ANNAPOLIS ROYAL (formerly known as Port Royal)
NOVA SCOTIA ( " " " Acadie)
AUGUST 21, 2005

I made an error. We are not on Prince Edward Island, we're in a time warp at the corner of Haight and Ashbury.




Our Dunromin campground owner, Cameron,
taking six months off his boat in the Bahamas.
Adjust your color setting before viewing the
photo.








In Digby
in the harbour , the
scallop capital of the world














In Windsor, NS, the Rossi family from Halifax happened to discover our caravan in the Hant County fairground, stopped with their dog, two daughters and 24' Safari to visit with two of our authentic Canadian caravanners, Vic and Elaine Carson from Brantford, Ontario. No matter how hard you try, you can't stop making friends in your airstream.



L-R
Nickie the dog with Donna,
Tony, Vic and Elaine.
In the foreground;
Isabella and Giavonna












Hank Longfellow's 'Evangeline', in Grand Pre', NS


If literary tradition lends itself toward the picture postcard, Port Royal is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "Evangeline", in a 3.5" x 5" format, four color lithography. Any view in every direction is idyllic or bucolic, you may only imagine that dirty underwear or garbage are a myth...a rumor. 400 years old and worthy of seven adminstrative changes between the French and the English in a single century, Port Royal is a perfect holiday destination. Only 550 real residents to stand in the way of the tidal bore of tourists, thousands every day.



My very own 'Evangeline', Nora Guros,
our caravan poet from Westchester County, NY.



Founded 15 years before the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock, the Acadians, a creative group of peace loving pacifists from France, quickly formed the "Order of Good Cheer", north America's first social club. They did this to ward off depression, but mainly because there were no saloons since a liquor board had not been established to GST tax the hell out of them. Also, no Volvo dealerships had been franchised.

A sliver of fate, a whispered hint from tourist board personnel, and six of us were headed to the obscure Lower Granville Hall bound for Champlain's Feast, a six course Acadian dinner hosted by a 10th generation costumed greeter. Much like our chance meeting with Ivan, this became a magical moment in travel. Our lucky half-dozen dined and schmoozed with 120 locals. Late that night, as darkness and misty fog enveloped the local cemetary, we walked the grounds of Fort Anne and were guided through graveyard history by lantern light.



L-R in the Lower Granville Hall

Chas, Lynn, Joanie & Bill Bucher,
The Acadian Melanson, Cathy
& Rich Griffin








On the lighter side, devoid of satellite service, we are in the land of lonesome TV. Canada, a large foreign country, boasts a single station, the CTV, and has a supporting cast of five cartoon offerings + the requisite three religious zealot outlets complete with styled hair and cosmetic teeth. Somehow, the cartoons seem more realistic. Today was a good news day with only three leads; (1) the late Hunter Thompson's ashes are blown up over Aspen, Colorado, in a 50 meter firework extravaganza, (2) a Mercedes sedan is pictured floating down a Toronto street during a flash flood, (3) the Langley ukelele band performs live, in concert. Not a single reference to Iraq.
....'dreaming, I must be dreaming, or am I really lying here with you ?'

I try to look casual about the dead fish in the window. The waiter, a colorless incredible hulk type, would prefer to be a sailor discovering the world, like his ancestors, but given the current weak demand for explorers, he should be, at least, a good waiter. This is the way to survive the drive from the New World to the Old, on the patio deck of an outdoor restaurant. You achieve an out-of-body feeling, floating over the highway and looking down at your victims. You see passengers, who, in trying to achieve distinctive LOOKS, manage to be so similar that any local waiter will know what they are afraid to eat before they enter the restaurant. The only one who is really different is you.

Everyone on the caravan was up there floating around and thinking the same thing; This crowd is full of fakes but I am the real item.

During out-of-body experiences you don't notice the traffic.