Halifax

The exchange rate plummeted. Holidays outside Canada seemed ill-advised, far too expensive to ponder, so we looked within, instead. What I didn’t realize was that holidays within Canada were a pricey prospect, at best. Canada is not the Third World. Canada does not have cut-rate wages.

That said, I thought it high time that I saw more of my own country. I looked into the east coast first, wondering what I’d like to see while there. The east coast music scene was all the rage, then, so Halifax came to mind. Quebec City was celebrating its 400th anniversary. I couldn’t decide, neither could Bev, so I decided on both, one week in each. I did not know much about either. I expected to learn, and bought travel guides to do just that.

We flew to Halifax, arriving after dark, the city in silhouette, finding it curious that we did not have to clear customs, for once, and caught a cab to the Citadel Hotel, conveniently located on Citadel Hill, what I thought would be the center of town. It is, somewhat. That said, it’s at the top of Citadel Hill. And it’s a steep hill, at that. We crossed Angus L. McDonald bridge entering the city, one of those curious types with only three lanes, much like Lion’s Gate Bridge in Vancouver. Old bridges, those constructed before they saw the need to move inconceivable volumes of traffic.

We checked in, too tired to do much else than have a couple drinks in the hotel bar, curiously names the Botanica, chatting up fellow travellers, first a retired gent from Saskatchewan, then a young engineer from Halifax who was supervising the reconstruction of the hotel, one floor at a time, the 2^nd while we were in attendance, having discovered that when we pressed 2 instead of 3 by mistake and discovered the floor completely gutted, devoid of rooms, walls, and even a hallway, the loft space a tangle of hanging cables and haphazardly arrayed saw horses and stacked boxes of this and that.

We woke to rain, happy to see the deluge break shortly after breakfast, then touring the eight-pointed star structure of the Citadel fortress in the waning rain before heading out on the water with the “Michael’s on the Water” whale watching tour (whale wishing, more like it), gulls and cormorants wheeling overhead. I kept a watchful eye over the water, waiting for tell-tale flocks of birds that mark their presence (blame Moby Dick for that expectation) or plumes of spray or rolling humped backs until Bev overheard the crew note that there were no whales on sonar and told me so, then occupied myself with people watching and people meeting, instead. A European woman was deathly ill throughout, seasick despite what I thought calm waters (it wasn’t, not really) and our not actually being out to sea.
We ate supper at the Wooden Monkey on Argyle Street, midway up the hill, upon seeing that The Rolling Stones had eaten there in the past, the proof of it, the autographed menu, proudly displayed in the front window.

Economy Shoe Shop, by John Malone

Bev went back to the room afterwards and I prowled the city in search of the fabled Halifax nightlife and finding it in a jazz ensemble at the Economy Shoe Shop on Argyle and a folk fusion trio at the Split Crow (reputedly the first and oldest continuously licensed pub in Canada, if not this actual pub, as this one had only opened in 1978 and had adopted the original taproom’s name as its own) on Grafton. Both were great. Both were fun. And I bumped into people I’d met on the whale wishing excursion.

Never been to the Economy Shoe Shop? It’s amazing. It goes on forever, a whole block of buildings that are linked together, subdivided into little alcoves and intimate and cozy spaces. There’s a tree inside, obviously fake, the sculpture in autumn wane. Green and gold and orange leaves reach out over the tables, a sculpted bee’s nest and balloon hidden within its branches. The walls are brick and plaster, layered to hint at what might be rock beneath, crawling with equally fake vines and stings of lights. It’s loud too. Most working-class places are, especially with tourists and students in attendance, the noise deafening as it crashes into the walls and is funnelled up and down the narrow spans.

We had a late start the next day, touring the Sackville, the last surviving WW2 corvette, marvelling how small it actually was, deciding that it must have bobbled like a cork out on the ocean when asea, and wondering how the crews could stomach the passage.

Later we had lunched with an old friend of Bev’s. She hadn’t seen him in twenty years and was thrilled at the prospect of catching up. But he was standoffish. Polite, but distant, eager to eat and be on his way. Bev was understandably disappointed. But it had been twenty years, and people change, people close chapters in their lives as the years and decades pass, and sadly, sometimes we are one of those chapters.

We walked the Pier afterwards, watching artisans ply their trades, glassblowing, weaving, and such, browsing buskers and sellers alike, finding our way to Pier 21, the once fabled main entry into Canada for all immigrants, now the docking port for cruise ships. A warehouse flea market sat alongside it, rows and rows of crap on display, from flags to pints of maple syrup, souvenir spoons to kitschy clothes and wraps and umbrellas, pens and pins, everything Canadian you could think of, everything a cruising tourist could hope for, anyways, most of it made in China. I couldn’t wait to be free of it and on my way.

We hopped on the Happy Hopper, a refitted and touristy Vietnam War amphibious resupply vehicle, made up to look like a big smiling frog, to tour the harbour. Ya gotta do the hooky stuff when on holidays, don’t’cha? Ribbit, ribbit! (That’s me making a frog sound, by the way.) We boarded, we dove down the ramp into the harbour in a spray of seawater and chugged along at a snail’s pace while oohing and aahing the this and that that I’ve promptly forgotten.

We stumbled across the Five Fisherman afterwards, sitting down at out table just before the early seating was complete, surprised by the $33 early bird special, all you can eat salad and mussel bars included, the entrees listed cheaper than those same ones on the menu by themselves.

I took a dip in the hotel pool before venturing back out, eager to hear more east coast music.
Were the weather better.

But it wasn’t.

The remnants of a hurricane was skirting the Maritime coast, strafing us with periodic precipitation.
It seemed like it would never end.