Newfoundland Finale

Sunday was a miserable looking day, so we dedicated it to visiting. We started by driving out to Harbour Grace, home to my great aunt Rita and her son Ed. Ed used to live in Georgetown for a while back in the eighties, and I hadn't seen him since then. He's been fighting the big C for about a year now, and he doesn't talk about it very much. But whatever true state he might be in, he looks great--just grayer than he was fifteen years ago. While there, we spent a lot of time with his partner Hazel, who has an accent so think it's silly. It's like a put-on. She's a riot, though. My Dad may or may not have a small crush on her. And vice versa.

Later on in the visit, Hazel's daughter and son-in-law stopped by. The two are in their mid-twenties, and chatting with them brought about probably the most revelatory statements of our trip. We got to talking about work. She currently stays at home with her son, and her husband is a mechanic. When asked about our jobs, we gave the short version--I work at an accounting firm and Sarah works for the government. The surprisingly earnest reply: "Wow. Those sound like really good jobs." Newfoundlanders are so friendly and so accommodating that I forget how goddamn depressed the place is. If you want a decent job, you've often got to leave. Easily half of the relatives we met (and we met a lot) find their work elsewhere, spending three of every four weeks out in Fort McMurray or the Gulf of Mexico. That sucks. I'm sure it takes a certain type of person to live like that, and I'm not that kind of person.

We ended the day with whirlwind visits to the houses of relatives we hadn't yet seen. By the end of the night, Sarah discovered a dog that she might love even more than a puggle, and I discovered that I'm actually related to my friend Jeff (his cousin is married to my Dad's cousin, so it's not like we're brothers, but still--I'll take it!)

Monday was our last full day in Newfoundland. We started off at Signal Hill which is a must-see tourist spot. It may actually be illegal to come to the province and not see it. Signal Hill is the site where Marconi received the first transatlantic communication. It also happens to be a really beautiful vista where you can see down to the narrows leading into St. John's Harbour. My Mom is deathly afraid of heights, so she and Dad stayed in the center of the property and low to the ground, while Sarah and I traipsed along the various deadly precipices.

On the other side of the hill is a little fishing village called Quidi Vidi (surely where my Roman forbears were born). There's a brewery there, but strangely it's retail only, so we found another place to stop for a drink--called the Inn of Olde. We tried some of Quidi Vidi's finest (1892 and QV Honey Brown). On the way out the door, the lady tending bar gave us each a hug and a kiss, which was strange, but sweet, but also strange. My Dad, of course, got the longest embrace of all.

Later that day, some of the kids took us out to George Street, which is two solid blocks of pubs. It was five o'clock on a Monday, so no great piss-up, but we had a few more local beers and I tried cod tongues for the first time in my life. Regarding the tongues: wouldn't recommend it. Regarding the beers: we give thumbs up to Jockey Club, QV, and Blue Star, and thumbs sideways to Black Horse. Funny thing, though--locals don't drink the local beer. They drink Coors Light, Canadian, and Labatt Lite. Almost exclusively. So weird, just not a phenomenon I've seen anywhere else in Canada.

And that's it. We drank a lot, but it was more of a recreational thing. Some days it might amount to ten beers, but spread out over fourteen hours. We were drinking just for the weight gain, basically. And I wasn't Screeched In, but I've had plenty of Screech in my life and I've made out with fish on more than one occasion. Oh, Billy Big Mouth--I think of you still.