P.E.I.

We crossed the 7 km span of Confederation Bridge in the morning. There was little to see when we were on it. The sides rose above our view, making the whole passage about as interesting as passing through a tunnel. It’s free to cross into Prince Edward Island. It’s a trap! It costs $42.50 to leave. I imagine the price has grown to $50 since then.

Just inside the Island, where the Confederation Bridge makes landfall, is Port Borden (what I called “Gate Village” until I knew better), a postage stamp of a town. There’s not much there on that tiny jut of land, just a tourists’ visitor centre and a sculpture depicting how the bridge was constructed. Maybe it’s not a sculpture, maybe it’s a three-dimensional engineering schematic, showing how the foundations were constructed. Either way, it’s was quite an engineering feat.

The village is a tourist trap dream, with all the souvenirs one could hope for all in one place. Oddly, there’s a lot about pirates there. I have no idea if pirates ever stepped foot on P.E.I.; they probably didn’t, but you never know. But there’s enough pirate stuff there to hint as it. And if that sort of thing sells, you know the shelves will be jammed full of it. And it must have flown off the shelves, because wherever I looked, I saw tri-corner hats, stuffed parrots and eye patches. There may have been one or two flouncy sleeved pirate shirts and a cutlass here and there. I loved the meme I saw everywhere: “The Beatings Will Continue Until Moral Improves.” But I didn’t buy any of it.

There’s lobster and burgers and ice cream at the visitors’ center. Liquor and Subway and an Information Centre. Like I said, everything a tourist could ask for. Just don’t linger there. That’s not P.E.I. That’s just a trap to divest you of your money. We stopped just long enough to browse the pirate wear, pick up some pamphlets and maps and get some ready cash from the ATM and we were back on the road.

We stopped in Charlottetown soon after. It’s a beautiful city, easily the equal of Halifax in every way, so it was too bad we didn’t have long to linger. One of the first things we noticed was how red the soil is. How shockingly red, like rusty blood. Even in the city. We saw the foundation of a building being dug out and the soil was as blood red as anywhere else. Above that were bricked buildings as red as the soil they rose out of, as though the bricks themselves were moulded from that very same soil. We visited Province House, the site of the Charlottetown Conference, weaving here and there to stand atop each of the provincial marks set into the lawn. Others had the same idea as we did. We actually stole the idea from them.

We ate fish and chips at Brits on Great George. Sadly, not on their street terrace; every table was full, so we ate inside, where the ambiance was utilitarian. Not great, comfortable; yet as noisy as you’d expect any working-class eatery to be. And it was. But what was I expecting from a Brits, anyway? It’s a chain, after all.

We spent far too much time in Northern Watters Knitwear. It cost us a small fortune. But every penny spent was worth it. Hand loomed, hand knit together, each article as thick and warm as any you can buy, the type of wool that can last you a lifetime if you take care of it.

But time was short and we wanted to something of the Island. We had to be on our way. We were off to Cavendish, home of potatoes and Anne of Green Gables and the Green Gables Golf Course. Parks Canada actually created a National Heritage Site to the fictional character within a National Park and then allowed a golf course to be set up in it. Go figure. You can walk down from the Historic Site, green gables and all, down the path that sparked Maud’s imagination and evoked the Haunted Woods, Lovers’ Lane, and Balsam Hollow and catch a glimpse through what thin woods remain to see the greens of the grounds of the course inches away.

We did not give P.E.I. its due. All we saw was Port Bordon, Charlottetown and Cavendish, or Green Gables more specifically, while there. The rest of the time was spent driving, first to the Island, then straight across the Island, and then around the western side to Summersville as the sun lost its edge and the clouds rolled in, then back to Port Borden where we paid for our passage back to New Brunswick.
We were too quick rounding P.E.I. There was more to see and we saw none of it. Then again, we never thought we’d set foot on the Island, either, until I asked Bev if she’d like to go. It was just an impulse, and not a bad one at that.

It was getting on in hour, so we stopped in Sackville for supper before driving back to Moncton, arriving after dark.

Looking back, that last stretch was a race to return, because we had more spokes to traverse as we wheeled about New Brunswick, one compass direction at a time.

Quebec City, Part 2

Bev slept in and I didn’t want to sit around watching her sleep, so I showered and dressed and followed a walking tour laid out in my Ulysses travel guide. The city was still asleep, for the most part. The morning was grey, with hardly a soul to be seen. Still cool, the mornings were the time to walk, now that we’d left the precipitation behind and the sun had come out in earnest.

Once Bev was up and mobile, we headed to the Citadel to watch the changing of the guard, the last public performance of 2008. Batisse, the mascot goat, 10th of his line, was in attendance, gleaming white, blanketed in blue. He played his part well, like he’d done this hundreds of times.

The Citadel is still an active military base, home of the Van Doos, the Royal 22^nd Regiment. Built later (1820s) than the Citadel in Halifax (1749), it is much larger, its purpose to defeat an American invasion, one that never came.

I was distracted. There were other soldiers about, watching the show, much as we were, but they were in fatigues and not dress like those soldiers performing the ritual. I was reminded that they’d just returned from Afghanistan. I had to swallow a lump that rose to my throat, thinking what horrors they must have seen there, knowing that they’d soon be going back again.

We left Old Quebec to lunch at St. Hubert. It’s fast food, not much better than Swiss Chalet, but it’s a Quebec staple and it had to be done.

We walked the Plains of Abraham, afterwards. There were displays everywhere, it being the 400th, regiments of Red Coats and Blue Coats about, lecturing on this and that, one saying that Montcalm was the worst general in the history of France, what with his leaving the Citadel to face the British, when he could have weathered the siege instead; and that, children, is why we Quebecoise live under the rule of the hated Anglaise. So sayeth the separatist.

We walked further to Rue du Cartier for what the guidebook said is a European style shopping experience, but most shops were closed. Our walk back to Vieux Quebec was baked under an ardent sun and Bev retreated to the room for rest and air-conditioning. I did not. I headed to D’Orsey Pub and a cold beer, relishing their own eponymous brew.

Dinner at the Café du Paris. I had lapin for supper, my first time ever. More walking afterwards, the late evening stroll devoid of other walkers. We capped the day off at D’Orsey’s before calling it a night.
I continued my walking tours the next morning before having lemon crepes at the Creperie, a little breakfast nook attached to the exterior wall of the Frontenac.

We toured the Chateau St. Louis excavations at the foot of the Frontenac.

We had our best lunch ever. It was cheap too. We bought sandwiches and carbonated drinks at an Épicerie a couple blocks from our hotel and found a bench in the Parc des Gouverneurs across from our hotel. We weren’t the only ones, either. A few couples, a young family or two. All relaxing, dappled by the canopy, light breeze.

We engaged in some souvenir shopping, then ice cream on the Terrace Dufferin, then lazing on a bench in the park with a book. It had grown hot, too hot to linger in the sun. Minutes under it sapped our strength. Later on, we took in some festivities at the St. Louis Gate, retreating before too long. What crowds there were close and clammy, and to be honest, we just weren’t that interested. There were buskers galore and we could have our fill of buskers in the Place d’ Armes, which we had; they were all very impressive, all very talented, some comic, some acrobatic. Had the sun been not so intense, I’d have loved to remain at the Gate, what with the stage and the sound system being stitched together. But we waited beyond what Bev’s patience allowed, what with the heat and the sun and the crowds.
Supper at Café du Paix, drinks at Le Feu Sacre, bed at Bellevue.

I followed another walking tour in Lower Quebec, where Champlain founded his colony. It was the most densely populated place in North America for some time, so said the guide. I can understand why, it being nestled between the cliff and the St. Lawrence. I suspect no one wanted to lug supplies up that cliff, leaving that special task to the army and their lofty view of the land and sea. Fisherman and merchants are too pragmatic for such things; best to be down by the water, close to the piers and the sea where all the action is.

Crepes again at the Creperie, this time with Bev. You gotta try this place, I said, noting that this was her last chance, considering we were leaving the next day.

Lunch at St. Patricks Pub, escaping the heat and humidity, then hanging out in the park again for a time. I know, that sounds boring, but there comes a time on each and every vacation where one grows tired of lines and walking and spending money.

We had supper where we first dined, at the Auberge du Tresor.

I indulged myself the final morning. I breakfasted at the Frontenac. It was expectedly posh and pricey, but there was an enormous variety of perfectly cooked and expertly presented food, far more choice than anyone could sample in one or even a week of seatings. No smock was blemished. No table remained un-bussed for long. The linen was crisp and clean, the silverware gleamed. No china without emblem. No yolk out of place. I wondered how much food was put to waste to maintain that picture-perfect perfection.

But what’s a dinner without a show? As I approached the Chateau, I saw an older woman collapse outside the restaurant. She’d grown dizzy while eating and voiced the need for air. But no sooner had she stepped outside did she grow weaker still. She stumbled and fell, slowly, her hand reaching out to catch her fall. I began to bolt forward but she was set upon by a cluster of Good Samaritans, Aussies all, they having stepped out for a smoke and only feet from her when she reeled and fell. They too were brushed aside by a flock of waiters and an officious maître-d’, he taking charge as he was want to do, ordering his charges for this and that, they used to his commands and jumping to do his bidding.

Moment’s later, she was seated, cushioned and cold compressed, the house doctor resolving from within.

She was coming around, so I took my leave to partake of my thirty-dollar eggs.

I should have gone back to the Creperie.

I could have eggs anytime.

Quebec City

We departed Halifax under an expected overcast sky, with high hopes that the weather inland in Quebec City would be better. It was. It was sunny and hot, 30 degrees.

Quebec City was stunning, Old Quebec as beautiful a city as I’ve seen. Peaked roofs sprouting an abundance of chimneys, bay windows and colourful shutters, planters hung from sills. Gabbles galore, most buildings a slate grey or some hue of brick. The ages layered, but held at bay, but embraced, the modern hidden within. Gone were gas sputtering sconces, replaced with the even glow of electricity. Regardless what changes there were, there was a hint of old Europe around every corner, and one could easily forget one was in the New World when the echo of horse hoof met one’s ears. Like I said, it was beautiful, if you’re into such things and not a total neophile.

It was also full of people. The last weekend of the summer, labour day weekend, the streets were so full of Quebecois tourists that our cab had slowed to a crawl, no, a snail’s pace, as we thread our way through the narrow streets to our hotel on Rue du la Porte. Despite the tourists, Samuel du Champlain’s town still evoked images of wide hats, short pants and stockings and buckled shoes walking its cobbled streets. Most of the cobbles are gone now, replaced with the smoother ride of asphalt, but enough of them remained to remind one of its four hundred years of history.

We checked into the Chateau Belleview mid-afternoon, clouds forming overhead. Shit, I thought, it found us. And it did.

Shortly after checking in, we watched from our corner windows as buckets of rain pour down on those outside. They scampered and ran, finding refuge where they might, under arch, eave and limb. It abated after a short time, just long enough for us to believe that it was an isolated incident. It was not. We left the dry refuge of our quaint and comfortable room and ventured out to get a glimpse of the oldest city in Canada, only to be set upon by the rain gods shortly after passing under the stately elms of the Parc des Gouverneurs and rounding the Frontenac and taking in the hazy view from La Terrasse Dufferin. Clouds boiled overhead, the light dimming rapidly and we began to wonder about the wisdom of our having left the hotel. But we were on holiday, dammit, and there was no way we were going to spend it hiding in our room or drinking wine in the front lobby of our hotel, regardless of how cool it was that there was a dispensary machine there where we could buy it by the glass, the half litre, or the bottle. We ventured out, brave souls that we were, and hid under the awning of the Auberge du Tresor, drinking wine, watching those other few brave souls rush here and there across the Place d’Armes on their last day of holiday before returning to work, to school, to home. More buckets, more thunder and lightning, the awning filled to bursting, the waiters pushing the pools up and out onto the street and the gutters where they belonged. Wine, good food, coffee and dessert and it was sunny again, the humidity growing oppressive.

Le Baiser de l'Hotel de Ville Paris, by Robert Doisneau

A word about the Auberge du Tresor: across the Place d-Armes from the Frontenac, it was built in 1697 and is said to be the scene of the first French Kiss on this continent. Reason enough to duck in for a coffee and a kiss. I’m sure they won’t mind.

We shopped as the sunlight failed, then later followed the crowds down to the river to watch the Mill lightshow, an artistic theatre production projected onto the exterior of a collection of four wide and tall buildings across the St. Lawrence, depicting the four hundred years of Quebec’s history, much like those I’d seen before, on Ottawa’s Parliament Centre Block, on the Pyramids. Impressive, informative, cheap; free, in fact. We were caught in the rain as we scaled the hill back to the hotel, so we waited it out under the Frontenac’s arched entry, beginning to wonder if we’d every be free of it this trip.

We woke to a seemingly empty city the next morning. The crowds had left, departing for home, leaving only we few tourists. We few…there were crowds still, packed restaurants, amassed gatherings before buskers and artists and in the shops, but nothing like when we’d arrived. We were thankful of that.
An espresso and croissant on the Rue St. Jean before descending onto the Petite Champlain to stroll and shop the oldest streets in North America, lunch at Bistro Sous la Forte, before parting ways to explore, each on our own.

I discovered that climbing out of Lower Town takes some stamina, especially if climbing the stairs at the Post Office. I could have taken the gondola lift, true, but one must experience all things if one can. I did not climb those stairs again, by the way.

I bought my first hats at BiBi & Cie., Chapelier, 42 Rue Garneau, just up and around the corner from Cote de la Fabrique. Yeah, an impulse buy. But that’s where it all started, in case you were wondering. A pork pie, a stingy brim fedora and a crushable Christie.

We watched more street performers in late afternoon, ate at Le Retro, checked out the displayed art set all in a row and closed the day by horse-drawn carriage. We hired one of many at Place d’Armes, turned west at the Post Office and passed through the arch of the St. Louis Gate, returning on the Rue du St. Louis and ending when we began, eighty dollars for forty minutes. The sun had set, the city bathed in its light; it smelled of horse, obviously, the traffic a distant drone under the clip and clop of hooves as we rounded Old Town, exiting it, passing Parliament and the Battlefields of the Plains of Abraham. I loved the Gate, its high arch, the battlements and its copper roofed towers. It seemed out of place, and not, old, bur scrubbed clean and lit with arc lights, its upper flanks carpeted with sod.

Not a bad start.

And yes, the weather did improve.

Halifax, Part 2

Weather was touch and go in Halifax, what with a hurricane passing us by, just off the coast. It was cool much of the time. Go figure. Nothing a windbreaker or a shell couldn’t handle.

We began another wet day shopping in the mall. I bought too much in Banana Republic before we repaired to Spring Garden Road, where I was much more discerning, much more reserved. We had lunch at “Your Father’s Moustache,” crazy name, great roadhouse, before shopping again, this time at MEC, the harbor front and Spring Mountain Road again. Apparently, this was our shopping day. But what are you going to do when the sky opens up and the clouds release a biblical torrent?

We ate supper at “Murphy’s on the Water,” treated to a lobster deal for having booked a tour with the Hopper. It was our first time eating lobster out of the shell, the way you’re supposed to. I had to admit to our waitress when our meals arrived, “We really don’t know what to do here. Can we get a bit of a tutorial?” She laughed and did just that. It’s amazing how people will bend over backwards to help you if you ask with a smile.

We strolled the harbor front and the city by night, relaxing at the Economy Shoe Shop over Bailey’s and a Propeller IPA before returning to the hotel where I took another dip in the pool.

We’d booked an excursion while on the pier so we woke early, waiting in the lobby for our pick-up. We’d opted for Day Tripper Tours, a small independent, on the say-so of the tourism table: small shuttles, fewer people, more places on the agenda than there were with Blue Line Tours, for the same price. It was worth it. Greg, our driver, was on time, affable and a font of local lore. He was also an old boy, mid 50’s, a tad overweight and characteristically and stereotypically jolly. He may have been gay. He was most definitely from New Brunswick. He told us so during our introductions. Not that he was gay. That he was from New Brunswick.

Along for the ride was an aged Toronto couple, the only others on the excursion: Anne and Nicholas, she a lover of churches, he a military history buff.

We went to Peggy’s Cove first, briefly stopping at a monument to the victims of Swiss Air 111. What can I say about Peggy’s Cove? It’s sparse, just a tiny fishing village set upon rolling rocks with its uber-famous lighthouse far out where the sea and land collide. The smoothed rocks roll, small pools collected in the nooks and crannies. Don’t kid yourself, it’s a hike, but worth the effort. And would have been even more spectacular if the sky was blue and not grey, were the wind settled and calm, the seas gentle. Damn offshore hurricanes.
Bev bought three watercolours from a local artist. That in itself was worth the stop.

We traced the coast, wending through storybook towns and skirting more rocky coves than we could count until reaching Mahone Bay and Lunenburg, where the Bluenose was built. It was not there, the Bluenose II, a bit of a disappointment, but it tours the world, so don’t count on it being there if you visit. We did visit the Fisheries Museum and crawl over and through a couple historic fishing schooners…but not the Bluenose. Late lunch at the Fisheries Museum, then we walked the streets of the World Heritage Site, taking in the array of colours nestled together. It’s brightly painted, much like most of the east coast, but the pallet of colours is so varied that you’d think that whatever paints didn’t sell were on sale and that the people who lived there couldn’t pass a good sale up. We took a photo from the golf course across the bay, the photo untold millions of tourists must take. I’m surprised the gold course hasn’t banned tourists from their site, altogether. It must be hell on the grass.

An hour’s drive brought us back to Halifax. A rather uninspired search led us back to the Economy Shoe Shop for nachos and personal veggie pizzas. I say uninspired because the city is teeming with places to eat.
The next day we had breakfast on the wharf at the Harbourside Market. We took the ferry across to Dartmouth to see what was there. A park, a lake, a rowing competition in progress.

We returned and had lunch at the Old Triangle Pub (I had a Garrison Raspberry Ale while there, very nice, I’d never had a raspberry ale before), then Bev went back to the room for a nap while I visited the Maritime Museum. There was a lot of history to take in, in such a short time: The Fall of Louisburg, the Age of Sail, the Age of Steam, the Explosion, the Titanic. What can I say? Ships of bygone days are beautiful, seemingly delicate constructs of masts and spires and line and sail, that weathered the same storms as those that sweep across the seas today. Their line and grace and woodworking, shame those we make today.

We had supper at Bubbles’, a horrific experience, at best. The ambiance was fun, but I was never a Trailer Park Boys fan, so I’d probably have rather eaten at the Lower Deck or the Split Crow, instead. My burger was fine, but Bev’s ribs wore a layer of barbeque sauce equally as thick as the meat.
My preferences were, in no particular order, The Five Fishermen, The Old Triangle, The Lower Deck, Your Father’s Moustache, with special notice to Murphy’s Restaurant out on the pier and the Economy Shoe Shop.

Special shout out to Cows, on the pier, a tiny little yellow shack that sat out over the water, its plastic cow hanging out at the entrance, luring the unsuspecting in. It was great ice cream, as good as Farquhar’s on Manitoulin.

I did drag Bev down to the Split Crow for a final drink. I don’t think she had a good time. It was packed in there, and service was slow if you didn’t take an aggressive approach to catch their notice. It was worth the effort, in my view; the music was phenomenal, the players obviously having played music since they could hold an instrument. Most people I saw played and sang better than almost everybody I’d ever seen, professionals included.

Then to bed, relatively early, by all accounts. We had a flight the next day to Quebec City, to take in the tail end of their 400th year celebration.

We loved Halifax, but we’d also had our fill of grey skies and periodic precipitation. That made the hours of glorious sunshine all the more satisfying, but there wasn’t enough of it. We wore shells much of the time, rarely out without an umbrella.

We hoped the weather the next week would be better.

It was.

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.