The Right Side Of The Road

DEER LAKE, N.L. – “Where is this place, exactly?” inquires a Newfoundland and Labrador tourism sign aboard the ferry from Nova Scotia, before rhetorically answering, “It’s about as far away from Disneyland as you can possibly get.”

Traveling on the Trans-Canadian Highway out of Port aux Basques, the fourth exit coincides with an off-ramp for the town of Corner Brook – it comes over 130 miles into the journey. Sure, there are intersections and gravel roads leading on and off the “highway” (and that is a term being bandied about rather loosely here), but the notion that the fourth genuine exit comes over two hours into the trip is, in and of itself, an apt commentary on the tremendously rural nature of Newfoundland. It is, however, a gorgeous trip, marked by a beautiful contrast of mountains (pictured above) and streams, offering three-dimensional scenery I didn’t encounter in Nova Scotia or New Brunswick.

For what it is worth, AT&T wireless does not get reception up here – not even roaming. For the first time since high school, I found myself clasping a gas station payphone. And as for the Internet, my hotel does promote its free Wi-Fi, but the signal is weak and connection slow. Trying to upload photos has taken a decent chunk of time; merely checking my e-mail has all the awkward elements of a flashback to the dial-up modem era.

Interestingly, however, such Wi-Fi advertisements are remarkably en vogue throughout the island – nearly every hotel billboard boasts of one such claim, as do the roadside flyers for numerous campgrounds. And while I will not be pitching a tent tonight, I must admit that the underlying concept of a cyber-rich campground is altogether fascinating – perhaps no better means of harboring the finest attributes of the 19th century and the 21st century whilst leaving the intervening 100 years out of the equation.

Signs of the 20th century are not far off, however. The Deer Lake Power Plant, constructed in the 1920s, led to the creation of this small town. And while it may have been a gorgeous marvel in the roaring days, it today more closely resembles a creaky cinematic horror set. The plant (pictured below) is in need of a generous helping of cosmetic work, far more than a mere paint job might accomplish. Still, it makes for a fascinating site – in a community dominated by natural scenery and a touch of quaint architectural charm, the aging plant on the lake makes for an interesting point of contrast.

Next stop: TBD.

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CABOT STRAIT – When passengers were given the okay to start driving on to the M/V Caribou, a local ferry, one sedan in the middle of the line, past the main gate, was unclaimed. In the United States this doubtlessly would have been just fodder for a homeland security scare; here we just assumed the driver had wandered on foot to the nearest Tim Horton’s in search of some pastry and coffee. Everyone drove around the abandoned car, being careful so as not to scratch the bumper.

There is an incessant rattling aboard the boat, with dormitory-style bedding softly clinking together and various heavy fixtures gently testing their foundation. All told, though, it is a light day at sea as the Marine Atlantic ferry (pictured above) makes its way from North Sydney, Nova Scotia to Port aux Basques, Newfoundland. The ride is expected to last roughly five hours – just long enough for people to cozy up and catch a few extra winks of sleep.

We pulled out of North Sydney (pictured below) at 8:00 AM Atlantic Time (an hour ahead of Eastern Time), but passengers are advised to arrive at least 90 minutes early, and by 6:15 there was already a lengthy queue of vehicles. The time gap allows people the opportunity to get out and stretch their feet before boarding the ship. And, somewhere in there, the sedan driver wandered off. I assume he eventually returned, but truthfully don’t know. One way or another, we left on time.

Onboard information screens fix our estimated time of arrival at 1:45 PM, Newfoundland Time. Not only has this island claimed its own time zone, but the adjustment is a highly unusual 30-minute increment, placing it 90 minutes ahead of Eastern Time. The provincial name, as displayed on license plates, is technically “Newfoundland & Labrador,” though the former locale is understood to be the island on the north end of this strait, while the latter denotes the portion of mainland Canada directly to the west and upward into the north. Labrador does not honor Newfoundland Time, instead opting for the same Atlantic Time as Nova Scotia and New Brunswick.

Then again, Labrador, though an expansive region in physical geographic terms, does not quite have the population mass of Newfoundland. It’s not that Newfoundland is a bustling urban metropolis (even locals are quick to describe it as quite remote); it’s that Labrador’s largest city is Goose Bay, which has less than 8,000 residents. The vast majority of Labrador is unsettled, and much of that which is occupied still doesn’t have any form of highway access to the rest of Canada. The Trans-Labrador Highway, leading from North West River into Baie-Comeau, Quebec, is more or less the only pathway out of the mainland portion of the province, and even it is a young, scarcely-traveled road with few stops along the way.

I am told there is a minority movement to seek separate provincial recognition of Labrador and Newfoundland, but it apparently has little support. Certain issues would requisitely arise if Quebec ever did break off from Canada, as the French territory has long threatened to do, but that is another movement seemingly stuck in neutral. As one ferry passenger observes, Quebec isn’t going anywhere unless it wants to take a healthy chunk of Canadian debt with it.

For the time being, though, my focus is on Newfoundland, as the M/V Caribou motors on toward the province’s southern shore. That the island is only reachable by plane and ferry certainly suggests the fertile roots of a strong local identity. And sometime around 1:45 PM Newfoundland Time, I will begin to find out.

Next stop: Newfoundland.

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CAPE BRETON ISLAND, N.S. – The northernmost stretch of Nova Scotia, this island is actually a series of discreet communities, wed by highways, streams and hiking trails. Various bodies of water are scattered about and around the island; Bras D’Or Lake sits at the heart of the landmass, Chedabucto Bay, St. George’s Bay, Aspy Bay, and Glace Bay all sit on the outermost “corners.” On the northeastern point, just below Aspy Bay, is a national park. To the west, across the water, is Prince Edward Island, Canada’s smallest geographic province. To the east is the Atlantic Ocean, and to the north is Cabot Strait, which a ferry regularly traverses en route to Newfoundland.

Traveling across Cape Breton Island, from south to north, the Trans-Canada Highway leads from Port Hastings to North Sydney (pictured above). A scenic venture of less than 100 miles, the roadway skirts the western shore of various inland water masses, passing through towns such as Queensville, Baddeck and Whycocomagh. The latter community is home to Alice’s Restaurant (pictured below), a popular roadside eatery with stellar fish and chips (and no, neither garbage nor litter is apparent in or around the restaurant).

Like so much of Nova Scotia, Cape Breton is a primarily rural area, with large expanses of undeveloped and seemingly unmolested land. Campgrounds can be found throughout the island – this does strike as an ideal locale for those wishing to bond with nature. And for tourists in search of a bed and running water, an evenly scattered collection of road side motels is also available.

Halifax is only 250 miles in the rearview mirror, but such city life doesn’t appear primed to make a return until my journey takes a sharp southern turn. Just four days ago I was in Manhattan, a marvel of population density. Now I wait for the ferry to take me from one remote locale to another; I have Internet access today and am hopeful that I will, too, find it tomorrow and, perhaps, the next day. But soon enough the widespread availability of Wi-Fi will doubtlessly go the way of Halifax’s multi-story buildings.

Next stop: Newfoundland.

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HALIFAX, N.S. – Today is a purely celebratory occasion as Canada Day is observed in commemoration of the nation’s 141st birthday. The holiday is a lot like the United States’ Fourth of July, with a federal day off, fireworks and community fairs, but in lieu of an internal rebellion that saw the spillage of first tea and then blood, provincial citizens are able to reflect upon a royal proclamation with slightly more amicable roots. Indeed, it was on July 1, 1867 that Quebec, Ontario, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia began their journey in earnest away from British dependency.

The sense of patriotism is palpable; the Canadian flag appears everywhere from the paint-dripping cheeks of locals to city parks and municipal vehicles. Since the occasion doesn’t share the same war-based burden as the Fourth of July, it is a strictly jubilatory holiday here, unmarred by sentimental remembrances or heavy-handed government sermons. Most people simply get a day off to do as they choose.

And in this largely tourist-reliant town, that day off seems a welcome diversion from an otherwise difficult summer season. With the United States dollar and Canadian dollar trading so close, most area shops are offering simple par conversion. Not too long ago, the southern currency was coming out appreciably ahead, and giving United States citizens a reason to flock north for a cheap vacation. But such incentive is now gone – in fact, with Canada’s largely-socialist regime imposing hefty taxes on most consumer transactions, many things are actually a touch pricier on this side of the border.

A cab driver bemoans the impact this dip in tourist activity is having on his wallet. Various other locals are eager to share with this United States citizen their disapproval of the Bush Administration. John McCain and Barack Obama may well be the two most popular politicians in Halifax – they represent the change no local representative can. This doesn’t seem an allegedly philanthropic sentiment in response to the war in Iraq and resultant bloodshed; this is an almost exclusively personal sentiment in response to a disappointing summer tourist season.

Still, the fireworks go on (pictured above). This is the largest city in Atlantic Canada; a clean, relatively safe community built on rolling hills alongside the world’s second largest natural harbor (pictured below). And on this, the nation’s 141st birthday, locals could hardly be prouder.

Next stop: More Nova Scotia.

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SAINT JOHN, N.B. – A thick cloud of fog enveloping the entire community is of minimal concern to locals; waiters wipe down the outside tables at a row of water-side bars with an almost robotic disregard. As the clouds roll off the Bay of Fundy, a jazz band plays on (pictured above), with patrons of various adjacent pubs taking in the act. Plumes of smoke get lost in the fog; chatter fills what little air remains.

Market Square, the hub wedding these various speakeasies, appears the affluent heart of the downtown community. A young, enthusiastic crowd soaks in the scene with food and beer. An appreciably dingier cluster of taverns sits not too far down the road; yet their lack of ambiance and customers is assuredly correlative. Market Square itself is a primarily indoor establishment, with shops and restaurants in a mall-like environment, connected to a hotel and office building. Out back are the aforementioned bars, with small docks, a Coast Garde office and lighthouse (pictured below).

But for the fog hampering visibility, various tourist activities would doubtlessly prove worthwhile. “Reversing Falls” – a phenomenon caused by the Bay of Fundy’s legendary tide – sits just down the road. This is also Canada’s oldest city, with various historic sites loitering about town. Just past the border crossing at end of the I-95, an immaculately clean, well-kept tourist information booth sits atop a road-side rest area; the mere mention of St. John invites various free publications with a litany of activity recommendations. This is New Brunswick’s largest city, and the source of a certain modicum of local pride.

On a culinary note, one of the establishments adorning Market Place is the Saint John Ale House, which offers, among several menu entries, a variety of fresh salmon dishes. One is prepared with a molasses marinade, decked out with rosemary and vegetables, served in ample portions. It is a beautiful achievement, the ideal interplay of fresh local fish and gastronomic creativity. Paired with a domestic brew, it makes for an astounding evening meal in a country not necessarily noted for its food.

Other highlights certainly abound, they just may be buried beneath the fog.

Next stop: Nova Scotia.

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BETHEL, Maine – Nearly two hours away, alongside the state’s southernmost expanses of I-95, a relatively nonchalant piece of government signage announces the exit for this small town – some 40 miles early. There are no billboards, merely an elaborate maze of roadside indicators that leads from the fabled interstate to the eventual intersection of Main Street and Church Street (pictured above). Along the way, a timber-encrusted, primarily-rural set of roads ventures across communities with such cosmopolitan names as Paris, Oxford, Poland and Norway.

The area fairways are as busy in summer as cross-country ski paths are in winter. A few quintessential New England bed and breakfast operations can be found in town; an expansive resort replete with fine dining and spa amenities sits near the heart of the community. Restaurants are scattered about Bethel – the words “elegant” and “casual” are regularly paired, a seeming invitation to enjoy Vacationland’s signature lobster in the relaxed garb of L. L. Bean.

Main Street seems the aptly-captioned heart of the town, yet neither hustle nor bustle engulfs its relatively short expanses. Brooks Bros. Inc. adorns the primary drag (pictured below), yet it seems somehow assumptive to presuppose that the so-titled hardware store is engaging in satire, not coincidence. This simply doesn’t seem a community sufficiently concerned with pretentiously chic fashion for the True Value locale to inspire much ironic chatter.

Mostly, Bethel is as scenic as it is quiet. The community has no magnificent claim to modern fame, merely the well-manicured infrastructure requisite to offer passersby an experience highlighted by relaxation and outdoors meditation. This would be the most supremely cliché New England getaway of yore, yet Bethel is altogether too genuine a town to ever tempt the realms of cliché.

Next stop: New Brunswick.

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NEW YORK – The common anecdote is that Peter Minuit acquired Manhattan for roughly a dollar per square mile. Almost 400 years later, the story is as much a reminder of currency inflation as it is an ode to real estate appreciation.

The history of this fabled town is well known – from a buttonwood tree near the old city wall to an island that long represented salvation for those tired, poor, huddled masses – the significance of Gotham on both an economic and sociological level is an intricate element of the American hegemonic experience. Yet it is a city eternally in search of a makeover; the concrete canyons may now be a constant, but the Giuliani era demonstrated that such vertigo-inducing pathways needn’t be synonymous with illicit enterprise. Neighborhoods have seen face lifts; amateur night at the Apollo is a static institution, its Harlem neighborhood is ever-evolving.

The original United States capital, Gotham has been home to some of our nation’s finest moments. On a September morning in 2001, it proved home to one of our darkest hours. The United Nations building is a locale embroiled in seemingly prophylactic controversy; The New York Stock Exchange hasn’t proven itself much more lovable of late.

Mostly, though, Manhattan is a town enamored with contrast. The impurity of the streets is almost welcomed, inasmuch as it somehow magnifies the illusion of sanctity in homes and offices. Outside clutter is greeted by a high-end affair with minimalism; the omnipresent roar of amplified tongues and traffic-clogged sirens somehow fades into the background – an accepted soundtrack in a city that rejects little.

As I venture north, Manhattan is surely a peculiar first stop – aside from its obvious geographic convenience, New York hardly matches the tone or temperament of my itinerary. Yet this is a city that prides itself on being the post-Cold War capital of the world, and certainly a worthy foil for the vast expanses of scarcely-populated territories I am about to encounter. In a way it seems only fitting to take a town so thoroughly enamored with the notion of thick contrast and employ its urban ways as the starting point on a rural journey.

Next stop: Somewhere in New England.

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New York, New York is a town I know well – a bustling metropolis I have scarcely ever gone a year without visiting. The cuisine is as eclectic as it is legendary; the people equally diverse in their backgrounds and ways. Barely 10 miles separate Wall Street from Harlem; the cultural divide is immeasurable. Woody Allen, George Gershwin and Jerry Seinfeld have all paid their respective tributes to Gotham – the original United States capital, it remains the nation’s most iconic city.

Goose Bay, Labrador is a town with which I have far less familiarity. Excepting the community of North West River, a short drive up the shore, it is the northernmost output of Canada’s easternmost province accessible from the United States by contiguous highway. Less than 8,000 people call this community home; even still, it is Labrador’s largest city. Until just a short time ago, Goose Bay’s entire existence was unknown to me.

Over the next two weeks, I will drive from Manhattan to Goose Bay and back into the mid-Atlantic United States. Along the way, I’ll see my surroundings gradually grow more desolate before easing into common pathways – I-95, one of America’s great interstate highways, will eventually yield to a series of rural roads and ferries. But sea-worthy shortcuts are only a means of arriving in Newfoundland; once I hit Goose Bay, the Trans-Labrador Highway – a Frost-esque road less traveled – will guide me back into more familiar urban surroundings.

As I meet the people of Labrador, take in the scenery, sample the cuisine and attempt to draw a deeper understanding from the experience, I will report back to this website. For much of the trip, my cell phone will prove equally futuristic and anachronistic; I somehow doubt Internet will be readily available. But where Ethernet or wi-fi connections prove convenient and accessible, I’ll take to uploading my thoughts and observations.

For those who are curious, I invite you to track my journey here. For those who may come across this diary at a later date, I hope my comments prove worthwhile. And for all who may offer their attention to the forthcoming entries, I appreciate your taking the time to read.

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As a massive assemblage of media personnel gathered before a presidential debate between John Kerry and George Bush in St. Louis, Tim Russert could be seen at a table on the side of “Spin Alley” (a freshly-converted college gymnasium), tinkering with a television set. The closed circuit feed of the debate auditorium was of little interest – the Red Sox and Angels were playing in the American League Division Series, and such demanded urgent attention.

Perhaps more than any figure of the television news era, Mr. Russert is credited with constantly and smoothly transforming that which is “inside the Beltway” into that which can be appreciated “outside the Beltway.” Such was never the stuff of condescending interpretation – the NBC icon had a way of bringing his blue collar roots into the newsroom every day. It was a wholly genuine skill of his – one well exhibited as he put a herd of traveling journalists on notice that the forthcoming debate may be critical, but the nation’s attention was, for the time being, fixated on its pastime.

Mr. Russert died today, at the age of 58, apparently collapsing in the NBC newsroom. Regular programming was interrupted at 3:39 P.M. as Tom Brokaw, equally a titan of the era, shared the tragic news. “One of the premiere journalists of our time,” he deemed the Peacock’s Washington Managing Editor, adding, “He’ll be missed as he was loved – greatly.”

To be sure, Meet the Press – Mr. Russert’s hallmark program – is not merely the most important political show on television, it is the very intersection of Pennsylvania Avenue and Main Street, USA. The moderator’s brilliance has long been evidenced by his simplicity – the white boards of a November night in 2000 are the things of legend; a hardball interviewing style that appeared always more curious than confrontational is the very standard to which the industry strives. He was not merely good at what he did – he was the best, and yet even in that certain conviction neither arrogance nor ego were ever permitted to emerge.

A seemingly constant presence in the lives of so many Americans every Sunday morning, Mr. Russert afforded us a glimpse into his life in 2004, with “Big Russ and Me,” a heart-warming book about his upbringing, background and, most of all, extraordinary paternal relationship. In a review, I admiringly commented:

The book is replete with the sort of happily moral-laden tales that seem to be otherwise confined to pasty black-and-white reruns of television sitcoms of an era when the whole family could enjoy prime-time entertainment. And the Meet the Press host’s ode to his father is not only every bit as enjoyable as the episodes of Leave it to Beaver about which he reminisces, but it also smacks of the added wisdom of an author who has blazed his way from being the son of a trash collector to one of the world’s premier journalists.

And, to a large degree, that is how Mr. Russert will be remembered: a premiere journalist who never forgot that he was the son of a trash collector.

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Most elementary school pupils can, with a certain Pavlovian cheerfulness, identify the 50 states and their corresponding capitals. Pedagogically, it is an exercise not of any geographic or governmental purpose but, rather, one intended to bolster memorization and recitation. Somewhere between the alphabet and the periodic table comes the union’s membership roll – to the educated citizen it is a familiar list neatly correlative to the several stars adorning Old Glory.

Yet those acquainted with current events yesterday learned of at least seven new national locales, the mysterious electoral battlegrounds soon to be conquered by Barack Obama. As the likely Democratic presidential nominee expressed:

Over the last 15 months, we’ve traveled to every corner of the United States. I’ve now been in 57 states? I think one left to go. Alaska and Hawaii, I was not allowed to go to even though I really wanted to visit, but my staff would not justify it.

Assuming, arguendo, that Mr. Obama really has been to Lubec, Maine; Key West, Florida; San Ysidro, California; and Forks, Washington – the destinations closest to constituting “every corner of the United States” – it nonetheless appears difficult to contemplate just how he has managed a tour of some 57 states, especially with Alaska and Hawaii apparently not making the cut. Discount the Sandwich Islands as well as Seward’s Folly, and Mr. Obama may have actually fabricated a total of nine states.

Though it is hard to contemplate a scenario where the assertion of any number besides 48 or 50 would be excusable, the Democratic candidate likely could have feigned intentionality with up to 54 “states,” since the liberal party does permit Puerto Rico, Guam, America Samoa, and Washington, DC to participate in the primary process. Yet even with these addendums, Mr. Obama’s list is either three or five “states” heavy.

Optimistically, the reference was to the 50 states as well as British Columbia, Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Ontario, Quebec and New Brunswick – the seven Canadian provinces bordering the continental United States. But even for this to be plausible, the Illinois senator would have necessarily neglected Alaska’s Yukon connection as well as the entire Mexican border (though it certainly might be considered that Mr. Obama would very much like to neglect this southern boundary anyway).

Pessimistically, the reference was to the 54 Democratic primary grounds as well as the states of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. He cannot believe he is really in this fight. He is angry that the Clinton Machine is smearing him. He is willing to offer her anything to make the attacks go away. He is sad that he has no chance in the general election. He is at peace with serving out his senate term. (For a socialist like Mr. Obama, such Swiss philosophy certainly must resonate.)

In all likeliness, however, the reference really was just one sweeping, self-exploratory reflection of a general state of ineptitude.

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