Hopewell Rocks, Bay of Fundy, New Brunswick

I had great plans for my trip to the Maritimes. Flipping through my trusty guide showed a few things that flew to the top of my to do list, like Green Gables House (which I've since heard is not the former home of L.M. Montgomery as many locals say, but reproduction of some distant relative's house. Mental note: Google the details of this, self). I planned days to take the ferry to PEI, as well as hike the Cabot Trail on Cape Breton Island in Nova Scotia.

Not planned was the kind of chest cold that makes asthmatics like me cower in bed with an inhaler in one hand and a tube of Hall's cough drops in the other. A few days into my trip, my only goal was to make it home in one, breathing piece.

I did, however, manage to visit one spot on my list: the Bay of Fundy, in New Brunswick, which boasts the highest tides in the world.

Low tide

High tide (...holi-tide inn! If your woman starts acting up,
then you take her friend!)

We made our way to what I thought was the National Park mentioned in the book. My first inkling that it might be the wrong one is that my trio paid $24 to get in, as opposed to the $2 per person mentioned in the book. However, even if we had made it to the right park, the fees have gone up since my edition was printed.

At any rate, we missed walking along the ocean floor, thanks to some other tourists, like the kind who are told the admission rate and - in spite of the various large signs proclaiming the same information - seem surprised by the amount, and then have to express their puzzlement while retrieving their funds with a slowness that makes ketchup stuck in a bottle seem like it qualifies for the Indy 500. (There was also a couple who were arguing with the gate attendant because access to the ocean floor is closed off during high tide, and that couple wanted to walk along the floor, dang it! Seriously, they were arguing as if the attendant could just stop the tide from coming in. It was...something.)

The trip was still worthwhile, since the areas we could approach were very pretty. I'm hoping we make it back next year so I can walk along the shore at low tide.

The husband is good at so many things. Taking pictures is not
one of them. Here is a picture of me racing to the shoreline after
setting the self-timer. Obviously, I didn't run fast enough.

Yay, ocean - even if it is the Atlantic (which will do, but I am
from California, after all. Of course I think the Pacific Ocean is
the best. Because it is.)

 

 

 

Obligatory tourist-y shot.

Oh, wait! I glanced at my guide and realized that the entry for Nova Scotia is about Cape Breton Island and the Cabot Trail. So, I got one half of it done:

From a boat (answering the eternal question, "Would you, could
you, on a boat?" - as long as we're talking about taking pictures).

By the way, the Atlantic is freaking COLD.

Montreal, Quebec

Greetings from Vieux Montreal...about two months after the fact.

Well, I think I look good, considering the heat and humidity from that day.

Since I waited so long to make this post, I lost the exuberance I had during this visit. Even so, I know that Montreal is one of my favorite places to visit. There's a feel to the city that just captivates me, and I can't quite explain why. It's almost as if the place has a life of it's own: a soul that slumbers beneath the streets, its breath rising and falling to encompass the ground and air above, making me feel as if I've somehow been welcomed in, and please help myself to anything I find in the kitchen.

I found poutine. It was yummy. The curds were squeaky, which I mention only because a former co-worker from Quebec City would reminisce about the poutine from "home," how it tasted better in her province, and the curds squeaked.

Classic poutine.

Bug was not impressed, which just meant more for me.

In spite of the oppressive heat, we wandered around. It was pretty. Did I mention I can't wait to go back?

Oh, rats. This picture didn't turn out like I'd hoped. See that splash
on the lower right hand side? That was one of the birds trying to
cool off because it was so dang hot.

It's not a throat hug, but who wouldn't want a hug from a creepy looking doll?

There were a lot of buildings with the provincial flag.

"And this is why I told you not to touch that! Now
your hands are filthy!"

Photo Friday: Mobile Phone Photo

I think I have a Samsung LG. I could verify this if only it wasn't a whole six feet from the couch to the table on which my phone is resting. Six feet. When did my existence become so fraught with adversity?

In any event, I'm due to get a new phone, at which time I'll make a better mental note of what I have, as well as the inherent bells and whistles, so that I can be one of those obnoxious people waxing about why my phone is better than what anybody else has, so it doesn't matter that I was picked last to be on a kickball team during recess, okay!

Until then, let's just say that I took this on a phone that doesn't have the capability to run apps.

Photo Friday: "At Rest"

Everybody loves a cute kitten - especially people who have never lived with a cat and therefore don't know that dilated pupils are usually a prelude to an attack.

Twelve

 
My mom died in the early hours of February 22, 2001. I thought I was okay this year, and then I happened to look out the window. The skyline is different. There are trees that weren't there when I looked up on that afternoon, long after the hospice workers had collected her body. Heck, I'm in a whole other city in a whole other country, and yet I know that this is the same gray that the sky was back then.

Suddenly, I realize that my tattoo analogy is still correct: I'm used to the loss, to living in a world where my parents aren't, but every once in awhile, something happens and I feel that needle hit too close to a bone. It's never stopped hurting. I've only learned to live around it.

I've learned other things, too; not enough to apply Wordsworth's line that "for such loss, I would believe, abundant recompense," but enough to feel some sort of understanding. I am sad, but surely this grief is better than the alternative of having parents not worth missing.

I have learned to see the preciousness of things - of people - with a clarity that I didn't have when I believed I could never, ever lose to anyone, much less anything.

Life is still worth living.

Don't Scream It's Over

My official wuss-hood was established in the winter of 2012. During, a class field trip to Winterlude, mine was the sole scream heard rising into the air as I descended the ice slides. Bear in mind that the two kindergartners in my care did not scream, nor were they scared. Their classmates had a good giggle at my expense.

I own my yellow belly, though. The way I see it, just because I'm scared of something doesn't mean that I can't do it...nor that I won't.

This came into play on the most recent visit to Winterlude. Bug - who is obviously much braver than I am (or perhaps as brave as I once was, back when I was also small and didn't realize how many bones I had that could be broken) - wanted to go on the big ice slides (NOT pictured above. Those are the kid slides, which is not what I went down last year). I agreed, since Bug's dad would be waiting at the bottom to collect him, which meant I could walk back down the way we came.

Once we were at the top, I couldn't get his dad's attention. I waved. I hollered. He was looking at all the slides except the one that we were going to use.

I really, seriously did not want to go down the slide. Really. As I set my son down, I asked, "Do you see Daddy?"

"Yes," he replied, pointing.

"Okay, when you get to the bottom, go right to Daddy. I'll walk down and meet you."

"Okay!"

I worried that the excitement would make Bug forget about what he was supposed to do, so as he merrily slid down the ice, I made a decision. I would much rather look like a fool screaming her head off while feeling her heart try to escape from her mouth, than a person frantically searching for her child.

Fun fact: jeans cause a lot more friction than snow pants, so it wasn't as fast as last year. I looked like more of a wienie than usual for screaming, though. (And he even went straight to his dad the way he was supposed to!)