So Long, Farewell, But Not For Long

Dear friends:

I'm moving, once again... I have grown accustomed to wordpress and now prefer it. So there you have it, bookmark (if you wish) www.sweeterafterdifficulties.wordpress.com. I appreciate each one of you - you know who you are - who still reads my oft neglected blog ! As always, here's a promise to do better next time.

Love, Rachel

Tis November

and I am determined to have 30 posts by November 30th, by hook or by crook. Since the weather outside is frightfully grey (or gray, however you prefer), it's time to set my fingers ablaze across the keyboard and generate some small pleasure from the warmth of a goal set and accomplished.

I must admit that my first thought as the air turned wintry was what do I want to wear this season? Leather gloves, black heels, warm, thick tights, and a leopard print coat, the kind of coat that jackie o would wear with a pillbox hat. And of course, a flannel nightie to slip into when I come home at night.

My next thoughts were much less shallow and revolved around who would get to pick the Christmas tree this year, immediately deciding that it should be: me.

Finally, my mind took a decidedly January-ish turn and I began to set goals, lots and lots of goals. Since the time of year really is what you make it, here's what November is going to be like for me...

write write write write writing, hot chocolate on the couch, long grey drives around the coast for inspiration for my prince edward island novel, and many different cakes and cookies and sticky buns in the oven as I experiment in preparation for that most wonderful thing known as Christmas baking.

caveat: this is what I hope my November will be like. There also are the small things such as, dealing with student loans, waking up and going to bed in the dark, hair frizzing in the rain, and getting sick with the swine flu.

But hey... there's ginger cookies in the cupboard and I'm going to go eat one right now. Take that, November!

All I Wanted Was a Hot Dog

I've been reading this remarkable book by Edna Ferber, called Giant, and I came to read it in a roundabout way, because I'm trying to read all the books that have won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, and Ferber's So Big was on the list, but the library only had Giant, and I thought maybe because the titles are so similar... but no. Giant and So Big are not the same book. Edna Ferber must have been hung up on the concept of hugeness.

Regardless. Giant is my new favorite novel. Giant is a love story. Giant is old-fashioned and staggeringly beautiful in scope. I love it because of the strong and fragile female protagonist and the way she's right even when she's wrong, the same way her male counterpart is as wrong as he is right. But when you come down to the bare bones of the story, it's really a book about place (in this case the great and of Texas) and about how the way Jordan Benedict loves Texas is entirely different from the way his Eastern wife Leslie loves Texas, and incredibly different from the way you or I would love it, if we would love it at all.

As reading is my favorite thing in the world to do, and place my favorite theme to read about (very Canadian Lit of me I know), Giant is entirely suited to my tastes. Oh, how doth Place fascinate me! (If only I could find a more romantic, less generic word.) Now, Natalie and I didn't read a lot on our trip, through Natalie brought along a hastily chosen yet very appropriate classic (No Great Mischief, and I hear you, oh I hear you sigh OF COURSE Rachel can't write a single blog post without mentioning That Book even though she just said Giant was her new favorite) and along the way I picked up Harris: In History and In Legend for my father but really for me. We never gave more than a sham performance at skimming through the respective pages - we were too deep into our very own very real very personal experience of place. More than stimulating enough. Still, there were pleasant moments snatched with words, with lists of words, with pages and pages of words, if they did not have quite the fulfilling, thrilling quality of reading a novel from start to finish.

In London, Natalie and I stumbled into a brand new hamburger joint off Covent Garden, dying for a plate of take-outy greasy goodness, blessed familiarity in a land of pubs offering veal and dumplings and other delights. "Good grief, give me grease!" I cried. "All I want is a good old hot dog." We scanned the menu, lots of words but none spelled h-o-t-d-o-g. So I inquired breathlessly of the young waiter, confident in the fact that in Canada, every restaurant serves that great food group on the children's menu. The waiter crinkled his forehead. "What is a hot dog?" The three of us stood in a suddenly bemused triangle on the step. What is a hot dog? (And really, who wants to know?) I could not bring myself to say wiener. Natalie tried to hold back a squeal of laughter. We re-read the menu and ended up with a steaming plate of french fries, english chips that were too thin, too soggy, and of a poor complexion, while black and white photos of British musicians presided above us in neat rows on the lime green wall. Bono and Lily Allen. This is one of them new-fangled hamburger joints. Dear children, Bono and Lily remarked incredulously. You're in London. Why are you asking for a common American Hot Dog? 'Excuse us,' we said politely. 'But we're Canadian.'

In Arisaig. A sticky leather sofa, with an odd-nosed dog at my feet, snoozing by the fire, a fire on the warmest of days, a fire with the odd-nosed dog besides, snoring on a warm maroon patterned carpet. A fat old navy-bound book in my hands. But my gaze isn't on the dusty inky creamy coloured pages, but on the darkly fading sun through the glass patio doors, and the silhouettes of the couple in front of those doors, scrounging through papers with glasses on top of their grey heads and sure, fumbling hands, edged in light. Where did you say you were born? I think Natalie is from this MacDonald family, Allan... Natalie, who is it in this picture? Oh, never mind me, do you girls want tea? 'Yes, please.'

Elizabeth lights up her eighth cigarette since we've arrived scarcely an hour ago, since Allan met us trundling our suitcases down the road, introduced us to Flora, the odd-nosed dog, showed us our twin-bedded bedroom and brought us down to the parlour to talk history and family and place and genealogy. She put out her first quickly in politeness, but politeness gives way to excitement. Smoke wavers through the dusty sunlit firelit air. My fingers cover the pages of A History of Inverness County, Nova Scotia, half reading, half listening to Natalie telepathing thoughts of I don't know anything about this help my dad is the one who knows this family stuff across the room to me, three books filled with sticky notes on her lap, eyes wide at the information Allen and Elizabeth MacDonald present her with unceasingly. They are giving with both hands.

With both hands, these humble retired bed and breakfast folk, with giant libraries both in their home and in their mind's eye, and with huge knowledge about Arisaig and its families. They accept Natalie as easily as if she were their own granddaughter and as if this was her own place. Oh, Allan and Elizabeth known better than we do that Arisaig is Natalie's own place, and accept just as easily that she will come back again and again, because they have seen this kind of thing before. Others have been led almost supernaturally to their door (as, I believe, we were) on a whim to seek knowledge of their ancestry (hoping for exciting skeletons under the rug?), and have been drawn back again, again, and again. Maybe you do have the self-control to eat only one potato chip in Scotland (especially if the flavour is Prawn Cocktail, or Builder's Breakfast, or Pickled Onion), but you cannot visit your ancestral place - oh, where is that more romantic, less generic word! - in Scotland just once. Unless you have not one sentimental bone in your body, and I think you do.

Elizabeth sits on the floor with her knees tucked beneath her, cigarette waving around in her right hand, wise as an owl. She pierces me with a look over the top of her round glasses. She's strong and fragile, a true Highland Scot who, among other things, believes in second sight, the Loch Ness monster, and race memories. At that moment, I do too. She is right in her wrongness; I am wrong in my rightness.

In my own place, on Harris, in Tarbert, in the Hotel Hebrides, lounging with my own legs tucked beneath me, I look up from the pages of Harris: In History and In Legend, and dream a little bit. If I crank the window as far open as it would go, then manoeuvre my upper body completely out of said window, I can see the beautiful and deserted harbour. Saturday night through Tuesday morning, we never saw a soul on or near the boats, neither for fishing nor for recreation. Now, however, my weary, too-traveled mind, confused on dates and times and things, can swirl through centuries of Harris history, and imagine any number of invaders creeping into the harbour, and residents of Harris, stubborn Morrisons and strong MacLeods, appearing among the sheep on the moonscape mountains, grim and silent. This is our place, our own place. It's gigantic, their insane belonging.

I come back to 2009. Natalie and I dress for dinner after a warm bus ride from Northton, and quietly go downstairs to the pub. We order the most delectable Angus beef burgers I've ever had, for the second night in a row. I have been putting forward my very best self, the most ladylike self, dressing for dinner and thinking of how well-traveled I am, when I suddenly realize I am very tired and would just like to be Canadian, please. And though being Canadian still means being very polite and ladylike, it also means I can put my elbows on the table and hold that burger up to my anxious mouth and close my eyes to better taste the delicious Cajun flavour. No matter how worldly I act, no matter how softly I lower my voice to hide my accent, any dirty working man in the room could pinpoint the Canadian in a flash. I will always be the girl old British men come up to saying, "I noticed you in the pub last night," to my dismay. Because I do not belong there the way they do, I am unusual to the people and to the place, and though I am accepted as a friend and a nice girl by the Allans and Elizabeths and Pauls and Marlenes, I was not born in Scotland, and will only ever vacation there. I, am, Canadian, in all senses of the phrase.

Natalie and I walk out of the hotel toward the harbour on our evening stroll, and she walks ahead, as always a little faster, with a cautious eye on Rachel coming up slowly behind. She is edged in light, in the darkly fading sun light. I wrap my sweater a little closer around myself and know myself to be, besides Canadian, a sentimental fool who listens to old owl-y ladies with piercing visions and sweetly singing tales of second sight and belonging in a strange land, in a strange way. Who reads numerous Scottish history books and sees invaders and defenders in the present, where there are none.

But they are there, they are there, and they are defending their own place for me, as it is my place, my own place. I remember it to be so. If my race memories did not arrive with invasive tears, as has happened with others, they arrived with a calm acceptance that I will come back again, and again, and again. Do I remember because I desperately want to, or think that I should, or simply because yes, I do remember this place, and it is my place, and I know it in a strange way and I love it in a different way than anyone else? How can I explain... In Harris, I never wanted a hot dog.

"She does have the island look," Marlene said to Paul at Ceol na Mara.

"Maybe," I could have replied skeptically. "Maybe that's because I've always lived on islands."

But instead I beamed, every sentimental bone in my body absolutely aching with delight.

PS. This is Arisaig on a beautiful June evening

This is Harris on a beautiful June afternoon

a garish red hat

Travel Journal Post #2: Oh, the Dreadful Fog in Skye!

In February, a week or two before I bought a round trip ticket to London, the Morrison clan was sitting rather limply around Grandma's living room because it was the night before my grandfather's wake. It was a long night and a black night, with his wife and his children and grandchildren sitting there in conversation, whether silent or aloud. Before we left, Aunt Tracey pulled out a black knitted hat to give to Aunt Paula. A nice, neat black hat knitted by great-aunt Muriel, who in all senses of the phrase is a knitting machine. I filed that hat away under 'Mention to Muriel that I'd Like One Myself' and went back to working out the eulogy in my head.

There is nothing like a wake to try your patience. You vacillate between being strong and professional or weepy and sentimental. Do you stare at the coffin with watery eyes or skim clear eyes over it? It didn't look like Grandpa. They trimmed his beard. That helped. But when someone comes through the line and grasps your hand with a certain grip, and you look up at their eyes, and you know right away that they have lost their own father, or mother, or brother, then the tears arrive in a rush for both of you. And then there's the inappropriate laughter that rises up when someone comes through the line that Grandpa didn't like, or when my aunt gasps at a lady who once made a pass at Grandpa having the indecency to come through and shake Grandma's hand.

But whether you are laughing or not, tears linger at the back of your eyes until they have opportunity, and opportunity knocks often. When Muriel made her way through the line, she gave me a hug, and said, "I have something for you, Rachel, if you want it," and handed me a red knitted hat. So the tears moved uniformly to the front of my eyes, as I explained oh, that I did want it. I had been going to ask her for a hat. Muriel beamed, and said words of wisdom along the lines of: "This is to show you that the Lord knows exactly what you want and need long before you do."

I appreciated the message. I didn't wear the hat that often. It was too blatantly Canadian and garish in a particularly red and knitted way. But I stuffed it in my suitcase when I went off to Europe, and I ended up wearing it one long, foggy day on the Isle of Skye.

Allan, our B&B host in Arisaig, had woken us up at the crack of dawn and rushed us through a breakfast of toast and tea so we could make it to the Mallaig ferry for the early morning sailing. It was a lovely foggy morning over the sea, but we were tired, and we hadn't a clue where we were going to sleep that night, only that it would be on the Isle of Harris. This worried Allan. (This worried me!) He made sure that we understood that we were to go to the tourist bureau in Portree, Skye, and book a room in Harris with their humble services.

The ferry men were lovely, and carried our suitcases. The bus driver that picked us up at the terminal laughed because we looked so tired, and carried our suitcases. I believe it was at this point that I shoved my hand in my suitcase and pulled out the red hat, because the fog made my hair damp. The bus driver in Portree was a woman, was certainly not lovely, and did not carry our suitcases. I was so weary, and once up the million bus steps I cried "Natalie!" in a voice of despair, poor girl, who was struggling with her own luggage, as I could hardly move with the chill in my bones and the suitcase was stuck in the aisle. So a nice young man with extraordinarily shaggy hair and a tan wool sweater jumped up, handed me his coffee, and hauled the suitcase down the aisle to an available seat.

I sat down and burst into tears. Luckily, he had already left for his own seat. "He was so nice!" I wept. "It's fine, it will work out," Natalie said. We had gone to the tourist bureau and found that there were only three options on the Isle of Harris. Each option was far out of our price range, and two of them far from the ferry terminal, and we had no car. We debated. I had no clue the right thing to do was. Take our chances and maybe come across a friendly and cheap hostel? An absolutely horrified look passed over the lady's face. "They only have a one star hostel on Harris," she said. "Do you have any idea what a one star hostel is like?" So we paid the lady four extra pounds to book an expensive B&B five minutes from the ferry terminal in Tarbert, Harris, and I swiped my credit card with an air of what else is there to do. Money only goes so far, but a one star hostel lingers forever in the scars of bed-bug bites.

So we took the bus from Portree to Uig on the Isle of Skye, and waited for the ferry there. As I struggled to get my suitcase off the bus before the rush of people getting on the bus made it impossible, I nearly broke down again when a delightful ten-year-old-or-so boy said, "Can I help you, Miss?" I believe I said, "No, dear!" with a catch in my voice because he was so small and had so many freckles.

At Uig, we sat on a bench in the fog. We ate disgusting chicken burgers at a cafe. We bought magazines because they had free mascara enclosed and read them in the ferry terminal. It was freezing, and all the local businesses kept their doors wide open, even the liquor store, which we toured out of desperation for Something To Do. We waited six hours, and with every minute my despair grew. I made pointless calculations in my head and kicked myself for not booking cheap B&B's while sitting in the comfort of my own home. And for packing summer clothes when, who knew, England and Scotland are far colder than Canada in June. What an utterly miserable day!

Finally, six hours later, the ferry arrived, and we pulled our suitcases up a long ramp with metal bumps every foot - incredibly difficult. I can't remember if someone helped with my suitcase of not, but they probably did. I think it was something about the woebegone expression on my face when carting my bags that led many, many Scottish men to help me with my luggage (unlike the cold-hearted English men, or the head-in-the-clouds French men). After disposing of said luggage in the rack and making a hysterical joke along the lines of "Somebody, steal my luggage! Anybody, really!" we found seats by ourselves, in front of a TV. The Weakest Link was on. The ferry was like a meat freezer. "I didn't know that teeth chattering was just an expression," I said. "I don't ever want to get off," Natalie said. Ferries, cold as they may be, are little oasis' from all the problems of the world. I jammed the red hat further down on my head in dejection.

But stumbling off the ferry with ice in the very core of my being, someone definitely carried my suitcase. I think Natalie might have actually commanded him too. She was a trooper through and through, and managed her own luggage with gritted teeth in almost all circumstance (bravo), while keeping a motherly eye out for how far Rachel was behind her, exactly. The sun was out on Harris, and there were little girls in bright colours Highland dancing, meeting the ferry in a very touristy fashion. We watched them for a bit, and Paul, our B&B host, almost drove past us because we looked so young ourselves (time and time again, we watched the surprise on our host and hostess' faces, as they realized that the ladies they had been emailing with B&B details actually were seventeen. Oh sorry, we just looked seventeen). But Paul, poor man with a bad back, redeemed himself by helping to carry our suitcases upstairs, because our room was on the third floor of Ceol na Mara. Oh please excuse me, I mean our HEAVENLY room was on the third floor of Ceol na Mara.

I was almost afraid to touch the bed, it was so beautifully clean and plump with mounds of comforters, and we were so dirty from the day of travel. Everything was white. Through the window, sheep baaed happily (or unhappily, who can tell?). We padded over to the open window. No screen, because this is Scotland. It opened onto a vision of delight: navy blues and muted greens fading into the grey stone of the mountains. A long day, and a black day, but the night was full of light. Oh heavens, it was heavenly. We showered and put on the thick white robes folded pleasantly for our use in the armoire, and Natalie brewed a good cup of tea in the hospitality corner, opening up packets of shortbreads to crunch delicately between our teeth as we tried not to get crumbs in the fresh beds. And - "Natalie, the TV has 1000 channels!"

When we woke up the next morning, Paul and Marlene had ready a break of porridge and maple syrup, of homemade yogurt and fresh squeezed orange juice, of Danish pastries and fresh fruit, and oh, so much more deliciousness. They stopped to make conversation. Why were we on Harris? "Because I'm a Morrison," I said simply. They laughed. "Yes, Morrisons are a dime a dozen here," Marlene said. "You know, you do have the island look." "But rather more like the MacKinnons of Scalpay," Paul remarked. I beamed. They had connected me to this island in a deeper way than I could have forced.

Only now, looking back, do I realize that the Lord knew, long before I did, that my money would stretch far enough. He knew when I'd pull the garish hat out of my suitcase in dejection. He knew that perhaps my favorite memory would be opening the Ceol na Mara window to the sea loch and leaning out, trying to spot the sheep, my hair dripping blackly onto the tiles far below.

An Age Old Story

Which is: Old Men Wanting Younger Women. Age-old (in more ways than one), and boring, but hopefully this won't be. While I was searching about in my mind for something interesting to write about, I realized that there are plenty of little tidbits from my trip, both silly and serious, that haven't been shared, so here, without further ado, is Travel Journal Post #1: Triple Threat.

There's absolutely no point in denying that when daydreaming about Scotland (and England, and France, but mostly Scotland), my mind (and Natalie's, I'm sure) drifted across the chance of whirling around the country in the delightful state of foreign romance, which is three times as romantic as normal, home-grown romance. A slight possibility, hmm? That our paths might cross with handsome, accented young men, and lead towards an, ahem, more permanent residence in Britain? If You Know What I Mean And I Think You Do.

But when our feet were set on foreign soil, Nat and I seemed to be in a constant yet subconscious attempt to hinder our chances at romances. Our sense of sensibility and safety led us to stay at quaint B&B's favored by older couples; to eat at pubs, but not at their bars, only in their elegant upper rooms that, once again, older couples favored; to ask only couples to take our pictures; and to sit only by old ladies on the bus. In short, we kept our feet strictly out of Young Men Territory.

This is not to say that this constant and subconscious attempt wasn't for the best because Natalie and I utterly enjoyed ourselves in a completely safe manner. Oh, oh yes. Older couples in Europe tend to be well-traveled, mannerly, and experts at conversation, or, if none of those, simply fascinatingly interesting. And the waitresses in the elegant upper rooms began to recognize us and seat us with views over castles and rivers, and the couples that took our pictures were sweet and smiley, asking for pictures in return, and we weren't sexually assaulted on the bus like one poor woman who sat a few rows ahead of us by a sketchy man. So, all good (for us). All stories that you will hear eventually. But there was one day in Scotland that male attention became both unparalleled (until Paris) and strangely unwanted.

Our bus was to leave Tarbert, Harris, at eleven. We had said our farewells to our beautiful, discounted hotel room, the blue and green harbour, the moonscape hills, and the ever-present sheep. We had lugged our suitcases out to the parking lot. Then we waited. The sun was hot, and Natalie's toe was bruised from the night before - she had tripped over my suitcase and almost fallen out of the hotel window (there seems to be no such thing as a window screen in Scotland, or sheets for that matter). And then came along an old man with a backpack and a baseball cap and a big old grin. "Are you waiting for the bus? I noticed you ladies at the bar last night."

What a beginning! First, it wasn't really a bar - just called one to distinguish it from the more expensive restaurant. Second, we certainly hadn't noticed him - too busy glancing at the young farmers with tousled hair and work shirts in the corner. And he was old - old enough to be our grandfather, and standing uncomfortably close. Unfortunately, I am far too polite to snub someone that obviously (unless they come up to Natalie and I in the Paris metro and repeat "C'est bon! C'est bon!") so we had to make half-hearted conversation about the fight in the bar that left a man stumbling around outside bloody and half blind with anger (we weren't present at the time; we spied on his conversation with the police out our hotel window). He was an architect, retired, and overly interested in sailing around the Hebrides. Finally he requested that we inform the bus driver not to leave the lot without him, and took off to make a phone call in the tourist bureau. Well, we sat on the bus, by two elderly ladies, sweet, innocent, moral people! And the bus driver was getting ready to leave. "Should we tell him to wait?" Natalie whispered. I groaned. And we did, because we are nice girls in general and in this case in particular. Luckily, the retired architect sat far ahead of us (turned off by the elderly ladies?) and left with a cheery wave in Stornoway. Goodbye to you, sir, and the leer in your bleary eyes!

We turned our gaze to the ferry, our favorite mode of travel in Scotland. (Why? You leave all your bags in a luggage rack. You walk around bookstores and giftshops. You stretch out on the long couches with a Coke in one hand and a Yorkie (not for girls!) in the other, and close your eyes, and fall asleep, and everyone does this, and no one is afraid of anyone stealing anything or being inappropriate in any way. It's bliss for the weary traveller.) After leaving our heavy suitcases with good riddance in the rack we sat down tiredly in a corner with access to both television and window, on a couch that curves its way completely across the room. On a nearby curve of the couch, sat down an elderly gentleman. Completely decked out in red and Canadian flags pinned all over his body. After deliberating for a moment, Natalie said politely: "What part of Canada are you from?" (Which, may I instruct all old men, is a much better opening than "I Saw You In the Bar".) He was from Vancouver (typical). "Oh - and we're from the Maritimes!" Natalie said. "And we're from Quebec!" Cheered the blond couple directly across from us. "This is the Canadian Corner!" someone said, and we all laughed in delirious recognition that we could just Let Our Guard Down and Be Canadian, whatever that means.

For the next hour or so, Mr. Vancouver regaled us with tales of his life and his children and his desire to cut his trip short. Out of the places he had traveled, he liked Glasgow best, which seems to be a trend among the working men I've known that have gone to Scotland. Shocking to my romantic eye- what can compare to the mysterious kitsch of Inverness and Nessie? The moonscape of Harris? The almost disturbing beauty of the highway from Fort William to Arisaig? But that is all, all, another story.

Mr. Vancouver continued, 'opening our eyes' to the wondrous invention that is the hostel. Well, I have been skeptical from the beginning of the trip of those particular inventions, not least because the PEI boy we met described our smoky B&B in Arisaig as a 'haven' away from hostels and drunken friends, though he eagerly participated in both hostels and drunkenness when with said friends. But my skepticism reached an all-time high point when Vancouver told the tale of $300 stolen from his pocket in his latest hostel. "But that hostel was beautiful!" I thought of the modern boutique hotel we had just left behind with fluffy white duvets and sparkling spring water and thick doors that locked very securely, for which we had paid only slightly more than a single room at a hostel. "Yes," I said. "I'm sure it was amazing."

Eventually, we managed to slump down enough in our seats for Vancouver to transfer his attention to the blond couple from Montreal, and we closed our eyes and stretched out and slept for two hours, to the music of the sea and the ferry engine and the news on the TV and Vancouver chat, chat, chatting away. We parted in Ullapool, as he strapped his backpack on and left in search of another beautiful and utterly amazing hostel.

But neither the Old Man in the Morning nor the Old Man in the Afternoon compare to the Old Man in the Evening. It was our second time in Inverness and we knew and thirsted for old haunts: Topshop; the Castle Tavern; Hootananny's. Sick of travel, we showered in three minutes (a record for me and laughing unbelief from Natalie) and put on summer dresses and sandals and left our hair to dry in the Scottish evening sunshine. "It's going to wave, badly," I said dubiously. But we were in too much of a hurry to wait to enjoy mango chicken curry and strawberry kiwi cheesecake (almost too beautiful to eat) at the Tavern and then to saunter down the road for a ceilidh at the famous Thai pub, Hootananny's, which is very fun to say and even funner to experience but not fun at all to type.

We slipped in the door of Hootananny's and went straight to the loo, which is the easiest way to navigate a pub such as this when you can't go up to the bar and lounge around with a drink in your hand. Then you tidy yourself up and survey the room from the relative safety of a neutral position. The trick is to watch everybody at once so when they begin to leave you can make a mad dash for their table. We had to sit on some speakers for about half an hour while we waited, tapping our feet to fiddles and accordions and banjos and you-name-it. However, when we made our mad dash for a table, so did an older gentlemen! Number three! I could hardly speak or believe my eyes when he sat down on the speaker beside us and asked permission to place his drink on our table for safekeeping. After thoughts jumbled together in my head I said of course you may, because better that than looking as if we were taking a table from a paying customer, which is exactly what was happening. Sorry. And we settled in for another conversation with a man old enough to be our grandfather. (One thing that annoyed me about each man was that they all hinted at or outright asked if we had money. Which, we didn't, because there are ways to take a trip cheaply while avoiding hostels and dives, but that was none of their business and I certainly didn't answer. What puzzled me was that in this sort of situation... shouldn't it be the other way around?)

But I must say that The Old Man in the Evening was my favorite. He was educated, healthy, a good conversationalist, and altogether interesting. He was a stockbroker... yes, you can imagine why he would need a break, and quite a break he took - traveling around the world on his own. He's been everywhere, knows everyone, offered to get us a job working for someone in Halifax, a minister of agriculture, but I said no thanks, I have no interest in agriculture unless it's to tramp across some fields of my own in muddy boots and an old coat with two black and white sheep dogs at my heels, plotting some plot in my mind to set down on paper. But nice man. Interesting. The sticky part came when two handsome - yes, oh yes - young men strolled in and took up position where they could keep an eye on us and an eye on the bar. I stared past the stock-broker longingly. In the exact same instant, one looked at me and smiled as the stockbroker asked to buy us a drink and a look of horror passed over my face. The young men laughed quietly behind their hands, as we shook our heads politely and died a little inside. It took us a good few minutes to convince him that we didn't drink alcohol and we didn't want a Coke (though I did - but thoughts of Natalie's mother warning us Never To Take a Drink From a Stranger danced menacingly through my head). He continued the conversation, the young men - exactly our types - moved to a distant table, and that was that.

We slipped out the door later that evening and put up the umbrella, each ahold of the handle. "You know," I said, as we walked in our lovely dresses and wavy hair through the dark Celtic night, lights reflecting off the wet cobblestone beside the castle, rain sliding off the umbrella merrily onto my shoes, "sometimes I think God sits up there and just has a good laugh at my life."

I certainly do.

my heavens

Here I am, prompted into writing by the recent requests for 'more, please'. so here is 'more,' with hope that it won't prompt you to request 'that's enough, thanks'.

Life has been a slow whirlwind lately with loads happening but not much going on. If that makes sense... in short, I feel as if I'm doing lots but still waiting for my real life to begin (settle down with a job and maybe a little dog or something). I am forever jetting off somewhere and then coming home to chat the ears off my parents and recuperate. I graduated university, I went to London, I went to Scotland, I went to France, I came home for the grand opening of our new church building, and now my family is off on vacation for a Whole Month (can you believe it?) because we are all exhausted for various reasons. So at the moment, I have the best of both worlds: jetting off with my parents and everybody (that is, mom, dad, Joanna, Luke and I) chatting the ears off each other all at once. To illustrate:

Fifteen minutes after leaving home for Cape Breton....
Joanna: Mom, can I have a piece of gum?
Wendy: No gum until after lunch.
Luke: Lunch is in an hour!
Rachel: Heaven forbid we have a piece of gum BEFORE lunch!
Ross: Wendy, give the kids some gum. I. am. exhausted.
Wendy: Ross, I hate candy.
Everyone: WE KNOW.
Rachel: When I was in Paris I had pop and chocolate Every Night.
Luke: I'm not going to drink pop today because then I'm going to need to go to the bathroom every half hour.
Everyone: WE KNOW.
Rachel: Joanna, can I listen to your ipod?
Joanna: Rachel you took my ipod to Europe for three weeks without asking, and you're actually asking for it NOW...? Only if you promise to download this list of songs for me.
Rachel: Joanna there are 100+ songs on this list!
Joanna: I know.
Ross: Joanna are those CHRISTIAN songs?
Joanna: Dad, would you like a piece of gum?
Everyone chews contentedly (except for Wendy) for a few minutes.
Joanna: I just fell asleep and dreamed that there was a cow in the van. Luke brought a cow because you wouldn't let him bring Capt. Johnny. Dad you said Get That Cow out of the Van, I. Am. Exhausted. And then Luke needed to pee.
Ross: Let's get lunch now. At Wendy's.
Luke: I'm not going to get pop though because then I'll need to go to the bathroom.
Wendy: Ross! What about the good soup that I brought?
Rachel: Is it ok if I go to McDonalds? Please?
Wendy: Rachel, you've forgotten that the quality of McDonalds in PEI is not that of France.
Rachel: Well can I discover that for myself? Please?
Luke: I need to go to the bathroom!
Joanna: Can I please have a piece of gum?

Well seriously folks. There is nothing like a seven hour drive with your family. Two packs of gum and many memories later we arrived at home sweet home, because as I've repeated ad nauseum in previous posts, 'my heart's in the highlands...' we are all tremendously delighted to be here, comfortably ensconced in great-grandma's house which for some reason or another has mysteriously acquired highspeed internet and satellite tv over the winter. There is no need to ever leave the house, except... out the window are the trees and the mountains and two minutes across the field there's the river... excuse me I need to go for a quick dip.

Just kidding, it is freezing today. July should be scalding hot enough to swim morning, evening, and afternoon, and wake up in the middle of the night contemplating a midnight dunk as well, but instead it feels like October. But the river isn't the only source of entertainment. Yesterday my dear cousin Jordan biked over and we spent the evening eating chicken fingers and junk food from the take out, watching youtube videos and swapping university tall-tales. When my family came home we all watched Lassie on the satellite tv and laughed hysterically as that beautiful dog saved many grateful groundhogs from certain drowning death by damming a stream of water with a large rock.

I would be remiss in this post if I did not answer Mrs. Lindsay's question re: how did I get along cooking this year at school... let's say I enjoyed cooking when I cooked. Katie and Natalie and I made several delicious meals together (it's so much better to cook together than apart). One memorable night we invented several recipes such as apple-strawberry-berry pie with a coconut crust; another night Nat and I made a divine apricot chicken with parmesan toast; and Natalie and I also made good use out of a great garlic bread/grilled cheese sandwich combo. But to be completely honest, if you peeked into the kitchen on any given night... you would see Katie eating some sort of casserole from the freezer, Natalie serving up a lentil patty, and me toasting some sort of bread to eat with peanut butter. Either that or we all would be eating steak. We were all very good at steak by the end. Lots of soy sauce and garlic, five minutes under the broiler each side.

Food is so good! The French know exactly what they are doing when serving up a two hour, three course meal. Natalie and I experienced this when invited over to a couple's home in Paris for lunch. Dish after dish was placed in front of our large eyes and shrinking stomachs, drenched in cream, garnished with parsley, served with crusty bread, washed down with ice water. And finally, the coffee and chocolate conclusion, because otherwise we would all fall asleep in our seats from the immense amount of food consumed. Lovely. Everyone left with a big smile. Excellent conversation (even with the language barrier) and remarkable (for better or for worse) food. (But I am still bothered by the question....how on earth do they all stay so skinny?)

In many ways my grand European adventure was marked by the food. Fantastic pizza at a little Italian restaurant in London; the Inverness Thai food-serving Pub where we never actually ate because we could never get a table, but enjoyed many a good ceilidh there; the unbelievable Angus beef burgers on the Isle of Harris (More, Please!); baguettes and chocolate cake on my birthday in Paris. And at least one Chicken McNugget happy meal from a McDonald's at every location.

Oh... did I mention that I've learned that the quality of the McDonald's in PEI is not the quality of the McDonald's in France? That's enough for me, thanks.

unforgivable, i know

what a lovely, spring-y day it is!
so much so i feel moved to write it down.
the winter is passing...
and so is my unforgivable hiatus away from this blog.
there'll be more to come :)