So, I just got back from vacation, almost two weeks in the Maritimes (and I'm dreading getting the credit card bills, as gas is even more expensive in Canada than in the US). I had the laptop with me to deal with pictures, so I wrote up a bunch of daily LJ entries. I'll try not to post them all at once (some need on-line editing to add links and stuff).

You know the vacation's been long enough when you switch into the "let's get home already" mode. This year, that hit on my last day in Nova Scotia, but it manifested itself differently. I started doing dumb things. For instance, as I was leaving Kentville, I stopped for gas. I then got on the highway for about 10 miles, and got off in Wolfville to do a few errands. At my first stop in Wolfville, I noticed that I hadn't put the gas cap back on. I'd driven 10 miles with gas slopping around freely. (And the Check Engine light didn't come on either, which is a bit worrisome.)

Then today, I stopped for a late picnic lunch at the Visitor Information Center at Kings Landing in New Brunswick. It was extraordinarily windy, and despite my attempts to anchor everything down, my plate of sliced cucumber blew away. I dashed around, picking up trash and disposing of it. Then I got in the car and drove down the highway, leaving my beach towel and my purse on the picnic table. Yep, I left my purse on a picnic table. Fortunately, I figured it out before I'd gone a mile down the road, and I was able to turn around and speed back. And there were my towel and my purse exactly where I'd left them.

Finally, at the Duty Free shop, where I could also get a refund for the tax charged on my B&B payments, I pulled into a parking space and put my car key in my lap while I was organizing my receipts. Then, I got out of the car, and closed the door, after pulling on the little lever to automatically lock the car. And where was my car key when I did this? Right on the seat, where it had fallen out of my lap. Fortunately, I bring a spare key with me when I go on vacation. This key was in my purse, which, fortunately, I had retrieved from the picnic table 60 miles previously, and which I was holding in my hand.

Yep. The vacation's gone on long enough. It's going to be good to get home tomorrow.

In my trips to the Maritimes, I've experienced a wide range of weather conditions—just about everything but snow. When the signs on the highway toward Cape Breton warn of cross-winds, well, I know what they're talking about. I've gotten sunburnt, and I've hiked in misty rain. If I pack shorts, I end up needing more pairs of jeans, but if I don't pack the shorts, I wish I had. Likewise with tops. If I don't bring long-sleeved tops, I end up needing one. On my first trip to Nova Scotia, I stopped on my way to Bar Harbor to catch the ferry at an LL Bean outlet store (not the main store in Freeport). I bought a turtleneck because it was on sale and I liked the color. I ended up wearing it in Nova Scotia, because I hadn't packed a long-sleeved shirt. I have driven in driving rain along highways that have, in the best of conditions, limited visibility. I've been cold in the daytime and too hot to sleep at night, sometimes in the same day.

Today, I experienced something new: mist rising off the Tantramar Marsh, between Sackville, New Brunswick and Amherst, Nova Scotia. It was spooky and atmospheric, and a little scary to drive in. Fortunately, I finished dinner while it was still light out, and the mist had lifted, a little, before I headed back to Sackville. But there's still a nice breeze, and, if the wind isn't too loud, I should have no trouble sleeping tonight.

I live alone. I can go an entire weekend without seeing another human being. But I'm not lonely. I exchange email with friends and participate in on-line discussions. And, should I want to not be alone, I can call friends. If I want to hear human voices, I can turn on the TV or radio, or go to the store. It's my choice and it's all there. On the other hand, there have been times when I've been with groups of people but still felt lonely. Loneliness, to me, is a feeling of being disconnected, apart. It has nothing to do with the physical proximity of other people.

Yesterday when I was hiking at Blomidon, I did a loop of about 3 1/2 miles. There were very few other people on the trail, especially at the farthest point of the loop. I was alone. But, unlike being home alone on a weekend, I didn't easily have the option of not being alone, at least not without hiking a mile or two, back to the trailhead. This was true solitude, just me and nature. As I sat and listened, I sensed what was around me: insects, birds, small animals in the forest cover, and the wind. I heard skittering and screeching, and saw the underbrush rustle as creatures moved about. And then, as I sat on the steps of a lookout point, there was a blur at my feet as a lizard or something flashed past. I have no idea what it was, but I clearly wasn't alone.

On my first trip to Nova Scotia, back around 1998, I took the hovercraft from Bar Harbor to Yarmouth, and then drove around the Bay of Fundy, making an effort to hug the coastline as much as I could. The topography makes this difficult. There are coves and inlets and, in many instances, the only direct route between two villages is by water. So, east of Annapolis Royal, coast-hugging involves driving north to the coast, wandering around a bit, driving south to the east-west road, driving east for a few miles and then driving north again to the next town along the coast. It was windy and raw, but I persisted in picnicking along the bay.


( click for details and lots of pictures )

Blueberries are in season in the Maritimes. It's possible to eat your fill of blueberries while hiking, as many trails are lined with wild blueberries. Restaurants have dessert specials of blueberries with whipped cream. Once, in Parrsboro, I ordered such a dessert. What I got was a cereal bowl—a large cereal bowl—filled to overflowing with wild blueberries, and topped with about cup of whipped cream. This year, in Shediac, I got a smaller amount of blueberries, but the whipped cream was flavored with a hint of liqueur. Everywhere I drove in New Brunswick, there were pick-your-own (or, as they call it here, U-pick) blueberry fields. I picked a large basked of wild blueberries, for $1.50 (Canadian).

As I was driving down the coast toward Nova Scotia today, I was struck by the number of cars stopped on the shoulder, with no driver in evidence. In the US, I would assume that the car had broken down or that the driver couldn't wait until reaching a rest area. Eventually, I started noticing people with large plastic margarine tubs, some distance away from the cars. They were picking blueberries. I guess, when it comes to blueberries, free is better than $1.50/box.

My first trip to Nova Scotia, I made my reservations through Nova Scotia Tourism. I'd picked out motels, but I let the reservation agent talk me into staying in a few B&Bs also. The only B&Bs I'd stayed at in the US had been of the Country Inn ilk. But, as I was to discover, B&Bs in the Maritimes are an economical alternative to motels. Not only that, for someone traveling alone, they provide built-in socialization, in the lounge in the evening and in the communal breakfast room. Obviously, you meet the B&B proprietors. But you also meet fellow "guests".

Of course, some B&Bs provide better experiences than others. People have different reasons for opening up as a B&B, and some reasons are better than others. As a result, there are places I'd return to, if I were going to be in the same area again, and others I would go out of my way to avoid. There was one overly needy proprietor who so desperately wanted friends to come and visit that she opened a B&B and tried to treat customers as friends, and another who, apparently, drank, and expected visitors from the US to share his racist sentiments. One B&B proprietor viewed running a B&B as something to do when her grandchildren weren't visiting, and sometimes when they were; her grand-daughter sang me a lovely little song in Gaelic. And another, near the New Brunswick side of the Confederation Bridge to Prince Edward Island, decorated her house to appeal to visitors on the Anne of Green Gables trail. Even the bedside reading lamp was wearing a frilly yellow gingham skirt. And, finally, there was the B&B with plastic sheets, lest visitors stain the mattresses. That made for a most uncomfortable night's sleep. As I scanned the Provincial tour books this year, some of these are still, surprisingly, in business, though other proprietors have realized that B&b proprietorship isn't for them.

On the other hand, I've had some wonderful B&B experiences. There was the establishment run by two "refugees" from the New York art scene who have made a home for themselves in the Annapolis Valley of Nova Scotia. Another favorite, in rural Prince Edward Island, was run by a retired missionary, returning home to PEI from years in central Africa. Her house was decorated with various African pieces, and I have fond memories of sitting in her parlor after dinner with fellow guests, the proprietor, and her gentleman friend, a local pastor who was eager to bid on my parents' Maud Lewis originals. I also enjoyed a lovely establishment in Parrsboro, Nova Scotia, where fellow guests turned out to live in a neighboring town to mind, back home in Connecticut. I'd gladly stay here again, as the nearby Five Islands Provincial Park is one of my favorite places in the Maritimes. However, the B&B is now out of my price range, thanks to a favorable write-up in the New York Times Travel section the week before my first visit. They had a printout from the Times web site posted, but I gave them the actual clipping from my travel file, and they didn't even offer me a perpetual discount!

I stayed a few nights at a delightful B&B a few miles from the entrance to Fundy National Park in New Brunswick. The proprietors went out of their way to make dinner reservations for visitors, and viewed as one of their assets their proximity to a marsh where migrating birds fatten themselves up on mud shrimp for their autumn flights to South America. I'd had no interest in migrating birds, but their enthusiasm was infectious, and I tried, I really tried, to follow their directions to the marsh. Maybe next time. On the other side of New Brunswick, I enjoyed my stay at an establishment run by an older farm couple, in a community settled by Danish immigrants lured to New Brunswick in the late 19th century by the prospect of free farmland. The Danish restaurant down the road, in a most unexpected locale, had just recently closed, much to my dismay.

Now, I'm in my fifth and last night at a delightful B&B near the entrance of Kouchibouguac National Park in New Brunswick. The proprietors both work in tourism. She is an interpreter in the park, and has written children's books on nature. He runs a kayak sales and rental business. The B&B is comfortable, but what's really made my stay here is the other guests. We've regularly lingered over coffee (or, in some instances, tea) talking in the morning, and not just about touring plans for the day, although we did share pointers about places to visit (and to avoid). I heard all about the Baroque music festival that two women from Montréal who shared my breakfast table had attended. I shared vegetable gardening stories with a family from suburban Toronto. And, one night, when I'd returned from dinner, the Torontonians were finished up a dinner in the kitchenette and shared home-made wine and fresh-picked blueberries with me.

I'll be heading off tomorrow for a part of Nova Scotia where I've had particular trouble with odd B&Bs (not to mention one uncomfortable motel). The B&B I have a reservation at has an inauspicious name, but the guidebook description sounds decent, so I have high hopes. And I'm only staying there three nights. For my last night in the Maritimes, I'm returning to a place I've stayed several times already, in Sackville, NB. There isn't a whole lot to do in Sackville, and I've probably done all of it. But I like the B&B and its proprietors. And Sackville is a good place to leave from for home, as it's about a six hour drive from Bangor, ME, which gives me time to meander a bit, and make it to Maine by dinner time.

Why is it so hard to do nothing without feeling guilty? At home, there's housework, garden work, knitting, so I don't often simply do nothing. Vacation is my chance to do nothing. But, of course, I've driven 800 miles to get here, so I feel as if I have to take advantage of every opportunity. And today's opportunity was to enjoy Kouchibouguac Park without the rain.


( click for details and pictures )
By the time I got back to the boardwalk, I'd been on the beach over three hours. Even though I'd walked over three miles (not to mention the walking before lunch), I still feel like I didn't do enough today. You couldn't prove it by my sore muscles, sunburn (despite the generous amounts of SPF 30 sunscreen I'd slathered on), and mosquito bites. After all, I could have done more.

I planned my stay in New Brunswick to allow two days exploring Kouchibouguac National Park. Yesterday, I skipped the park, due to the ominous weather forecast. And, indeed, folks staying in my B&B did get caught in the rain. Today started out sunny, so I headed for the park. In the morning, I attended a cultural presentation on the local Micmac Indians. I picnicked at the first location I found, then headed for the beach. Once I'd walked the length of the boardwalk, to the dunes, I realized that I'd worn the wrong shoes for serious beach walking and, furthermore, I wasn't prepared to sit on the beach. No matter. Tomorrow I'll bring sandals, a towel, and a book.

So, I went on to the bog trail. This is a short trail.

( click for details and pictures )

Dinner was also an adventure. I'd gone back to the B&B to shower the bug goop off. On my way back to the park (there's a restaurant in the park), I saw a glorious rainbow. Well, it wasn't exactly on the way to the restaurant, as I'd missed the turn. But, if I hadn't missed the turn, I wouldn't have seen the rainbow. On the other hand, I would have gotten to the restaurant in time to order before the power went out. So I ate dinner to natural light (the restaurant cooks with gas), and the staff wrote up my credit card slip by hand. Outside the park, there were no problems with power, except that something seems to have happened to the TV reception here at the B&B; all the channels are snowy beyond belief, and there's no sound. Oh well. I can live without knowing the latest hockey signings.

Well, today was my first day of actual vacation (as opposed to traveling to a vacation. It was an interesting experience, an overwhelmingly francophone experience. After all, this is Acadie. And it's full of tourists from Québec. Everywhere I went, I heard far more French than English, though people were more than willing to speak English, when asked; it's just that French is the default.

Despite the language difference, there were some similarities. There were a few cars from Québec that could have been from Massachusetts, at least based on the way they drove. Here's a clue: when six cars in a row are going the same speed, even if it's below the speed limit, there's no point in passing the last two in line. They're going slowly because the drivers ahead of them are going slowly. One of them might even be an underpowered old pickup truck. Deal with it.

Another clue. If you're walking three miles on an unprotected boardwalk (Irving EcoCenter at Bouctouche), you're going to exert yourself. Wear appropriate shoes (flip flops don't count), and, for heaven's sake, bring some water. It's really easy to get dehydrated out there, without realizing it, when skies are overcast and there's a strong offshore breeze drying up sweat before you feel it.

And now for some differences. These aren't earthshaking differences. But perhaps it's because of how small, even mundane, they are that they signal real differences between the US and Canada.

First, there are the caesar salads. In the US, a caesar salad is typically a more expensive, even special, alternative to an ordinary green salad, and it generally costs more. In Canada, on the other hand, it's an alternative on a par with a green salad. It's certainly rare to find a restaurant menu offering a green salad or a tossed salad without also offering a caesar salad.

Then there's the relative lack of public prudery, stress public. The spiel for the soapmaking demonstration at the Olivier Soapery would not, could not have been given at a comparable demonstration in the US. (Well, it was in French, but still...) The spielgiver pointed out which soaps would serve to get men in the mood for sex, and which soaps would get women in the mood (and how). While there was a little cute coyness, it was mostly matter-of-fact. And it mostly went right past the kids in attendance, of whom there were many. (Later comment: some folks at the B&B I was staying at told me the raunchy spiel was more characteristic of francophone Canada than of Canada as a whole, but the owner of an artisanal yarn establishment thinks it's idiosyncratic to the Soapery.)

The August 1 Civic Holiday in Canada is a strange thing. It has different names in different provinces (in New Brunswick, it's called New Brunswick Day), but the commonality seems to be that it's an excuse for yet another long weekend in the summer. Lots of things were closed, much more than I would have expected based on comparable holiday weekends in the US.

Once I crossed the border into New Brunswick this morning (having assured the border inspector that I wasn't importing any meat), I thought I'd go to the Briggs & Little yarn outlet, even though they hadn't answered their phone. It was a nice excuse to get off the highway. Every time I go to Canada, Trans Canada Highway 2 has changed, and not for the better. My first trip, in 1999 or so, it was almost exclusively a two-lane road, hugging the St Johns River, and passing through the outskirts of Fredericton. But, even then, road "improvements" were underway, making it a four-lane divided highway. Each time I visit Canada, more and more of it's four-lane, limited access. In fact, access is so limited, that you don't realize you've passed the only exit for Fredericton until you see signs for Moncton. It's awfully nice to be able to drive through New Brunswick without being stuck behind a log truck laboring to make it up hill. But the trade off, aside from not being able to easily stop for lunch near Fredericton, is that you miss the serendipitous aspects of travel, the things that pique your fancy as you pass them, causing you to turn around and go back. Now, you have to plan, and know what exit you want to get off at. So, aiming for Briggs & Little was a good thing, as it got me off of the Trans Canada and onto a back road, a back road, I might add, that's badly in need of some repaving. But, no matter. It was pretty.

Of course, Briggs & Little was closed. It's August 1, New Brunswick Day. But, because I wasn't on the Trans Canada, I could see signs for local attractions. And I ended up having lunch in a nice little pub, in Harvey, NB that I never would have known about if I'd stayed on the Trans Canada.

Part of the fun of traveling alone is striking up conversations with people. The owner of the pub in Harvey, when she found out that I was heading for Kouchibouguac Park, suggested a route for me. She wrote it down in excruciating detail, but referred only to landmarks, not to route numbers, making it impossible for me to follow. I ended up improvising, by getting back on TCH 2 and heading toward Fredericton. (The pub owner's route had me going on a back road that turned out to be a numbered provincial highway; if she'd told me the number to take rather than to turn at a particular landmark, I'd have done that, and would have preferred it immensely. But what can you do?) Once I got to Fredericton, taking the exit for Miramichi got me back on the recommended route. I'd been told the whole trip would take me at most two hours, as opposed to three and a half if I went via Moncton. This woman must drive like a maniac, though, as it took me over three hours. However, as I've driven between Fredericton and Moncton before, I have to say that this was a more scenic route.

There's something weird about blogging a vacation. Does my vacation exist, if I don't blog? Clearly yes, but, still, herewith some observations that might get forgotten by the time I get home.

I left home c. 10AM and, 500 miles or so later, pulled into a motel in Houlton, Maine, the last town before the Canadian border on I-95.

Some observations:

It does little good to carefully pack a basket with picnic supplies (cutting board, paper plates, home made salad dressing, etc.), if you leave said basket by the couch in your living room.

Purple loostrife may be an invasive plant, forcing out native species, but it still looks gorgeous by the side of the road.

EZ-Pass may represent yet another wedge of Big Brother potential intrusion into individual rights (after all, BB can track your location via the same transponder that registers your presence at a toll booth), but it's damn convenient. Having the transponder saved me a bunch of time on the Mass Pike. It wasn't such a big deal on the Maine Turnpike, as there was less traffic there. It would have been useful in New Hampshire, but the New Hampshire Turnpike doesn't start taking EZ-Pass until Wednesday. So, perhaps it will help me on my way home

The fact that there is a gas station sign preceding an exit from I-95 in New Hampshire doesn't mean that you can find a gas station anywhere near that exit. However, in failing to find a gas station, you may nonetheless find a K-Mart which hasn't gone belly up at which you can buy paper plates to replace those sitting in your living room at home rather than in the back of your car.

Maine really does only have two seasons, winter and road construction. Because road construction is a season, it affects traffic even on Sunday when there's no actual construction going on.

Regardless of posted (de jure) speed limits, the de facto speed limit on I-95 is substantially higher north of Orono than in the southern part of the state. Of course, the faster you're going, the harder it is to be vigilant for moose crossing the road.

The Red Sox Radio Network actually is a network. Starting with the pre-game show and the first few innings on the flagship Boston station, and finishing with the final out on a Bangor station, it was possible listen to the entire game; as one station faded into static, the scan function on the car radio would soon find it on another station. I only missed one Minnesota run, and it ended up not figuring into the outcome.