 

We hit the Giant Tiger in Truro to find this:

I found this so hilarious that I had to take a picture of it.

Guess what? They did. They did have chocolate chips.

I asked Mama this past weekend why they'd feel the need to advertise that on a sign. When we went inside, they did indeed have giant center-of-the-aisle bins of bags of chocolate chips, and people were filling their carts with them. 

Like...is there a run on chocolate chips in Atlantic Canada? A bunch of fat sailors coming in off their boats and needing their semi-sweet chocolate fix? I was actually rather awed at the sight. It wasn't people frantically buying them like it was $2 DVDs in a bin at Walmart on Black Friday, but...it was a steady stream of consumers approaching these bins of chocolate chips and putting 3, 4, 5 bags at a time into their carts, as casually as someone picking out loaves of bread or canned vegetables.

Of course, it was Thanksgiving weekend in Canada. If there is some traditional Thanksgiving dessert in Canada that requires the use of an industrial amount of chocolate chips, that's not information I am privy to as a dirty American who is also not a fat sailor. Just fat.

Anyway.

This Giant Tiger was also mostly a bust this time around. We each got a few little things; I bought an orange shirt that supports the charities of Canada's First Peoples:

I'd wanted to get one at the Giant Tiger in Port Hawkesbury, but they didn't have it in my size. All profits from the sales of these shirts go to charity --

So it was important to me to support this. Plus, I really liked the design. Daisy would later point out that back home in Nebraska, it would look like I was staunchly pro-life, which she rolled her eyes and said I'd fit right in with the religious right nuts in this state. 

It's not about that, though, obviously. 

But yeah, aside from a few odds and ends like that, we left Giant Tiger this year mostly disappointed. It's hit or miss; you can't win 'em all. And to be fair, there was a lot in that store that I wanted, but unusually enough for Giant Tiger, almost none of it was in my size this time around. 

It is what it is, I suppose. 

After this began the long, long drive down to Peggy's Cove.

For those of you who don't know, and I wouldn't expect you to if you are not from or haven't been through Atlantic Canada and specifically Nova Scotia, Peggy's Cove is a beautiful, out of the way cove on the southeast tip of Nova Scotia, with long stretches of boulder-covered beaches. It is the most "Nova Scotia" place I've seen in Nova Scotia -- and by that I mean it definitely looks like Scotland. At Peggy's Cove is a lighthouse -- a decently tall lighthouse, the most famous and most-photographed lighthouse in Nova Scotia.

This is, perhaps, because it is in a very photogenic location -- it's the kind of area that when you see calendars of lighthouses, the photos you'd take there are the ones you'd see in said calendars. Or postcards, or paintings of seascapes. It is, for lack of better description, exactly what you would expect when you think of those things.

Anyway, I've never been to Peggy's Cove. It's been on the Canada list for years, but one thing or another prevented us from going there together before. Last year we had Mama with us, and travel is hard on her -- plus, by the end of our trip, we'd just gotten back from Prince Edward Island and Green Gables, so adding more to that would've been a burden and overwhelming to us all. Two years ago, when it was just Daisy and I up there in May, we wanted to take a day to explore the Halifax area (including Peggy's Cove) but wildfires in the area were causing evacuations and we were lucky that they didn't get close enough to the airport to cancel our flight home.

Daisy had not been to Peggy's Cove since she was there with the family as a young child, long before she and I were together. It holds special meaning to the family as it's where Daisy's parents had their first date. Between going there and making the drive around the entirety of the Cabot Trail, it was very symbolic to us -- tracing the steps that many others in the family had done before, together, for the first time. 

When we finally got to Peggy's Cove, it was late afternoon and the sun was already speeding downward, yet there were a lot of people there. Turns out that in the time since Daisy (and even her parents) were last there, the lighthouse area had built a very large visitor's center and two-story gift shop behind it, leading up to the lighthouse as a sort of staging area. Canada had done something similar with Green Gables in PEI as well; the last time the family was there before last year, it was basically just the house and a little gift shop -- there's an entire museum and visitor's center there now.

To a certain extent I think this commercializes these scenic locations too much, but to another extent I really like seeing Canada put money and planning into these locations' heritage and giving visitors things to see, learn, and buy. More power to you, Canada, for realizing that sometimes it's necessary to monetize things a bit. 

Anyway, we arrived just in time to get some of the best possible photos; the lighting was wonderful.

You can't actually go up into the lighthouse, sadly; it's locked shut, and I am not exactly sure how "functional" it is at this juncture. However, as you can see, you can definitely venture out on the rocks -- basically as far as you want, all the way down to the water if you want, along the coast. 

It looks very bright and pretty, but as we were there in mid-October, it was not exactly warm along the ocean, and there was some wild coastal wind that day. We decided not to press our luck on the rocks, lest I lose my balance (because let's not joke about this -- between the two of us, it would definitely be me whose fat ass slipped and rolled down the very hard rock face into the ocean). I did not want to become one of those statistics that they had very clearly posted warning signs about:

Upon showing that pic above to a friend once I returned home, his response was "how very Canada of them."

After getting a lot of photos -- and I mean a lot of photos -- we ventured back up to the visitor's center to look through this giant two-story gift shop. 

Truthfully, gift shops in Canada are a mixed bag for us and it's a toss-up of whether they'll have anything we want -- and if they do, if it's a clothing item, if they carry it in our size. Most of the time, the answer to that latter question is "hahah, no, fatty." The largest sizes a lot of shops will carry is a 2XL, and while that'll generally fit Daisy fine, I like to wear my stuff a little looser. Even though I've lost a lot of weight over the past few years, I like a hoodie to be big and baggy and I like my t-shirts to not make me look or feel like a sausage about to burst from its casing, so my bare minimum for zip-up hoodies and t-shirts is 3XL and pullover hoodies and polo-style shirts 4XL. If I can get a t-shirt or hoodie in 5X, I will, because it means I won't have to worry about it shrinking too much when it's washed and dried.

Unfortunately, the Peggy's Cove gift shop -- for all of the wonderful stuff it had -- was not a fat-friendly one. Most of their clothing only went up to XL, with some scattered 2X's here and there. We were really striking out on a lot of fat people clothing this year, it seemed.

Upstairs, I did come across what appeared to be a rugby shirt, navy and cream striped -- but also, it looked...well, like a typical "sailor shirt" or "pirate shirt." I don't know how to describe it other than that. Like a striped shirt a low-ranking pirate would wear on a pirate ship?

I dunno, use your imagination here, folks.

But it was long-sleeved and knit like a rugby shirt (without a collar, though), almost sweater-like, in a formal cut. It had a "Peggy's Cove, NS" embroidery on the front chest pocket area, and it was on deep clearance, something like the equivalent of about $20 American, if that. 

"I actually really like this," I told Daisy. "It's huge, thick, warm, and kind of makes me look like a pirate or sailor." I held it up against me. Daisy arched her eyebrows in doubt.

In the end, I did not get it. But I thought about it hard for the time we were in the gift shop.

"I'm glad you didn't get it," Daisy said later. "I thought it was hideous."

"It was hideous," I said, "but that's part of why I wanted it. I just...didn't need it, and I have so much clothing now as it is."

But really, folks, do you know why I didn't get it?

Because I'm not a fat sailor.

Canada 2025, Part VIII: Home to the North

 Thursday, October 9th was to be our last full day in Auld's Cove, around the family homestead, before we would pull up our proverbial tent and head to Dartmouth/Halifax the next day. And, to be fair, there was a lot we had done up to this point, but also a lot that we hadn't done that we do normally do when we're in Canada. 

I have long said that the Canada experience for me isn't just family and friends, but it's the full experience of being in my home to the north that I love more than anything else. That includes things most folks up there would take for granted, like getting Tim Hortons every morning or stopping by Giant Tiger or Dollarama for light shopping and some essentials. It also includes soaking in every single scenic view possible, whether it's looking down at the open ocean from the mountaintops on the Cabot Trail or, on a clear night seeing every star and the arc of the Milky Way above rural Canada not tainted by thousands of city lights.

It was in Bobcaygeon

I saw the constellations 

reveal themselves one star at a time...

Ahem. 

I soak it all in; every sunrise or sunset I see, every deep breath of Canadian coastal sea air, every drop of misting fall rain. Every eagle or raven I see soar over the mountain roads or the family backyard, every seagull hanging out in a parking lot, beautiful and patterned in its own way, every loonie or toonie I collect in change after a cup of coffee or bag of ketchup chips I purchase, every low-caffeine watered-down Monster I drink. Every bit of it is spiritual, magical in some way to me that I cannot fully describe. Canada puts me into a deep peace that I do not feel anywhere else on the planet.

I never want to leave it. Atlantic Canada calls to me; it tells me I belong there -- ancestrally, spiritually, and that I am welcomed with open arms and love. When I am there, I am home. I was born to live along the rocky coastline in a cottage, looking out on the open ocean from my back porch as I sip coffee in the sea air before, eventually, I go back inside to my desk and spend a few hours writing or revising my latest short story or poem. That is how I want to spend the rest of my life -- a life unfettered, unbothered by the news, weather, or who the president is -- just quiet peace with my lovely Canadian wife and cats by my side.

But, unfortunately, that is not the world I currently live in, and it is not the life we have, and I always eventually have to pull myself back to the reality that for the short time we're there, I'm living out of a backpack and a suitcase, and only with what we can carry and afford. We are nomads but for a short time only. 

So, back to the story. That Thursday, the last full day we were around town, we had a few small missions to accomplish -- namely, we were having dinner with friends of the family in the evening, and in the daytime hours beforehand we planned to go to Antigonish -- primarily to visit a store called 5¢ to $1.00.

I've written about Antigonish before; it is one of many smaller towns around the rural areas of Nova Scotia. Only about 5,000 people live there, but it feels much bigger than it is. Antigonish is also the home of St. Francis Xavier University, and there is a big community and passion for said school there in town, with a lot of merchandise and clothing branded with a big collegiate X, which makes me feel like I walked into an X-Men comic.

I mean, come on.

The downtown area is very quaint and reminds me so very much of places like Stars Hollow from Gilmore Girls.  There are lots of little shops, a beautiful town square, some corner stores, etc. It would be a beautiful place to spend an entire day just exploring, except every time we have been there, it has been pouring rain. 

I mean, Atlantic Canada, but still. 

One of those corner stores, however, is a pilgrimage for us every time we're in Canada, and that store is 5¢ to $1.00. Yes, that's the name of it. I would imagine that originally, upon its inception, that was likely accurate for its prices, because apparently it has been there, in the same location, forever.

I don't really know how to describe 5¢ to $1.00 accurately; it is, all in one, a souvenir shop, department store, clothing store, convenience store, fabric and craft supply shop, hub for indigenous peoples' art and designs, high-end women's fashion store, bookstore, office supply store, hardware store, camera and watch repair hub, and snack bar. I have never seen another store like it outside of little independent general stores you see in movies from the 70s or 80s. This type of place is functionally extinct in the states, but apparently not in Atlantic Canada. And, it's a popular place -- it is almost always pretty busy when we're there. 

It also tends to be the place where Daisy and I pick up gifts for family and friends to bring back home, more than anywhere else. Daisy gravitates heavily to the art of the First Nations people; we have multiple prints, magnets, mugs, postcards, and now a fleece blanket with lots of art on it:

This is just an example; we don't own this one, but it's all art of this style. We love it, and it supports the First Nations people of Canada. Daisy has handmade wallets, multiple coffee mugs, and other items with a lot of art on them, all in this style. When we go to 5¢ to $1.00, we always get more, and new stuff. It's kind of Daisy's thing -- it's the one souvenir-like thing she looks forward to every year.

Well, this year was no exception. We can't go to 5¢ to $1.00 without spending...well, let's be frank here, a few hundred dollars on things. Despite the name, the store itself is not generally cheap. It's not really that expensive either, but it's not cheap nor is it a discount store of any sort. 

Despite this, aside from little kitschy souvenir things (which I have enough of at this point, to be completely honest with you), there is little in the store I want or need most of the time; the various souvenir t-shirts they don't carry larger than a 2XL, a lot of the coffee mugs are too small for the amount of coffee I drink in one sitting, and the rest of the clothing in the store is very blue-collar work-oriented -- rural Nova Scotia is going to run that way, honestly. I did find a green lightweight hoodie in 3XL on deep discount (it was something like $7 CAD, which is like $5 American) that fits me like a glove and is so incredibly comfortable. I also got a corduroy baseball cap, which -- if you're friends with me in real life and have me on Facebook, you can currently see me wearing in my profile picture.

I also finally picked up the trifold Montreal Canadiens leather wallet I wanted to get last year and kicked myself for not getting when I had the chance, in addition to some other little things like stickers, a patch, a deck of cards, etc. I don't really remember a lot of what the wife got; I know she got candy for Mom, at least 3-4 of the mugs, a big throw blanket for the couch, and some other odds and ends. 

After a quick run through the Superstore so she could get some cookies, we were back on the road to Auld's Cove for dinner with our family friends, who actually live on one of those little seaside cottages I was writing about above, right next to our hotel.

These family friends are longtime family friends -- Daisy's parents basically grew up with them and as it is a very close-knit community up there, those friendships span generations. All of the families, extended or otherwise, eventually intermarry or leave the area, so in some way, shape, or fashion everyone is tangentially related to someone else in the town either through cousins or distant marriages; there are only about thirty or forty family lines that run through the little town Mama's entire family is from, and some of those connections go back centuries. If you're not tangentially related via marriage or via fifth or sixth cousins or what have you, you are known because you're the son, daughter, grandson, granddaughter, etc of someone known. It is very much a "everyone knows everyone else" community. In many respects, anywhere else, I would hate that (say, in a West Virginia context) but in that little town in Nova Scotia it is quite quaint and comforting. I will remind you that it seemed like the entire town showed up for the funeral of Daisy's grandfather in 2022, because he was a longtime pillar of the community and everyone knew him, or they knew one of his sons or daughters and their families, or all of the above. 

As an aside, last night at the parents', Mama made the comment that even though we didn't know most of the extended family folks at Daisy's cousin's wedding, she was absolutely sure that all of them -- all of them -- knew who we were. Same mentality, same energy.

Anyway -- these family friends adore Daisy and me. They adore Daisy's parents too of course, but they also adore us on our own merit. They are exceedingly kind and always open up their home to us when they know we're in town, and insist on cooking us a full meal (despite the fact that we have told them it's not necessary and that we just love seeing them and talking to them). Their house is simply beautiful, they are some of the kindest Canadians I have ever met, and they absolutely and completely sympathize with us being -- at this juncture -- "Americans, but unhappy about it" to phrase it gently.

But then again, they know all of us so well that they know we're not the typical American assholes.

"When we've been asked where we're from," I said, "I've been answering that question with 'unfortunately, we are from the states' because if I phrase it that way, whoever I say that to knows that we're not in league with the Trump-supporting fascists down there."

That is true, by the way. I wish I could tell you how many times I had to say that in mixed company in order to pre-emptively defend ourselves and let people know that we bleed maple syrup and poutine gravy, that we are, in fact, Canada-loving Americans. 

Well, I say it mainly in reference to myself. Daisy is actually a Canadian citizen and as such would theoretically have less to defend against.

Anyway --these are good people, people who love us and love the family, people who cook wonderful meals for us when we're in town even though they don't have to and will do it either for just us, or if one or more of the parents are with us, just because they want to and want to see us and spend time with us. We were there for hours, just enjoying food and quiet conversation, commiserating about just how bad it sucks now to be an American, about how much I love The Tragically Hip (this, ahem, came up frequently in conversation while I was in Canada, with many people) and about the life we have of raising six cats.

We are friends with these people on Facebook, of course -- it's not like they don't know about our lives in as much detail as we choose to share online. I have my Facebook locked down to the public and to non-friends, but to my friends, my life is basically an open book. I'm still a fairly private person, but aside from this site, Facebook is where I feel I can kind of at least somewhat be myself. I'm also one of those types of people who is very much "what you see is what you get, yo" in the sense that I am not a different person online than I am in real life. This is me.

So, after a delightful dinner and conversation, we did wander back to the hotel room and pass out, and so ended our vacation on the eastern side of the province.