Days 44-51: Around Quebec's Gaspé peninsula, down dull New Brunswick, and around spectacular Nova Scotia...

(So much to see, so little time to type... after starting in Dartmouth, NS at Jeanette's... continuing on the ferry to Newfoundland... and finishing in the Corner Brook Memorial University campus... here's the update to Halifax)

Day 44 (June 10): 130km down
After pulling everything together and saying minimal goodbyes (the best-- and least dramatic-- variety) in Trois Rivieres, Theresa and I hit the road to Quebec city where we cruised around vieux Quebec, enjoying hot croissants and fine french onion soup as we migrated from bakery to cafe, from basse-ville to haute-ville. We went into St. Patrick's Pub to watch the Oilers game (2-1 win against Carolina), and were pleasantly surprised by live fiddle music and to run into a rez friend-- Alison, a chemical engineering student at U of Sask-- from Trois Rivieres.

Though I had found an alley to park in that seemed fine earlier in the day, at night it had been transformed into a $5 parking lot. And despite the theme of parking tickets in cities along the way, I wasn't in the mood for a ticket-- plus I was confronted by a rude attendant who wouldn't admit the signage was non-existent in the day. Still, we had lively debate (my first real french one! Though I think I had more fun with it than him), and, after I had finally convinced him to get me a legitimate receipt from the neighbouring business (he could've been a bum collecting $5 freely, after all), we were off, back to Laval University where we stayed in Sashah's place (Sashah, as you will soon discover, is the new third of the crew) while she partied the night away in Montreal.

It was a nice opportunity to contrast their French immersion program with the one I had done in Trois Rivieres-- theirs had no real immersion (most students freely spoke english outside of class, whereas two cartes rouges would've had us TR kids kicked out), they lived in single room rez's, the program gave them $700 in cash for food at the beginning (we had meal tickets), and they had a giant communal kitchen (we had one in each apartment). It was there that, while cooking my tomato pasta routine, I met an interesting fellow SFU student (he recognized my formerly UBC bag with personally handstitched SFU emblem) who was completing his masters in French and was doing the same Explore french language program for credits at Laval. Originally from Belgrade, he wanted to know everything about the Trois Rivieres program-- and I discovered that the SFU french department has weekly french 'parties' that will be a must come September!

Day 45 (June 11): 900km down
After a night of partying in Montreal with her crew from Laval, Sashah grabbed a bus early that morning—after 45 minutes of sleep—and made it back to Quebec city where we met up. After doing some laundry—and witnessing nearly fifty Persian Iran world cup fans adorned with flags and jerseys huddled around the Laval big screen—we hit the road, over the Pierre Laporte bridge and east along the forming Gaspe peninsula (in case it’s hard to find on the map… it’s been called the penis of North America).

Driving along the beautiful St. Lawrence River valley, we stopped in Saint-Jean-Port-Joli for the finest lunch I’ve ever had—incredible French bread sandwiched with goat cheese, raisins and walnuts, and followed up with ‘tarte a la crème’, a delicious maple sugar cake (eating well definitely hasn’t been a problem—I’ve made a point of trying something regionally unique everyday, without spending more than $10).

As we continued east along the river valley through the quaint towns of Riviere-du-loup and Trois-Pistoles, the geography evolved into narrow strips of farmland (remnants of a seynoir system long passed), with random mountains of rock scattered about—as if God had skipped stones from the Atlantic. As we got further along, the farmland disappeared, replaced by roads squeezed between the river—which itself was becoming increasingly ocean-like—and beautiful rock cliffs, roads that would occasionally divert up mountains and down through swathes of lush vegetation.

Through coastal communities we passed, marked by the giant spires of each town centre—the church. While torrential rain had marked the first half of the day, the evening was replaced by a thick fog which rendered ghostly lighthouses (one of which, titled the ‘tallest in Canada’ was far smaller than some of our west coast lighthouses—Esperanza Point for example) and wind turbines—the latter of which was well showcased at Cap Chat, whose 76 turbines are visible for miles around (the 110m tall Eole de Cap-Chat, which we tried futilely to find in the fog, is the tallest and most powerful vertical-axis wind tower in the world). Can you see the turbine through the fog?

We arrived around 10:30pm in Forillon National Park—located off the eastern-most tip of Gaspe—driving to the eastern most campsite in the park: Cap Bon-Ami. The ‘Unity Mobile’—with its Quebec and Canada flags flying—had remained strong through the trip, and, apparently as we arrived in the parking lot, two campers mistook us as park rangers. They came up to the car, we conversed in French, before clarifying that we were mere anglos from the west. We wandered down to the beach with the two guys—Marko and Louis—and went crazy with the sight of the ocean. I mean, I’ve spent all my life on the ocean—fishing, sailing, cruising, and rowing—and to spend 6 weeks away from it, although I hadn’t realized it to that point, was a challenging feat.

As Theresa later noted, that night—our first with Sashah on board—was reminiscent of our first night with Adham in Golden. In both cases, we ran into a group who thought we were the authorities, the group was smoking up, the group provided us with fire (Marko and Louis had a great fire/food/hammock setup in a park cabin), and were generous with food and fire (Marko and Louis put on a fireworks show by the beach—and the coast guard didn’t even come!) Here the moon emerges over Forillon park.

Day 46 (June 12): 520km down
Though Theresa and Sashah were determined to catch the sunrise, Theresa woke at 3:30am to find it was already light—Forillon National Park, after all, is the eastern most tip of the Eastern Standard Time zone (if you look at a map, EST stretches nearly a third of Canada from Thunder Bay, Ontario, through to Forillon).

The light yielded a magnificent view down the cliffs of the coast—as Theresa would later note, awestruck by the beauty, this is where she wants to get married—a view soundtracked by an abundance in number and diversity of sea birds, from gannets, cormorants and guillemots, to songbirds like skylark and chaffinch. It was, without a doubt, one of the top three parks I’ve ever been to.

After Marko had kindly made us a scrambled egg breakfast, Marko and I took off on a four hour hike around the park, and up to the peak of Forillon—a beautiful 360 degree panoramic view (he’s got some photos, which, once he emails me, I’ll post). One of the most interesting people I’ve ever met, his dad was a UN diplomat, originally from Serbia. Marko was born in islands of south pacific, though, as the son of a diplomat, he grew up all over the world, spending stints in Afghanistan (during the Soviet war), western Africa, and throughout much of Asia. We had a fascinating conversation during the hike, challenging my thoughts on NGOs, politics, journalism, religion, science, and more… between being distracted by porcupines (we saw three, including one which waddled along the path in front of us for nearly half an hour, before it’s daring showcase of pudgy athleticism, climbing up a dirt cliff) and bear dung (Forillon, I was told, has the highest concentration of black bear in North America).

After taking some photos with the girls back at Cap Bon-Ami (two photos), we drove down to the south side of the park, where the three of us hiked out to the eastern most tip of the park, reaching Bon Ami Point Lighthouse (the first solar powered lighthouse in Canada, a few decades back). Along the way, we saw (and heard) countless pods of Balleen whales, and came upon a few porcupines, strolling through a setting that was at once Hawaiian and Tuscan. (two photos)

We hit the road out of Forillon National Park around 7pm, rejuvenated by a fine day of hiking and relaxing, driving through the dull town of Gaspe, and then west along the peninsula, arriving at the uber-touristy—though still gorgeous (picture)—Perce, headlined by it’s rock (which we caught by sunset-- picture) . A growing orange mound perplexed us from the south, rising along the southern horizon as we drove, only to yield it’s identity as the full moon.

And as we continued along, yearning for a pub for a meal and to catch the hockey game, we drove through town after town, where the only gathering place appeared to be the local corner store. Finally we found a random community along Gaspe with an open diner—it was uber cheap, which was welcomed, though we each got the vibe that Sashah was the only brown person who’d stepped foot in that diner (one older guy in particular stared at her as we ate).

After refuelling and checking the oil—the Unity Mobile was thankfully still running strong—we continued west to the end of the peninsula, before turning south over a bridge separating EST and Atlantic time, Quebec and New Brunswick. After attempting a photo (pictured) with the New Brunswick sign (it was dark, after all, so the sign hardly shows up behind us), the girls slept as I drove on to the beats of Monk and Moby, through random New Brunswick towns (I somehow got lost on a country road at 3am for an hour, all in good fun of course), all of which, astoundingly were adorned by signs en francais—New Brunswick, I discovered, is Canada’s only officially bilingual provinces. Growing tired, I pulled off into Bathurst, into a random parking lot overlooking the inlet, where, after photographing the rising sun (pictured-- 'Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky in morning, sailor's warning' as they say!), I caught a few hours of sleep.

Day 47 (June 13): 480km down
Ah, dull New Brunswick. Woke up in Bathurst, and hit the highway-- it was pretty obvious that spending too much time in New Brunswick was not a good idea (or at least, not until we get to John's-- of Toronto fame-- place in Fredericton in early July).

Through Miramichi-- Canada's Irish capital-- continuing south towards Moncton. En route, a few kilometres out of Moncton, came Magnetic Hill. Now, this was something that I was genuinely excited about. Government signs had been hyping it along the freeway, guidebooks had raved about the oddity, and friends had mentioned it longingly... Magnetic Hill, after all, was the optical illusion that farmers discovered way back by which a car rolls downhill (while seemingly to go uphill-- an optical illusion!). The environs too were in the mood-- magnetic street signs scattered throughout the region, along with a zoo, winery, and waterslides. Really, I quite excited. So we dutifully paid our $5 to enter, and were directed to drive up a hill and put our car in neutral (then roll backwards). Well, long story short, Magnetic hill sucks. Big time. You drive up a hill and roll down-- not much there. Now, by hill, I mean slanted dirt road (pictured). We went back to ask the attendant what we did wrong. Then drove back up the hill... and actually drove quite a ways further up the hill, before coasting down-- and guess what, this time we even coasted further-- Gravitational Potential Energy sure can work wonders!

Actually, I'm thinking of writing a guidebook based on the experience: "Magnetic Hill sucks (and other useful tips while travelling Canada)" Though, given the fine reviews it receives, there must be a Gestapo that kills to maintain its fine reputation-- so I probably wouldn't last long.

Through dull Moncton-- stopping for some fresh dull buns-- onto the Trans Canada #2, and soon past the New Brunswick/Nova Scotia border.

And wow. What a contrast in tourist service. Past the New Brunswick billboard we drove, greeted by the spectacular Nova Scotia lighthouse (pictured). And the visitors centre, with its plush leather couches, free internet access (part of a Nova Scotia wide program-- free internet access in countless small communities all over the province, a grand idea), and numerous assistants (we had 3 at one point helping us find universite ste. anne on a map), it was the epitome of classy.

From there we drove south-east through an erratic torrential-rain-cum-sun combination to Truro-- the hub of Nova Scotia, but itself relatively New Brunswick (that is to say: dull)-- then onto the first of many 'trails' (Nova Scotia's scenic routes are organized into 'trails', which are extraordinary-- especially the 'Lighthouse Trail' of the south and 'Cabot Trail' of Cape Breton), over the Shubenacadie river (pictured--whose red clay now stains my cast), continuing on through the beautiful landscape (picture) past PC/Liberal signs (turns out we showed up on election day) and on to Walton, where Ashley-- a friend from the Trois Rivieres program-- had a campsite. And wow, what a campsite it was (below). We picked a site on a patch of lush grass, steps away from the shoreline, with a magnificent view of the Minas Basin of the Bay of Fundy (the Minas Basin is the site of the world's highest tides-- 16 metres). Our night included such trip-firsts as the Theresa-made fire (a good one), eating smores, and sleeping in a tent. Ah, camping life at its finest.

Day 48 (June 14): 220km down
Waking up early, I hiked out to the farthest point of low tide in the bay (a couple kilometres out), eager to test the suggestion that the rising tide of the Bay of Fundy is faster than a horse can gallop and to see some of the sealife along the way. The Basin, largely clay (nothing like standing up to your ankles in thick clay) had little life at first glance-- though looking closer revealed hermit crabs, sea worms, odd 'soft' barnacles, and some vegetation. Everything, as I would discover exploring marine life on other parts of the coast-- and talking to a Cape Breton artist who'd grown up in BC-- was a bit more subtle than the west coast.

After relaxing and reading around the campsite, we left that afternoon headed west through Windsor ("the" birthplace of hockey-- though two others claim the same distinction), past Wolfville (home of Acadia University) and into the Annapolis Valley-- the most fertile region of Nova Scotia, famous mostly for apples and blueberries (the former which we bought in Kingston-- one of many quaint communities along the way).

Continuing on, we reached Annapolis Royal-- a city of firsts. The tourist centre exemplified this-- it was built on top of the first hydroelectric tidal dam in North America . But on top of that, it included the oldest settlement in North America Port Royal), the oldest cemetary and tombstone--1920-- in North America (we did an outstanding graveyard tour later that night), the most fought over piece of land in North American history (Fort Anne-- changed hands 13 times between the British and French), and, most importantly, included the "smallest" pub in Nova Scotia-- Ye Olde Towne Pub-- which, while certainly not that small (the pub owner told of how other pub owners from Nova Scotia had contested his claim-- which was immortalized in his souvenir t-shirts). The pub, like the rest of Annapolis Royal, had a deep seeded consciousness that tourism was essential to its survival. During the cemetary tour, the guide-- who had roots in Annapolis Royal back to the 18th century-- recalled how there had been a push to tear out the cemetary several decades ago and replace it with a hotel, but the few visionaries who saved the cemetary had said that, while resources may come and go, history is forever.

Taking in the Oiler's overtime win in the pub, Sashah and I enjoyed world famous Bay of Fundy scallops, served raw with vinegar (delicious!) and an outstanding seafood chowder. Hearing that we would be sleeping in the car (cozy and cheap-- while we've done it along the way, we've tried to avoid multiple nights in a row), a kind man wandered back to the car, insisting that we stay in his shop. Though we politely declined, it instigated a good discussion around alternative fuels-- he's working to supply canola oil for vehicles in the Annapolis valley, and make Nova Scotia a leader in renewable fuels, much as it has been with recycling (it's incredible: it's illegal to throw out recyclables throughout Nova Scotia-- it started with a couple municipalities, and the movement took off from there).

Day 49 (June 15): 170km down
We got going earlier, awoken by the intense rain, and swung by the German Bakery in town (started by a woman and her husband who had been pushed out of East Germany after the wall fell by the cheap big box bakeries, and found their way selling bread door to door in Annapolis Royal) before jetting out of Annapolis Royal, just west to Digby. Though the weather was bad-- which meant the girls stayed in the car-- I picked up some delicious pickled herring (one of the specialties that has made Digby world famous for seafood).

Following the curve south, we drove along the coast to Church Point-- noted for the largest wooden church in North America-- where Alex, a good friend, was studying at universite ste. anne, in the same French program that I had done in Trois Rivieres. We relaxed around the campus that day and night, weathered the storm, and checked out the Acadian region (countless little coastal communities-- where, in contrast to the west coast, the ocean isn't for pleasure-- you see work boats and little else... and speaking of workboats, it's not unusual on the east coast for boats as big as freighters to be left tied to the dock, especially in the Bay of Fundy, even when the tide goes out leaving them resting on their keels). While the Acadian french was unusual (a strange english/french hybrid with random pecularities and a strong accent), it was the used clothing stores that really stood out-- among them Smittys and Frenchies, where discarded clothing (apparently shipped up from the States) could be bought for next to nothing (a Lacoste sweater for $4, a rain jacket for $3). And they were huge-- warehouses of used clothing, placed in seemingly barren communities. Weird.

Day 50 (June 16): 410km down
With rain replaced by vibrant blue skies that morning, we strolled down the beach below universite ste. anne (a gorgeous campus, though, for students in the program there, the isolation left little to do) , before getting back on the road and heading south to Yarmouth-- the port for the Maine-to-Nova Scotia ferry. A cute tourist town (note Tim Hortons) , evolved to appeal to American tourists, we enjoyed some local brew-- raspberry beer-- and randomly checked out the local wool shop, before continuing on and curving east up the coast.

Driving a scenic route, past idylic pastures, to Clark's Harbour--the southernmost point of Nova Scotia and the site of a historic Acadian village (preserved from 400 years back)-- we came across a wind-farm of considerable controversy that highlighted the conflicted positions that environmentalists and community activitists are increasingly taking in North America surrounding strips of these white mammoths. Consider the following two contrasting takes:

Continuing up the coast, we drove into the Seaside Adjunct Kejimkujik National Park, where we hiked out onto some beautiful shoals-- the girls stayed to reflect , as I continued along, running a spectacular trail along the coastal edge. An indication of the strength of the winter storms-- or the hurricane that had come through two days before-- as I ran, I saw countless lobster traps thrown four hundred feet up the beach into the forest.

On through Liverpool we drove, stopping for ice cream (actually, the story is that, failing to find an ice cream place, we dropped Theresa off at the Sobey's grocer to pick up ice cream... when Sashah and I spotted a sign that read "Dangerously delicious banana splits" in the distance... we drove there, guiltily bought a delicious blizzard-like concoction... it was delicious, and far better than Theresa's icy container of cream... poor Theresa-- we've picked on her, just a little, during the trip), and driving on to Port Medway, the former hometown of a good friend of ours-- whose old place he had insisted we visit. It was yet another beautiful town. Here are a couple shots-- Calvin's old place, the waterfront and the cemetary at sunset.

From there, chasing the setting sun, I drove into 'central' Nova Scotia (no point in Nova Scotia is further than 55km from the ocean, so everything's pretty 'coastal'), where nearly no one lives and few venture, and caught a decent shot.

Continuing on, we drove through Lunenberg, a charming Norweigian town noted for the Bluenose and its status as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and onto Chester Basin where a classmate (and Theresa's roommate), Jen, from Trois Rivieres, lives.

She-- and her grandparents-- kindly let us stay in their beautiful cottage, right on the water in Mahone Bay. It was spectacular-- her grandma had even made us a loaf of bread and left eggs and bacon in the fridge. Ah, hospitality.

Day 51 (June 17): Who needs to drive anywhere when you're in paradise?
Yep, it couldn't have been much nicer . We slept in that Saturday, had breakfast, and then met up at Jen's place-- where I read that Bill Gates is stepping down as chairman of Microsoft over the next few years to focus on his foundation (www.gatesfoundation.org) -- before meeting up with her dad and mom for a boat ride throughout Mahone Bay. It was great to get back on the water . Though there were certainly more pleasure boats here than there had been in Church Point (lots of sailboats and cruising boats especially, since there's little fishing to be done-- though Boston Whalers were common).

Cruising along the coast of the bay, Jen's parents pointed out mansion after mansion that was owned by CEOs, NY Times columnists, actors (or where films were shot), and more, including one 55,000 square foot 'getaway' shack. Yeah, it wasn't too rough of an area.

Other notables... we found a stray (full) can of beer along the way, and oh, a stray lobster trap. You see, the Nova Scotia lobster season closed two weeks back, and Jen's dad took the stray trap to be open season (though he freely admitted that getting caught would result in his boat being seized)-- so he asked me ("It was the British Columbian who did, I swear!") to grab it, and we dragged it into dock. Up it came to reveal two little ones and then a 9lb beast of a lobster .

Some careful trap concealment, a bent stovetop (wickedly strong claws), and twenty minutes later, and we had a cooked lobster, ready to serve.

Sashah, Thersa, and I had already planned a lobster feast for the grandparents and Jen (four 2lb lobster and two fine bottles of lobster-friendly wine), and so the extra lobster made it a family affair. And what a night it was! The photos tell part of the story... Then there was the hockey game-- Edmonton won game six!-- the rowdiest atmosphere outside of an arena/pub I'd ever been in! >

Days 39-43: So this is the end... plus TO photos!

The end of an era.

Five solid weeks in Trois Rivières later, I think I'm wisened to the Quebec identity, I've definitely had a lot of good beer, I've done the 'rez thing' and met some amazing people from across this fine country, I've experienced le canotage (Quebec style), I've become a bilingual journalist (fingers crossed-- see below), and, of course, my french--especially oral-- has improved immensely (without of lot of 'work').

Yep, it's been tremendous. I mean, what more could I ask for: A beautiful school, free rez, good cafeteria food (and, as cafeteria food goes, it was outstanding), french classes, excellent athletic facilities... and it was all free! This is a brilliant program (http://www.jexplore.ca/english/program.html), and anyone with a chance would be crazy not to do it-- and, if you have to choose a school, talking to people who've done the program elsewhere and here, Université de Quebec à Trois Rivières is the one (central to Montreal/Quebec, good rez, good party town, great outdoors stuff, and more).

The final week, complimented by blue skies and radiant sun, was outstanding. Sure, my thumb was a distraction, I had a terrible flu and Edmonton is looking down and out, but the good more than outweighed the bad.

A few highlights... a first rate prison (http://www.enprison.com/) tour led by a former inmate at a prison that operated from 1822 to 1987 (wow-- solitary confinement cells-- those suck)... at our 'graduation ceremony', my Newfie roommate Devon was voted as the 'biggest partier' (his acceptance speech consisted of: 'Je suis encore soûl'-- and he was)... Matt, le canotage coach, said I didn't have to pay anything (sympathy for the thumb)... taught John (see Toronto post) how to drive standard on his 20th birthday... discovering that Quebec Costcos sample beer (priceless-- and good enough that I'd forgive them for losing an entire roll of my precious photos)... disco bowling until midnight with rez crew... parting ways with everyone (ok, that could be a lowlight-- but it was entertaining seeing boyfriends and girlfriends drive up to Trois Rivieres, to the rez's to pick up their compliments after five weeks of, what I would call, well, being downright unfaithful!)... and finishing my letter to la Nouvelliste, the local paper...

Speaking of which, I'm thinking that good writing transfers between languages, because the francophones that I had proofread it, said that the style was genuinely very good. So, hopefully the editor runs it (I'd talked to her before, but she was out of the office when I dropped by yesterday)-- when she does, I'll post the link. But until then, here's the text in italics.

Vivre Trois Rivières!

Je viens de finir le programme de l'École Internationale de Français à l’UQTR. Oui, mon français s’est amélioré à mon avis, mais c’est l'expérience de Trois-Rivières dont je me souviendrai.

Pour plusieurs étudiants, faire des fêtes (bien sûr les mercredis à la Chasse Galerie de l’UQTR) sera le point culminant de leurs souvenirs. Mais pour moi, il y avait trois autres expériences mémorables: le canotage, l'hôpital et d’aider à la résidence Joseph-Denis.

Arrivant au commencement de mai, je suis allé premièrement au club de canotage du cap. J'avais parlé avec l'entraîneur il y a quatre mois (moi, je fais parti de l’équipe de l’aviron à l’université Simon Fraser en Colombie-britannique), et je lui avais demandé si je pourrais m’entraîner avec l’équipe. Il m'a répondu «bien sûr!», et puis, trois mois plus tard, j'étais en kayak au club. Le premier jour, je l'ai retourné deux fois; j'étais mouillé et j’avais très froid, mais naturellement, je suis revenu les prochains jours, où je me suis amélioré, jusqu'à...

J'ai cassé mon pouce en jouant aux sports à l’UQTR. Après l'avoir fait, je suis allé au centre hospitalier régional de Trois-Rivières. C'était un bon défi pour mon français, mais en plus, je vivais la vraie expérience de la belle province: parler aux médecins (j'en ai vu trois), infirmières et clients, voir la technologie médicale (mieux qu'au C.B.), attendre plus de quatorze heures pendant toutes les étapes (malheureusement, comme en C.B., et je crois, dans le reste du pays), et d’entendre les infirmières essayant de dire mon nom de famille très anglophone (ce qui a attiré l’attention de tous ceux qui attendaient).

Finalement, pendant mes cinq semaines à Trois-Rivières, je faisais du bénévolat à la résidence Joseph-Denis. C’était un autre bon défi pour mon français (particulièrement lorsque les personnes âgées ont l’ouïe insuffisante), et aussi beaucoup de plaisir (surtout de jouer «la course aux chevaux», en pariant, avec eux). En leur parlant, je leur ai demandé ce qu’ils pensaient de la loi contre la fumée. Plusieurs étaient contrariés qu’on leur interdise de fumer dans leurs chambres.

L’acceptation de fumer, pour moi, est propre à la culture des Quebecois, ce qui est un des grands contrastes avec le C.B., où on a une loi contre la fumée depuis 2001 (et les pubs n’ont pas tous fermés!). Sauf pour ça, à mon avis, Québec est très progressif, au sujet de l’environnement (et la colère contre Harper au sujet de Kyoto) ou de la disponibilité du commerce équitable (vendu par Oxfam-Québec parmi d’autres).

Pour moi, Trois Rivières était une pause dans mon odyssée à voir le Canada. Je suis parti de chez moi à Vancouver après mes examens d'avril, et maintenant, je continuerai jusqu'à Terre-Neuve. Mais, je n'oublierai jamais la ville des trois rivières.

And now we depart for the east coast. To Quebec city today, where we'll meet up with Sashah and take off tomorrow. With about 55 days more before I'm back in BC, the adventure is only just beginning.

And I can't hardly wait.


Toronto Photos (read previous post for context):


The 'Unity Mobile' preparing for take off from Trois Rivières-- with crew Alex, John, and Theresa.









Striking a pose on the red carpet just outside of 'Union' subway station (next to Toronto's major train station... all on Front Street West).

















A corner of the bustling Kensington Square.











One of many aged buildings on the sprawling U of T campus.


















Queen's Park legislative buildings, located within the U of T campus gates.












A squirrel sticks its head out in Queen's Park.













Heather, Max, and John along the Toronto waterfront... then Theresa too!

Days 26-38: Alex goes to Toronto, gambles with old people, et casse sa pouce!

1500km down (7400km overall)

The past couple weeks have been outstanding: rich with fine experiences, fine foods, and fine beer.

So I proposed an weekend camping expedition to the rez crew a while back. John-- a journalism student and editor at his school paper (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Aquinian) in Fredericton-- mentioned that he was going to be bussing out to Toronto that weekend to visit his brother. Bottom line: skipped camping and went to TO. Theresa, of road trip fame, came along too-- since we had bypassed Toronto on the way, we were both eager to see Canada's economic hub (a title Calgary might increasingly dispute).

Before leaving, I had to get a final exam out of the way-- don't worry, I started studying at 1am after taking in the Oilers/Ducks game with friends-- after that, Friday was free. We took off, back on the road once more-- rejuvenated by that sheer freedom to go and do whatever we wanted. On paper it was about 700km to Toronto, so we predicted about 7 hours. It looked good... until we hit Friday rush hour in Montréal (and kinda got lost-- or thought we were lost, but weren't... which is somehow more distressing than actually being lost), driving on through Brockville-- one of the first major towns east of the Ontario/Quebec border-- where we hit up the local Tim Hortons, speaking french to the Tim Hortons gal only to discover that strangely few speak french there. As we pulled out of the Tim Hortons, John unknowingly mimicked Adham-- of road trip fame-- almost eerily, pointing to go in the opposite (wrong) direction, as Adham had done oh-so-many times driving east from Vancouver.

Driving along the 401, we made good time, and were in the GTA (Greater Toronto Area, for the less informed) before 10pm. John's brother had given us directions, but we missed the collector lane for Yonge street (damn, I'd never seen real freeways until I saw the expressway-collector system that is the GTA 401). Eventually we pulled off and asked at a gas station-- whereupon five different people made it their mission to give us directions (it must be a Toronto thing). Once we had decided which set of directions to follow, we were on our way, and soon made it to John's brother's apartment on Younge St (just beside the Lawrence subway stop). That's the three of us--above-- at his brother's apartment. His brother Max, I soon discovered, was a laidback pot-smoking, anti-Bush, unapologetic socialist (we had some great discussions), who like his dad did, is studying at Canada's only anglophone chiropractic school, in Toronto (the francophone one, coincidentally, is at UQTR where I am now).

Max and his girlfriend Heather took us out, giving us what no guidebook can ever really match-- local knowledge. We cruised Bloor St, flipping through hundreds of used CDs at Sonic Boom-- where diehard locals go everyday to check out the incoming used CDs (organized by day of arrival), then strolled over to the Green Room-- a fringe student lounge with an intangible character (think random art, waiters half-stoned, old couches, and paint chipped purple walls), located in a back alley. The quality was solid, and outstanding given that it was dirt-cheap ($3.50 for a vegetarian pizza with chunks of veggies, $6 for a full plate of pad thai and bread)... and the service only added to the experience-- it was about 20 minutes between when the first meal arrived to the last one. As we'd find out the next day, saying that you knew the Green Room meant that you knew something about TO-- 'not just another tourist.'

Theresa and I hit the subway the next day around noon, aiming to begin our Toronto exploration by the waterfront at the CN Tower, and work our way north. The subway system was impressively efficient-- carrying 800,000 commuters on the weekdays, it has to be-- with its turnstiles (while Vancouver, ridiculously, relies on the honour system and armed transit officers) and large trains which are twice as wide/long as the biggest skytrain. As we cruised downtown through the stations, ads for the local MPPs and BC flew by on the walls ('A for Adventure', 'B for Beautiful', 'C for Cosmopolitan'). Out of Union Station we strolled, over some red carpet set up for a big event later that day, and across to the Toronto Convention Centre where we walked through a gigantic gaming convention (think the country's biggest geeks brought together for a weekend and put together in a room). Towards the newly named 'Roger's Centre' (formerly the 'skydome' where the Bluejays play... yet another renamed corporate building like the Science World-cum-Telusphere in Vancouver) we wandered, where I talked a scalper down $40 for a pair of tix to the Jays/Sox game later that afternoon-- only to have Theresa confess that we wouldn't be buying (and in doing so, spoil my fun)-- and we walked into the Skydome through an ajar door (damn it's easy), looking on as the Chicago White Sox warmed up. But, as neither of us are baseball fans, we walked out and over to the adjacent CN Tower.

Aside from the typical Toronto smog, the clear blue sky made for near-perfect conditions to lookout from the Tower's perch over the city, its suburbs, and Lake Ontario. After waiting 30 minutes in a line and passing through bomb security (an odd metal detector type doorway that makes a 'whooshing' sound as it sends a gust of air around the suspect... though I joked about it at the time-- like they'd arrest a white guy, really-- it seems that the recently arrested 17 ammonium-nitrate armed Ontario terrorist suspects had their sights set on the CN, amongst other landmarks), we were whisked up 1200 feet to the lookout and glass floor, all very cool (the top point, at 1815 feet, makes CN the biggest building in the world-- until Dubai has its say http://www.burjdubai.com/-- a structure originally built in cooperation between CBC and CN for telecommunications, until CBC dropped out and CN realized the tourist potential-- though it still serves a telecommunications role).

With the CN-- our one really touristy expenditure ($24)-- aside, we walked across to the Roundhouse Centre (eerily like Vancouver's Yaletown centre of the same name, though less polished-- purchased from the city of Toronto for $1 on the condition it remained a heritage building), to walk through the Steamwhistle Brewery for free 'Beer and Popcorn' (poor Scott Reid, he never saw it coming). It was damn fine beer-- touted as 'Canada's finest pilsner', it comes in a characteristic green soda bottle. We cruised on, down Front Street West, past the CBC and down to the Globe and Mail-- I was determined to not only get my Saturday Globe, but to stroll through the newsroom. We arrived, and I tried to persuade the security guards to let me in, but to no avail-- still, the consolation prize was a free newspaper. When I returned a couple days later (the guards had appeased me by suggesting I come back Monday), the secretary explained that since Sept.11/01, security in all buildings of note in Toronto had been greatly increased (On Sept.10/01, I could've walked up and talked to Greenspon, Wente, or Blatchford themselves).

Onward we marched north along Spadina, past an exceptional Backpacker's hostel (complete with in-house pub), through Chinatown (bought some grapes, which at once were fresh and mouldy), through distinctive Kensington Market where we wandered through a non-profit 'Planet Aid' used clothes store (a series of 4 stores in the GTA which donates $50,000+ annually to a Zambian HIV program) run by a former street youth (who had little sympathy for people on the streets, who like she used to, probably spent the money they begged on booze and drugs, she suggested-- adding that anyone determined enough could be a success, like her-- a store manager/clothing designer). With dreds bouncing throughout the square, there was a fine Bob Marley feeling in the air. So we bought some brie and bread, and sat on someone's driveway, taking in some live music, before strolling on through some combination house/vintage clothes stores (and trying on a plethora of vintage-- read: used, falling apart, but hip-- clothing from some deceased's attic-- the source of most of it according to one flaming shopkeeper who made a point of showing us his favourite beltbuckle (among many good ones)-- an arrow pointed down with text: 'I'm with Stupid').

Through the sprawling downtown U of T campus we walked, past a Falun Gong press conference, through wisened buildings that wouldn't look out of place at Oxford or Cambridge, around Queen's Park-- the red rock Ontario legislative buildings located in the heart of the campus, first opened in 1813 by Premier Oliver Mowat-- north to Bloor and around the Royal Ontario Museum (ROM-- which while under tarps for renovation is undergoing a major renaissance). That night, we flipped through CDs at Sonic Boom, watched the dying minutes of the Oilers game in a pub (loss), and went back to Max's place for a potluck party he was hosting for chiropractic chums.

The next day, we took it real easy-- in line with Max and Heather's laidback sleep-till-noon schedule-- and got downtown to the CBC for around 3p to tour the buildings as part of Toronto's 'Doors Open' festival (where normally unaccessible buildings are opened up to the public-- the downside of which means it's harder to sneak into the really cool spots like I did at the CBC in Ottawa). Yep, just being in the same building as Peter Mansbridge was pretty cool. And the five of us definitely engaged in some blissful Mr. Dressup nostalgia too. From the CBC, we strolled down to Toronto's bustling waterfront-- where a couple strolled up and down the boardwalk, making out (turns out they were being filmed), and an old guy and three young, well endowed, women suggestively sunbathing under the walkway in the marina, while a busker worked his magic and shot out stereotypical jokes (like, "how to count to ten in Vancouver: ichi, ni, san,...")-- then north through the business district and past the distinctively multi-cornered TD building (execs had wanted more corner offices-- http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Canada_Trust_Tower.JPG), to the plaza-- distinguished by a pond that is ice skating central in the winter-- straddled by old and new City Halls. Cruising west along the fashion-cum-entertainment district of Queen St. West (including the immortalized Muchmusic), we stopped at a biker's bar which, according to Max has the finest patio in the city-- a fine view of the city and passersby-- and each enjoyed a Steamwhistle, before catching a street car (boarding of which requires you to walk out into the middle of the street... a little precarious in traffic) west into Little Italy where the upcoming World Cup was clearly on everyone's mind (and in every store window). While Max and Heather went back to the apartment-- they were working the next day, after all-- John, Theresa and I went into 'Sneeky Dees', a student pub just east of Little Italy renowned for its cheap beer and good music. Indeed the beer was good-- Amsterdam Dark, a local brew-- but the music, featuring 3 'up and coming bands', consisting of screaming and heavy metal (the latter of which is fine, according to Theresa, so long as it's backed up by a bit of singing), had us out before the end of the second act.

Monday-- our last in Toronto, an eventful day far better spent than in some classroom in Trois Rivières like most of our cohort-- I woke up determined to run downtown (I'd been hopelessly determined since Friday), and heard threw pieces of information on the radio that should probably have discouraged me-- it was going to be over 30 degrees, there was a smog warning in effect, and a wildcat walkout strike had shut down the subway system (making those 800,000 look for another way to get to work). But hey, I wanted the true Toronto experience. I ambitiously set off on the 8km run (each way) downtown along Yonge, past local TV reporters set up at subway stations shooting their predictably dull pieces, eventually realizing the east side provided the shade of the buildings, grabbing bottled water that some fine humanitarians were giving out, slipping into stores for the occasional A/C respite, past the Eaton's Centre (wow... with neon billboards and advertising up into the sky that made me imagine what Times Square might look like), along Bay Street (strangely more hawaiian shorts than business suits), along whatever streets I had yet to explore, through the lobby of the Hockey Hall of Fame (my grandma had posed with the Stanley Cup there years earlier-- and gave me the picture-- so I didn't feel the need to actually go in). The run back to Max's apartment up Yonge (and it was definitely uphill) was more painfull, devolving back into a walk as I looked for any excuse for a break (including pauses at the abundant parks, or dropping by the Toronto Red Cross office-- not for first aid but for their Humanitarian Issues Program).

I eventually made it back to the apartment, whereupon the three of us hit the road back to Trois Rivières (thoroughly enjoying the Trooper's A/C), playing some of the fine used CDs we'd picked up at Sonic Boom (our previous collection was getting a bit stale), and driving on towards 250,000. Just before Canada's biggest apple (one of those chintzy tourist stops), we hit the 1/4 of a million celebration mark on the odometer, and soon after pulled off to take photos with the Trooper, the big apple, and a fresh apple caramel pie which we bought (which, despite being repeatedly refused plastic cutlery-- 'only for single slices'-- we thoroughly enjoyed on behalf of the Trooper).

We drove on, turning off the 401 for gas, and lucky enough to find a country highway-- a refreshing alternative to the 401-- that led us to Kingston, a quaint student town home to Queen's (a gorgeous campus on the river) and the Royal Canadian Military college, not to mention the uniquely Ontario 'The Beer Store' (our first since Thunder Bay) where John and I bought Steamwhistle and Ontario's award winning 'Gritstone', into 'The Sleepless Goat' (a fair trade café student hangout recommended by Max), and back on the road... getting us back in Trois Rivières by before midnight.

It was an outstanding weekend trip. As several Torontonians here at UQTR noted as I recounted our adventures (en français), we'd seen more in three days than most people see in a month.

Back in Trois Rivières, all is swell. After the wet first day a few weeks back, le «tippy» canotage improved-- I learned to repeat select words if I started to tip-- 'Rock Solid' and 'Power'-- that between them, would adjust my body position (and speed through the water) and stabilize the boat (actually I've only tipped once since the first day-- a day where strong wind opposing the current made for big waves-- but I righted myself, and continued on).

Helping out at la résidence Joseph-Denis des âgées has been grand, and I've even helped revive a fine nostalgia of the eldery: gambling. You see, in addition to strolling room-to-room, I also coordinate afternoon activities, like la course des chevaux-- a horse racing game that I've turned into high stakes gambling (they start at 10¢ and can build up to 100¢... no I don't skim-- too much-- off the top). As well, since June 1, all smoking in public places in Quebec (and Ontario too) has been banned. While the ban has obvious impacts in pubs and clubs, only when I brought it up with the 15 aged jockeys, did I realize it was big at la résidence as well-- where I would've expected the most support for the smoking ban. Many of the eldery, themselves in pretty rough shape, decried (en français) how they should be allowed to smoke in their rooms-- which they considered 'private'-- in la résidence. I guess old habits die hard, and it's unfair to force laws on the elderly (they can still smoke outside), but it really did seem so unnatural to be choked by cigarette smoke in an elderly hospital.

In other news, french class is trucking along-- only one week left-- and I somehow passed the first course (there are two over the 5 weeks), and pulled off a damn good mark on the final (despite starting to study at 1am-- I'm relishing the contrast with real school), and oh, while playing dodgeball in the campus gym, I broke my thumb (actually, someone kicked my hand/thumb which was holding the ball... but that's another story), necessitating...

A visit to le centre hospitalier régional de Trois Rivières, and a chance to really experience la belle province. The experience was a bit different from BC-- after walking in the Emergency doors, I was immediately whisked into a room with a nurse who examined my wrist/thumb, asking me the usual questions (and plugging the information into my electronic file on a touch-screen), tout en français (as was the rest of the visit-- a fine challenge for my oral french-- turns out no one speaks english in Trois Rivières-- 98% of residents are francophones, making it the most french town in North America), before returning me to the waiting room. From there, it was very à la BC-- between waiting for (99% of the time) and seeing doctors, radiologists, and nurses (1% of the time), I ended up waiting at the hospital from 8pm to 11am (yep, 15 hours-- lots of time to read my book 'Trudeau: Tel que nous l'avons connu'). Another anomalie was the soft-porn that came on the TV in the waiting room around 2am-- not only did the nurse nor 10 people waiting make anything of it, but it took a young child coming in thirty minutes later to spur on a new channel. Overall though, despite the wait, it was great service, and the doctors kindly obliged my interests in the rayons-X, letting me rotate ma pouce in circles and zoom in on the fractures with their fine digital technology. Despite the initial thought of surgery (there are a couple broken bones at the joints that might need pins), the hand surgeon suggested I wear a stylish and comfortable, hard, stiff white plaster cast for a month, then check back in. Along with the perks of living without a right hand for the next month, it was definitely an enlightening experience-- and one that made me realize my anglophonishness as, at each point I was called up, the nurse would make a point of reading my full name over the intercom with middle name 'Edward' and stumbling several times on my last name, before giving up (each time, drawing the attention of all the Pierres, Margarets, Alines, Erics, and Jeans in the waiting room). And, thanks to our lovely confederation, it was all covered by my BC Care Card (so next time you come to Quebec, you too can break your thumb).

Indeed, for the next month I can't play sports (and certainly not le canotage), though I've discovered I can still work out, so long at the machines don't involve my forearm or hand. Which just means that I'll have to get more creative in exploring the east coast-- I mean, riding a bike? That's so yesterday.

That afternoon, I took it pretty easy-- went down to the local 'beach' (patch of sand next to the St. Lawrence River) with some friends, and apparently passed out for 4 hours (must've been tired, or something).
And a couple days ago, everyone in the program-- all 9 school buses full-- went to Montréal. Trying fervently to keep my cast dry under the showering sky, I cruised the familiar Boulevards St. Catherine and St. Laurent with the rez crew until we found a since untouched 1961 diner with what must be the most under-hyped (next to Schwartz's) and delicious smoked meat in Montréal-- the washrooms were a blinding turquoise, though refreshingly, unlike so many wannabe retros whose effort is all too palpable, even they hadn't been painted since 1961. We went to the biodome-- basically an aquarium/zoo/etc with four very different ecosystems-- Amazon, St. Lawrence Marine, Laurentian forest, and polar world enclosed in a dome (though certainly not self-sufficient), where the acrobatic penguins impressed all, and after, to the highlight...

Le Festival Mondial de Bière (http://www.festivalmondialbiere.qc.ca/), billed as the 'Premier beer event in North America', did not disappoint. Another of the 'only in Montréal could this happen', basically a conference hall was packed (PACKED, you couldn't move without someone bumping into you-- hence my beer/ink dyed, scented cast), with people who'd roamed in from the streets (free admission, and no, they weren't checking Id's-- there were kids there). Of the nearly 300 different beers from local/domestic/import breweries, I tried 19-- and it only cost $24 (3-6oz each)-- including an extraordinary dark ginger beer from a classy Montréal artisan brewery.

And so, as I finish this update, the game wraps up-- game 1 of the Stanley Cup finals. The most dramatic 3rd period of hockey I've seen in a while-- Oilers 3-1, 3-2, 3-3, 3-4, 4-4... then, NO, Roloson goes down... then, NO, Conklin/Smith fumbles the puck deflecting it in front of the open net with 33 seconds to go making it 4-5 (Carolina)... then the Oilers set up a perfect opportunity with 3 seconds to go, only to be robbed by Carolina goalie Cam Ward. At least the groans in our packed campus bar La Chasse Galerie, shared by anglophones and francophones alike, confirmed that Canada really is united by our national passion-- hockey.