Oh, ye'll be gittin' yerself a newflender, then, ye will

Mom and I had a rather harrowing journey from Nova Scotia, and arrived after 1 am. We then drove the half hour to a town called Doyles, where I had reservations at a B&B. We'd heard horror stories about the moose (Newfoundland has the highest concentration of moose in the world) and what they do to your car and/or person, so we were crawling along, getting passed by semis off the ferry on a dark, rainy, 2-lane road. Almost at our wits end, we turned the corner to find our inn, where our extremely friendly inn-keeper, Gerald, greeted us with two rooms, "'cuz I dooble booked tha room fer ya by accedent an' I'm sawry 'bout thet, hope thit this works, here, fer ya." But he said it really really fast. The next day, at breakfast, he greeted us with eggs and great coffee and after some discussion about why I'm in Newfoundland and all that, he said, "Have ye got a man?" To which I said, "a what?" "A man, have ye brote a man?" "Oh, no, I haven't." He then said, "Oh, ye'll be gittin' yerself a newflender, then, ye will." Which is when I realized that he was not, in fact, an Irish man. He was from Newfoundland. And that is how they speak.

In Corner Brook, many people have just a bit of a lilt, but as you meet more rural people, or poorer people, or just about anybody working in a store, you have to just nod and smile and hope that picking out every fourth word is sufficient for comprehension. One night, over Chinese food, mom and I found ourselves in fits of laughter, doubled over, tears in our eyes, as the group of seven men behind us carried on a conversation. "Yaa, tha dook mait bea threw eet" and so on; we had no idea what they were talking about. At one point, mom suggested that they might be speaking French, to which we both laughed silently, hiccuping now and then. The men looked over, so I tried to make my face look normal, to no avail. We just laughed and laughed, until mom took off her glasses and wiped her eyes and said, "well, let's just stop that now [hahahahahaaaaaaaa]. Okay, now stop laughing. Seriously."

Everyone seems to have an Irish name here; everyone seems friendly but not sweet (more like a hospitality, but not a lot of bullshit); and most people seem a lot like small-town Oregonians in their appearance (overwhelmingly white, lots of obesity) and vehicular preferences. I had an interesting conversation with a woman named Jacey in the cell phone shop today. She kept asking me questions "about Americans" and so we alternated between discussing land lines and high-speed internet and talking about the U.S. Of course, her speech was all with a heavy lilt, and lots of Newfie slang, but I'll just type it as I remember it, content-wise:

J: "So, isn't America pretty violent, then?"
E: "Some places, but I don't think Oregon is more violent than here."
J: "But aren't people just carrying guns around?"
E: "That depends on the state. But you can carry a gun in Oregon; if you have a permit, you can carry it on yourself in your coat or your car or whatever."
J: "Oh, that seems a bit much."

And so on. Definitely a small-town girl, but there might be some different views on guns around here.

Mom left yesterday and I've spent the day trying to get a cell phone and bank account and running into one bureaucratic hurdle after another. Cell phones are really tough here! So I'm out and about, walking Marvin around and now sitting in a coffee shop next to a bike shop... could be Corvallis.

Sigh.

As for Nova Scotia: it was designed to embody the term "bucolic." In fact, if you look up bucolic, you'll see this:



It was adorable. So was our B&B, run by a woman whose great- great- great- [something] aunt was a giant. This land is populated by eccentric characters from a novel. Mom kept saying I should blog about all the "characters" and I'll try and get around to it. Right now, I'm going to return to my apartment to continue unpacking. Luckily, I have a bed, which I've covered with the most beautiful blanket of all time.



It also has a great view of the Corner Brook Pulp and Paper Mill, and the amazing mountains beyond.



Mom and I went kayaking yesterday in Gros Morne National Park, about an hour and a half from my house. It was a great end to a really great road trip. Now I'm back to "real" life, whatever that means for me here. I'm glad mom got to be here, and we had another adventure together. It was tough sometimes, as my definition of "driving fast" and hers don't exactly mesh. But she was a great sport, and how many people have a mom that they can laugh with until they cry?