Transported, Home.

Rest for the weary: Santorini, Greece.

London, Ontario - One donkey, four airplanes, 12 subways, eight buses, one gondola, two trains, five boats, one van, one ship, one car, and too many footsteps to count.

Home – moved, but unmoving.

A Proposal.

With this ring, I thee 'wet.'

Venice, Italy - In a flooded St. Mark's Square this morning, a man suddenly fell to his knee, yelling loudly.

Thrusting his hand toward the heavens, he professed his love in a booming voice that echoed through the archways.

Then, he asked the woman with whom he has shared his life for 45 years to marry him.

She said it was about time.

Venice is, after all, the city of romance.

Almost Gone (dola).

Venetian pizza delivery.

Venice, Italy - Wispy clouds, like flaming feathers, fanned dart-like trails left by the passing planes that pinned the sky's eyelids awake.

We had arrived in Venice to a colourful, albeit cooler, morning.

Taking bridge after bridge, people literally poured out of jigsaw streets on temporary, raised sidewalks into St. Mark's Square, which was awash in six inches of water brought by the rising tide. Venice is, after all, composed of 118 islands.

Each has a church.

We visited the Doge's Palace, which was the seat of government until Venice ceased being an independent republic in 1797. On the 'secret tour,' we saw where decisions were made and the archives were kept, as well as the cell from which Cassanova escaped.

No, he didn't leave his little black book behind, either.

As the tides ebbed, Mass began in the square, which was punctuated by a beautiful choir.

And, of course, the whirring flap of pigeons.

Time to Split.

Hey Emperor, you may have forgotten a roof.

Split, Croatia - Traditional Dalmatian singers, in perfect a Capella, rang out against the rounded stone chamber that once formed part of Emperor Diocletian's palace in Split.

No, it was not a puppy choir.

The seven tuxedo-clad men were performing the traditional klapa, and their harmonies were as beautiful as our venue. It was easy to be carried away to a distant time as the notes danced within the room's acoustics.

The centuries have literally grown on the palace, with residents building in, over and around the ancient walls. A series of narrow alleyways carried us through the former Jewish ghetto, and archways beckoned us to the birthplace of the father of Croatian literature.

The most intimate of apparel hung limply across vast courtyards.

Smells of lavender, roasted chestnuts and fresh produce rose from the local market, while a vendor's snails clung to the rim of a red milk crate – their antennae twitching at the thought of their impending demise. At least they'd be considered a delicacy.

Well-dressed locals sat under stippled skies at some of the many cafes that line the waterfront. The busy boardwalk offered espresso, nutty-toned lagers and ample opportunities for people watching.

And, from the brief time we spent in the city, it's plain to see the women are, well – to put it politely – not.

Simply stunning.

Interlude.

The Albania of my existence.

albania: shutter flash in a thunderstorm

The sky, a backlit half-globe
pierced intermittently
by Zeus's bolt, dancing across the horizon.

Misshapen clouds in a blink;
night descends heavily the next:
an SOS sent across the sky.

Nature asserts its dominance with a growl,
and I bask,
a supplicant to its beauty.

Hellas: goodbye.

"I don't pity the Corfu." - Mr. T.

Corfu, Greece - As we wandered into Corfu this morning, moody clouds slouched with rounded shoulders.

The sun had risen as a misty pastel gouache over the island's mountains, but had begun to play hard-to-get.

With jagged streets lined by coffee shops and the tic-tac-toe of shuttered windows, the quaint town owes some of its heritage to a number of nations, including France and Great Britain. Strategically located, Corfu is ringed by an old and a new fort – which really isn't.

Still very much a postcard of Greece, though, serpentine grapevine and bougainvillea creep across lines above the street and billow with blooms. As the morning gave way to a more acceptable local hour, the streets, too, blossomed with vendors' colourful wares.

At each corner, our noses were tickled by the smells of herbs, grilled meats and baked sweets: gyros, souvlaki, baklava and pastries with sesame. Corfu is also known for kumquats, and the fruit's bright orange colour shimmered from liqueur bottles shaped like the island.

The fruit grows alongside silver-leafed olives on Corfu, which – filled with waxy tropical plants – is more lush than some of the other Greek islands we have visited.

As we turned to leave the main square, pigeons tussled over a crust of bread, and the laundry hanging over the street waved goodbye.

As we, too, bid adieu to Greece, I believe this is an island to which I could say hello again.

Gold.

Sprinting is hard when you're made of marble.

Olympia, Greece - As grown men first did here in 776 B.C., school children ran the 192-metre course in the stadium that hosted the ancient Olympic games.

The start and finish lines are still marked by blocks of marble.

The Olympics have changed a lot since they began – back then, Nike was just the Goddess of Victory, rather than a global fashion statement. She didn't need Dri-Fit or air cushions.

The modern games are also a world-wide, made-for-television spectacle comprised of far more than the original seven events. Now, women and other nations are allowed to compete.

Despite what you see during the beach volleyball events, the Games now also require you to wear clothes.

The long pathway to the stadium – where statues to Zeus once stood – however, shows some things have changed little: those found to have cheated were to commission a statue glorifying the god, which would serve as reminders to those competing that fair play was to be the ethos of the Games.

There were many.

Today, ancient Olympia is essentially a large pile of scattered stones and fallen columns amidst a heavily treed garden. The pungent smell of rosemary, which grows wild in the area, wafts through the air.

But these stones once included one of the seven wonders of the ancient world – the Statue of Zeus at Olympia – and formed the basis for the Olympic Games as we now know them.

Some even consider Olympia to be the cradle of democracy, as any Greek who had not murdered or sinned against the Gods could participate in the original games, regardless of class.

In the age of tyranny, victory guaranteed influence.

Such influence was worth its weight in gold.

Mykonos, Greece.

Iconic windmills on the island of Mykonos.

Greasing Palms.

The Erechtheum, atop the Acropolis.

Athens, Greece - Antiquity's smooth white marble contrasts with the colourful, organized splatters of spray paint. Ancient columns shrug behind cages of steel scaffolding.

The old and the new: everywhere.

There seems to be a tension in Athens between holding on to the city's impressive history, and moving on. Having the country's economy crumble like so many of the buildings we have come to visit has, of course, not helped.

Nor has having more history than most cities could dream of.

Tension was at the forefront again today, as Athenians used the occasion of German Chancellor Angela Merkel's unplanned visit to strike and to protest. Police sat skittishly astride motorcycles, but this has become an all-too-common practice in the city. Ho hum.

Yet, roars from the gathered crowd could be heard atop the Acropolis. Bandana-clad protestors chipped marble from ancient structures and both literally and metaphorically threw history at the police.

We had changed our itinerary to be away from downtown by noon, when the larger protests had been planned.

Instead, we stopped briefly at the site of the first modern Olympic Games, the Panathenaic Stadium (which our guide told us, "hosts a marathon every year with amateurs – not real athletes." Um, wow.), before climbing the Acropolis, which overlooks the city.

As with the Olympic Stadium, all of the buildings up the steep hill – including its most famous resident, the Parthenon – are made entirely of marble. They stand now like chipped smiles, missing columns and leaving their former splendour to your imagination. But, they are still as beautiful as they are impressive.

Standing there, history became very, very real.

While I was not, for the most part, overly thrilled by Athens, how many other cities can boast of having clusters of ancient ruins trod upon by the likes of Aristotle, Socrates and Plato sprouting from their core?

Unfortunately, the city of philosophers now seems filled with too many who are content to express their thoughts through violent strikes and spray paint cans, rather than truly help move the country forward.

Hellas Angels.

Hard to take a bad picture in Santorini.

Santorini, Greece - Stone buildings, painted white, perch atop tall, volcanic cliffs like icing on a cake. Blue-domed churches gleam in the bright sunlight like gumdrops.

Today also felt like icing on the cake for our trip – it was that beautiful.

We began by riding well-trained, yet stubborn, donkeys up switchbacks to the town of Fera, before taking a town bus to the more-famous town of Oia.

Yes, it was a day filled with ass jokes.

A caldera with an active volcano, the Greek island of Santorini erupted so forcefully thousands of years ago it caused a 600-metre tsunami.

From this destruction, however, has come one of the most picturesque places I have seen anywhere in the world.

Coasting.

A meal with a view, in Positano.

Positano, Italy - As we climbed the cliffs overlooking the Napoli Sea, and coasted through Amalfi and Sorrento, olives fell delicately into nets woven across the bases of their trees.

Locals don't want to bruise their precious fruit, from which they produce the most extra virgin olive oil in the world. The region also produces softball-sized lemons, which, quite naturally, led to the introduction of limoncello.

Sweet, sweet limoncello.

Carving through switchbacks in the clouds, we arrived at the vertical town of Positano – with its blanched stone buildings clutching to the hill – and to Ristorante Da Costantino, which had been suggested by our extremely engaging driver, Giovanni.

Surrounding cliffs cascaded like flowing locks, and the restaurant's windows perfectly framed the rounded dome of a church and the clay roofs that melted into the sea. Beautiful is insufficient a word.

Rustic, wood-fired bread and local olive oil formed the basis of a great bruschetta, which only featured two small grape tomatoes. Simplicity is key.

Three types of fresh pasta, including one filled with soft, melt-in-your-mouth buffalo mozzarella, reaffirmed the value of fresh and local foods.

The view melted into the food, providing one of the best lunches I have had the pleasure of enjoying.

Chariots of Fire.

Pompeii, where all roads lead to Mt. Vesuvius.

Pompeii, Italy - A foggy pink sun rose like watercolours over the jagged sculpture of mountains that surround Naples.

Mt. Vesuvius looms tallest of all.

Two thousand years ago, it collapsed upon itself during an earthquake, then erupted – eventually burying Pompeii under more than eight feet of debris. With lava travelling at speeds of up to 80 kilometres an hour, those living in the city simply did not stand a chance.

Homes were crushed under the weight, and all inhabitants died horrible deaths brought upon by the hot ash and gas.

Pompeii simply ceased to exist in 79 A.D.

The silver lining is that the manner of the city's demise is also the reason it has been so incredibly well preserved. It is now one of Europe's most important historical sites.

Thanks to the massive amounts of lava spewed from Vesuvius's roaring maw, however, the crumbled remains of the former port city now rest more than a mile from water. Yet, amazingly, many of the ochre-coloured frescoes that adorned the walls at the time can still be seen today.

Stones of the original road, too – built in 200 B.C., and embedded with small white lava rocks to reflect the moon as lighting – remain clearly etched by the chariots that traversed them more than two thousand years ago. That got me.

At the time, these chariot drivers would have had no idea of the brimstone that was to follow, nor of the future relevance of the marks they were making on the world.

Somewhere in there, I think there's a message for us all.

Going with the Flo-rence.

Shuttered, on the Ponte Vecchio.

Florence, Italy - Strains of wheezing accordion danced through the piazza like an out-of-breath dance partner.

An antique carousel with pastel-painted horses stood at the centre, ringed by street artists spinning names into wire and hawking just-painted watercolours and distorted caricatures.

Everything was a circus of art.

The narrow, jagged streets spill out into many such squares in Florence, which are also filled with markets selling leather goods, stationery and textiles – industries for which the area is internationally known.

Ponte Vecchio – which, because of its history, was the only bridge not blown to smithereens during the second world war – twinkles with gold vendors, and one can only imagine it lit up at night.

At the city's centre lies the massive Duomo – the fourth-largest church in Christendom, which is built of a patchwork of multicoloured marble hewn from the nearby hills, which makes them appear snow-capped.

Nearly 500 narrow stone steps carry you to and from the top of the cupola – even bringing you face-to-face with the massive frescoes inside the dome, while providing unparalleled views of the red clay-shingled buildings below.

It's the romance of Italy as I had imagined.

A Pisa Marble.

Come on, Aileen.

Pisa, Italy - As you first walk through Pisa's medieval stone gates, it's as though white marble sprouts in all directions from the verdant, manicured lawns.

All built entirely of marble, the intricately detailed baptistery, church and bell tower occupy a beautiful complex right within the city of 90-thousand's stone wall. Of course, most are here just to see the famous bell tower, which curves skyward like a banana. It's worth the visit.

Given the region's notoriously muddy conditions, there are actually several leaning towers in Pisa, but the others are like long-forgotten stepsisters. The so-called leaning tower of Pisa – where Galileo is said to have performed some of his (literally) groundbreaking studies of gravity – has actually leaned since it was built during the 10th century.

All around, people appeared to be performing tai-chi, but were actually embodying the cliché tourist photograph: posing with hands extended like a praying mantis to hold the tower up.

Sigh. Yes, I did it, too.

Bathed in Religion.

Reaching to the heavens.

Rome, Italy - Who builds a basilica from a massive, disused Diocletian bathhouse?

Well, Michelangelo, for one, who – at age 86 – designed the towering Basilica of Santa Maria de le Angeli as his last architectural work – incorporating elements of the previous structure into his design.

The church, with stark, buttressed ceilings, is home to Galileo Galilei's first pendulum, and, currently, an extremely defensive exhibit professing Galileo's widely questioned faith, while, ironically, extolling the absolute value of religion over science.

There is also a long, fascinating meridian line-based calendar inlaid into the floor, which is marked by a pinprick of light from a strategically placed hole high up on the wall. I'd imagine it's a more scientific rendition of "seeing the light."

Our final stop prior to catching the train to Civitavecchia was the Church of Santa Maria Della Vittoria, which was featured in the book and movie, Angels & Demons. The relatively small church is home to one of Bernini's three "Ecstasies," which, in the novel, points to the next clue as a Cardinal hangs above a burning pyre at the alter.

The sheen of the extremely ornate frescoes makes it abundantly evident the flames dancing around the church in the movie were but Hollywood magic.

Vatican (f)or Bust.

St. Peter's Basilica, at the centre of the Papacy.

Vatican City - So many busts, in fact.

One of the first galleries at the Vatican Museum is a long hallway lined by hundreds of stone and marble busts: the vacant eyes of various Emperors, Pontiffs and other dignitaries who were obviously not without ego. Several have been rebuilt, Frankenstein-style, from assorted unmatched pieces. At every corner, it seems heads pop(e) up like whack-a-mole.

To me, the most impressive galleries were the four rooms painted – floor to ceiling – by Raphael; the Egyptian artifacts, replete with various mummies and ornately decorated sarcophagi; the map room and the Sistine Chapel. Oh, the Sistine Chapel: larger than I expected, and not round as I had imagined.

I almost felt badly for the rooms that followed: it was as though their colours were somehow muted and awkwardly brushed; as though their antiquities were increasingly tarnished or more cracked. After the Sistine Chapel, they didn't stand a chance.

The Vatican Museum leaves little space uncovered by intricate tapestries, paintings by familiar masters or Ancient Greek and Roman artifacts – often of dubious provenance. It doesn't seem happy just showing you its beauty; it hits you over the head with it.

It's almost too much to take at times. By the end of a long day, I felt as though it was my head made of stone. Paradoxically, the experience is almost underwhelming because it is so overwhelming.

But the artifacts are as awe-inspiring as they are beautiful.

Even the busts.

The Daily Column.

One, two, three, Forum.

Rome, Italy - In the ruins of the Roman Forum, ancient marble columns litter the ground like upturned bones, bleached by the centuries poured over them.

The dust here is older than anything we have back home.

Ancient churches and seats of government lay scattered by the weight of time. Many were built in the eighth century. Before Christ.

It's this sense of time that remains staggering as you wander through the shards of history – which are still being discovered on an ongoing basis – that may otherwise be less interesting. My mind simply does not compute everyday life 2,000 years ago.

And this, despite previous travels having carried me to the cradle of humankind.

We also stopped into the church of San Pietro in Vincoli, which reputedly houses the chains in which St. Peter was bound in Jerusalem. It is also home the tomb of Pope Julius II, and a statue of Moses by Michelangelo – which bears a mark akin to a knee surgery scar from when the artist threw a hammer at it in frustration.

Our day ended with a visit to the Capuchin Crypt. From 1528-1870, these monks artfully made extraordinarily ornate mosaics from the bones of 4,000 of their deceased brethren. Frames of pelvises, lamps of mandibles and fully mummified monks stand in intricate patterns in a series of alcoves.

While incredible, it's enough to send a chill up your spine – and maybe theirs.

Colossal.

The Golden Arches of 7 A.D.

Rome, Italy - This morning, we melted into the crowd, and into history.

We assembled outside the Colosseum before the lines could grow long enough to form a noose, and thought of the millions of people who had entered since it was built in the year 7 A.D.

I'm thinking the conversations at the time went along the lines of: "So, a guy goes into a wine bar, and finds himself crucified for it."

"Oh, Jesus, yeah; he grew up around the corner from my Ma."

"Yup, he's the one who made my calendar business go under."

(If blog updates cease, I have likely been struck down.)

The rounded stairs were worn soft like pearls by 2,000 years of visitors --> – some of whom were not even filled with a lust for blood.

Once flooded for naval battles, then home to gladiators and martyrs torn apart by various beasts; abandoned then inhabited by families who carved homes under the arches and stairs; and wrecked by an earthquake, the Colosseum is – quite literally – a shell of its former self.

Fifteen-hundred years will do that to your complexion.

And give you fallen arches.

Just Borgias.

Make the B Line for heavily inked trains.

Rome, Italy - The heat rose wearily as we descended with waves of people to the subway below.

An exhalation of cool air welcomed the heavily tattooed oncoming train, which harkened back to 1980s New York City. The blur of colour melted into the air like crayons in a double boiler as the subway's brakes squealed hello.

It was just the beginning of the day's art – a modern take on the creativity practiced here for thousands of years.

We started by visiting Villa Borghese, where we saw countless Bernini sculptures – with marble cascading in waves of ornate hair and delicate clusters of leaves, and framed by gracefully contorted arms.

One bust had an incredibly ornate beard; another had a veil, which was completely sculpted behind the head. One might have forgiven the artist for cutting a corner by literally not cutting a corner. But this is why it is they who were the masters.

Gian Lorenzo Bernini's 'The Rape of Proserpina' was notably impressive, possessing incredible movement and such detail as indentations from the fingers gripping her marble thighs.

I was also impressed by lighting techniques used in paintings by Wolfgang Heimbach, by a Peter Paul Rubens and by a room-full of paintings by Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio. Then, there was the statue from the year 196.

None were behind so much as a rope.

Wandering around Rome throughout the afternoon, we climbed the Spanish Steps, tossed coins into the Trevi Fountain, saw Raphael's tomb in the Pantheon and walked down the middle of the closed road to the Colosseum.

At which point my camera, quite naturally, told me it was exhausted.

So was I.

Roam.

The view from our temporary home.

Rome, Italy - As we crossed the park this morning, we were suddenly swarmed by a pack of gypsy women cradling babies. They kissed their hands before pushing them out to us with pleading eyes.

Slipperily, their hands extended toward our bags, before a sharp rebuke took them aback – incredulous – in mock offense. In an instant, their seeming meekness evaporated in a hiss.

Rome is a tourist city, and one must always be aware.

We spent the day riding the Archeobus, sampling some of the ancient wonders the city has to offer. My eyes widened upon seeing ancient columns laying on roadside lawns like stray logs.

As they likely have for hundreds of years.

We drove past the real-life postcard that is the Colosseum and scoffed that was only built in the year 7 A.D. Amazingly, we had discovered sites that were much older. Seeing its crumbling arches, however, made our presence in Rome that much more real.

We drove down the Appian Way, and past countless relics. On Tiber Island, we stopped for gelato. The Spicy cioccolata was an tongue-tickling dichotomy of heat and chill. Delicious.

As the lights hanging above the street shook from their slumber and danced alight, we stopped for a delicious thin-crust pizza at a sidewalk restaurant.

It was the first time I'd gone for a pizza and had to pay a cover charge.

A Brush with Catacombs.

I won't be cryptic: there are bones down here.

Rome, Italy - The cool air of ancient history closed in on us as we descended 12 feet into the Earth, along narrow tunnels carved into volcanic rock during the second and third centuries.

Yes, second and third.

The Catacombs of St. Callixtus are the largest in Rome and hold the dusty bones of more than a half-million people, including 56 saints, 16 popes and a number of martyrs. I'm not religious, but that's an impressive roster for Team Halo.

As the air whispered in my ear, I almost expected a bony finger to reach out from behind one of the frescoes, and tap me on the shoulder.

As if on cue, a choir echoed over the walls.

More than 1,700 years after it was completed, a subterranean mass is still held here.

Buy the Yard.

'Axe' questions at Rumford Visitors Center.

South Burlington, VT – At every turn, the roads through New Hampshire and Vermont were littered by signs advertising ‘yard sales.’

And they were not referring to the term more commonly used by skiers in the region.

One has to wonder about the depressed nature of the economy in certain areas of these states, given that yard sales appear to provide a livelihood for a significant portion of the rural economy. It has not mattered what day of the week, or time of day it is – garages rest with gaping maws and storage lockers have been raised like Levolor blinds unto another world.

Deal finders even flocked to a funeral home parking lot onto which items had been spilled onto blankets under garish, marker-scribbled signs. I guess it’s a venue familiar with goodbyes.

It also continues to astound me how many abandoned homes dot the roads. They lean, creaking with windows falling out – their curtains still wrapped around the frames as one would cling to the ghost of a former love.

By contrast, however, we have landed in South Burlington for the evening and the area’s splendid vistas are home to a bustling population, packed patios and cute, manicured shops.

After a long day driving, though, finding a scallop and bacon wood-fired pizza at Folino’s and four free samples at Magic Hat Brewing Company (try the #9) made for a great way to cap off (pun intended) the day.

Not a Ferry Good Day.

Tide you over: the Hopewell Rocks, at low tide.

Calais, ME – Actually, it wasn’t that bad.

Here’s a pro tip, though: when travelling through time zones, be sure to change the clock in your car, lest you err on the timing of something important.

Like a ferry schedule. (Bonus points: especially after a long day of driving.)

Having just driven through mountains cloaked in fog, we pulled onto the ferry at l’Etete, NB. We had planned to catch the next ferry to Campobello Island after the half-hour trip to Deer Island – while hopefully seeing some whales and seals along the way.

As we settled in between a truck and a bus, we were told the last ferry was to leave at 7 p.m. – a couple hours earlier than anticipated.  The clock on the dashboard flashed 6:30.

The keen reader, of course, will have already figured out it was really an hour later locally.

Thankfully, the ferry back to L’Etete was free – but we saw no whales or seals.

As waves of ink spilled across the sky and bright sparks forked to Earth, we finally pulled into the border town of Calais, ME. Pathetic fallacy, methinks. The Calais Motor Inn seems stuck in a 1950s time warp – and that may also be the last time the floor was cleaned, too. But, it's home for the night.

Despite the later setbacks, however, our morning flowed with the timing of a tidal schedule. Literally.

Several hours after leaving our home base in New Ross, we stopped at the Hopewell Rocks and its distinctive flowerpot rock formations. As with other sites along the Bay of Fundy, the region is home to the world’s highest tides, leaving miles of red clay-filled mud flats stretching out in front of you. Six hours later, they are covered by more than 50 feet of water each day.

It was a day filled with good times, just not always accurate ones.

Trying Not to be a (Tidal) Bore.

Home on a hill at Hall's Harbour.

Wolfville, NS – This evening has been all about family. Well, that and a substantial lobster feed.

A basket filled with 28 lobsters, bowls of various sides and a table surrounded by family that does not get together all that often made for a wonderful time to say the least. I am grateful.

Throughout the day, we made our way to various spots around the Bay of Fundy, where we experienced its famous tides. Hall’s Harbour was overcast, but quiet as fishing boats leaned against the wharf, their hulls resting in mud.

We continued to the Blomidon Lookoff, which offered a really neat perspective as we looked down on a storm that had formed over the Bay. From there, we finished at Cape Split, wandering out onto the red clay and finding the remains of a very old wooden structure several hundred feet out into the muck.

It was definitely the scenic route to my aunt and uncle’s orchard.

Roller Coaster.

Fishing for compliments.

New Ross, NS – Heavy rains settled into ruts etched into the highway by logging trucks heading into the forests of the Balsam Fir Christmas tree capital of the world.

At each turn, the high-arcing waves our tires carved threatened to send the car spinning off the road.

But, we continued on to Peggy’s Cove, where we stood alone as a bagpiper played mournfully beside the iconic lighthouse. The rains had scattered the few tourists in the direction of the gift shop, leaving us alone on the rocks. Despite the day’s rains, the skies held off long enough for us to spend some time loping over the giant boulders as I have each time since first coming as a child.

Taking the heritage coastal trail along the ocean, we visited the two Swissair 111 memorials and various fishing villages, but stopped short of Lunenburg, where the Bluenose II is being rebuilt from the ground up. The rains were simply too strong for it to be an enjoyable experience, and the city was flooded this afternoon.

It was not, however, enough to put a damper on the lobster sandwiches (on raisin bread) we had brought along for the ride.

Brevity.

Paying the piper.

the sea claims another
The waves rolled in
like a throaty growl
of passion from your tongue,
nibbling at my feet.

Kissed by the mist,
the fog falls over me
and I am pulled asunder
by your love.

Miss Direction.

Like in my brain, fog fell fast in Halifax.

New Ross, NS – Sometimes, the GPS lies.

After breakfast at Becky’s Diner in Portland, we set our course and marvelled that there were fewer hours to go than anticipated.

On second look, I noted the GPS had us crossing the Bay of Fundy. While this may indeed have been the shortest route, there were no ferries to be found and I had not set the directions for an amphibious vehicle. I shook my head and recalculated. Somehow, we still made it.

Climbing into New Brunswick, I kept my eye out for the ever-elusive (to me) moose. At a distance would be fine. A blurry vision of a head poking out of the trees would do. Alas, my quest to see one of these big, dumb animals in the wild remains unfulfilled.

Thankfully, though, the coastal air has finally cleared the allergies that plagued me for most of the drive. We’re still so exhausted, though, it feels like the fog that rolled in over Halifax harbour tonight has settled into my brain.

I will, at least, use that as an excuse for my confusion at the toll bridge leading into the city. It turns out that when you seek change from the attendant, you will actually receive the full amount back – just in smaller denominations. I had not realized I was still required to drop the toll into the bucket.

As I pulled forward, the bar bounced in the breeze, but remained lowered authoritatively across my path – as though it were wagging a finger at me. The lane was too narrow to open my door and run back, and I eyed the motorcycle cop idling behind me.

The bar finally rose in a shrug.

I blame the GPS.

Feast of the East.

I 'sea' food, in Portland, Maine.

Portland, ME – My lids had lifted even before the ball of fire that would eventually prick at my bleary eyes as we drove east this morning.

It was 4:23 a.m. and sleep had already sped off down the highway.

Having left Toronto, the sun rose like a fist of fire, throwing darts of dark rays that jutted at right angles. Soon, the city crumbled into the Canadian Shield and the road before us unfurled with the rhythm of a sonnet. Or, perhaps, an epic poem.

We finally stopped in the quaint and quiet town of Brockville, ON, but were surprised to not find anywhere serving a decent breakfast. A&W was not what I had in mind. Thanks for nothing, Brockville.

The St. Lawrence hemmed in our tracks as we took secondary roads through New York and, as we circled Lake Champlain, watercolour marinas and crimping shear backdrops filled our windscreen. It was a beautiful drive, if not for the incessant need to slow for red lights and tractors.

We eventually made it through the Green, White and Appalachian Mountains – through Vermont and New Hampshire – before ending for the night in the coastal city of Portland, Maine. The ferry that used to run from here to Nova Scotia has been shuttered for a few years now. So, more driving tomorrow.

Exhaustion poured itself over my first lobster roll of the trip; however, the table-full of seafood at J’s Oyster on the wharf was really all I was looking for after a day of following my nose in the general direction of sea air.