The Power of Canada compels thee!!

*** continued from previous post ***


Back on the bike now, we cruised up and down the highway, looking for someplace to eat. People began to point as we rumbled by them for the fourth, fifth, even sixth time. We didn't want burgers, so we passed by the drive-in. Mom didn't want Greek food as it doesn't sit well with her when we are motorcycling. I heartily agreed. We spotted a Pizza place off the main drag, spent five precious minutes navigating and doing u-turns on the bike, to discover it was take-and-bake only. We became more frustrated by the minute. Although, had it been three hours earlier, we could have bought a double-cheese and thrown that sucker on the blacktop. About 10 minutes and the crust would have been crispy.

We traveled the strip again. Finally, we decided to just go to the grocery store, (it has a big sign that says 'Deli' prominently displayed out front), and just pick up something to take back to the room.

At this point, mom is tired and I'm getting cranky. And when I say tired, I mean really, really tired. And when mom is that tired . . . well . . . I'm Atilla The Hun with hemorrhoids. Or so she tells me.

So we wander into the grocery store. I use the term 'grocery' in the broadest terms possible.

There are a bunch of tourists picking over the shelves, all in a hurry - frantic even. Maybe the animals the border guard was talking about come and attack after dark. That would explain it, for the sun was setting. Or, and this is much more likely, the town was lousy with Vampires.

There is a large, and I do mean large - no, even larger than that - section of beer, wine, and hard liquor. Mom doesn't say it out loud, but I can clearly see she's contemplating taking to the hooch. Who could blame her? I manage to pull her over to the 'deli section', (Yes, the quotes belong there. If I were taking to you in person, I would have made air-quotes around that bit of descriptor), and we survey the bounty of the Galway Bay deli.

There isn't a lot from which to choose. There is a ragged and dog-eared sandwich wrapped in plastic. I can only imagine how many times this particular combination of bread and 'other' has been picked up, examined, and rejected. How can a sandwich be mushy and hard all at the same time? There's a spot on it that looks like someone pushed their thumb through the wrapping. Would I eat that? Not even on a dare.

Next shelf, wrapped in cellophane, is a lone dill pickle, slowly leaking it's life-force into the bottom of the cooler. There are a couple of packages of cheese. I have no idea how old it is. It could have been there since the Carter administration. It seems chock-full of malaise crusted with good intentions. I'm impressed. That's a pretty deep piece of cheese.


I point to two pieces of what I assume are pizza - and I'm taking a leap of faith here - and say to Mom, "Hey, you feeling adventurous? We could try that."

You know that dead-pan look mom gets right before she knees you in the groin? Perhaps you don't. I've seen it a couple of times in my life. Sometimes, I'll see that look in my minds eye just as I'm about to drift off to sleep. That’s why I scream when I nap. That was the look I now saw on her face.

The weirdness of the day, the heat, the fatigue, the Twilight-Zone ambiance that is Galway Bay beats us down like two drunk frat-boys at a Slipknot concert. At any moment, the whole scene may begin to drip and run and melt like a Jackson Pollock painting. Suddenly the entire experience comes into clear and sharp focus. We have no choice but to flee for our lives. Our very souls are in danger. For as the seconds tick by it becomes readily apparent that this place is cursed. Cursed with the demons of Canada.

We make a quick escape to the bike and scream like bats out of hell back to the strip.


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***