Day 1: Halifax

We left for HaIifax last Thursday, August 10, just when the British airplane terror hit the airwaves. At the Montreal airport there were police cars, news reporters galore, and much-heightened security. Signs were posted everywhere outlining what could and couldn't be taken aboard as hand luggage. Baby formula and medicines were exempt, so I ended up tossing a new tube of premium hand cream into a bin but was allowed to keep my allergy eyedrops. In spite of all that, the woman who looked through my shoulderbag was talkative and pleasant.

Upon arrival at our B&B in HaIifax, our hostess informed us that she had just arrived from Gatwick that morning and the security was fierce. They were not allowed to carry any hand luggage whatsoever onboard, but had to empty out their money, credit cards, passports and other I.D. into clear plastic bags, which were then scanned (creating no end of problems when the edges of the bags got caught on the conveyer belts) and their purses were stowed in their suitcases. I spoke to my mother on the phone the next morning, and she observed that even without killing a single person, the terrorists had still managed to create a state of terror.

That B&B was quite lovely, actually. But it was our first one, and we had no standards yet by which to judge it. The bed was a queensize, but the room was small, so there was little enough space to get around. The furnishings were sumptuous, meaning that there wasn't a single surface uncluttered with some knicknack or book. The bed was full of pillows (who needs that many pillows?) and throw cushions, but it was comfortable and I, for one, slept well. Breakfast at first glance seemed extraordinary, but then I noticed the fruit flies buzzing around the cut bananas and melon on the tray. The aroma wafting from a bowl of fried mushrooms almost made me gag, and the tea (and this from a ex-pat American woman [Virginian, as the B&B name implies] married to an Englishman) was insipid. She flew from her porch three flags: Canadian, British, and Manx. I found that interesting.

The concert we had come to hear was held in the oldest protestant church in Canada, built in 1750 (the year J.S. Bach departed from this plane). It was a lovely place, but the carpeting soaked up the sound, and the performers were not impressed. As well, the audience was spotty. There were other things going on that night. Our musician friends said they had been having wonderful audiences in the smaller venues they'd played, but the big city folk were a tough crowd. Hubby spoke to the assembled handful, introducing his piece, and continued to do so at all the ensuing concerts we attended.

Before leaving HaIifax, we spent the morning walking around downtown, exploring the public gardens and the citadel, where we witnessed the firing of the noon gun (the ear plugs I keep in my purse came in very handy for that one) and heard a quartet of pipes and drums give a concert in the courtyard immediately thereafter. The place was crawling with Menn0nites: women in plain dresses, sensible shoes and the ubiquitious soup-strainer bonnets, men with "bowl cut" hair and full beards on their chins, but everywhere else clean shaven. There was much evidence of suspenders (that's braces for my non-North American readers) holding up work trousers. We ended our morning with a walk along the wharf, accosted at every turn by pretty girls trying to sell harbour cruises, having to apologize as we turned them down.

Then we were into our rental car and off to P0rt WiIIiams.

'What will your obituary say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

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