23~ A Whole Lot of Happiness (The Wholesome Kind)

A memorable 35th birthday in Lunenberg, feeling full of love from all around, I thought things could not get better. The Novia Scotian open roads I was let loose on in my SUV seemed to promise so much. From my shaky start in my vehicle in the city roads of Halifax, to relaxing into the smooth easy drive on the highway, I was captivated by the beauty and wonder that splayed ahead in the lupin studded landscapes. The roads and vistas symbolised/evoked adventure and liberty; a great combination which has rung true so far. I did not deduce or infer friendship from the roads- believing this section of my trip would be much on my own. I could never have dreamed up the wonderful people that I would encounter in Novia Scotia. But, now I have learnt, wherever you are going in Novia Scotia, whether undertaking a serious chunk of open road driving alone, you will always arrive in a spot of welcome and wonder; where you make new friends, where a whole lot of happiness is there for the taking and where you can indeed, '...depend on the kindness of strangers.' ~Blanche Dubois in A Streetcar Named Desire 

I have had no time to write and only now have just settled into a little cafe in Wolfville to reflect on the many experiences that have consumed me over the past two weeks. Firstly, I have extended my time here by two weeks; I have embraced my SUV and have been driving the length and breadth of the province. In fact, I love the damn car. Although, I seek desire from attachments, I have decided I want one of these beasts. It is slightly incongruous, I feel, with my ideologies. But it seems the right way to travel (here at least it would be necessary and in terms of preferred modes of transport, well, I should not be so fickle and remind myself of my infatuation with the Dutch cycling legs I embraced). I swear this car is like magic; it practically drives itself and chucking your stuff in the boot and not on your back is a complete luxury.

In fact, as time has gone on, my car rental time extended (I got SatNav and the full insurance pack when I saw the car; sure I would at least crash and perhaps die), I have realised this driving malarkey is a luxury (but really the only way to delve deep into this province). I will most certainly need to work the summer Vancouver. The rite of passage waitressing work that I missed out on in my teens, here I come. Babysitting the Burritt babies, oh yes! Hope the tips are forthcoming to cover car costs and copious amounts of cookies I have been chomping...

In order to get up to speed, I will provide a rundown of the past weeks events. An abundance of photographs will hopefully enhance the brief stories (I may be giving those Japanese tourists I met a run for their money in amount of selfies taken, although none are with exaggerated pouty lips/fish face- this has apparently taken over from the peace sign) I endeavour to relay.

So many places to pull over on the drives to snap a poto

After a lobster linguine birthday feast, I sank into my Dragonfly den and actually blogged! 'Roman Holiday' would wait until the following evening. There was a full house at 'Alicion B&B' that evening so joining the other guests for breakfast was fun. On Lorne's recommendation I headed out to enjoy the weather.

A hike at Gaff Point with leftover lobster linguine and beet salad was a triumph.

The hike was so beautiful, I literally ran some of it- I was so invigorated by the beauty and the varied landscape.

I almost went off trail and felt a little 'Hansel and Gretel'. The woman at the 'Salem Witch Museum' had pointed out that this story in fact features cannibalism, when giving her talk about 'The History of the Witch'. This memory coupled with the gingerbread-like houses I had just been admiring on my drive, is not a thought path that should be entertained on a solitary hike.

So I shook it off. A more realistic concern should have been the possibility of tick taking residency on my person, rather than a child eating witch living in a house made of sweets eating me whole. I did question the beetle type bug upon my leg as I lunched and am grateful I quickly flicked it away, later learning about these little buggers.

So apart from my first meeting with a tick, I crossed paths with one couple and other that that, the hike was my own. A perfectly flat bit of slate, with a perfect panorama provided a picnic point and a place to snooze in the sun. When I returned to Lunenberg, Lorne had leant me his bike and I pelted around town and out, not wanting to miss a thing. Lorne and Janet had invited me to a BBQ they were hosting with their Lunenberg pals. These ladies are amazing: Chrissy- a British lady with an Inn here, and also works with young people in school; Barbara- an actress, writer and a storyteller for children in NS libraries. Rick (such fun, so kind and interested- he came the next day armed with lots of Hull facts), John (a publisher and children's author!!), a lovely couple celebrating their wedding anniversary and more. These people were a scream, open, interested and kind. I even got a little drunk. We played games in the garden and shared beautiful food.

Lorne, after a few glasses of wine, invited everyone for waffles in the morning.

I was the only guest again and he had promised me them on my last day. Their hosting is continuous, executed with incredible graciousness; what a joy to be in the hub of it all. 

I leave reluctantly. We sit on the porch and chat.

I hug everyone and Lorne says they miss me already, that he understands why I was lavished with gifts and cards. I am incredibly touched. I had bought a locket from the coffee shop, made by a local. I bought it, opened the locket, closed my eyes and took my love from Lunenberg and placed it inside. Clasping it shut, I have not taken it off since. 

I sailed to my new digs in Digby. Chrissy is full of NS knowledge and sent me on a gorgeous drive, where I had to drive my car onto a little ferry. I would have never known how this worked without her tips and the heavenly 'Le Have' bakery you hit on the other side was a gem. I stopped in Liverpool and grabbed a spot of lunch for a Liverpool picnic.
I took advantage of wifi and skyped with Mama Wolff from the little pizzeria. Everyone that I skype with says how well I look. But a whole lot of happy, the wholesome good stuff, is surely a recipe for looking well. Also constant wandering means I am exposed to the elements and my face is very freckly, quite possibly dirty at times and skype does not always show up the finer lines, shall we say? I stocked up in the supermarket and was looking forward to brekkie on the road and being able to cook at the hostel I was heading to. People in Liverpool were as wonderfully accommodating as Lunenberg.

I met this chap on the way to Digby:

Not sure he has the same graciousness or temperament of the other Novia Scotians I encounter. I actually drove around this fellow, supposing it to be roadkill. But as I drove on, possibly about 3k, I had to turn round. What the hell was it? A dinosaur?? No. Definitely extinct. Couldn't be. Armadillo? I don't think they are in these parts, but that is probably a less embarrassing assumption than a dinosaur. Maybe an armadillo that had lost his way. 

I stand of the side of the road peering down at him. He does not seem impressed. But he is quite something. He is like a armoured, hefty, outdoorsy version of T who I met back in New York (refer to blog 13~Carrot Juice With a Side of Wheatgrass, A Poet and a Turtle). This guy looks tough. He looks at me with intelligence that I had seen in T, but the defiance and noise he makes is a little alarming. I am later told by Claude at the youth hostel that it was quite a chance sighting. A 'snapping turtle'. Ancient creatures, that he describes as

a 'tank'. If I had got to close, I may be without my nose. Now that would be a shame, noseless and all in the name of a selfie with a snapping turtle. Mental note- email poet who I ignored after some more strange (somewhat indecipherable) correspondence in the form of emailed poems (described as lovesick by our Lyd). It would be polite to share this turtle type tale with him and it is a topic in which we can connect. Roald Dahl references in answer to his poetic prose was not going to cut it, but this story just may.

Digby was my next stop. Different, really different town to Lunenberg. The hostel is great. Although these Digby digs are much different to the princess palace I had just been living in, I really liked it. It was all a bit more industrial, a little run down and the restaurants on the waterfront were a little disappointing (although Digby is the capitol of scallops and these were obviously great), shops a little junky and tacky. There were a few doorstep dwellers (men, drinking beer) appreciating the warm evening and I was quite taken aback to receive a few cat calls. I thought I blended in- no make up, flannel shirts and converse. There were some boy-racer types in the supermarket car park and such a different feel. The sophistication that epitomised World Heritage Site Lunenberg was not here, but I appreciated the contrast. The skies, the endless and beautiful skies can not be taken away from this town. The town seems to be under a vast arena of blue for the clouds to tell stories, move in different ways and form wondrous shapes. The Digby sky was something else; ever-changing over the harbour and bay. Running on the old railway track the next morning, I enjoyed the panorama immensely. The Bay of Fundy is something else- so different to the coast on the Eastern shores of Novia Scotia.

 

I headed to Brier Island and did an amazing hike. I pull over as instructed by Claude and Saskia (owners of the youth hostel) and am immediately befriended by two locals that give me tips and tick
warnings. I take a wrong turn, even after all the instruction and consider whether this viewing point can really be it. I rectify my mistake and am rewarded by the view of the whole, even if I had to double back and put myself in even more of a tick risk situation in the process.

This also means the long drive down (two ferries to board in my vehicle- pro at this now) to the island for a scheduled whale watching tour is just narrowly missed. I will have to wait for the next ferry to return up the island. The lady in the shop (the only shop on the island) gives me a map and circles the lighthouse and the tip of the island as potential points to explore.

How far is it? I inquire. Do I have time? She looks at me like I am a little stupid and points out the window to the tip of the island, probably about a 30 second drive. I sit on the rocks and enjoy the view.

A guy in a van pulls up and sit out on the rocks, he has a beer and a dog on his lap. He appears to be contemplative as I am. Also awaiting the ferry- we are side by side on the return. 

Although tired, I decide to pull over and hike to the balancing rock.

I bump into two giggling girls that appear to be road-tripping together. I had seen them the night before, at the same restaurant in deserted Digby. They are muslim girls, their pretty headdress making them memorable as well they were the only other people in the restaurant. They are having a whale of a time and we chat about the rock and the nasty climb up the stairs after hiking down to the viewing platform. 

Sunday Club back home

Curly Claude

Their comradery makes me think of my friends; they are having Sunday Club at Mama Wolff's and I hoped to Skype with them all, but wifi would have been a long shot on Brier Island. So I write a few emails to feel connected to my friends and I snuggle into my bunk bed, after a cooking fest and have nice chats with the Youth Hostel peeps the next morning. I am struck by how much Claude reminds me of Pops back home (aka Noodles or Curly Chris). I show him and Saskia pics of Chris and they have to agree.

They find his nicknames hilarious. Claude is also a builder by trade, just like my pal, Chris. I leave Digby, stop in Bear River. It is a tiny spot, known for artists taking residence. I have coffee in a gorgeous little cafe- there are only two choices and admire the houses and riverfront shops on stilts, sat at either end of the bridge. I skype with Fee and the waitress is so friendly, telling me to take care when driving (it is pretty rainy and misty). I head for Yarmouth, an airbnb spot on the lake. The host is Linda-Marie; we have been exchanging emails and her loveliness is jumping off the screen in her written words so I am excited to meet her. She works in theatre with young children and has invited me to yoga in a barn. Already, awesome. I pull into the drive, step out and take in the house, nestled into the hillside, surveying the lake. I stretch my driving legs, throw my head back and feel happy, breathing in the freshness of the grass and the Novia Scotia air. I was chasing a feeling for a while; something complete. I wanted a peace that lasted more than a momentary feeling, no questions, no ego, no neediness, no someone else to complete or justify me. I am on my own and I feel whole. I have found it supported by a cove of friends, family and new places. Now I can enjoy the peace I have found here in this setting: 'where my hillside meets the lake in curve of cove and trees' (Linda Marie's words). I head down the steps to a welcoming embrace from my new friend Linda-Marie. Lakeside with LM- it is going to be good. With this welcome, how could it not be?

As I sit and write, two woman come in, heckling and joking with baristas of this great coffee shop- 'Just Us' on Main Street, Wolfville. They refer to themselves as a married couple, requesting a blueberry muffin on the larger side because as marital bliss dictates- they must share this muffin, but they would never share french fries! I can not avoid snippets of their conversation. One of them encourages the other with all the enthusiasm and support that only a wonderful friend can provide. ‘You have to try, it will be an amazing change for you and you deserve to explore and try something different.’ Another lady, alone, and in a transient place in her life, I gather. Her friend assures her that a 'whole lot of happiness' is in front of her and she can not think of anyone more worthy, that she is her hero. 'You are so brave,' she tells her friend. I feel like they must have known what I was writing, but no, they are absorbed in their intimate chat. I wish her luck in my head as I sit and write and remember a quote I jotted in my journal:

‘Heroes take journeys, confront dragons and discover their true selves.’ ~Carol Pearson

So everyone is on their own journey. Everyone fighting their own battles and forging new paths. I am looking forward to returning to a set of heroes on a journey that I have the privilege of staying with out in Woodville. A young couple, Henry and Kristen, a British guy and a Canadian gal, upped sticks and are settling here in Novia Scotia, farming their land and assimilating themselves in the local culture. When I ask where Henry is last night- Monday is his session as a volunteer with the local Woodville firemen. These heroes are all around. I find comfort and (a whole lot of) happiness in that.  

Port Maitland beach near Yarmouth- the sea mist was rolling
and was unlike anything I had seen before

22~Crossing the Border; Emotional in Montreal (Momentarily)

A City Feed and Supply sandwich from Boston- perfect

to get me cross the border

Crossing the border is much easier than I expect; I anticipated being challenged about the length of time I will be spending in Canada/time spent in the U.S.A and with a little piece of paper that merely documents scheduled flights from various worldwide destinations, I hope to not be interrogated. It is the emotions that wash over me in Montreal that takes me by surprise. I am the last to go through the border control. We all hop off the bus to cross the border and will re-board on the other side. I chat to Natalie. She is lovely, vibrant and has an interesting background. We talk about Montreal and what it is like; she tells me of their not so distant political problems and how many of her friends voted with their feet, leaving the city, although it is now in a state of equilibrium and is again, the wonderful atmosphere that she has grown to love about her home there. We talk about how when my mother and father were here and the government enforced the laws of expected levels of spoken French in certain professions and how this was problematic for my dad. Natalie does this Greyhound trip from Montreal where she lives, to Boston where her fiancee is born and bred quite regularly. She has just had her birthday in Maine with the in laws, disappointed by the changeable weather as she was unable to wear her new sandals and dress and also disappointed to be turning the grand old age of 26. She must register my face and I tell her I am too a May baby, 35 this Thursday. She looks horrified. But, you look great she tells me. I don’t know what I am supposed to look like at 35 but I guess it is safe to say, apparently not like this and not alone, travelling from a backpack with converse on my feet and plaits on my head. The lads near me on the bus who are getting off before the border are rude boys, a lot of rap and a lot of calling each other. I am Miss Accent, hot allegedly because of it. I decide to take it all on the chin, old or not, hot or not, accent or not. The rude boys have wheels coming to rescue them from the potential roadside hell- we have to wait for another bus, the tire is losing pressure and this is very dangerous to continue forth. Greyhound has a reputation for breaking down, says Natalie. We wait roadside, hence all the life details. 

My bus buddy Victor, hangs around but I am unsure about him as he chose the seat right next to me when there was many free seats. He waits to help me with bags and is little too attentive for a stranger.  

What I am not prepared for is the emotions that cross through, over and around me as I cross borders. Emotions are almost echoed and reflected in the beauty of the cloud performance that splays out.

As I cross the border, the clouds appear to show two distinct and
completely different formations and patterns- amazing

Victor and I begin to talk. What a lovely man. Originally from Guatemala, but has lived in Montreal for over 20 years. He is a divorcee that has grown up children a little younger than me. We talk about the world, hopes, family and roots in places. He looks at the photos I have taken of the sky and we both stare at the small rainbow, shy but ever present between the robust and rolling clouds. I share this quote I have written down in my journal with Victor:

'We may run, walk, stumble, drive or fly but let us never lose sight of the reason for the journey or a chance to see a rainbow on the way.'

~Glora Gaither

Spot the rainbow, peeping through on the right

Victor nods and smiles as if it is not weird at all when I squeal, catching sight of the huge moon as the bus swings around on the highway.

He is so gentle and I feel awful that as we crossed the border, this Canadian citizen had bother because of a scrap piece of paper with calculative sums of money (his preferred banking method) sparks inquiry. I sailed through with the man looking at my British passport and informing me that I am a Canadian- you were born in Victoria. I smile and shrug. Yes, yes, I guess I am. But I have not a Canadian passport. He is pretty solemn: Have I got anything untoward in my bag?  A little dirty washing. Have I got copious amounts of money?(or a question along these lines) Definitely not, although so far so good with my budgeting. If I am staying with friends in Vancouver, have I gifts and of what nature? No, I haven’t, now you are making me feel bad! I can see a little smile creep in but he remains quite straight faced and ushers me through with a tip of his hat. I semi curtsy (I am a Brit too after all) and hope Victor is okay. Funny though, because I do not learn Victor or Natalie’s name until the last moments I am in their company. As we disembark the dreaded Greyhound, Victor warmly clasps my hand (which I hold a little princess like but only because I am laden with my yearly possessions), wishing me all the luck in the world.

Natalie pops up in the metro station and sorts my ticket for me, sending me on my way with directions and best wishes. I am overwhelmed with their warmth and also this French speaking and French language world I have stepped into. I follow my instructions and leave the metro, trek into the darkening night to my airbnb, stopping and appreciating the moon as I go. Lucky I had that $5 in Canadian money for my metro ticket. I had tucked away since last October in my purse, a present from my roomie.

I am momentarily in Montreal and I love it. My airbnb host is awesome. Such an interesting man who lets me laze in his bath and use his bubbles. He is shrieking in the living room a little after I arrive. I wonder what I have got myself into. Maybe he needs my help, should I leave my room? Should I call out to him? I realise it is to do with sports- ice hockey, of course. We watch a little together. Big game between rivals Montreal and Boston. Like a light being turned on, I realise coming fresh (well, bus fresh) from Boston, I had witnessed the the preparation for battle there. Street vendors with some hockey supporter paraphernalia. My host has so many tips, maps and stories I realise my two day stopover will not do this city justice. The bed is heavenly and I sleep. Running, exploring, blogging and wandering the next day. Executing some pigeon French, loving the friendliness and the style of the city. The old town is interesting. 

So strange to see all the French related buildings, items and the prettiest word for me is I imagine my mum and dad here. Young, just married, mum pregnant with Steph. I feel incredibly emotional and manage to touch base with Steph while I blog in ‘The Second Cup’. The Chinatown section is small, very interesting with some great soup! 

So eclectic, Parisian feel but a lot friendlier. With maple syrup based goods and Canadian flags. Hello smoothie: avocado based with 'sirop d'erable'! Oh, yes!!

I get back to my cosy home from home and bathe again. After, legs completely fatigued, I sit and have a long, lovely chat with my host. The Public Gardens that were in Montreal the previous year, blow me away. There is so much amazing stuff going on in this city and my host is situated in such a great area. Rue de St Catherine is a street that gets closed down in the summer months so the restaurants can spill out onto the pavements. Awesome.

Outdoor concerts and fun is the agenda and I am arriving as the plethora of foliage and flowers planted in copious amounts across the city are about to flourish. Montreal can say a welcome hello to their city in Spring. We talk about the winters here and it sounds pretty epic. A million dollars a day to 'clear' the snow so the people of Montreal can function. He is conveniently placed to the metro. So those freezing winter days will be underground or indoors, if out momentarily, all but eyes exposed. I imagine my mum here with little bambino Steph. So tricky and lonesome if you have not got the network or set up in place. We talk on. He has a beautiful idea for a book, amazingly interesting memoirs of his grandmother. I am mesmerised and wish I had the energy to talk into the night but I feel run down; emotions and travel, most likely. My throat is sore and I have not time for that!

I leave early the next day, narrowly missing my flight, or so I think. It is at 10:05 and my bus, which takes 40min to an hour, sets off at 8:30. I race in and everyone is as calm and friendly. It is fine, a gentle breeze. You have plenty of time. Wrong words- I of course then dither over coffee and magazines, almost missing the last call for my gate. This is a very relaxed airport. You're good, I am told and they are very happy to have me on board. Heading for Halifax, Novia Scotia. It is quite something, the aerial view. I know it is going to be amazing, I can feel it. When I planned this trip, I knew I had to come to Novia Scotia. I remember a book I read as a child. It was set here and although I cannot remember the title, I remember these two children who were uprooted from a city living. Their parents had died and their guardians, their Aunt and Uncle, had them in their Novia Scotian home. The descriptions of their new life, their sorrow and their new world was so rich, captivating. It had left an imprint on my 9 year old mind. 

So, although in Montreal momentarily, mainly because I was eager to get to Novia Scotia for my birthday, I am grateful to have been there. It has helped to shape my path back through Eastern Canada. I will definitely stop again in Montreal, and stay with my great host. This city feels momentous for me. It is where my big sis entered this world, where my parents shared part of their lives. I need some more moments in Montreal, emotional or not. 

Pull yourself together now, Wolff. Time to pick up a hire car and hit the Novia Scotian highway. I have been upgraded. I almost cry when I see my wheels. Not with happiness, or from being in touch with my emotions in Montreal, but pure fear. I asked for a small, compact car. I have an SUV. It is huge. It is automatic (never driven one before, EVER!). I am alone. I have to drag the guy out to give me a lesson. Which is the gas? Brakes? What does P, D, S, R mean? Where do I plug the Sat Nav in? In the end, I just drive. I pull myself together and I don’t look back. And I mean this literally- I forget to use my rearview mirror. But the roads are open, the few other cars patient and then I hit the open road and I fly to Lunenberg. I relax. A huge smile spreads across my face. I feel euphoric and free, soaking in the Novia Scotian landscape. How could I look back when there is so much to look forward to?

21~Boston (Strong)

Lydia saw me off on my bus; I was grateful to have her there in the chaos of the Megabus setup, holding my pack up she had put together in one hand ('Eataly' bag and perfectly contained papaya salad, juice and all) and the hot coffee she had purchased for me in the other. Low clouds consumed the tips of the NY skyscrapers and misty rain covered us in our unsheltered spot. With a truly imminent separation dawning on us, we hatched a desperate plan for meeting in Canada. Our cobbled together proposal promptly forced us to realise that our North American geographical knowledge is somewhat lacking (Princess Smartypants I expect better from; I, as a native and recent studier of the Canadian Lonely Planet, should be better informed). We google a map to examine possible points for a reunion. Dismayed but not defeated, we fritter away the blaring truth that vast space and distance may gazump us and assure each other we will be reunited soon enough. I am last to get on the bus- one last embrace, on a Canadian Princess Smartypants promise, all emergency snacks handed over. Lydia seems to evaporate into the mist, I look for her but she is gone. She is lost to my eye, masked by the hustle and bustle of the streets. The skyline appears to be enveloped deeper within the darkening clouds as the bus pulls away. Boston bound. Hadn't really thought about it until now. 

I arrive. Everything is easy peasy. The metro is nothing. Finding my way to my airbnb, well, lemon squeezy. A policewoman with a Boston, tough as nails accent confirms my metro ticket purchase is correct and I look in surprise at her. That is some accent. Is she pulling my leg? The Bostonian accent imitated by Brits Andy and Jordan back home I took as a poor representation, a caricature of the Boston tongue. But actually, their sendup not too far off. True Bostonians are territorial over their dialect, I later learn from Maria (who is my airbnb host) when I regale the dialogue I stumble upon in the Haymarket the following day.

My perfect apartment was described by the host as a treetop haven and it is, indeed, exactly that. The apartment, the house, the neighbourhood blow me away.

As I arrive, trekking along with the backpack on, everywhere is drenched in the last sunshine and the balmy evening soothed my solitary spirit. Comforted by my own little home and secure in being nestled into the Maria’s care and kindness (what a great air bob host), I head out to absorb the leafy goodness and the resplendent rays that seem to be cloaking me in a warm welcome. 

In honour of Lyd and Eve, I go and have Thai food in ‘Wonderspice’, on the main street in the little village of Jamaica Plains. Observing the neighbourhood haunt, ‘J.P Licks Ice Cream Parlour', I observe the hub of ice cream lickers. Perhaps just a steady stream of regulars or frequented now because of the beautiful evening. This weather just screams ice cream. I walk to ‘The Pond’. It is part of the Emerald Necklace, designed by Frederick Law Olmstead, who designed Central Park. It gets it name from the way the planned chain appears to hang from the neck of the Boston peninsula. I breathe it all in. Nectar of the heavy blossom, the reflection of the trees in the pond, the sparkles of the setting sun strewn across the water like cascading confetti.

I meander back to my homely treetop house; homely not only because of its miniature, ergonomic perfectness or for having it all to call my own, but because the last place I had to call my own was a treetop haven too. A room with a leafy view. Living in the trees. So fresh and invigorating. As I near my new home, I stop. The sun has lowered, the street lights are now on. I am no longer made small by metal and glass but by trees. Gorgeous, green, gigantic trees. I find it looks unreal. I later say to Andy, it feels like a film set. Have I grown so accustomed to New York and the filmic feel it emulates, have I become to absorbed in blogging and storytelling that I am making everything into a set, a stage?

I conclude that it is the way the street lights are in the trees; hazy, congruous light, like fireflies lighting my way home. Magical. I listen to the sounds of people in their gardens, absorbing the last moments of the evening warmth. I walk up the steps, stand in the porch and make my way slowly up the stairs for a long, delicious sleep.

Waking to the views of the treetops, I chuck my trainers on and run to ‘The Pond’, relishing the Jamaican Plain neighbourhood vibe. I run right to the relaxed 'Wholefoods' (it has just arrived in this neck of the woods) and gather some supplies to stock my kitchen for the next few days. I run into Maria, on her way to work. She rolls down the car window and we chat- I feel part of the community and I am not even a full day in! Leaving Lydia and the comfort of companionship was going to be tough, but hey, an interlude in Jamaican Plains, snuggled in a Boston Strong setting is just what this wanderer needed.

Maria and I chat later when I return from a day downtown, mainly spent on the Freedom Trail (interrupted by coldish rain so I only managed half of it- sorry, Boston lover Andy).

I loved the market that I happened upon, hearing that strong accent and the fruit selling techniques was something else! She is gardening and she tells me that I remind her of Verity. Another guest, from back in Hull, a friend who visited here too after a stint in NYC. Maria says that Verity was exhausted from the city. It can wear you out. Hmmmmmm. Yes. It is SO stimulating, hectic and a surprising amount of walking or dashing. I had become in a New York time zone and mind set. Even when I did not have a time to be somewhere, if I heard the subway through the gutter grates, I would begin to run to make it. Fast, fast, move, never stopping and never still. Maybe that is why my running time is so rubbish (probably combined with the cookies, perhaps?). Struggling on the 5k front is a little annoying.

I plan another run, to a further park, part of The Emerald Necklace. Sue Carter helps me to get over the 5k anguish by apping me: 'However fast we go or how hard it is- we're always going faster than the folk on the sofa.' Love it. I sign up for a weeks unlimited classes at JP Yoga down the road. Perfect- that and a little running should keep me strong and stable. I will go to Salem after a Saturday morning class. Andy never went when he was over here and is regretful and my sister is such a witchy type that I feel a gravitational pull. Steph would certainly have been put to trial if she had lived in Salem in the era of the witch trials. I owe it to my witchy sis and roommate back home to head that way.

I read some reviews of the museum that initially caught my eye: 'Awful, just.... awful. This is a mockery of the word museum. As said by another, there's no information other than general information that you get simply by walking into the door. The mannequins are HORRIBLE. I mean, they're mannequins, but they literally look like crap and need replaced. The tour guides appeared to all be around the age of 16, and I doubt they have any knowledge beyond the memorised scripts they use. The initial room is kinda cool, with different scenes being lit to illustrate the narrative, but as I said, the mannequins completely ruin anything it had going for it. After that you enter a 40x40 room with 4 "scenes" where the guide gives a brief scripted intro, then pushes a button for a very cheesy monologue to play.' Other reviewers love it and I am curious I go, regardless. It is exactly as described in the damning review, but I enjoy it. Not taxing in anyway and is a refresher of all I learnt when reading Miller’s ‘The Crucible’ back in my college days.

I have a field day in the gift shop. But like all of my shopping experiences there is the continuous debate: do I want to carry it on my back? How much will it cost to parcel it up and send to England? Does Adam really need a t-shirt that says ‘Am I Good Witch?’ with a picture of ruby red slippers? It does have a picture of stripy legs in pointy black shoes with the words, ‘Or a Bad Witch?’ and there is an XXL. He would rock it while training I am sure. I am imagining him donning it as he gets punched repeatedly by his trainer- muscle training, don’t you know? I like the image. 

I enjoy Salem. It is so quaint. Blooming hot and humid too. Pretty quiet all around.

I clock their ice cream joint: Salem Screamary. I like being out of season. Here in the peak times, it must be mental and tack central. I avoid any of the spooky ‘museums’ and run out of time to go to the 'Peabody Essex Museum' . I realise I may miss my train (I very narrowly, by like 30 seconds, almost missed the one here) so I say good bye to the historically rich and also kitsch Salem, hot footing it back to my snuggly Jamaican Plains. I download ‘The Crucible’ and parcel up the small gifts I bought, nodding approvingly at my own restraint. I have a night in and look forward to the full sun my weather app promises for tomorrow.

Sunday in Boston is so sweet. A sweaty run in the next jewel of ‘The Emerald Necklace’. It is 8am and boiling already. I shower and head out with laundry to drop off and hope of a haircut. The lovely lady will fit me in within the hour. I head to ‘Wholefoods’, sit outside with a sesame seed bagel and complimentary coffee and soak up the sun. So in the spirit of Audrey Hepburn in ‘Roman Holiday’, I go and get a trim. The ladies are characters, flitting between Spanish and English, dirty talk with other customers and chatting to me about the royals (they love Prince William and the way that Kate shows respect to Diana- god bless her soul- with that dress after she gave birth), I am quite bemused. Overheard: 

Hairdresser: Oh yeah girl! It is so much fun to go on holiday with someone you are in love with. Dinner. Long talks. Walk on the beach. Dinner. Dancing.

Hairdresser 2: (bursts in) Good sex!

Raucous laughter. 

Customer: All I can say is, he betta put a ring on it.

Hairdressers: He betta! 

My trim is just what I needed and the woman are full of compliments. I leave feeling great and of course head for an ice cream to encapsulate that ‘Roman Holiday’ moment. I opt for 'Fomu' which makes coconut and almond based ice creams. I stand baffled at the plethora of flavours on offer. Good job they 'positively' encourage sampling here- miniature wooden spoons are at the ready. The girls working here are so sweet and we chat as I taste test. I sample: cardamom pistachio, cinnamon, sweet lavender, maple walnut, peanut butter and choc chip cookie, mango habanero and cake batter. I have a little scoop in a tub of most of them because I LOVE them ALL. The girls are laughing at my deliberations and chatter. As I leave, I hear them say, 'I love her accent. That was fun!" It sure was. I sit on the porch before I head out for the day.

For the rest of the day, I walk the city. Boston Common; the Public Garden that Fee remembers and I promise to find the ducks and get a picture of them; Harvard Bridge; Cambridge. I am knackered, completely cream crackered.

Love this sulky kid! A whole queue of children, waiting to be photographed
on the front duck and he was throwing a strop!

I have a last meal in the Thai. I may sneak in a little ice cream and head home, contemplating Canada. I sit on the balcony and soak up the view.

I notice the moon, as if it is watching over me. A little sign to send me on my way to the native lands:

Preparing and packing takes I while and I watch ‘Rocky’ as I potter. My bags are packed and I am ready to go, yet again.

The next morning I hit ‘City Feed and Supply’. Maria says they are the envy of the neighbourhood because they have this locally sourced supermarket with award winning sandwich making delicatessen. She says it is expensive for a weekly shop but they do a hell of a sandwich. I already had a great tofurkey experience and am looking forward to getting a pack up for the bus trip to Montreal.

I leave Jamaican Plains in the morning sun. People heading to work, children heading to school. I have loved it. Surprisingly restored by solitude, sun and strength of a new place. I feel strong, Boston (Strong) and ready to cross the border.