Canada, part 1.

Well internet, I’m back on the road. To Canada, to be precise.

Mi madre is driving and our trusty canine compadres Dumb and Dumber are konked out in the back seat.

Marm, fortunately, did not make the trek with us. He’s staying at home so he can continue peeing on things out of spite.

It’s 10:37 at night as I’m writing this currently, which is irrelevant to you as this blog won’t be posted until sometime on Saturday, but I’m trying to set the scene. It’s been a bit of a whirlwind week. I’ve been working my butt off with catering and yoga and visitor’s centre stuff and whatnot and I’ve barely been able to think, let alone write or sleep or catch up on Battlestar Galatica (okay, that last bit’s not true).

Long story short, I’m very ready to escape from reality for a few days with mi Madre, my steadfast grandfather Papear, and my most loyal blog reader, Granny. Not to mention that the food in Canada always seems somewhat enthusiastically better than American food. I’m not sure how much of that feeling is pure nostalgia and how much is Canadian cooking, but I’m currently devouring a Tim Hortons donut and I’m very happy about it.

My grandparents live in a little nowhere town just a hopskip across the border from Buffalo, right on Lake Erie. Both sets of my grandparents used to live on the same road, incidentally, but my American set have long since relocated to the gentler climes of South Carolina. I have many fond memories of running betweenthe two houses as a young rapscallion (the great and understated advantage to having grandparents living right next to each other – if one pair says no the other will almost invariably say yes).


It’s now Saturday – time warp, woahhh – and I’ve made it in one piece. Yesterday the Fam Damily and I spend a very pleasant morning biking the TransCanadian bike trail – very Canadianly named the Friendship trail.

Fun fact – whenever you pass someone on the Friendship trail, they will greet you in a pleasant and very polite Canadian manner. If they do not, they are probably American.



We biked down to the market in Port Colborne and haggled over exorbitantly priced pepperettes and buckwheat honey and some lovely fresh roasted cashews.

I am only telling you this so I have an excuse to put in this awesome picture of the lift bridge in. Port Colborne is home to a working lift bridge, which there are very few left of. I almost researched it, but I got bored and dinner’s almost ready.

So this is a thing.

So this is a thing.

Bye for now.


One comment

  1. Pingback: My Grandmother is a Pirate. | her name was cassandra

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s