july 3, 2003.
In the morning, feeling much refreshed, we toasted our Bread & Roses bagels in the communal kitchen and struck up a conversation with a redheaded Albertan named Duane who was hitchhiking to a government-sponsored French language program in Trois Pistoles. Sitting & eating our own food, talking to friendly strangers & saving a truckload of money are three of the many reasons I spontaneously vowed never to book another hotel room.
Hostels, quite simply, rock. I can totally understand why they're not my parents' thing - communal bathrooms, making your own bed, etc. - but I really think that I would've enjoyed our childhood vacations more if I'd been meeting new people & eating something other than rich restaurant food three meals a day.
Anyway, we were on the road again when the next major event occurred: The Tyranny of Angry Driving Guy. As much as I adore the Boy, he has a tendency to become Somebody's Dad when we're on vacation. When Dirk & I saw a Quebec barn bearing the legend 'Ferme Boucher,' we immediately began to agitate to stop for a picture at the Shut Yo' Mouth Barn. Angry Driving Guy refused. We had to argue & remonstrate & beat him down before he grudgingly agreed to turn around. Worth it? You decide.
unfortunately, i had to cut the boy out of the left so that you could read the sign
the boy & barn: a mixture of shame, amusement & unrepentence.
Shortly thereafter we stopped for lunch at an Irving Station & had it out. The Boy made a rather pretty speech.
"Amoret, Dirk has shown me that having a vacation plan is okay, but part of being on vacation is deviating from that plan." He tried to put his arm around me. I deflected him with the agility of an NHL goalie. "Why are you mad at me?"
My eyes bugged out. Seemingly of their own accord, my hands flew to his neck. "Haven't you been paying attention to the last 20 minutes?!?" I punctuated each word with a throttling motion. I was getting into quite a rhythm when our food arrived.
After this, the day took on speed & grace. Dirk assumed the wheel for a few hours, and while the Boy took a nap, we managed to catch a great program on Maine NPR that told us stories of Motown, Louis Armstrong, & "Fiddler on the Roof." The latter was the most inspiring of the lot; after it concluded we started wondering why we hadn't thought to bring a cast recording of the original play. Fortunately, we came to our senses soon. Stupid compelling NPR!
angry driving guy, tired out by his tyranny, takes a nap with 2001. aw.
Now that the Tyranny of Angry Driving Guy had come to a peaceful resolution, we decided to stop at roadside attractions as much as possible. We took a detour to Nakawic to finally see the giant axe, and we made a point in Moncton to see the Magnetic Hill (which the Boy has visited before, but much like the Sprout, only in utero). The axe was surrounded by an elderly tour group who didn't particularly want us in their pictures, so we hung back until they'd been herded back into their bus. Then the fun began!
it's not so big...
...oh, yes it is!
don't let anyone tell you that marriage isn't a castrating experience.
let this be a warning to all you angry driving guys out there: we use a big axe.
The Magnetic Hill is a reasonably famous optical illusion that has spawned a weird cottage industry of restaurants & go-carts. By the time we pulled up to the gate, we were extremely giggly from our long day in the car. The poor booth attendant asked if we'd like to see the Magnetic Hill, to which Dirk responded, "no, we're interested in a non-magnetic hill. Where can we find one of those?" I piped up, "We're actually looking for our friend, Magnetic Phil. He can't wear a watch."
Then we had to pull the car to the side until our wild cackling subsided. Form that point on, the name Magnetic Phil became a catch-all identity for the three of us. We even toyed with naming ourselves Team Magnetic Phil, but the time of teams seems to have passed for the nonce.
before the boys fell prey to the optical illusion
dirk tries to prevent the boy from getting sucked into the little magnet.
We then drove into Moncton proper in search of hot food. By this time I was really nauseous and more than ready to get out of the frigging car for a few hours. We ended up on a breezy patio in the downtown, served by a sassy waitress and soundtracked by roaring motorcycles. For some reason, Moncton has a lot of Hell's Angels. I've never been able to quite figure out why. I wondered if I would run into Petra, and was vaguely ashamed that I'd worn my Winnie the Pooh pyjamas all day long. Fortunately, she was nowhere to be found.
Our final run into Halifax was dark, sleepy & punctuated by a slow-moving doe ambling across the highway. When we finally made it to Barrington Street, I was nauseous again and praying for unconsciousness. Even the sight of our 4-bed private room with adjoining bathroom elicited the barest relief. Dirk, however, became emotional at the thought of a real shower in our own room. I believe the phrase, "Amoret, I love you," was bandied about irresponsibly.
By the time I woke up after a night of being swaddled in cool Halifax breezes, I was ready to be amazed at our luck and our driving time. Contrary to what my mother had feared, I hadn't miscarried in Quebec (the only province where you have to pay for medical treatment up front). We'd had two great nights in terrific hostels, we were still friends despite my spazz out in Montreal and the Tyranny of Angry Driving Guy, and we were in delightfully temperate Halifax, a more than welcome break from stifling Toronto. Even my body was playing along: unplanned though this pregnancy was, we had somehow managed to schedule StanFest right in the middle of the sweet trimester. I was big enough to command respect and public seating, past the land-sickness & exhaustion of the first trimester, and not yet unwieldy & uncomfortable. Sweet indeed.
 Booty Call: Day 105 - Ears almost close to their position at side of head and stand out from head.
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