Over Christmas I decided to drive 'home' to Prince Edward Island. I'd spent many years of my youth there and my best friend Freda and her family still reside on the Island. I began out of Buffalo and immediately crossed over The Peace Bridge, heading for Toronto, to spend the night with some official Canuck friends, Theresa and Barry. This leg of the trip I can do with my eyes closed. My car is a 1996 Toyota Corolla with 211 thousand miles on it. I have good simpatico with this car and felt sure that it had one more long trip in its engine and I was not wrong. It took me there and back safely. At present its spleen is on the driveway outside my home but that car purrs when it is used for the long haul.
After leaving Toronto I headed for Old Quebec via Montreal. For some 30 years I have been in written correspondence with Sister Georgina Doiron, a retired sister, whose father lived in our community of South Rustico (now known as Cymbria) when I was a wee one. She and I became acquainted about 30 years ago when I was on another another road trip with Freda to Pokemouche, New Brunswick in search of the ancestral home of my grandmother, Germain Noel. It is a small world in The Canadian Maritimes and it is frequent that one can have a random conversation with someone and soon learn that a friend is to be had in common. Such was the case with Sister Doiron. I had been sitting in the kitchen in North Rustico with Freda having Freda attempt to call around to various parishes in an attempt to find out where in New Brunswick we might find my grandmother's relatives. After two phone calls, placed by Freda, the last one being with Sister Doiron, she hung up the phone and turned to me to say that I knew Sister Doiron. I didn't actually know Sister Doiron at the time but that is not how Maritimers think or operate. Their sense of Six Degrees of Separation is profound and Homeric in nature. Most Maritimers can verbatim and by wrote quote you the lineage of everyone in their community. If someone becomes stumped it is not infrequent that a few prompts will soon reveal to the listener that s/he in fact does know the person. Such was the case with Sister Doiron, for her father, 'Old Man Doiron' was a well respected gentle man in the community when I was wee. He was a farmer whom we bought corn from. He never owned a car and instead travelled to and from in a horse drawn buggy (in summer) and a sleigh carriage in the winter. After Sunday mass he would often give rides home to the various children that lived along the way to his own home at the bend in the road on Grande Pere Road.
By the time Freda and I arrived in Pokemouche Sister Doiron had found and rallied up all the living relatives to be had that knew of my grandmother Germain. And that is how I met and began a 30 year correspondence with Sister Doiron.
Sister Doiron is now retired and living in a lovely retirement home for the order of sisters of
Saint Marguerite Bourgeoye. These sisters are a lively bunch and the word retirement does not really
apply to these women. They were for the most part well educated, thoughtful, engaging, and an
inspiration to be around. There were nuns playing piano while other nuns listened or sang. There
were nuns sitting and reading. Most of the nuns had computers and were eagerly checking email and
cruising the Internet for information. Sister Doiron was one of the youngest at 83!
Saint Marguerite Bourgeoye was dedicated to the education and uplifting of women, and with this in
mind, early on, these younger nuns, with instruction from wiser business minded sisters, put aside
some of their monies and built this retirement facility rather than see retired nuns go on the public dole.
I recall this because I mentioned all of the billboards I'd seen posted along highways in Buffalo asking
the general public to support sisters in their senior years. When I first saw these signs I was somewhat
aghast and a big sigh of: O Come On Now, escaped from my lips. Mentioning this to Sister Doiron,
she explained to me that various orders do not or did not prepare for the retirement of their various
orders. I find this rather shocking but I was very happy to learn that a saint with the concerns of
women took this sentiment to include those women that had chosen to follow her order. I spent a
full day with Sister Doiron enjoying two meals with her before heading off on my
voyage east.
I don't know if my readers are familiar with Quebec but the Quebecoise are a funny lot. They love to
hear themselves speak French. So much so that it almost feels as though they are in a French-like
trance. The moment I crossed the border into Quebec there was not one radio station to be found in
English. They are "O So Bon Jolie' to parle du Francaise that everything on the radio sounded like a
prize winning game show. It is, as if, suddenly you have left Canada and are now traveling in France.
I write 'as if' because one is not in France but in Canada and two seconds ago everyone was
speaking English. Am I supposed to really believe that no one crosses these imaginary provincial
borders? Mon Dieu!
I have nothing against the French language or the French I just think it it funny to ask a question
in English and be given the correct answer in French. How did you know what I just said if you
don't understand English? I know enough French to get the gist of things though I am unable to parle
with the best of them. The one upside to listening to French radio is that during the holiday season,
during which I was traveling, one hears all the heartwarming Christmas songs done in French.
I was cruising along the QEW for hours and well into the night belting out carols in English alongside
the French versions. Never mind that all of the songs sounded like Johnny Hallyday had something to
do with their production, it was still immensely fun nonetheless and I felt a definite sense of holiday
cheer and excitement.
And then I got into the mountains about two hours away from the New Brunswick border. That got
a bit hairy driving-wise as a 1996 Toyota is not really famous for road traction and winter driving in
the snow. But I persevered. In French speaking provinces one can be an idiot savant.
New Brunswick is a French speaking province as well but they are acknowledged bi linguals. They
are happy to speak whatever it is you require to make life easy. One of the last villages one comes
across before leaving Quebec is a village called Saint-Luis-du-Ha!Ha! which is, as far as I am
concerned, an indication, and a small warning, of what Quebec is all about. I can feel those
Quebecoise laughing at me still. And by Jove you never in your life knew there were so many saints.
Practically everywhere is named after one. I felt confident that once reaching New Brunswick I could make it the rest of the way to the Island as I know this part of Canada well enough to not worry about
getting lost. Truth be told it is rather difficult to get lost in Canada with the one exception of Montreal.
My only advice in Montreal is that if you do not speak French find the police because for the most
part they have to be bi-lingual. This being said, do not expect them to speak to you in English;
but they do know it. While passing through Montreal I had the misfortune of discovering that three of
the bridges that go from one side to the other of Montreal, were under repair and the "O So Fecking
French Tunnel" had just closed for emergency repairs minutes before my arrival forcing me through
a detour. The detour was simple enough until the signs gave out when it was assumed that you should
know where you were going at that point. I got lost and followed the signs to the police. Those signs
led nowhere but I was able to flag down a patrol car which stopped, and as I approached the car I
could already hear them laughing. I asked, in English, how to return to the highway, and they drew
diagrams, speaking in French, directions for me to follow. All the while they were laughing at me
and speaking in French so just to be a wisenheimer I blurted a "Muchas Gracias" and departed on
my way.
Arriving into Moncton I was able to find gas on Christmas Eve which was a relief as I was running
low. Just outside of Cape Tourmentine I hit a white out like no other. I could barely see my wipers
or the side of the road. All around me where huge warming signs with blinking lights warning me of
imminent danger in regards to moose and I was scared. I was not scared for obvious reasons
but for the fact that I knew locals would be plowing through all that like a scene from the Sound of
Music. Bad, stormy, snowy weather with giant moose dropping in is a part of the Canadian
constitution. Any Canadian worth his or her muster can tell you of worse weather. I am a wimp and
sliding off the road does not bother me as I know hordes will appear to offer help but a moose on my
windshield gives me the creeps. What should have been a ten minute drive turned into an hour what
with my slow driving. Suddenly, with The Confederation Bridge sign indication of 30 KPH, all the
snow disappeared as though I had made it all up. Once onto the Island the snow was crunchy and cold
making driving a breeze. They say the Inuit have 99 names or so for types of snow and this is true.
For driving you want crunchy, dry and cold. This combination ensures you can drive without the fear
of killing yourself or others.
I spent an entire week in Rustico with swollen ankles and feeling as though I could barely walk. I am
getting old now and two day drives to places are coming to an end as my body is revolting and
demanding cushy comfort.
One of the highlights of my visit on the Island was talking to my friend Lori who works at the
AVC Lobster Science Centre in Charlottetown. Their website allows for anyone with a question
about a lobster to ask away. They have a FAQ section that is remarkable and includes everything from
lobster anatomy to cooking and eating a lobster and the truth about whether lobsters really scream
or cry upon seeing a pot of boiling water. Most Americans will tell you Maine lobster is the best but
until you have eaten a P.E.I lobster you have not lived. They are smaller, yes, but they taste like
the ocean. If you find yourself on the Island ask a local to show you how to eat a lobster. If you are one
that eats only the tail well all I can say is that I feel powerful sorry for you. Everything on a lobster is
edible and delicious and a local will be able to show you how to get to it fast and quick. And if you are
real adventurous, save the shell for a nice lobster bisque.
I headed off the Island on New Years Eve and didn't make it to Bordon without seeing three accidents.
The last once I came upon almost included me as I have decided to take the short cut to Borden rather
than go through Charlottetown. There was a small huddle of men looking about at the wreckage as
only men can do, and one, as I crawled to a snails pace, asked me for a ride to Crapaud which I gladly
gave. His name was Wendell and despite having made it out alive from his accident he seemed a bit
infuriated by my slowpoke driving. I made it across the bridge, got to Fredericton and decided to call
it quits for the night and checked into the Fredericton Motor Inn. Lucky for me they were having a
New Years Eve banquet and after showering I sat down to a wonderful dinner with oodles of
Maritime favourites. A jazz duo of piano and bass was playing and for me the evening was splendid.
The next day I drove straight through to Montreal and checked in to a downtown hotel and ordered
room service for two days as I felt too physically incapable to carry on. Montreal is a beautiful city.
Clean, elegant and sophisticated with lots of underground French-like shopping. Most of my
encounters with Montreal have been for The Montreal International Jazz Festival which is a superb
place to hear big name jazz performers as the venues are often small and intimate allowing one to
actually sit and enjoy the music. Over the years I have seen Bobby McFerrin and Lhasa de Sela to
name a few.
Once leaving Montreal I headed directly back to Buffalo as the cats were meowing and I felt I
needed to come in from the cold.
Next stop Merida, Yucatan, Mexico.
After leaving Toronto I headed for Old Quebec via Montreal. For some 30 years I have been in written correspondence with Sister Georgina Doiron, a retired sister, whose father lived in our community of South Rustico (now known as Cymbria) when I was a wee one. She and I became acquainted about 30 years ago when I was on another another road trip with Freda to Pokemouche, New Brunswick in search of the ancestral home of my grandmother, Germain Noel. It is a small world in The Canadian Maritimes and it is frequent that one can have a random conversation with someone and soon learn that a friend is to be had in common. Such was the case with Sister Doiron. I had been sitting in the kitchen in North Rustico with Freda having Freda attempt to call around to various parishes in an attempt to find out where in New Brunswick we might find my grandmother's relatives. After two phone calls, placed by Freda, the last one being with Sister Doiron, she hung up the phone and turned to me to say that I knew Sister Doiron. I didn't actually know Sister Doiron at the time but that is not how Maritimers think or operate. Their sense of Six Degrees of Separation is profound and Homeric in nature. Most Maritimers can verbatim and by wrote quote you the lineage of everyone in their community. If someone becomes stumped it is not infrequent that a few prompts will soon reveal to the listener that s/he in fact does know the person. Such was the case with Sister Doiron, for her father, 'Old Man Doiron' was a well respected gentle man in the community when I was wee. He was a farmer whom we bought corn from. He never owned a car and instead travelled to and from in a horse drawn buggy (in summer) and a sleigh carriage in the winter. After Sunday mass he would often give rides home to the various children that lived along the way to his own home at the bend in the road on Grande Pere Road.
By the time Freda and I arrived in Pokemouche Sister Doiron had found and rallied up all the living relatives to be had that knew of my grandmother Germain. And that is how I met and began a 30 year correspondence with Sister Doiron.
Sister Doiron is now retired and living in a lovely retirement home for the order of sisters of
Saint Marguerite Bourgeoye. These sisters are a lively bunch and the word retirement does not really
apply to these women. They were for the most part well educated, thoughtful, engaging, and an
inspiration to be around. There were nuns playing piano while other nuns listened or sang. There
were nuns sitting and reading. Most of the nuns had computers and were eagerly checking email and
cruising the Internet for information. Sister Doiron was one of the youngest at 83!
Saint Marguerite Bourgeoye was dedicated to the education and uplifting of women, and with this in
mind, early on, these younger nuns, with instruction from wiser business minded sisters, put aside
some of their monies and built this retirement facility rather than see retired nuns go on the public dole.
I recall this because I mentioned all of the billboards I'd seen posted along highways in Buffalo asking
the general public to support sisters in their senior years. When I first saw these signs I was somewhat
aghast and a big sigh of: O Come On Now, escaped from my lips. Mentioning this to Sister Doiron,
she explained to me that various orders do not or did not prepare for the retirement of their various
orders. I find this rather shocking but I was very happy to learn that a saint with the concerns of
women took this sentiment to include those women that had chosen to follow her order. I spent a
full day with Sister Doiron enjoying two meals with her before heading off on my
voyage east.
I don't know if my readers are familiar with Quebec but the Quebecoise are a funny lot. They love to
hear themselves speak French. So much so that it almost feels as though they are in a French-like
trance. The moment I crossed the border into Quebec there was not one radio station to be found in
English. They are "O So Bon Jolie' to parle du Francaise that everything on the radio sounded like a
prize winning game show. It is, as if, suddenly you have left Canada and are now traveling in France.
I write 'as if' because one is not in France but in Canada and two seconds ago everyone was
speaking English. Am I supposed to really believe that no one crosses these imaginary provincial
borders? Mon Dieu!
I have nothing against the French language or the French I just think it it funny to ask a question
in English and be given the correct answer in French. How did you know what I just said if you
don't understand English? I know enough French to get the gist of things though I am unable to parle
with the best of them. The one upside to listening to French radio is that during the holiday season,
during which I was traveling, one hears all the heartwarming Christmas songs done in French.
I was cruising along the QEW for hours and well into the night belting out carols in English alongside
the French versions. Never mind that all of the songs sounded like Johnny Hallyday had something to
do with their production, it was still immensely fun nonetheless and I felt a definite sense of holiday
cheer and excitement.
And then I got into the mountains about two hours away from the New Brunswick border. That got
a bit hairy driving-wise as a 1996 Toyota is not really famous for road traction and winter driving in
the snow. But I persevered. In French speaking provinces one can be an idiot savant.
New Brunswick is a French speaking province as well but they are acknowledged bi linguals. They
are happy to speak whatever it is you require to make life easy. One of the last villages one comes
across before leaving Quebec is a village called Saint-Luis-du-Ha!Ha! which is, as far as I am
concerned, an indication, and a small warning, of what Quebec is all about. I can feel those
Quebecoise laughing at me still. And by Jove you never in your life knew there were so many saints.
Practically everywhere is named after one. I felt confident that once reaching New Brunswick I could make it the rest of the way to the Island as I know this part of Canada well enough to not worry about
getting lost. Truth be told it is rather difficult to get lost in Canada with the one exception of Montreal.
My only advice in Montreal is that if you do not speak French find the police because for the most
part they have to be bi-lingual. This being said, do not expect them to speak to you in English;
but they do know it. While passing through Montreal I had the misfortune of discovering that three of
the bridges that go from one side to the other of Montreal, were under repair and the "O So Fecking
French Tunnel" had just closed for emergency repairs minutes before my arrival forcing me through
a detour. The detour was simple enough until the signs gave out when it was assumed that you should
know where you were going at that point. I got lost and followed the signs to the police. Those signs
led nowhere but I was able to flag down a patrol car which stopped, and as I approached the car I
could already hear them laughing. I asked, in English, how to return to the highway, and they drew
diagrams, speaking in French, directions for me to follow. All the while they were laughing at me
and speaking in French so just to be a wisenheimer I blurted a "Muchas Gracias" and departed on
my way.
Arriving into Moncton I was able to find gas on Christmas Eve which was a relief as I was running
low. Just outside of Cape Tourmentine I hit a white out like no other. I could barely see my wipers
or the side of the road. All around me where huge warming signs with blinking lights warning me of
imminent danger in regards to moose and I was scared. I was not scared for obvious reasons
but for the fact that I knew locals would be plowing through all that like a scene from the Sound of
Music. Bad, stormy, snowy weather with giant moose dropping in is a part of the Canadian
constitution. Any Canadian worth his or her muster can tell you of worse weather. I am a wimp and
sliding off the road does not bother me as I know hordes will appear to offer help but a moose on my
windshield gives me the creeps. What should have been a ten minute drive turned into an hour what
with my slow driving. Suddenly, with The Confederation Bridge sign indication of 30 KPH, all the
snow disappeared as though I had made it all up. Once onto the Island the snow was crunchy and cold
making driving a breeze. They say the Inuit have 99 names or so for types of snow and this is true.
For driving you want crunchy, dry and cold. This combination ensures you can drive without the fear
of killing yourself or others.
I spent an entire week in Rustico with swollen ankles and feeling as though I could barely walk. I am
getting old now and two day drives to places are coming to an end as my body is revolting and
demanding cushy comfort.
One of the highlights of my visit on the Island was talking to my friend Lori who works at the
AVC Lobster Science Centre in Charlottetown. Their website allows for anyone with a question
about a lobster to ask away. They have a FAQ section that is remarkable and includes everything from
lobster anatomy to cooking and eating a lobster and the truth about whether lobsters really scream
or cry upon seeing a pot of boiling water. Most Americans will tell you Maine lobster is the best but
until you have eaten a P.E.I lobster you have not lived. They are smaller, yes, but they taste like
the ocean. If you find yourself on the Island ask a local to show you how to eat a lobster. If you are one
that eats only the tail well all I can say is that I feel powerful sorry for you. Everything on a lobster is
edible and delicious and a local will be able to show you how to get to it fast and quick. And if you are
real adventurous, save the shell for a nice lobster bisque.
I headed off the Island on New Years Eve and didn't make it to Bordon without seeing three accidents.
The last once I came upon almost included me as I have decided to take the short cut to Borden rather
than go through Charlottetown. There was a small huddle of men looking about at the wreckage as
only men can do, and one, as I crawled to a snails pace, asked me for a ride to Crapaud which I gladly
gave. His name was Wendell and despite having made it out alive from his accident he seemed a bit
infuriated by my slowpoke driving. I made it across the bridge, got to Fredericton and decided to call
it quits for the night and checked into the Fredericton Motor Inn. Lucky for me they were having a
New Years Eve banquet and after showering I sat down to a wonderful dinner with oodles of
Maritime favourites. A jazz duo of piano and bass was playing and for me the evening was splendid.
The next day I drove straight through to Montreal and checked in to a downtown hotel and ordered
room service for two days as I felt too physically incapable to carry on. Montreal is a beautiful city.
Clean, elegant and sophisticated with lots of underground French-like shopping. Most of my
encounters with Montreal have been for The Montreal International Jazz Festival which is a superb
place to hear big name jazz performers as the venues are often small and intimate allowing one to
actually sit and enjoy the music. Over the years I have seen Bobby McFerrin and Lhasa de Sela to
name a few.
Once leaving Montreal I headed directly back to Buffalo as the cats were meowing and I felt I
needed to come in from the cold.
Next stop Merida, Yucatan, Mexico.
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