Hands like eagle's talons, eyes like hub caps

We’ll skip over the part where my plane reached Halifax, then got diverted to Fredericton due to weather, then made it back only as far as Moncton where we all had to hop a on a Halifax-bound school bus, because that story is as tedious as the actual experience was. Instead, we start on Sunday morning.

Since I only arrived at five a.m., and Sarah was up most of that time waiting for me, we sleep in late on Sunday morning. We're at the Four Points Sheraton, and it might just have been the best bed I’ve ever slept in. Quick showers, then we pop across the road to Cabin Coffee which offers a decent egg mcmuffin rip-off and an ‘all-fruit smoothie’ which sort of tastes like fruit but mostly tastes like big pieces of ice. We’re supposed to meet Pat at noon, and the original plan had been for he and I to bus it back to his place near Kentville that night, but Sarah has the brainstorm that we could probably rent a car for about twenty dollars more, meaning we don’t have to leave until late, and we can avoid the two hour bus ride that’s sure to smell only of halitosis and feet.

Pat arrives, looking like one handsome motherfucker, and we begin a pub crawl. First to the Split Crow where we play catch up on good times and bad, and we both remember how much we love this man. We hike up to the Citadel, and either it’s unstaffed on Sundays or never staffed at all, but regardless we walk the walls and disrespect the ramparts—all in all a good time.

Next stop is Maxwell’s Plum where we eat our weight in appetizers and Pat discovers a newfound love of Leffe Blonde while Sarah samples an great local beer called Propeller. From there we check out a candy store called Freak Lunchbox, where Rob Lowe apparently spent one hundred and eighty dollars (so proclaims the sandwich board out front). The Pogue Fado is next where I, as the cursed designated driver, shift over to Diet Coke. We cap the night off at the Lower Deck, and with all the breaks in between the bars, Sarah and Pat are effectively drunk and sober three times in the same day. Around midnight, Pat and I take the car to Casa O’Brien, and Sarah crashes in preparation for the conference she’s to attend bright and early Monday morning.

With Pat off to work, I spend most of my morning working on the book. By noon, I feel I’ve earned a break, so I jump in the rental and drive into Kentville, stopping at the first restaurant that appeals to me. Barely out of the car, someone says, “Dave?” and it turns out to be Babs. No more than twelve seconds later, we spy Pat across the road. At my random stop I bump into two of only three people I could possibly have know for about one hundred kilometers, and the province of Nova Scotia seems very small all of the sudden. They’re just finishing lunch breaks, so brief chit-chats and we’re all off on our respective business.

Back at Pat’s place, I can’t bring myself to keep writing, so I fuck the dog in every way I can imagine—except in the literal sense. Pat cuts out of work early and we drive into Wolfville, which is a very cool place; small, but with the best elements of any of the towns I’ve ever lived. We grab coffee and sausage, and chit-chat about movies we’ve seen, books we’ve read, and the pretty, pretty, oh-so-pretty girls that Wolfville seems to be saturated with. We pay a visit to Rowan and Erin—Rowan being the other owner of Abhaya. In late October, he competed in his second professional bout (he won both, well and quickly). Unfortunately, he took a few huge (vindictive, even) kicks to the knee that will keep him out of action for a while. (If it’s any consolation, after sustaining crippling knee damage, Rowan got his opponent on the ground and punched him until he gurgled. Makes me feel a little better about it anyways.)

We leave their apartment and drive over to Abhaya, where I sit in on a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu class. BJJ is something we did occasionally in University (at a grade well below amateur). Back then, Pat taught a handful of us the guard, the mount, a few basic escapes, and a few basic submissions. Fast forward five or six years and now Pat’s teaching it to the masses. I remembered enough to know that whatever the other guy is trying to do, you shouldn’t let him do that, so when it came time to roll I didn’t do that badly. But I did get my ass kicked by Pat and Babs in turn, which was really what I signed on for. Great class, great bunch of students to work with, and I’m seriously considering signing up for a class here in Ottawa. After that, we had a quick cup of coffee and I pledged to return and visit soon. Then it was back to the car and a race home to the best bed in the entire world.

Woke up early Tuesday morning and did a small amount of novel writing. At noon, it was time to meet Shelley. (Not to blow her cover, but she posts as BRNQ here from time to time.) Shelley was an old friend from high school, and while it didn’t seem very long since the last time I’d seen her, it was of course eleven years. She was kind enough to drive me out to Peggy’s Cove. She also brought a cross-section on the NS-based bands, although we didn’t get beyond Buck 65 and Joel Plaskett. We had lunch at the Sou’Wester Restaurant and started the People From High School discussion (subtitled Who Have You Googled, Who Have You Seen?) I don’t think I’ve laughed so hard in a month. By the end of lunch we'd determined the things we really want to know about ex-classmates, and we committed to starting a Bishop Reding class of ninety-four newsletter titled, Who’s Gay, Who’s Dead, and Who Has a Totally Different Face.

After this, Shelley gives me a driving tour of Halifax. I see Pier 21, all ninety-two of Halifax’s Universities, the ritzy side of town, the ‘bad’ side of town, and also, Skratch Bastid (okay, so I didn’t actually see him, but apparently he was right beside the car. Also: no idea who Skratch Bastid is.) Shelley drops me off and we make plans to meet for drinks later that night. Sarah is set free from her conference, so we pop by the Keith’s brewery (Keith’s Light—come to Ontario!), and check out Harbourwalk. I’ve forgotten all the cool places Shelley suggested for dinner, so we go to Privateer's Wharf, eating at Salty’s—which is touristy, but does the trick. Before the meal even begins, Shelley walks up the stairs with the friend she had dinner plans with. We’d made no plans to meet her here. Again: Nova Scotia—small province.

Sarah corroborates all the B.R. gossip I’d given Shelley over lunch as we finish our meal, then we head up (and I mean up because Halifax is hella hilly) to the Economy Shoe Shop, a bar where apparently all the CBC types hang out. I make up for not drinking on the Sunday, turning my blood alcohol deficit into a surplus and then some. We walk Shelley back to her car, say our goodbyes and head home.

As far as the next morning goes, I’m up at 5:30, totally hung-over, dragging my wretched ass to the flight back home, and taking a taxi straight to work, but this entry will end as it began—with reference to but no detail on my tedious travel arrangements.