Half Way

Day 32

If all goes well, we are at the apex of our adventure. This is the sweet spot, when the adventure is what's normal, there are routines that involve maps, fuel canisters and campfire coffee. These are the days when the weather matters more than the time, day or date. The act of not knowing all three of those at once is a type of nirvana, or zen, or kung fu, or whatever. It's damn hard to do, and I feel great, and expanded, when it happens.

The day after tomorrow we pull up our anchor and set out again, the first time in a very restful two weeks. We'll board the ferry in Wood Islands and float over to Nova Scotia. At least, that's the plan.

After breakfast (where we finished every last piece of food that we bought in our big grocery haul the other day. We are efficient) we headed back over to the Oyster Bed area and tooled around. Now that I know the roads better, I'm comfortable to guide the Pirate down back roads, dirt roads, and anything that's not someone's driveway. Up here, there are also grass roads. I guess the grass is so dense and short and dry that it makes a good road. We drove through a whole neighborhood with grass roads.

The Dunes is a gallery that we've been driving past and hearing about since we got here. It's a huge “80's modern” building that has, in big white cursive letters, “gallery”, “cafe” and “fashion” written hugely and diagonally across the side of the building. How can that not be a good time? By the time we arrive, we're starving, so the cafe part appeals most. Chef Emily has won some awards, it seems, and contributed to cookbooks and all things foodie here on PEI. We're hopeful. We are seated on a beautiful gray weathered deck overlooking an expansive world class garden. From our perch, we can see that this building sprawls, has every shape and sized window you can conjure, has more levels than a Scientologist, and maybe some reasonable art.

We order, and are pleased. We begin with the Grazer's Plate, a platter with tiny portions of spreads, breads, cheeses, chutneys, nuts, pickles and meats. It's wonderful. Next, we have the special pizza of the day with goat cheese, roasted red pepper, pesto and grilled chicken. The crust is thin and crispy, and all of the flavors complement each other without merging. For dessert we have carrot cake, which is classic and perfect. On par with my usual rant, it was affordable. Dunes cafe is a must.

The galleries, on the other had, are a mixed bag. The physical building, the structure, the views, the gardens are quite impressive. Some of the 2D work is really good. The guy that owns this place is a potter, and, had I not ever seen the work of Emily Reason, it might have impressed me. His work is good though, not the usual snotty drippy bluish glazes. He uses a lot of matte finishes, and does some nice hand carving.

After this world of hand made and hand built, the gallery takes a surprising Asian twist. Suddenly, you are in a Peir 1, or the market in Charleston, or the “imports” booth at a festival. It's the usual carved wooden pointed-boobied ladies bent backwards in half, couples in an embrace shaped like a heart, cranes with koi in their mouths, masks with extra long faces narrow eyes, batiks, and all things south Asian. I don't know, it didn't fit. This stuff is obviously local and hand made where it's from, but to tote it all the way across the ocean, and in the mass quantity that only suggests “this stuff was cheap”, and plunk it down beside the local PEI fare seems, well, in bad taste. But that's just me.

By the time we eat, browse, and linger in the gardens, it's cocktail hour. We're still so full that we just pick up a pint of raspberries for dinner. As we write and do our “computering” from the commons room, we are treated to the most beautiful sunset we've seen on this trip (and of course, the camera is back at our site). The sky turns a bright, brilliant, electric cantaloupe and hot pink, and as the sun passes the horizon and sets lower, the clouds deepen in color to shades of watermelon, bubble gum, and the painted desert.

As the evening darkens, we are invited to join Cindy and Trent around their campfire. By the time we get over there, it's after 10 and the crowd, all well into their 60's except our hosts, are full of beers. The campfire is raging, the 100 lb. German Shepard girl, Corona, is dosing, and the stories are already flying around. Everyone is very sweet to ask about our trip, and where we're from, and how in the hell we can manage to take two months off. Once the spotlight is away from us, we get the goods. In the wonderful island lilt, we are told that there are no deer, bears or poisonous snakes on PEI. That even these sweet older folks coming home from a winter in Florida get their cars searched when crossing the borders. That the Canadian government has as many problems as the US government and that socialized health care is a mixed bag. At some point Cindy, a trained chef, brings out some whiskey and maple liquor from Quebec for us to try. The fire and the conversation do not dim until 1 am, when we all finally get up from our lawn chairs and head to our campsites. Our hearts are warm, and we are so grateful to these folks for taking us in around their fire and treating us like old friends. How are we ever going to leave this place?

Restocked

Day 31

This morning we made some new friends. The Pirate was heading out to wash the dishes, and I was chasing after him with the forgotten scrubbie, when I heard “hey, you're the motorcycle girl!”. Our neighbor, Maggie, and her boyfriend Roy are in Cymbria from Ottawa. Well, Roy is from Jamaica, and is a Rastaman head to toe. He doesn't speak much, he seems to be shy about his accent. Once the Pirate was back from his chores, and the two guys started talking bikes, the ice was broken, lawd-a-MER-say. Our conversation turned to border crossings, so we shared our sad little tale. It's true what they say: a friend in need is a friend indeed.

We have a big day planned. We're heading to Charlottetown on another supply run. Since it's Saturday, most things should be open. First we stop in at the outfitters to get more fuel and some all purpose soap. It's an oasis of well stocked outdoor gear. The 24 year old working the counter, bless his heart, tries for a second to school me about the best sized fuel canister, and why I shouldn't want the size I'm asking for (boy, do not make me yank you over this counter and slap you. I've been doin' this shit since before your own daddy had ever been campin'! Plus, how do you know what size I can handle?)

Next on the agenda is to find a health food store since, horrors, I have run out of body oil. Thirty one days ago I had 4 oz, which I thought would last the summer. But, though I am not concerned about my spots, I do nourish my skin everyday with a thick layer of my very own hand blended super rich massage & body oil. Anyway, we found a sweet little health food store downtown on Water Street called the Root Cellar. They also had island roasted coffee there, so we got some (dark roasted, finely ground), and some sorely missed dark chocolate, and a little bottle of organic sesame oil (not toasted).

Next, the moment that we are very excited about, but not getting our hopes up for, is the Charlottetown Farmer's market, which happens each Wednesday and Saturday from 9-2. We eye the scene from the parking lot suspiciously: is it a touristy venue with over priced small portions of mediocre food? Is it as good as they say? With only an hour left today, is it all sold out? We inch closer, and we begin to see and smell that we are in for a treat. The market is almost entirely indoors a brightly colored building. Inside, the rafters are exposed and sunlight pours through the many windows. The stalls are a blend of gardeners, cheese makers, purveyors of prepared foods, desserts cases, crafters of pottery, leather and etc, people selling smoked fish, fresh smoothies, frying doughnuts, and on and on.

We tour the whole market before deciding on our lunch. First, we visit Grandma Jowarski's and get two cabbage rolls and 6 perogies (3 with potato and cheddar and 3 with spelt flour and sweet potato). There is a squeeze bottle full of sour cream for a garnish, and also their homemade hot sauces. Before we leave, the cook comes over to chat with us: where are we from, how did we get here, how are we liking it, and the very best wishes for a great adventure. Man, that's what I call “saying grace”. With a little room left on our plate, we go over a few booths and get a pulled pork sandwich on a toasty whole wheat bun. Our plate looks full of good food, and we've only spent $15. We perch on a little bench out side and enjoy it all, the food, the folks and the beautiful weather.

We head back in for dessert. We choose a fruit tart with custard and caramelized almonds. It's delicious, and it's $2.50. I keep mentioning these prices because we have been so horrified at the cost of food in Canada. These prices seem reasonable, for the first time since we left home. The farmer's market is the best restaurant on PEI.

Once we are sufficiently stuffed, we run the rest of our errands and head for camp to freshen up and have a little nap, for tonight we are heading back to the racetrack.

The Oyster Bed Speedway is raring up again tonight. These races are shorter in duration, but end up being way more fun. They bring out the “modified”s, the cars that I would describe as “hot wheels race cars”. They seem longer than an average car, with a very low front, narrow little windows and an elaborate spoiler. These babies wreck all over the place. Nothing dangerous, nobody flips or explodes, but there tear each other up anyway.

There was one wreck where the safety guys pulled one car over to yank a big flapper of metal off the side. One guy twisted, pulled, yanked and wiggled the flapper to no avail. Another guy came over and tried to help, finally grabbing a shovel out of his truck to chop it off like it was the head of a snake. That still didn't work, so they tucked it in through his back window and sent him off the track. The crowd was howling with laughter.

When we watch these races, I catch myself saying “he” and “his” when referring to certain cars. To set the record straight, there are lots of women drivers here at the Oyster Bed Speedway, and they kick ass. They are every bit as fast, tough and devilish as the dudes on the track, if not more so.

Marooned

Day 30

This morning began as many do: head spinning morning chats, and epic breakfast cooked over the one burner of the whisper lite, and a light conversation about how to spend the day. We decide that it's high time the Girl had an oil change, and there's a fish shop we heard was the best on the island over in North Rustico. We make a plan to dress as though we're heading out for the day, but pack our pool stuff, just in case.

One of the issues with getting the Girl's oil changed is that the Pirate doesn't have most of his usual mechanics accoutrement with him, nor do we have a handy place to recycle the used oil. Cue Trent, the husband of Cindy, matriarch of our campground. Trent works oil rigs in Alberta most of the time, but is home for the week. He is also a mechanic, and just so happens to have everything we need to tend to the Girl. This campground already recycles a lot of oil, with all of the lawn care machinery and whatnot, so he offers to recycle to oil for us and go into Charlottetown to get us some cheap new oil. He said he's be leaving shortly, so we went ahead and drained the oil from the Girl. It's a good thing it was such a lovely day, because we ended up waiting until about 8 pm for the oil.

So, we spent the day poolside, doing our usual. All of our food is kept in the community fridge, which is just beside the pool, so we cooked lunch and managed to make everyone drool with our grilled cheese with raw garlic and bacon sammies. The biggest plus of this day is that we didn't spend a dime.

Once the evening rolls around, all of the campers collapse down their canvas camp chairs, throw them over a shoulder, grab their beers and their big spray and head to the back of the campground. This is kind of where our site is. We call the area around the office/kitchen/pool where the RV's are “camp town”, the area across from the playground and washrooms is “kid town” and in the back of the campground where we are is “couples town”. No one ever walks all of the way back to our neck of the woods, so it was odd to have everyone marching past us with their beers, chairs and bug spray.

It's a big night in the campground. In what they call the “back field” there is a concert (free to the campers). The band Cosin, a trio of young ladies from PEI who do Celtic and Irish tunes. It's very sweet. We meander over to check it out, since we have nothing better to do, and hang out until the mosquitoes chase us off.

On the off chance that the oil has been left beside the Girl where she's been draining down in camp town, we walk down to take a peek. Sure enough, there are four quarts of brand new oil waiting there. As the sun sets over the bay and the sky turns orange-y salmon and turquoise, we do the oil change. The Pirate sits on the ground with a funnel while I hold a flashlight so he can see. Then, I sit on the Girl and pull her up level so the Pirate can top her off. Once she's all full, we tidy up and ride her back to the campsite.

It turns out that the concert is still going on, and we can hear it all just fine from our tent, and in fact, it's better with a little distance. Snow Falling on Cedars has a soundtrack tonight.